Who: Fenrir Greyback, NPC werewolf and an NPC halfblood family What: Fenrir rescues a child... from himself apparently. Where: Somewhere in the wilds of Devonshire When: Sunday, 26 April 1980 Rating: PG... there's violence but mostly implied and some language Status: COMPLETE
Fenrir leaned against a tree and scratched at his head as he waited for his guest to arrive. For all that he’d set up an alibi should anyone see him, he was in an isolated part of the country. His alibi wasn’t exactly that much of a lie either. He was meeting with a werewolf, he had been talking to him over the last few weeks though he sure as hell hadn’t been trying to talk him into entering the program. He had however been threatening him to force him to join his pack and to stop setting up a rival pack. The werewolf had finally agreed to meet him here today.
A rustle in the bushes on the other side of the small clearing made Fenrir straighten up and a moment after he did, a tall, thin man walked out into the clearing and looked around suspiciously.
“Over here,” Fenrir grunted, stepping away from the tree.
“The answer’s still no, Greyback,” the man said, not moving from where he was.
“Then you’re a fool,” Fenrir growled.
The man snarled. “I bare my throat to no one.”
Fenrir chuckled, an ugly, menacing sound. “Then you’ll die.”
The man growled and didn’t bother answering. He broke into a run and charged across the clearing towards Fenrir. He braced himself and let the man crash into him, trusting in his superior weight and strength to overcome the man’s greater height.
The fight was short and brutal but once Fenrir got the man on the ground, the outcome was inevitable. On the ground, his height meant nothing and Fenrir was able to get enough leverage to punch him in the throat hard enough to crush his trachea. He then settled back on his haunches to watch the man choke to death.
Just before the man died, Fenrir leaned forward. “I think your pack will be much more reasonable now, don’t you?”
The man’s eyes widened for the barest moment before eh convulsed once and went still. Fenrir grinned viciously then got to his feet. He looked down at his erstwhile opponent and debated what to do with the body. His journal entry came back to him and the expression on his face became positively diabolical.
He frowned for a moment as he tried to remember the layout of the local area then he grinned. He pulled out his wand and levitated the man’s body. He ambled through the small forest, the body bobbing along behind him. When he emerged from the trees, he was looking down on a small valley and at the end of the valley was what he was looking for – a small farmhouse. Sheep in the nearby fields gave the reason for the farmhouse being there but Fenrir didn’t care about them.
He made his way down the valley towards the house, pausing only long enough to stash the man’s body in some bushes. He then walked over to the farmhouse and kicked the door in. The noise got immediate attention but more than that Fenrir felt the wards trigger as he crossed them. Half his luck. He’d found a wizarding family and probably not a pureblood one from the look of the house.
A burly man came rushing out of one of the rooms, a frown on his face. “Hey!” he yelled but he didn’t get a chance to say anything more.
Fenrir charged forward and grabbed the man’s head, yanking it sharply and breaking his neck. He let the man drop then turned to look in the room he’d come out of. Inside was a woman who was staring at him with terror.
Fenrir lounged comfortably on the couch, his booted feet on the coffee table and a beer in his hand. It was his third and between the killing of his rival werewolf, the slaughter of the family and the alcohol, he was feeling particularly mellow. He’d found enough shit in the house to show him the family were probably halfbloods. Not that he really cared but he wasn’t in the mood to put up with the shit he’d cop if they were purebloods. And there was too much magical shit around for one or more of them to be Muggleborn. Besides… the man, the woman and the older kid had all had wands on them.
The woman lay at the end of the couch, her body bloodied and twisted. The man’s body was still out in the corridor. On the stairs, lay the body of a teenaged girl and a young boy was lying dead in his bed. And sprawled on the floor of the kitchen… after Fenrir’s had artfully trashed the place… was the dead werewolf.
Once he’d finished his beer, he would toss the bottle and summon the people from the program or maybe the Werewolf Support people. After all, he had legitimate reason for being ‘out of St Mungos’. He’d look good, he’d had fun, he’d gotten a problem out of his hair and someone else would clean up the mess for him. What’s more… he could spin this in all sorts of ways. He had to admit that this lying thing was lots of fun, especially when people couldn’t refute it with anything remotely resembling proof.
As he finished off the beer, he heard a strange sound and he frowned for a moment. It was a thin, wailing sound and he couldn’t place it. He put the bottle down and tracked the sound through the house. He eventually found the source upstairs in the bathroom. It was coming from one of the cupboards under the sink and Fenrir had a nasty suspicion he knew what was making it.
He opened the cupboard and stared at the baby that had obviously been stuffed in there rather hastily, maybe by the teenaged girl. It was wrapped in a blue blanket that was covered in embroidered rabbits so he made the assumption it was a boy. It also seemed to be very, very unhappy. Fenrir didn’t blame it. He’d be pretty fucking unhappy too if he’d been shoved in a bathroom cabinet.
His first temptation was to just place his hand over its face and suffocate it. Then he considered taking it back to camp. The hags would love it. They were always after babies. But both options seemed like too much hard work right now. He was strongly of the opinion that he should just go back downstairs and drink more beer. Maybe once he’d finished off what was in the fridge, he’d be more motivated to make a decision.
Unfortunately the baby seemed to have found its second wind and the volume of its screaming increased. Fenrir winced and reached into the cupboard and pulled the baby out. He held it out in front of him in much the same manner as someone holding a steaming cow pat might be reasonably expected to do and his expression matched his actions. Unfortunately removing it from the cupboard didn’t stop it from screaming and Fenrir was tempted to just snap the thing’s neck to stop the noise.
He was about half a second from actually doing that when inspiration struck. He was supposed to be ‘reforming’ himself. What better kind of reform than to spin some kind of story where he came to meet the werewolf. The guy showed but just wanted to fight. They fought. The guy ran because he was losing but not before whacking Fenrir over the head with a branch. When he recovered his wits, Fenrir tracked him to the house and got here just in time to catch the guy going nuts on the family. They fought again and Fenrir won this time. Then he found the baby, which obviously someone in the family had tried to hide. And when Fenrir found signs that the family were magical, he took the baby in so it wouldn’t end up being stuck with Muggles.
Fenrir grinned, trying to ignore the incessant screaming from the baby. Yeah, that would work and maybe they’d be able to stop the fucking charade of being stuck in St Mungos. He was getting bored with hanging around the camp doing fuck all.
He tucked the baby under his arm, much like he’d carry a roll of carpet, the blanket trailing behind him as he stomped down the stairs. He dumped the baby on the couch so that he could banish the beer bottles and create a small cut on his forehead for effect. He then turned to the still-screaming baby and glared at it. He’d had the good sense to bring his journal with him and that would be the best thing to use to find out the best way of carrying this off properly.