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The rumor is sudden and insistent. It makes its rounds so fast and so often and from so many places that even those who were only marginally aware of who Lord Voldemort was in the first place, have been informed of the fact that whatever he was before—a terrorist, a liberator, a budding Dark Lord—he isn’t, anymore.
He’s a beast, the rumors say. A mindless monster. He’s been infected. Most importantly, they say, his cause is over.
It’s particularly ironic just how exactly his ambition reached a sudden screeching halt, given what he’d been up to that point campaigning for, and that only makes the the news spread faster. The man who’d been pushing for purebloods rights, and a return to tradition against the endless compromises of the muggle-loving government, has himself become a half-breed.
The revolution dies before it’s even born, a great big shout choked before it can even leave the shadows at the edges of the wizarding world.
When word of it reaches the pack, the air is instantly filled with a combination of horror, schadenfreude, and explosive amusement.
The last one is mainly Fenrir, admittedly. He laughs so loudly and for so long that he gets unsettled looks even from Marrok, who is his oldest child and the one most used to his unrestrained reactions.
But this whole thing is just—just so delicious, from every perspective.
“Him?” Silas keeps saying, staring wide-eyed into the fire. “Are they sure? Voldemort was… ? But—what will happen now, to us?”
“What won’t?” Fenrir says, so filled with joy and amusement and anticipation that he’ll probably still be cackling by the next turn of the moon. “Anything could happen, now… ”
“I meant,” says Silas, eyes wide, “What if they think it was one of us and come to kill us?”
“Then we’ll thank them for the feast,” Fenrir says, still grinning, “And dig in.”
“Who do you think it was?” Marrok cuts in before Silas can have a mental breakdown. “One of the packless? But why?”
“Maybe they were trying to kill him, and failed,” Farkas mutters. “Ballsier than I’d thought.”
“Maybe it was—” Silas lowers his voice, glances worriedly at Fenrir “—Chiara’s pack. It’s no secret they’re… well, they’re against him, right… ”
“Say things as they are,” Fenrir says, unconcerned. “They’re no wolves. They’re just dogs. Dumbledore’s dogs, at that. I can imagine he’d find siccing them on Voldemort a fitting punishment, and amusing besides.”
Fenrir certianly does. He is dying to know how Voldemort is getting on now. It seems unlikely that he’d succumb to or indulge in any sort of self-loathing, but who’s to say? He hasn’t shown his face in a week. Maybe he’s decided to shut himself in his house and never come out again. However he feels about it, his followers will not be happy about it. Are not happy about it—already some are distancing themselves, others publically denouncing him as a half-breed.
In the face of their leader becoming a dreaded monster in front of their very eyes, the Death Eaters have undergone a transformation of their own: from a well organized two-winged political-military machine, they’ve become a heap of rattling parts, a flock of flightless—and headless—chicken running around in various mixtures of denial, disgust, fear, and most of all helpless, disturbed confusion.
It’s rather entertaining, all told. Fenrir has been there every step of the way, and it’s been an entertaing process. He doubts the Death Eaters would’ve gone through the stages of grief so many times and in so many configurations if Voldemort had died instead of simply receiving the Bite.
After the werewolf galloped into the meeting and bit Voldemort on the neck before anyone had even realized he was there, and moments before the hooded mass had gathered themselves enough to start screaming and running in earnest, they’d all seen Voldemort wrench himself free—bleeding copiously and incandescently angry—and just for a moment, before he disapparated away, they’d all seen his eyes glow yellow.
They’d all noted his absence for the following week—Fenrir had attended the meeting, despite still being tired from the full moon, just for the sake of watching them hem and haw and speculate in terrified tones about whether Voldemort had been bitten at all—yes he had, they’d all seen it—about whether or not that bite was enough to turn him into a werewolf—opinions differed—and whether or not Voldemort was powerful enough to be resistant to lycanthropy—doubtful, but not impossible.
The last one was so absurd that Fenrir laughed loudly and heartily from the corner he was haunting. These wizards. Immune to lycanthropy? Apparently Hogwarts’ reputation had been exaggerated beyond belief if this was what came out of it.
The wizards flinched and turned to look at the sound—clearly they hadn’t noticed Fenrir slinking into the room and festering silently in the corner. (How confusing and frightening the world must be when experienced through such useless senses. No wonder they’re always so paranoid about everything).
Eventually Voldemort returns, and he looks almost the same as he did before: tall, pale, vaguely wrong. But now he looks tired and on edge. His followers are so desperate to believe that nothing is wrong, that the lowly halfbreeds haven’t claimed their Lord as one of their own, that the prevailing mood is a cautious sort of relief. Surely, they whisper, he wouldn’t be here nonchalantly asking for updates on his plans if he’d become a beast.
Fenrir says nothing, but he smiles to himself during the entire meeting. The wizards, the blind, deaf wizards with their decorative noses can’t tell the difference, but to Fenrir it’s clear as day. Voldemort smells like a whole new person—not the enemy, not a wand-wielder, anymore, but a brother. Strong, powerful, more worthy than he’s ever been.
He smiles, showing all of his teeth, and meets Voldemort’s eyes with a knowing look.
As soon as he stops hiding and pretending… as soon as he rips the human mask off his face…
Oh, they’re going to have fun.
It’s not so difficult to find Voldemort—not in the state he’s in, and not with Fenrir’s nose and skills of persuasion. He was right. Voldemort’s hiding out in his house (a big horrid thing in Little Hangleton), and Fenrir has to laugh when he reaches the edges of the property: wards upon wards, so dark that the air is slightly distorted. The thing, though, is that they deny entry to humans. Not to werewolves. It’s a common flaw in warding—the reason Fenrir has managed to break into so many purebloods’ homes and take their children without much of a problem. But here, in this case, it makes sense. Voldemort is a werewolf, he can’t very well deny entrance to himself, can he.
So Fenrir scales the gate, humming to himself, and then destroys doors here and there, and follows his nose to Voldemort, wondering if he’s going to find him passed out in his bed, or maybe desperately hungry, crying and clutching his stomach in the foetal position on the floor.
The thought puts a pep in his step. It would be an amazing sight indeed.
“Oh,” he says instead, when he finds him. “So that’s what you’ve been doing.”
Voldemort looks… more composed than Fenrir would like. He does look pretty terrible—haggard and a little manic, the skin around his eyes practically purple—but he’s not crying. He is surrounded by what must be at least a hundred open books. And brewing something in the corner, something that smells acrid and makes Fenrir’s nose wrinkle.
“Fenrir,” Voldemort says, displeased but unsurprised. “I do not recall inviting you here. Have you come to gloat?”
He asks it almost boredly. As good an actor as ever. But soon, soon he’ll need no tricks…
“Had enough of humans yet?” Fenrir says, ignoring the question entirely. “Ready yet to stop hiding here and join your own people… my Lord?”
He’s never used the title in a manner that wasn’t mocking—not once since they met—and Voldemort has never much cared. He gave Fenrir his small transgressions, because he still did everything he was ordered to, even if he wasn’t classy about it. But now that Voldemort has lost most, if not all, of his followers and his ascension to power has been swiftly reversed, the disrespect has a different effect.
Voldemort’s eyes flash yellow for a moment, and in a split second his wand is in his hand, surging with magic. Fenrir wouldn’t be shocked if it’s a killing curse—Voldemort is not a patient man—but it’s a moot point because in a contest of reflexes Fenrir is just never going to lose. He grabs Voldemort’s wrist and presses his thumb between his bones, and the pale wand tumbles out of his hand and onto the floor.
(He will make him abandon that ridiculous stick. He will teach him how a werewolf uses magic—freely, without silly words, without relying on extraneous, limiting tools—).
“Do you truly believe that can stop me?” Voldemort says darkly. Fenrir is finally catching a glimpse of the rage he knows simmers under the mask at all times… and it’s just as glorious as he’d thought.
Fenrir’s hand, still tight around Voldemort’s pale wrist, starts spasming and twitching—pain like a thousand needles making their way from his hand to his heart, brutally. Fenrir is sure any human would be already dead, possibly with their heart exploded out of their chest. But the Bite is a gift, and brings with it many benefits. Fenrir is sturdier than any ten wand-users combined.
Instead of dying, Fenrir exhales, heart hammering in his chest. He can smell the magic clinging to Voldemort like a second skin, like a cloud of malevolent power, and it, too, is glorious. “Wandless,” he says, a little tightly though the pain, grinning in delight. “Off to a good start—”
Whatever magic Voldemort is weaving through his arm intensifies, and Fenrir knows that even only a few seconds more of this could be fatal. He pries his hand away before it can.
Voldemort has already called his wand to his hand, is already pointing it at Fenrir’s neck. Fenrir has no doubt he intends to sever it if he says another word. Which means, naturally, that Fenrir does, because he can’t resist pushing a boundary as soon as he finds one.
“Full moon in two days,” he murmurs, massaging his chest. “Come run with me.”
“I do not need to run. I shall have a cure by then.”
Fenrir feels his own anger flare up at that, and leans forward, pressing against the wand at his throat. “Look at you, dead on your feet… up all day and up all night, for such a stupid reason—trying to brew a Wolfsbane so powerful that it’ll turn you back into a human?” disdainfully, he adds, “Did you like being a house pet that much? Do you miss being domesticated?”
The wand under Fenrir’s jaw twitches. “I was the one doing the domesticating, make no mistake about that,” Voldemort says softly, dangerously. “As you very well know. I had them all following me blindly, eating out of my hand—I was so close—”
“You were indulging their delusions. Stroking their egos. You were helping them spread their message about their own superiority. They were using you as much as you were using them—and now they’ve no more use for you,” Fenrir says with great satisfaction. “And you’ve no more use for them—you have your own people now—”
“I am not one of you — do not presume to ever put us on the same level —”
“Watch your mouth, my Lord,” Fenrir growls back. “I don’t know who you thought you were, but you aren’t, anymore. You’re a werewolf now, and that won't change no matter how much Wolfsbane you poison yourself with—those purebloods who used to kiss your feet? You’re their foe now. Less than that, even: you’re a revolting mindless monster that has no right at all to exist. They’d sooner listen to a mudblood than to a werewolf. Got it? They’re not your pawns anymore—they’re your enemies.”
Voldemort seems to have several answers on his tongue—Fenrir can imagine: I never trusted them. They were always my enemies. But instead he studies Fenrir’s face, frowning deeply. Thinking about killing him? Or puzzling out his motives, perhaps. But they should be easy enough to divine—Fenrir is not that complicated.
Before the scales can tip in favor of the Avada Kedavra that's so clearly on the tip of his tongue, Fenrir steps back. Hands up, playing human. “See you in two days—the woods just North of here.” He smiles with all of his teeth. “Come hungry.”
Fenrir expected to have to work long and hard, and possibly incur into more personal injuries in the process, to convince Voldemort to join the pack for the full moon.
Instead, Voldemort shows up silently out of nowhere just as the moon is reaching its zenith. Just as they’re all shedding their last tethers to humanity. He slinks closer from the trees, and—disappointingly—he doesn’t look defeated or angry or resigned, but rather completely neutral. He looks around in a vaguely bored way, and meets Fenrir’s grin with a raised eyebrow.
Fenrir knows immediately that he must be up to one of his little manoeuvers—he’s witnessed enough of them in these months of service—but it doesn’t bother him. Even if he’s only pretending to accept it all—accept them—and embrace the wolf, it doen’t matter. It’s as good a door as any to pull him through to Fenrir’s side. Plus, he probably can’t help it at this point. Probably spent every second of every day planning and scheming and plotting until it became second nature.
But now, with the full moon glittering above, he’ll be stripped of all that—all the things he built around himself to make himself palatable to wizards—all the buzzing in his brain...
Fenrir manages to get glimpses of him, bent double, his bones elongating and changing shape, his eyes glowing yellow in the dark. He barely makes a sound, despite how much pain he must be in, still so new at it and all. Still so attached to his pride, even though Fenrir’s the only one watching him. He’s funny like that, Voldemort.
Then he himself succumbs to the call of the moon, and the top layer of his thoughts falls away like a scab off healed skin—
And he runs.
The name Voldemort has already been floating around for a few months in the dark seedy corners of the wizarding world when Fenrir first comes into contact with his followers.
There are two of them, faces hidden under dark hoods, doing their best to hold their nose as subtly as possible as they explain it all to Fenrir—how their employer is searching for new talents and, aren’t wizards generous, to give him a choice at all? And the choice, of course: submit now or regret it later.
The wizards have managed to find his temporary hidey-hole in magical London (an abandoned building on the verge of falling apart), so they at least are not complete idiots. Their attitude, however…
He hears Silas swallow nervously next to him, as loud to his senses as an explosion. He looks at the two wizards, cringeing away, clearly wanting nothing more than to leave as soon as possible.
“This Voldemort guy,” Fenrir says, enjoying the indignation he can see in their postures, “What’s his deal? Too good to step into my home and ask me directly? Too scared, maybe?” he pauses, tilting his head as he inspects the two utterly unimpressive wizards, and then adds, “Is he a fucking coward, your Lord Voldemort?”
One of them—the bigger one—pulls out his wand and points it at Fenrir’s face. “—nothing but a disgusting animal—show the proper respect—”
Fenrir knocks the idiotic little stick out of the fool’s grip with an effortless backhand. And now he’s helpless. That’s all it takes with wizards, with their weakness on display like that.
It’s not even close to the full moon, but Fenrir has never needed something as adorable as an excuse for anything he does. The wizard staggers back in fear and confusion, and Fenrir grabs him by the throat and lifts him into the air until they’re face to face. He might be big for a human, but Fenrir is still a head taller than him.
He lowers the man’s hood, and as expected he’s just a generic wizard underneath. Young, with the soft nose and jutting jawline of an inbred pureblood. Fenrir shows him his teeth.
“Aren’t you funny, calling us animals when you wizards breed with your own siblings?”
Then he takes a bite out of his nose, enjoying the waterfall of blood and screams that follow. It’s mostly skin and cartilage—not the most gourmet of meals, and a bit chewy besides—but it works as a snack. He takes an eyeball as well, just for kicks, just because plucking it out with his teeth while it’s still looking at him in terror amuses him.
Silas is restraining the other wizard—unnecessarily, since he’s only staring, frozen on the spot, with his wand lowered.
“Tell your Lord,” he says, licking his lips, “He has two choices: grow the stones to come talk to us in person, or leave us the fuck alone.”
Voldemort is patient but knows how to make people respect him. And of course he does—Fenrir has no doubt he had to claw his way to where he is now—or where he was, before a daring werewolf decided to take their revenge on him or—as most of the pack sees it—bestow an unimaginable gift upon werewolf-kind.
The morning after the full moon, there’s more blood on the forest floor than usual. The wolves get rowdy in moolight—moon-crazed, as Monty used to say, before Fenrir killed him—and the way they react to a new element can be unpredictable. In the first place, the line between playing and fighting to the death is so blurry as to be irrelevant, in that state. It happens sometimes that someone kicks it during the full moon, and they all know and accept it as part of the deal. Defeat in a contest of strength, weakness, bad luck. There’s no shame in it, and it’s not a half-bad way to go. Certainly better than dying by a wizard’s wand.
Voldemort doesn’t exactly join the pack per se, but he does show up for every full moon, and visits sometimes. He doesn’t make anyone kneel, doesn’t remind anyone that they swore fealty to him when he was human, doesn’t really do much besides conversing and asking completely innocent questions, and magically healing the cuts and scrapes of the children with a wave of his hand.
“Why are you doing that?” Fenrir complains, pulling Ulfric away from Voldemort by his tiny arm, “He’ll grow up weak if you pamper him like that.”
“The cut was infected,” Voldemort says with a mild little smile, as an explanation, but Fenrir knows better.
“I know what you’re doing,” he says, nodding at the grateful child, who has already scampered off to his grateful mother and his grateful friends. All the adults look at Voldemort in wonder—all that strength that they witness every full moon, and all that power, the magic he can wield so easily with a wand or without, and all that conviction, when he speaks—and they practically have stars in his eyes. He’s systematically making them all fall in love with him.
“And?”
“And you don’t need to do it,” Fenrir says, rolling his eyes. “You’re still going about this with a wizard’s attitude. Don’t you get it? They—we—got on our knees and kissed the hem of that stupid black curtain you like to wear—and that was when you were a wizard leading a revolution that benefited purebloods at the expense of everyone else, us included. But now that you’re a werewolf? They’d give their left arm to to be of any use to you at all.”
Voldemort merely raises an eyebrow, but Fenrir thinks he can sense some self-satisfaction from him. “And you?”
“Already been working for you for months, haven’t I?”
He manages to sound amost sardonic as he says, “Circumstances have changed.”
“Not for me—not unless you were lying, when you said all those things about changing society. Not unless,” he adds, baring his teeth, “You still want to put the purebloods in power.”
“Of course not,” Voldemort murmurs, “I’ve had an—epiphany, since I was Bitten. Some of my views and political goals have since changed.”
There’s laughter in Fenrir’s voice when he says, “Is that so?”
He’s convincing, Voldemort, but Fenrir can see it in his eyes that he’s never believed anything in his life. Not that it matters, really—the important thing is that they both will get what they want from this. And Fenrir already is—some of the purebloods who left Voldemort’s service after he was Bitten have begun disappearing mysteriously. Fenrir knows better than to ask Voldemort what he did. The last one—the Malfoy patriarch—was deemed as an animal attack by the authorities, which made Fenrir grin.
Full moons are more like dreams than like daily life, and at once the only real moments of his life. Everything is sharp and unfiltered, once the transformation begins—the pain of his body changing shape, the sounds and smells, ten thousand times stronger than normal, his joy and anger overflowing, uncontainable. He runs through the trees, at an elated pace, and two wolves follow, one grey and white, one brown: Silas and Marrok.
Then something huge and dark—and slightly wrong—joins the fray—and surely, with all that rage, they’re going to fight over whatever warm-blooded thing they find, aren’t they—which sounds like massive fucking fun—
Fenrir wakes to the smell of blood—not unusual—and with the dark lord naked next to him, which is rather unusual. They’re both absolutely drenched in blood and viscera, and there are still bone fragments and pieces of skin between Fenrir’s teeth, so he must have eaten well. Judging by the bones next to Voldemort’s head, so did he.
He’s awake, too, but instead of enjoying the moment he’s frowning, vanishing the blood and dirt off himself with his magic, which is a great pity. Fenrir has never found him as enthralling as he does right now, with the signs of his savagery still all over him and his stupid hair all messed up for once.
Because he’s not in the habit of denying himself anything, Fenrir rolls closer to Voldemort in the dirt and turns his face towards him. Now that he transformed back, his eyes are red again. An odd color—a result of some dangerous magicks, Fenrir thinks as he smashes their lips together with no finesse whatsoever.
For whatever reason, Voldemort lets him do it for a few seconds—and then his fingers dig in his throat, pushing him away a little.
“What are you doing, Fenrir?” he asks, rather neutrally, which makes Fenrir exhale a breathless laugh. He can practically hear the cogs turning in his head, wondering—how can I use this?—already back at it.
“Don’t overthink it,” Fenrir murmurs, kissing him again, straining against the nails in his neck.
Fenrir does not remember what it feels like to be a wizard—to be human. He was a wizard for only two years of his life. He’s the closest thing to a born werewolf there can be. And that—that’s the one thing no one has any choice over. No one chooses to be born. (No one chooses to be Bitten. It’s a gift).
Everything after that, though?
That’s where the fun starts.
Parents don’t matter—Fenrir chooses his own parents. Real parents, not the pathetic wizards who leave him in the street one day and never look back. His father is the forest and his mother is the night sky. He has as much family as he could ever want. Plus Monty—not a parent, no, even if he is the one who gave him the Bite and taught him everything he knew. He was a pathetic thing, Monty, a self-loathing thing who sought refuge in the children he Bit, only to abandon them—just like the pathetic wizards—once they became too tall, too big, too hairy, too strong…
Fenrir can’t hate him for it—he’s always sort of gone along with him, more out of pity than anything, until it became clear that killing him would be kinder. He was completely out of sync with his wolf, so much that it was obvious they’d never clicked even once, and his self loathing was starting to get on Fenrir’s nerves. The Bite is a gift, he used to say… then why did he hate himself so much? Why was he so meek, so ready to roll over for the wizards, whenever they came knocking on one of their ‘integration visits’ that were code for enforcing compliance in the non-human population, and maybe curse them a little bit, just for fun?
Point is, the day Fenrir ripped Monty’s throat out with his teeth, he did it out of pity. Out of kindness, even. Monty was not free—he was shackled by shame and weakness, by his lack of will and ambition, and by his reverence for wizard authorities.
(Fenrir enjoyed ripping him apart).
He may have never had any formal education, but he’s an artist—the passionate architect of his own destiny. He chooses his parents and he chooses his name (a werewolf name, instead of what was given to an infant wizard who died years ago, by wizard parents who also died years ago) and where to live (not anywhere that requires submittng to a wizard, or paying human money, that’s for certain) and who to turn (Monty was wrong about many things, but no matter how he went about it, he had the right idea about who the ideal recipients of the Bite were), regardless of what the wizards have to say about it.
Freedom, that’s the point.
Or it was the point.
Fenrir… might have lost sight of his original objective.
Nothing he’s been doing recently has been about freedom. It’s been about obsession, then possession, and now, maybe, it’s about preparing for death.
It’s a vague suspicion he has—so vague he can’t even put it into words. But his sixth sense is nothing to sneeze at, and this is what it’s telling him:
(Some bittersweet dreams about when he was a child).
Fenrir has never received a formal education—the most feral of children, unwilling to ever pretend to be anything less than what he is, in all his glory and savagery—but contrary to what landlords, ministry officials, shop vendors, and Voldemort’s former minions, think, Fenrir does have more than just cobwebs and moonlight in his skull.
He’s a little pathetic, perhaps—a little like Monty. (Never as pathetic as him, of course, not while he can carry on without needing the comfort of helpless children in his bed, but still).
The fact of the matter is that he wants Voldemort for his own the moment he first sees him. He doesn’t give the Bite to adults, as a rule—too late to undo the damage of wizard society once they’re grown—but as soon as he looks at him, at his power, his drive, the bottomless pit of his ambition, the monster he can only just make out under his tasteful human disguise… he’s caught, and never does manage to free himself.
Voldemort comes in person to the dilapidated building that is their base of operations in the city, with a group of wizards who have clearly been instructed to be silent and not do anything. He throws the body of his follower—the one Fenrir left alive to deliver his message—at Fenrir’s feet and he smiles and says, “My apologies for my associates’ conduct.”
And then it gets worse from there.
Fenrir’s heart pounds as he stands in the crowd, his mind wandering like he’s in a dream, presenting him with scenarios where Voldemort isn’t in a symbiotic relationship with the pureblood supremacists, where he’s not using his power and charisma to push their pathetic self-congratulatory agenda to serve his own hunger for power. Scenarios where he’s on Fenrir’s side, leading his people to justice, victory, and bloody, savage chaos…
Fenrir bides his time. Again, he is not an idiot, and he even manages to be patient, at times. He pretends to be seduced by the tiresome and flavorless ideas—not a hardship, not when Voldemort does his utmost to convince him to fight against his own interests with all of his considerable charm and veiled threats.
Fenrir is wise to the lies of wizards—to the way they pretend and hide their disgust under a veneer of politeness—but many of his brothers and sisters aren’t, and the pack is almost immediately committed to the fight on Voldemort’s side.
Voldemort says, “You want to run free, don’t you?” and “Under my regime you shall have your pick of victims—any of my enemies. There shall be no Werewolf Capture Units—no registration acts—no loopholes through which landlords can refuse you, or employers fire you.”
Silas and Marrok look profoundly shocked, awed, ready to kneel and pledge themselves to his cause without any further persuasion. This might be the kindest thing they’ve ever heard a wizard say to them—the first time they see one of their own addressed as a person, rather than a beast barely able to understand human speech. It’s making an impression. Just as Voldemort intended.
Fenrir himself is not so easy to buy. He doesn’t need his werewolf hearing to know what’s being left unsaid here. Free to have your pick of victims—any of my enemies effectively means a leashed dog I can direct against those who oppose me. And the things that went unmentioned—nothing about wands, nothing about attending Hogwarts or being represented in the ministry. It would certainly be an improvement—or at least a refreshing change of pace—from the current situation, but Fenrir will not be grateful to be given scraps when he has sharp claws to take what he wants.
So, before the fixation truly takes hold, he does have vague plans to use Voldemort just like he’s planning on using them. Overthrowing the government—he agrees whole-heartedly with that. It’ll finally be an objective within reach if Voldemort’s people help. And stoking the flames of a civil war among the wizards is worthwhile in any case. Then, at the last minute, in the chaos and strife, Fenrir will take the throne for himself and for his people.
That’s what he’s vaguely thinking when he agrees and nominally kneels and swears fealty.
It is exhilarating, in a way. His wolf doesn’t like it, balks at the deception, the duplicity of it. Using wizards’ tricks instead of just taking. But Fenrir finds it amusing—donning a mask in order to rip away Voldemort’s. Using a wizard’s lies to strip away all the artificial dignity and restraints and deceptions that Voldemort has adorned himself with. It’s amusing, and even fitting, somehow.
Then after a few more times he sees him—imposing and eloquent, not believing a single one of his own words—Fenrir’s interest blooms into true obsession. His mouth waters every time he sees him, every time he smells him. He wants him to be part of his pack. He wants to—confusingly, he wants to actually swear fealty to him, to actually follow him into battle, to actually bring him that throne. But he wants more than that. He wants him to stop feeding the wizards their own bullshit like he’s lovingly stuffing a duck with its own vomit. He wants him to stop hiding the monster under the mask. And then, worse: he wants to run with him under the full moon in their truest form, uninhibited by wizard ideas and human words and the top layer of their deceitful thoughts.
Fenrir’s wolf is big—enormous, according to all witnesses and to his own half-forgotten recollections. He’s huge and mean, with dark legs and a dark belly and face, with bright yellow eyes and a silver back. He and Fenrir are so in sync regarding what they want to do with Voldemort that it takes only half a second to follow the scent into the Parkinsons’ private garden and snap his sharp teeth into the back of Voldemort’s neck before anyone can react.
Voldemort does react immediately—an electric shock of magic from his skin which would have probably fried a human alive, but that only feels a little ticklish for the wolf.
The point, Fenrir is pretty sure, is that Voldemort isn’t an idiot either, and can probably put two and two together, if he hasn’t already. He hasn’t asked him once about the wolf that bit him, but there’s no doubt he’ll want revenge. And Fenrir has never been a particularly subtle person. He called himself Greyback. And there’s the connection—Fenrir didn’t want to be owned by Monty, and killed him as soon as he’d learned everything he needed to learn from him.
It’s not really a question of if, is it, but of when.
He sees him sometimes, looking at him from the corner of his eyes, just like Fenrir used to look at Monty. Scheming, studying him for weaknesses… pitying him a bit for his self-destructive addiction.
Fenrir doesn’t want to go down, of course, and he’ll fight till his dying breath when it happens. But a part of him—his stupidest, sincerest part—is aflame with anticipation picturing it. Picturing Voldemort, in his final form, in his most beautiful and complete form, in his most natural and least concealed monstrous savagery, dealing with him like a werewolf—
Fenrir can’t manage to begrudge him this.
And as always, he intends to enjoy it.