Ah, a Fenrir-fic! I hope you enjoy, this fic's been thudding around in my head for months.
I took some artistic liberty with where he was bitten, so forgive me if I got it wrong. I just kinda made up everything about his past. If you know any certain facts, let me know! I'd love to be able to correct this. crosses fingers for lots of info in Deathly Hallows
I was fifteen when it happened. Old enough to know better, young enough to not care. I chose to go into the forest that night, and I suffered the consequences. I had been searching for a rare herb that sprouts by full moonlight when I heard the feet pounding. The sounds of snarling filled my ears, and then I knew suffering.
I was bitten across my face by a werewolf all those years ago. The gashes caused by those long fangs left scars that never truly faded. They served as an outward reminder of the disease I carried deep within my blood. I, Fenrir Greyback, became a werewolf that cold and god-forsaken night.
I was in Slytherin. I was a fifth year. I made good marks, my professors liked me well enough, and it looked as though I might expect a job in the Ministry upon graduation. All of these things were torn away from me that night. When I left the hospital and returned to the school days later, the jagged tears across my face still raw and oozing with pus, I was quickly escorted to the Headmaster's office.
I will never forget the look of apprehension, of disgust, of hatred on old Dippet's face. He told me bluntly that I was dangerous; I had no place at Hogwarts. He took my wand and snapped it in two. He wouldn't even let me have the pieces. I was to be an outcast, a traitor to wizardkind. I was marked with a sign of evil.
As I walked across Hogwarts grounds for the last time as a student, I realized that I hated that old man more than anything in the world. Professor Dumbledore accompanied me to the gates, and as I turned back, I saw an expression of pity on his face. In that moment, I hated him too.
I was underage, alone, and uneducated when they thrust me out into the unforgiving world. My own family refused to let me into our house. They too were afraid of me now. I became a monster once a month; a monster that wanted nothing more than to tear into the flesh of other human beings. I was frightened. Frightened of myself, frightened of the beast, frightened of what that beast could do.
Everywhere I went, people knew me. Wizards shied away, witches gasped and huddled together. In those days, there was no known potion for those with my ailment; there was no way to control the wolf in me. I was marked, both on my person and in the Ministry's records, as a dangerous magical creature.
At first I tried to lock myself away during the full moon, to keep the wolf separate from its prey. I found that in its madness it rent its own flesh, inflicting further scars upon the body that would once again be mine come morning. Then, one night, it broke free.
Unless you have ever been a wolf, you cannot imagine the sensations. Its paws carried it far over the silent, moon-lit turf; its eyes caught every motion, every glimmer; its nose twitched at smells I had never before known existed. Its howling felt as though I was crying to the world of all of my glory and power. But always, always, was present the burning need to bite and rip. That was the thing that separated us: I was Fenrir, It was the wolf.
When it first saw her, she was hurrying down the path, shawl drawn tight around her. An old muggle woman, no doubt unaware of her danger. It loped beside her under the cover of the woods; I was a helpless spectator in a body that was no longer mine. Then it attacked. She had time to turn and gasp before it sunk its fangs into her shoulder. It rent the woman's shawl and shirtsleeve, breaking the skin and causing the hot blood to surge forth. Then I lost all knowledge, and it gained full control.
In the morning, I found myself lying naked in some underbrush. I could feel the heavy metallic taste of spoiling blood in my mouth, and my stomach churned. I threw up six times.
But I wanted more.
After that, I could not find a moment's rest. The Ministry, aware of what I had done, followed me everywhere. Mine was a cursed life. I suffered six months this way, each full moon a writhing agony of the senses. I wanted death. I wanted life. And above all, I wanted blood.
Then, nearly a year after this pestilence was brought down upon me, I had a vision. I was not free; no, far from it. I was a dog, a slave to my affliction. Yet as I suffered one full-moon night, a golden dream came upon me all at once, like new life.
I writhed naked on the floor of my latest hiding spot, and in my pain I saw the answer: accept the wolf. Stop fighting the wolf. Let the distinction between I and It cease to exist, and then spread it. Lycanthropy could become a pandemic, or, better yet, a norm. Why let the wizards control my destiny? They could not cure me, but I could convert them, willing or not. I could build my own army of werewolves, a terrible force who would spread my plague like a wildfire over England, over Europe, over the world. I would be the father to a new breed of werewolf, a cunning breed.
When the transformation was complete that night, the bright vision faded, but the afterimage remained. The wolf that leapt out in search of prey was not It but I, Fenrir, Father of the New Wolf. A werewolf who does not bite randomly, but thinks and plans out his attacks with the deliberation of a man. I would become the most powerful and feared creature to ever be excommunicated from the wizarding society.
So now you have heard my story. How I was driven to what I am now. How I came to accept—no, to merge with—the beast within me.
And now, I have but one question for you: will you join me of your own will and become one of the most powerful creatures on earth, or will I have to hunt you down on the next full moon? Because I am Fenrir Greyback, the Father of the New Wolf, and one way or another, my fangs will be painted with your blood.