Alive

Fenrir found it difficult to believe the young man was the Dark Lord he had heard so much about. Evil is ugly. At least, that’s what his mother used to tell him. Evil is ugly, don’t you be evil, my joy, lest you want to turn into something so hideous the sun won’t shine upon. For some time, when he was small enough to hide behind her skirts, Fenrir would believe those grains of wisdom. Later he would just laugh it all off, but that one stayed. Evil is ugly. The Dark Lord wasn’t ugly at all. His young and handsome face was pale, a little too much to Fenrir’s taste, as if there was some kind of an illness gnawing at him from the inside. “Parasites,” smirked Fenrir. “Worms. He looks sick… I’ll give him 3 months to either get rid of ‘em…” “Or?” “Or to die on a john, his shit bloody.” They laughed aloud, howling a little ‘caz full-moon was just around the corner, and in the next 3 months his prophecy came partly true. It was Sammy who died. The Aurors got him good, and they didn’t even try to take him alive. Sammy wasn’t his friend or anything, Fenrir had no friends walking alone under the sickly beauty of the moon, but he was fun to drink and chase the village girls with. And they had known each other for forty years… not long enough to become close in Fenrir’s point of view but long enough to notice his absence in the pubs from now on. The Dark Lord was still pale and handsome, and hiding the fact he was anything dark at all. Fenrir bumped into him at Borgin’s, and smelled him the way he would smell any pretty girl or boy, staring and grinning. The way it scared the living shit out of them. It didn’t work. The Dark Lord smiled back, and Fenrir’s eyes grew cold and attentive. “Mister Borgin is expecting a parcel. Are you the one to deliver?” “I expect 50 galleons from the old man. Are you the one to deliver?” “Let me see yours, and I’ll show you mine… part of the deal.” “I like a lad with a sense of humour,” Fenrir put the parcel on the counter and watched long and sensual fingers never touching it. This young man, be he the Dark Lord or not, surely wasn’t stupid. He was mad. Fenrir smelled the madness on him the way a nagging wife would smell alcohol on her hubby’s breath. He got his 50 galleons, no questions asked, and left. The Dark Lord’s gaze followed him, cold and amused. Sammy died because of Aurors, and he wasn’t the only one. They hunted werewolves by day, and tried to take them alive. They hunted werewolves by night, and left no survivors. Fenrir didn’t mind that, it all was just a part of the Great Hunt, the concept he had learned about at the early years of his turning. Some called that life. “He has a point,” Nathaniel was pale and looked tired. Worms, probably, Fenrir decided but said nothing. The full-moon was gone, and everyone affected by that old bitch looked tired. “I heard him talking… and, by God, he has a point…” Nathaniel became a werewolf several years ago, and it didn’t change his life. Ruined it, to be exact. Once he had a bright future ahead and was even planning to go work for the Ministry. He got bitten, and all his nice and pretty life started crumbling around him like a card house. Friends? Gone. Wealth? Gone. Useful connections? Gone. Welcome to the club, you’re an outcast now, take your seat and relax. Nathaniel didn’t want to relax and take it like a man. He wanted to have it all back, his friends, connections, and wealth. But, mostly, his rights. “We are wizards as well. We deserve to be treated as equals!” “And the Dark Lord promised that…” “He is an enemy of the Ministry. My enemy’s enemy is my friend,” curtly said Nathaniel. His eyes found Fenrir who was slowly sipping his drink and narrowed. “Don’t you think so, Greyback?” Fenrir shrugged. “Everyone is everyone’s enemy, boy. Why should this Dark Lord care about your shit?” “He is different from all of them… He knows exactly what he is doing.” Nathaniel didn’t even realise how right he was. “Well, if you’re so excited about him…” Fenrir put his empty cup on the dirty table. “I guess we could talk.” “Will you?” Nathaniel wanted his shit back and altogether, but he was scared to death. That was the reason he actually started this talk. Because Fenrir was known to be scared of nothing. Because Fenrir was old. “I will.” The clock struck 12. Nathaniel ordered whiskey for everyone and said with certainty that almost made Fenrir laugh: “My friends, this very midnight… changes everything for us this year. Mark my words!” Fenrir didn’t nod but he grew thoughtful after that pompous little speech. The Dark Lord he had once met at Borgin’s was mad enough to change everything. Fenrir knew that because, as his mother used to say, deep calls to deep.