#creatureofnightmares

February 1979

     ♞ HE DID NOT LIKE WEREWOLVES. AT ALL. After the disastrous nightmare during Hogwarts involving certain Gryffindor idiots and a stray, unaware, transforming werewolf, he did not want anything to do with them. The inherent feeling of disgust lingered years later as well; they were animals, not respectable wizards. Their existence in society was merely a formality, he didn’t know one respectable person who held werewolves in a positive light.

     Naturally, he hates the idea of a werewolf being in the Dark Lord’s ranks. They’re untrustworthy and flighty, ranking their pack above all else. Severus wonders what would happen in the event one of them were to harm a member of Greyback’s pack. Maybe he’d get a chance to end the monstrosity, since he’d be rendered even more pathetic under the influence of all of that rage.

     Severus knocks on his door.       ( Did they even deserve the luxury of a home ? )

Afternoon, Second Saturday of January

Fenrir’s Forest

@creatureofnightmares

Natalie thrust her hands in her pockets, the chill of the day reaching through her gloves to freeze her fingers.  Her breath came out in a thick cloud, obscuring her vision in the already dense forest.  She didn’t know what was worse: the cold creeping into the depths of her soul from her skin, or the anxiety gnawing at her from the inside out.  She forced her steps forward, but she felt like her heart was somewhere in her throat.  She looked for the trees, the stones, the markers Thorfinn had mentioned when he had suggested she make her way to a clearing in the forest.  Merlin, she was going to murder that boy.  

She shouldn’t be going, but when a number of suspected Death Eaters had been attacked at the beginning of the year, Natalie knew she needed more training.  She’d been over at Thorfinn’s the other day and expressed her desire, and somehow he had convinced her that going to see Fenrir was a good idea.  With his excited encouragement to go see his friend, Natalie thought it was something that would help her to defend herself.  Now that she was walking toward the known werewolf, she was feeling more like the main character in a muggle fairytale Amelia had told her about once.  This silly girl who went into the woods to visit her grandmother and instead got eaten by a personified wolf-person.  It had seemed ridiculous that a girl would venture into the woods to find a wolf, but now here she was.  What a silly, foolish girl.  

She saw the final marker, a mossy-covered rock that looked like the hump-back witch statue back at Hogwarts, and turned to the left and continued walking.  Theoretically, if the instructions Thorfinn had given her were correct, she would run straight into the clearing that Fenrir often spent time with his pack... She stopped walking for a second, the idea of a whole pack of those... creatures.  

If she were honest, werewolves were terrifying.  She had been raised on stories cautioning her of the beasts, the people that once a month lost themselves and became these monsters.  But Fenrir... Fenrir was a different sort.  He almost shed his humanity like a cloak, choosing to remain the monster even in the daytime, for the whole month... His characteristics and appearance were more creature than human, but for some incredible reason, Thorfinn seemed to think a lot of the man.  So she found herself walking into the heart of the forest, straight to the lion’s den.  

Having been lost in thought, Natalie hadn’t heard the crunch of leaves around her, hadn’t felt the pair of eyes trained on her.  She crossed her arms, trying to warm herself, when a muscular brunette suddenly jumped out of the trees, straight into her path.  Natalie’s eyes grew wide, her mouth dropping open.  The cold air felt paralyzing on her vocal chords as she struggled to speak.  The girl looked at her, the same murderous, animal instinct in her eyes that Natalie had seen in Fenrir’s.  

It had been exactly sixth months since Igor had moved to England.  He still found the place dreadful, wet, and extremely depressing compared to his home.  Everyone here bundled up for weather that, back home, he would have worn a sweater with no jacket for.  Here they wore three layers, the outermost layer being covered with fir.  It was exhausting, having to deal with such pathetic creatures who couldn’t acclimate to their own environment.  

Igor had made a few friends since his transition to England.  Many of them were allies more than friends, or tools to be used when the time was right.  It was easy enough to allow others to make assumptions about him, the strange Bulgarian man who was here in Europe for who knows what.  These people made it easy to stand back and watch, to figure out who was the weakest link, and who was strong to befriend.  

That was how he had swallowed his pride and began talking with the werewolf. Everyone knew that werewolves were lesser creatures compared to wizards... perhaps somewhere below muggles... really the two were interchangeable in Igor’s mind... at least before he had gotten to know the creature better.  It was difficult to know when Igor had transitioned from wanting to use Greyback to actually liking his company.  The way the creature pursued his lust for blood was admirable.  He, along with Thorfinn shared an unbridled passion for murder that Igor found fascinating.  Perhaps that was why he felt a sense of kinship with the beast, and why he found himself meeting with the pack leader now.  

“Fenrir.  It has been too long.” He smirked as the creature emerged from the treeline.  “How many of the muggle filth have you struck down since our last meeting?”