He couldn’t remember a time without the pain. Once a month, the moon would wax and wane. Once a month, the tides would turn, and the sky would be black as pitch, and then, once a month, the sky would be brilliantly lit, almost like daylight – and he would find the pain there, waiting for him like a sacrifice, and he would embrace it, and take it in, as he became one with the world, and then he would feast. The little children would feel his pain. Sometimes, it was senseless, just a random person picked to suffer, and other times – other times, there was a point. There was a point with Lupin. His father had done something that in Fenrir’s eyes, was unforgivable. That speech – calling him out in front of the entirety of the wizarding world – was the last straw. Lupin had done many things, but calling him out, and using the slurs he had, were more than enough to tip the scales, and Fenrir found himself attacking Lupin’s son. He had considered killing the boy – but hurting him, turning him into a monster seemed a more fitting punishment.

The beast was always hungry. It didn't matter how many he infected, or how many he killed, the beast always yearned for more - an all encompassing hunger that devoured his humanity. And so he learned to act. He could pull it all off - wizard, muggle, innocent victim, unknowing. It didn't matter, even close to the full moon. It could be a day away, and he could still manage to be someone completely different - a feat only awarded to those who had not only dealt with the affliction for many years, but had embraced it into their lives. For Fenrir, the beast, while often annoying in it's insatiable nature, was not a hindrance, or a curse - it was a part of him that he relished in. When he was younger, he hadn't. It had taken time for him to learn to take it all in - to learn that while the pain of the beast was constant, it was a far greater pain to bear than that his peers would throw at him.

October 3, 1963

The sun was setting. Time was running short for him to reach the clearing he had found several evenings prior. It was all a game to him - traipsing across Europe, infecting as many people as he could in one night. Sometimes, he killed them. Sometimes, he didn't care. There was little he could do to prevent that, but really, he didn't care. He was simply going to do what felt right. He felt the pain growing stronger, and let out a grunt as he pushed himself harder, running farther. There was no home. His parents had done little for him in his childhood. He'd killed his mother in his first transformation. He hadn't intended to. She hadn't known how to calm him - to ease the shakes and silence his screams, and as the beast had taken over, he had ripped his teeth through her flesh, until it was little but ribbons. His father had never forgiven him - but even then, it had been Adam's fault that Eden had been killed. She hadn't known any better. She was a muggle, and he was her son. He was only five, and she had wanted to make it better. Adam still blamed Fenrir, and after that, had done little for his son beyond what he had to. There would be no home for the boy at Hogwarts, however. No, he would find a home in a haven for the dark, and the psychotic - Durmstrang.

That was what brought him to the main continent - to the larger mass of Europe that was separated by the English Channel from his home in England, running through Scandinavian forests, and tormenting the people there. The sun continued to set as he finally stumbled into the clearing, breathing deeply, hands pressed tight to his knees as he waited.

The pain grew with each passing moment, as his limbs shifted and changed, his form mutated, and he kept his eyes closed, growling out a scream of agony as his body hunched further, bringing him closer to the ground, until finally, he found himself salivating, sniffing the air for the scent of human. A long, low howl cut through the night air as he caught wind of something near by, and he tore through the trees, leaving long, deep gashes in the bark. The children would never see it coming. There were five in all - on the outskirts of a small town, preparing for All Hallows Eve. The night in question was still weeks away, but that didn't stop them from gallivanting around, giggles and shrieks piercing the air. It was nothing compared to the agonized cry as he sank his teeth into the tender flesh of one of the children's calves - nothing in comparison to the scent of their tears as he mauled them. He walked away from the scene licking his chops, leaving only two still alive, though badly damaged, before he continued on his way, past the village, back to home - back to England.

It would be another five months before he would reach his homeland again, leaving a wave of carnage in his wake. Most of his victims children - between the ages of three and ten. They were easier. They didn't suspect anything in the bushes on the full moons, and parents were easy to ploy into letting them go outside. They should have known better. They should have known there was a werewolf in their midst.

September 1970

"Remorse - guilt. They make you weak. There is nothing to cause these emotions within the strong. The wizards have hunted us, sought to force us into their lines, to segregate us and oppress us. They have called us creatures, despite our strength, and power, and have sought to treat us as if we are second class citizens in a world that we share! Were we not once like them? The same blood and life and craft? Their blood deserves to be spilled for their transgressions!"

His speech would stir an army - but it wouldn't be much later that his words were realized for what they were. Several of the wolves in the United Kingdom felt the same - simply too afraid to voice these thoughts for themselves. Others were too complacent, content to line up for the Ministry - to register themselves like some sort of criminal for no crime committed - even those who had spilled no blood throughout the course of their affliction. They drank the potions that clouded their minds, and allowed themselves to be treated like less than human, when they were so much more than that, and he knew it. It was with these words, and this message, that he would gain power, and a following. His name was spoken in hushed whispers - and those who chose to call him out were punished accordingly.

Of course, he could not reach his dreams alone. He was a mere pup in comparison to many in the world, and even with an army, they would be ill prepared, there simply weren't enough of them. And that was when the idea struck him. He could ride on the coat tails of another with grand designs. He could prove useful as a scare tactic, and enforcer to the Dark Lord, and in turn, he could coast his way into power, if he played his cards right. Allow himself to become trusted, despite his carnal nature, and then, when the moment was right, after the other rose to power, he would turn, and the world would be his, a tidal wave of infection, spreading throughout the whole, until there was nothing left, and he would be king.

It was a grand dream, but not one he could accomplish alone, and one with many flaws. He would need help. He would need a good second in command, and a good general as well. Someone young, who he could mold into what he needed - and he would find that someone in a most unexpected way.


He would reach out to someone - corrupt them to the cause, and there, he would find his general.

He would raise his army.

And he would take over the world.

(TBC, GDI, BECAUSE I SAY SO, and also because this only gets him to like...the 1970s. This wolf is 80, and has kids in their like 20s and less, just saying.)