Alive

The fog was creeping silently between tall trees, and now everything smelled of it. Fenrir started walking faster. He didn’t want his clothes to get damp, that was all. Not that he disliked the idea of the fog touching his skin with its long white fingers. The whiteness of the fish belly it was, the whiteness of the body that spent too much time in the river and was now dead-dead-dead… Fenrir shook his head as if trying to get rid of these thoughts and that was the moment he almost fell in a hole in the ground. He didn’t curse but that was mainly because he had bitten his lip so hard there was blood now. A low growl came out of his throat, and that was it. Fenrir squinted a little, his eyesight adjusted and he was now fully aware of the fact that he had almost fallen into a freshly-dug grave. He spit into the grave in disgust that was just a mask for the sudden twinge of superstitious fear. What did that mean? Did that mean anything? Was it an omen of bad luck for him? “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. Mommy had told him that curse words summon the devil, but he wasn’t a very good boy to begin with, and also she was dead. She had been dead for so long Fenrir could recall neither her face, nor her name. He didn’t bother too much because of the name, she didn’t need one, mothers don’t need one, but the face thing was a disappointment. It was only now that he realized his own mistake. He made his way to the graveyard without realizing, and the stones he had stepped over were the remains of the old stone wall that separated the graveyard from the forest. Nobody cared for that part of the graveyard. Fenrir didn’t care about graveyards either, all the rituals surrounding death made him sick. Death was natural and didn’t impress him much. Unnatural were the solemn faces, the preachers in their black clothes and the smell of censing that made him sneeze. Graveyards in general were unnatural as well. They were meant for the dead but in reality they were for the living: to come there, to mourn, to cry. Graveyards took the space from fields and forests, and they never gave anything back. Fenrir started walking again, this time paying extra attention to the path he was choosing. His mind wandered. The village was small, but there surely was a pub. He could use a pint or two, or rather something hot and savory that will make him feel warm and good inside. The full moon was over several days ago, and he felt like shit emerging from the forest. He felt cold, and miserable, and angry, and all sorts of things that made him a very unfortunate person to meet late at night. There was a new smell, and it was strong and rich. Fenrir stopped at his tracks and sniffed the air, bewildered. It wasn’t the smell of the lilies that caught his attention, it was the other smell hiding behind the lilies. The smell of a living creature, a person… a wizard. He had to be careful now. Muggles were easy and stupid, he didn’t give much thought about them as a person wouldn’t give too much of a thought to dirt on his soles. Wizards, on the other hand, were dangerous… because they knew how dangerous a werewolf could be. Fenrir thought for a moment about apparating right away, and he almost decided to play it safe but the cool night breeze brought the scent again, a mixture of them, really. Lilies smelled wet and cold, and they had that exquisite note of decay in them even in their full blossom. There was more. There was velvet, and coffee. There was silk, and roses, and another smell that felt salty… tears. Fenrir drew air in and now really tasted the smell, letting the cold go down his throat. He made a few steps further, and there was a tall figure in a traveling cloak. The cloak was black, the lilies on the grave were white, and the long hair of this person was auburn. The person was a man, Fenrir could tell that by the smell only, even without looking at the figure. And yet he was staring at the man and his beautiful long hair for several minutes until the man turned around and asked: “Can I help you?” It was getting dark, but the bright and unforgiving blue of his eyes made Fenrir startle. “I don’t know. Can you?” he managed a reply that felt too defensive to his liking. It was a wizard, after all, in front of him. “It depends.” “Yeah. That’s what I thought,” Fenrir showed his teeth in a smile that wasn’t really a smile. This man was young. He wouldn’t make a good fight. He wasn’t even twenty five, was he? He came closer, and suddenly the man made a move. Fenrir growled and pointed his wand at the man, ready to fight to death. “Albus Dumbledore,” the man said, and Fenrir had to blink a couple of times to realize what was going on. The man called Albus didn’t take out his wand, he was stretching his hand and offering a handshake. His hand was firm and long fingers were delicate and sensual. When Fenrir clenched his hand, he felt a sudden rush of excitement. He wanted to crush those beautiful fingers, and bite them, and swallow them one by one. Also he wanted those fingers to touch him. “Fenrir Greyback,” he replied without letting go of the hand. That was tactics. He was holding the hand that could possibly reach for the wand. “Nice to meet you. Though I hoped to spend some time on my own here.” “Where is this here?” “It’s the graveyard of the Godrick’s Hollow… will you let me go, please?” Fenrir unclasped his fingers. “Do you live here?” “I used to. Not anymore.” “Right,” he nodded and suddenly couldn’t hold his tongue anymore. “You smell so good. But I can’t put my finger on it… what’s that?” “I am sure my sense of smell is inferior to yours. I can’t help you with that.” “You know who I am.” “I don’t know who you are, Fenrir. I only know your name and the fact that you must be a lycanthrope. That is all.” “What gave me away?” “You were smelling me… now, please, I would like to be left alone.” Fenrir shrugged his shoulders and turned around. He was walking the opposite direction now, the hypothetical pub had lost all its charm. That wizard chose to shake his hand. That wizard must have been mad… Forest swallowed Fenrir Greyback, and that was good. It was much wiser to succumb to the forest that was calling him than to the smell of Albus Dumbledore that shook his hand.