Wow, thanks for all the support, guys! I'm really touched that you like this story. I shall certainly continue it. (grins)
Lycanthropy takes a toll on the human body, make no mistake about that. For the first time in my life I was forced to live on scraps, throwaways, the refuse of those who shunned me so completely. During those first few years, I could often be found rummaging through garbage cans like a pariah dog, searching for any edible morsel that some thoughtless person had cast away. I was not too proud to eat the waste of others in order to survive.
Do not misunderstand me: I hated every moment of it. But like the survivor who will eat his comrades to live, the need for food overcame my repulsion. My dream was there, lingering before me, and I would not let starvation kill it or me. There would be time later to be proud. So I lived on the dregs of society, always waiting.
After my bright vision captured my mind and imagination, I determined that the first thing to do would be to find someone strong, someone as capable as myself in turning the masses to werewolves. I decided that such would be the first step in my glorious plan.
I could not have been more mistaken.
Something symbolic had made me want to choose a Ministry employee. I wanted to strike at them first--the invisible hand that crushed me down and the all-seeing eye that I could never escape. But I knew I could never get close enough, for I would have to venture into the city to find one, and my skills were not ready for that. I needed a sheltered place into which I could retreat after an attack. I understood that the time was not yet ripe for that vengeance.
In the days leading up to the next full moon, I scoped out a prospective convert. He was strong, as I had wished. Since he was a Muggle, I knew he would be easy enough to convert to my purposes. He probably didn't even believe in werewolves. I followed him home one night and marked the place carefully in my mind. Its position was perfect: the neighborhood was bordered by forest into which I could easily escape and remain hidden until the sun had risen.
The night of the full moon found me waiting outside of that house, shuddering from the exertion of keeping my lupine self controlled enough to wait for the target my human mind had selected. It was fortunate (at the time) that no other human passed that way, for I would have instantly attacked them. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, my marked man came back. I leapt, remembering the old woman and the ease with which I had sunk my fangs into her.
I did not expect the heavy blow that cracked against my head, causing me to yelp in shock and pain. I crashed back down to the ground and barely managed to roll away before the man was once again aiming his heavy briefcase at my skull. I scrambled back to my feet, snarling. He swung again, and I leapt away.
Though I managed to avoid his other blows, I was disconcerted. In every plan I had formulated, every possible outcome I had imagined, I had merely pounced upon my victims and torn into their yielding flesh. I had believed in my own power, my own superiority. Now, this man, who I had specially chosen to be my first child, was beating me at my own game. I could not get within wounding distance of him, yet he had no problem inflicting hurts upon me.
I believe that my problem was that I had not yet learned the best way to use my werewolf body. Three years later, if I had wanted to attack this same man, I would've waited for him to walk past me, then bitten him from behind, where he could not see me and defend himself. This was simply my first attempt, though, so I could not have been expected to succeed against a fully-grown man, even if he was a Muggle. Nevertheless, pride would not let me give up.
My teeth closed savagely upon the leather briefcase, and I twisted my head sharply, trying to drag the item away from the man. My would-be victim, however, had called loudly towards the house when I first appeared, and now a woman appeared suddenly at the door, brandishing a broom and a kitchen knife.
The first blow from the broom-handle caused me to whirl upon the wife. Here was easier prey, I was sure. But I had not yet had the opportunity to get close enough to bite when, with a shout, the man's briefcase punched me hard in the ribs. My paws stumbled, and I felt a white-hot pain in my shoulder as the woman screamed and drove the kitchen knife into me.
Beaten, bruised, and bleeding, I chose to make my escape before more grievous hurts could be inflicted upon me. All of my illusions of grandeur fleeing, I ran, tail between my legs. I collapsed into some shrubs half a street away, pausing to lick my wound. Thought processes were simpler in lupine form, and I could not reason how I could have been defeated so soundly.
Looking back now, I think that those few moments in the bushes were a crossroads. Had I chosen to slink away, my vision would have died. I would have given up on that path forever. I would have lived the life of every other werewolf before me: surviving on the fringe of society, taking Muggle odd jobs to eat, never accepted anywhere.
But at that moment a light blinded me. A symbol, I thought; for the burning light reminded me so clearly of my first moment of comprehension. I knew I had to continue. I realized where the light had come from: an automobile's headlights had glided over my hiding place for an instant, and I became alert. I did not think about what I was doing; I merely followed instinct. The car stopped outside of the house of the man who had so brutally beaten me just moments before. A rear door opened. A child stepped out.
A child. So young, so innocent, so weak.
Instantly I dashed back to the house. Before anyone could react, before the child could scream, I had my teeth on her forearm. I felt the warmth of her blood in my mouth, and a sense of overwhelming pride coursed through me. This was right. This was what I was made to do.
I dragged her with me a few feet before the father screamed in horror and rage. He was charging at me with the knife. I dropped the girl and lunged. The blood in my mouth had given me new ferocity. I felt raw power surge in my yet-untrained muscles. I was not afraid of this bellowing Muggle.
My teeth closed on his throat, and before I could stop myself I had torn his windpipe open. He fell. The man I had so wanted to convert was no use to me now; in a very short time he would be dead. I returned to the girl. She was unconscious. I continued to drag her away.
I heard frenzied shouts of panic from the house, but by then I had reached the woods. My strategy of backing away while clutching the child in my teeth was not gaining me enough ground, so I dropped her arm and picked her up where her neck and shoulder met, then bounded away, to be swallowed by the protecting trees.
When I awoke the next morning, I found in my grasp a young girl, no more than seven years old. She was sleeping, but the streaks that were mixed with the clotted blood on her face were evidence to the fact that she had been crying.
I was in shock.
So this was my first child? A weak little girl? I could not care for someone so young. My vision involved infecting the great men of the wizarding world, not little girls. For a moment I considered taking her back.
Then I realized the greatest part of my dream, and the part of which I am most proud today: the children are the key to success. Raise them wild. Breed in them a sense of hatred from their youth, and they will be loyal forever. Never let them go back to their home, and when the time comes, they might turn on their parents just like my parents turned on me.
This little girl was a promise. She was the promise of a new world: a world of terror and panic where the name Fenrir Greyback would not be spoken in contempt alone, but in awe, in fear. Where I could be recognized as a leader of a new army.
So, at seventeen, barely of age, I hugged a tiny girl to me, swearing that she would light the path to my vision's fruition. I loved her then as a father loves his first daughter. My key. My promise. My light.