Disclaimer: This applies to the whole story. Any recognizable Harry Potter characters, objects, events, places, scenes, quotes, et cetera do not belong to us. They belong to the wonderful JK Rowling and her associates. We are not making any profit through this piece and no trademark or copyright violation is intended. This story was made purely for the sake of our own amusement.

Summary: Fenrir deals with his obsession the only way he knows how: by letting his wolf take control.

Warnings: Creature/Human rape, slash, character death, and violence. Read with caution.

A/N: Challenge #50 on xoxLewrahxox's Bellatrix Lestrange: The Dark Lord's Most Faithful forum.

Inkfire's "Challenge #50: The Collaboration Challenge": It's the forum's fiftieth challenge! To celebrate this amazing event, we mods have decided to throw something a bit different. We thus welcome you to the Collaboration challenge!

I partnered with Thanatos Angelos Girl, and I must say that it has been a pleasure working on this fic with her for the past month. Thank you so much! I had lots of fun writing with you!

"Passion is a positive obsession. Obsession is a negative passion." – Paul Carvel

Bleak Obsession

His pack had dispersed after the war. He felt ripped apart and mangled with guilt. He had been their Alpha and should have taken care of them more efficiently. Alone now, he held himself to blame and he could still feel the distress he had caused coursing through his veins like tangy crimson acid.

His had once been one of the most feared names in the Wizarding World; now he was simply a pest to be extinguished. He was no longer Fenrir, the werewolf that could swallow the sun whole if he wanted, but rather the werewolf whom had shamed his kind, proving the purebloods' narrow-mindedness right. He was nothing more than an animal. He wasn't any better or equal than Squibs to them.

He was wrought not only by his disappointment but also his rage. Having gambled everything for his pack, wizards still looked down on werewolves. Inadvertently, he had proved them right. He reviled them, despised their condescending tones, but most of all, Fenrir loathed their conviction that he was now faulty for all evil in the world in the Dark Lord absence.

He was fuming with what he had been reduced to, and irate with a haunting pair of green eyes.

Fenrir didn't deserve the youth with messy black hair and emerald orbs but he did have a craving for the boy. It was stronger than any he had ever felt before. A boy who still had everything Fenrir was robbed of when he was bitten long ago: love, family, friends, and most importantly a purpose.

Fenrir didn't dare to go close to him. He knew he would be thrown in Azkaban or worse. To many he was just a monster and therefore deserved the cruelest punishments society could think of; this, of course, was because "monsters" didn't have civilized thoughts and thus shouldn't be treated humanely.

Harry stood for everything Light. He was beautiful, young… alive. He was a saint, a boy deserving to be placed on a pedestal.

Fenrir was irrefutably none of that.

Harry was a savior and Fenrir, the demon. The youth smelled of spring and new beginnings but despite this all he would condemn Fenrir for what he had done to Lupin years ago. He would crack a whip down harder upon his back than any other. He would be filled with malice akin to the purebloods and he would seal Fenrir's fate to be filled with pain and suffering if he could.

But that all wouldn't happen; Fenrir was hidden away like a coward to escape persecution after the Battle.

Fenrir didn't want to see his beloved obsession—bleak obsession—Harry's face warped with contempt. Maybe he could try staying naïve and pretend everything would be fine.


Who was he trying to fool? Fenrir knew what he was viewed as and it was exactly how the boy would perceive him.

Fenrir growled with annoyance and glanced up at the night sky.

Under his skin there was life prowling. It vaguely reminded him of ants, hundreds of thousands, crawling under his skin, craving to burst out. His body was filled with a rhythmic pounding as energy and something beyond the world of mortals rushed through his veins.

He felt alive; he felt the worries and misery start to seep away.

He ran a hand through his hair and glanced above him again. It was time. Soon, he wouldn't have to be human; he could lose control. He could lose himself in everything and let the inner soul, the wolf, in him run amok.

There she was.

A beautiful white orb took center stage in the sky. Her lovely moonlight seeped into his skin and caressed it like an old friend. The feeling from before seized control of all his body and within minutes there wasn't a monster in the form of a man. There was a monster in the shape of a wolf but thrice its size.

His fur gleamed ebony and harmonized with the sky above, its glittering balls of fire and gas alight with fervor. He blended perfectly with the woods around him. He was free. The wolf was in charge now, not the man. The anguished and broken man departed from his mind, letting the wolf, ravenous and primal, slowly take control.

He wasn't Fenrir, The-Fallen-Leader, any longer. He was Fenrir, The Wolf, and alpha of the night. With that thought he, the starving wolf, took a look around his surroundings and padded into the darkness beyond the clearing.

He wandered for a mile or so, relishing the music of the forest for the first time in a month. Owls hooted overhead and hares burrowed deeper into the ground as he passed. Fenrir barked playfully, bearing a roguish grin to the prey scattering rapidly away from his vicinity.

A brook nearby gurgled and he took a moment to lap at the fresh water, savoring the cool liquid sliding down his throat.

His stomach rumbled with hunger when his ears where met with the quiet rustling not far from his position; it seemed to be coming from across the running water. He waded across, its rush masking the sounds of his body breaking the current. Slowly, he crawled up the bank and through the thicket, traveling upwind of the animal so he didn't attract its attention.

A stag stood grazing ahead of him. It was a large buck for early spring, somehow meaty even after the frozen winter in Scotland. It was facing away from him, ear flicking about. It nibbled at the first shoots of green sprouting from the soil.

He crept nearer.

He could imagine its tender thigh dripping succulently from his jaws, the deer struggling feebly under his weight.


He pounced from behind before it could flee. His jaws clenched into its neck, and his momentum took it down quickly. Blood squelched between his teeth and he shook his catch's neck roughly, the buck's tense form trying to kick out in vain.

The deer bled out and he began tearing its hide from its body before ripping out large chunks of tissue. He gorged himself, savoring the meat even though he hadn't played with it prior, lucky to have found such a kill this late into the season.

A twig cracked to his left, shattering the forest's bustling.

His head snapped up and he stared straight into the wide green eyes of a human standing among the foliage.

He growled.

The human bolted.

He leapt from his defensive stance over the stag and dashed after it, focused on taking it down quickly. The thrill of the chase surged through his veins, and he sprinted between the trees, jumping over fallen logs and weaving through the bushes. The male was faster than he had predicted, but no matter, it was only a matter of time.

There was a startled yell ahead and he sped up, breaking forth into a clearing.

He paused. The woods were strangely quiet and his prey seemed to have disappeared.

He sniffed.

Some squirrels sat above…

A berry bush to his right…


The sour stench of sweat mingled in the air.

He gazed across the clearing floor. From the tracks and scuffmarks in the dirt before his paws, he knew that the male had tripped.

As he approached them to tell where the male had gone, he came upon an oddly shaped piece of wood. It seemed familiar, and curiosity edged him closer.

He sniffed at the chiseled stick of holly, his great damp nose making contact with the pointed tip. The scent of lingering magic prickled in his throat, causing him to sneeze profusely. He growled angrily, the sound reverberating deep within his ribcage. His wolf despised magic with every fiber of its being and his prey had large amounts of it from what he could tell.

He looked ahead. His keen eyes could almost see the scent of the male ahead of him. It wafted strongly, weaving unsteadily between the trees. Ears poised, he could hear his prey now, crashing through the brushwood not even fifty yards ahead.

His wolf bound forward, limbs pumping furiously to gain upon his prey.

He loved the hunt. The chase to rip into tender flesh and succulent blood, made sweet with fear. He couldn't wait to feast upon this delightful morsel, and the thought amplified his desire. His adrenaline was pumping almost as furiously as his strong and powerful limbs were.

Fenrir could barely see his prey, cloaked within the dark of the willowy trees and the overrun crawling vines and branches. Leaping to avoid a log he pushed himself further. His senses were going into overload at the smell and sight of the weak being.

The movements of other prey around him were heard by Fenrir's hypersensitive ears. Among those sounds he could hear his prey's labored breath and violent tremors. Fenrir, the wolf side anyway, was thrilled to hear how near his prey was.

No one could hide or run from him.

He could smell the raw and exotic smell from the human. The smell filled his senses with a musky and almost erotic fragrance. He loved the smell of panic, to know that he and his prey knew who was really in control and who would win the game of predator and prey.

He could almost taste the fear on his tongue. Fear: the sweat, tears, and adrenaline which formed a salty and savory taste that truly was the best part of the whole game.

Suddenly, he watched the prey fall, crashing into the rough and muddy ground. If only wolves could smirk, for this scene was pure brilliance.

The wolf threw his body into overdrive and bounded against the earth, crashing and eliciting piercing thuds throughout the forest. His prey cried out as the wolf landed, almost effortless, before him.

"Bloody hell!"

The wolf paused. Something was familiar about the voice. It was peculiar. What was it about the voice that caused his body to shiver in the way it was now?

"Please, don't hurt me… I can help you."

Now it was clear. It was the boy, his boy! The wolf walked closer and sniffed the air. Yes, yes it was, but the boy didn't know who he was, and he would never help him. That was simply impossible, a fairy tale the wolf knew wouldn't happen.

But… maybe he could pretend Fenrir didn't know who he was and pretend he could be with Harry.

Just for a moment…

He could do something he had wanted to do for a long time. Harry would never know it was him.

And so the wolf pushed back the human inside of him, despite the screams of protest in his mind, and decided to fall back on basic nature.

He would treat Harry like he would a wolf Fenrir was claiming his mate.

He pounced as the boy made to scramble away, and Harry landed with a yelp on his stomach. The giant wolf held him down firmly with a massive paw as he struggled, using another paw to shred Harry's jeans from his form, swiping any remaining obstacles away with the bat of his foot. Fenrir positioned his hind legs forcibly spreading the younger's so that he was open.

Fenrir, without warning, entered the boy with a shove, tearing into him, grunting at the effort it took him to keep from coming immediately.

Harry screamed silently with anguish beneath him.

He began to pound into him, slowly at first, but gradually gaining speed.

Harry sobbed as the mud beneath choked his cries from becoming distinguishable.

His claws dug deeper into the boy's back, gauging through his jacket and causing blood to swell rapidly. His thrusts became erratic, rushed and gratifying from the heated friction coming from within Harry.

Fenrir's back arched with tension as a particularly gripping drive propelled him into a dystopia of ecstasy. He came, spilling forth with an unearthly cry stifled in the nape of the neck.

Crimson splattered across his vision and copper welled thickly within his mouth. His tongue was on fire and his teeth tore at the squelching sack of skin, wanting more, needing more. His mate tasted of rapture; a forbidden and delicate fruit, plucked ripe and juicy with barely contained power.

He lapped at the wound that marked the boy as his and pulled his flaccid member from the body beneath him.

Harry shuddered, breathing rasped and labored. The bleeding had become sluggish.

Fenrir curled up, spent, beside his new mate, warming the shivering body next to him, and began waiting for the dawn to arrive. Harry would heal soon enough.

Hours later the slumber his unconscious mind was wrapped in slowly faded and his eyes, glazed and unfocused, opened. He lifted his now human arm to shove away the lump before him, only to discover he was covered thickly with a sticky russet red mess. His eyes blinked the bleariness away…

…and saw a unspeakable sight before him. Fenrir was no longer out of control. Instead he was cruelly and harshly aware to the pains of reality, for all living beings must deal with the consequences of their actions.

No. Just… no…

There was no ragged breathing or slight movement in the boy's body. Drying blood appeared black, cackling in the ebbing moon's dying rays. The blood stood out sharply against the pallor of his torn skin.

Harry. The boy of life, the boy of sweet redemption, was dead. The smoldering and bright light that had burned in his eyes and filled the air with his screams was gone and left Fenrir in darkness. He had screwed up.

The boy was gone.


That one word sent tidal waves of shock and pain through his body and Fenrir howled into the dawn. The blood red in the sky didn't even compare to the blood before him. The vibrant sky was a taunt to him that life had to go on despite the fact that he had ripped his heart apart. Fenrir looked at the crimson stained ground and the boy's shredded and dirty, from his blood, dirt, and seminal fluid, clothes just more than an arm's length away from him.

He stood up and saw the sight before him more clearly; the beaten and bruised skin, the horror that contorted his face and body still, Fenrir's ravenous bite that had changed the boy not into a werewolf and his mate but a corpse, and silence, unforgiving and harsh, filled the once alive scene. Fenrir could still hear the echo of Harry's screams in the clearing but now all was silent as if all the forest dwellers were in mourning for the boy. It was as if he had sucked the life out of everything around him now that he had done such a vile crime.

For it was a sad day indeed.

Fenrir had laid his dirty paws on the boy and now he was defiled and broken. Now he was dead. Why couldn't he have realized the outcome sooner? Why couldn't he have seen the truth?

He was a monster; monsters didn't love, and when they had something even for a second they always destroyed it.

Fenrir could just imagine what would happen now and he deserved every bit of it. He knew this. He knew this when he left the corpse, found his clothes, and moved on. He knew and admitted everything when authorities finally caught him. But he knew one thing. The thing that had set him off had been the announcement of his engagement to the young red headed girl.

At least he wouldn't be seeing her now. Fenrir was the last to have him and the first to have the boy in that intimate—cruel, grotesque, corrupt—way.

Fenrir managed to have, truly have, the boy before he went. That was the thought that made him laugh hysterically and howl with satisfaction in Azkaban, because really, that was a marvelous thing.

Besides, now that the boy was dead and there were holes in both his heart and his sanity, he could cling to that knowledge. He had once been sure he had lost both before the boy had perished, but it now occurred to him that maybe he lost his sanity when he first gazed upon the boy and his heart the night he killed him. These were the only things he could adhere to now.

And clutch to them Fenrir would and as fiercely as possible until the day he died in a dreary gray cell.

A/N: Please take some time to review and let us know what you think. Over a month of writing went into this fic so it would be very appreciated to hear some feedback.

~Lira Veralily