the dark lord voldemort (ex_dark_lord747) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2009-07-28 18:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! [1980-07] july, fenrir greyback, lord voldemort |
Who: Voldemort & Fenrir
What: A meeting
Where: Voldie's ~lair~
When 28 July 1980
Rating: PG
Status: Complete, logged
When the portkey deposited Fenrir at the Dark Lord's location, he gave himself a good shake before he looked around. He wasn't particularly fond of portkeys at the best of times. He had about the same liking for it as he did apparition. It was something he did because he had to but if he could use his own two feet, he would. He tucked the portkey into his ragged robes under the assumption it would take him back at the end of this.
He looked around briefly as he got his raging emotions under control. He'd been furious since that upstart Mulciber child started his garbage and the run in with Nott hadn't helped his mood in the slightest. Even the killing he'd been doing hadn't done more than cool his temper slightly. But he needed to be in control for this. The Dark Lord wouldn't give a shit about his temper and nor should he.
Fenrir stepped forward then went down on one knee. He bowed his head as he waited patiently for his pack leader, the Dark Lord.
The Dark Lord sat alone in his place of silence until Greyback's arrival, though at first he did not acknowledge the wolf. His mood of late had been abysmal, and though it did not show upon his pallid face (yet), displeasure radiated from him like sickness. Self-control was a long earned skill, but he did not like its indulgence. He wanted all pregnant women dead. He wanted every speck of danger to his power eradicated. He wanted Alice Longbottom and Lily Potter snuffed out. And he wanted it now.
"Greyback," came his recognition, finally, and he moulded his tone into one of authoritative intimacy. He knew Greyback well. He'd looked into his mind many times. Perhaps he would today. His hand came to rest upon the other man's head and he basked in perceived reverence. It was his rightful place and he deserved every breath of worship. "You are granted audience."
Fenrir felt the pleasure of being acknowledged by his pack leader and he raised his head though not all the way, certainly not enough to make eye contact. He did not get to his feet, he felt no need to do so and he found it disrespectful to stand while his pack leader was sitting. The fact that he would have no problems if one of his own pack did that didn't even occur to him. Each pack leader led in a different way and it was up to the wolves in the pack to adjust.
"Thank you, Dread Lord." It was his own choice of title and he liked it. He felt it fit well. "Lord... I believe I have served you well. I have done what was asked of me, I have fought hard and without mercy and will continue to do so in the future. And I have been rewarded in some small ways for the werewolves for which I am grateful but, Lord..." Now he raised his eyes and they gleamed with longing and pleading and more than a hint of insanity. "Lord, each full moon passes and the wolf hunts with little or no control. Lord, you offered your help to make the wolf and I one and the same. I know you have many claims on your time but I have waited so long."
The yearning, the need, was plain in his voice on that last word.
His mind slithered across Fenrir's, searching out the memory and devouring it; he had made many promises in his rise to power, and he found them inconsequential. Those that deserved their rewards would reap them. Those that were ugly in his sight would go unrewarded. Fenrir was a useful lapdog, and he would have his reward -- even if only a taste to ensure his loyalty. However, there was this unfortunate matter of his indiscretions. The Dark Lord did not tolerate failure or disobedience...
His hand splayed over the werewolf's hair, a caress, until, in one swift motion, the fingers abandoned him.
"And should I reward my wolf when he has so disappointed me with his impatience? I know of your misdeeds this week. I see them in your thoughts. What have you to say to your Lord?"
Fenrir made a sound that might have been a whimper when the Dark Lord withdrew his hand and he bowed his head once again in the face of his pack leader's anger. He would not fight any punishment, not before such a powerful pack leader. A wise wolf knew when to pick a fight and it wasn't with one he couldn't defeat.
"Forgive me, Dread Lord," he said, almost controlling the whine in his voice. "I should not have allowed that callow pup to goad me in such a way but... it was the new moon and I felt... human and weak. I forgot what I was, what I am."
Voldemort rose, a slow contemplative motion that entailed no particular motion until he had decided. Fixing red eyes upon Fenrir, he withdrew his wand slowly from his robes. "You will receive atonement," he said, voice high and furious.
"Crucio."
Fenrir howled as pain ripped through him, consumed him, and he fell to the ground. He was no stranger to pain but this went above and beyond anything he experienced on the full moon, beyond the pain he inflicted on himself with his silver. He writhed on the ground as the pain continued, his howls echoing around the room as he waited for it to end.
Only when the Dark Lord had had enough, when he was sated and his desire for vengeance quelled, did he stop. His nostrils flared and his red eyes gleamed with a malicious pleasure, and then again the mask of disaffection was upon him. Quiet steps were taken forward. His hand stretched out.
When the pain finally ended, Fenrir lay where he was, panting and whimpering. The idea of being angry or upset or humiliated about what had just happened did not occur to him. His pack leader was displeased with him, his pack leader had punished him. That was the way of things in the pack. Perhaps later, when he had been away from the influence of the Dark Lord's power for sufficient time would the discontent and grumbling come but not now.
As soon as he could he pushed himself up onto his knees again, his head bowed, submissive to his pack leader.
Voldemort gave no sign of approval, but merely stood, letting his fingers slide over Greyback's hair once more. His wand was still in hand, and after a moment of narrowed eyes, his chin tilted, his wand swept across his hand, and the lines that made Fenrir Greyback began to blur.
Grey and black hair began to shudder and spread; the human head elongated and rounded. Ears stretched upwards and the kneeling, bowing servant twisted and stretched and rearranged until before the Dark Lord stood a regal, black wolf.
Without a word, his hand was withdrawn and he was gliding back to his seat, upon which he sat as if it were a throne.
Fenrir relaxed a little when he felt the Dark Lord's fingers in his hair again but tensed again when he felt the wash of magic over him. His eyes widened and he drew in a sharp breath but before he could formulate any kind of sound, whether that was protest or otherwise, he was shifting and changing. He was used to that but he wasn't used to it being so painless... or relatively painless. When it was over it took a moment for Fenrir to realise what had happened, to realise what he was.
Wolf.
He was the wolf and it wasn't the full moon. Unbridled joy and glee shot through him and he raised his head and howled out that joy, the clear bell tone almost deafening in the room. He bounded over to the Dark Lord and prostrated himself before the man. He then leapt to his feet and licked the Dark Lord's hand before loping from the room.
He had no idea if this was permanent, no idea when or if he would change back, and he didn't care. He was going to hunt. He was going to hunt, to run, to commit every act of mayhem he could. In the name of the Dark Lord.