(Untitled)

[fenrirthegrey]

Who: Fenrir, Ron
Where: Snowdonia, Wales
When: January 23, 2001
Status: Complete

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[waningred]

Entranced by the way the starlight danced and bobbed on the surface of the lake, Ron didn't immediately notice the quiet rustling in the grass. His mind was miles and miles away; hovering just over the vicinity of Canterbury to be exact. As if such a thing was truly possible without the help of some really strong, arcane magic and a whole lot of willpower. Neither of which he was in possession of right now, so instead, he'd sat there, huddled up to ward off some of the nighttime chill, completely alone with his thoughts

[fenrirthegrey]

Greyback felt the human go incredibly still. That might have worked, had he been just any wild animal. Instead, he raised one clawed hand and laid it against the male's neck. He didn't dig in just yet. Oh, no. He'd had a rough couple of weeks, and he deserved a bit of fun.

He spoke slowly, so he could make the words understandable through his misshapen mouth. "It might be better to run, boy, than to look for that useless stick of wood."

He pressed his muzzle closer to the human's throat, and sniffed deeply. He had smelled this one before... Redhead... a Weasley, mayhap? This just kept getting more interesting.

[waningred]

The inhuman voice unnerved him, but it soon gave way to dread stretching back to the dawn of man as that wet, snuffling nose made contact with his skin. A childhood fear of things that go bump in the night coupled with a strange feeling of being violated. Suppressing another shudder wasn't so easy this time.

Ron's eyes flicked upwards, putting two and two together upon noticing the waxing phase of the moon, hanging full and heavy in the cloudless January sky. A memory suddenly surfaced from the deepest recesses of his mind. A flash of Professor Sinistra describing how Wiccans called the sight a "wolf moon."

Shit. Werewolf. A werewolf caught in mid-transformation that knew he wasn't some unsuspecting Muggle just out for an airing.

At such a close proximity Ron didn't need to speak above a whisper. In a way it was a good thing he didn't need to, because he didn't think he could muster much more than that right now. "And if I try to run, what then? You'll tear my throat out before I can even get up."

[fenrirthegrey]

Greyback dug his claws in a little deeper, still not breaking the skin on the human's neck. He ran his tongue over his elongated teeth. Gods, how his mood had improved.

"If you run, it's more fun for me." He barked out laughter in a short burst, then tightened his grip still more. "It's been a while since I had some fun."

He released the wizard abruptly, shoving him down towards the hard slate. He could smell the fear coming off the human in waves, mixing with the smell of the wood and core of his wand and the wizard's own distinctive smell. Greyback itched to sink his teeth into the man before him, but didn't want to rush what was proving to be a rather enjoyable experience.

He lowered his face so it was inches away from what he was now certain was a Weasley's face. His voice growing every rougher, he snarled, "Run, boy!"

[waningred]

No further prompting was necessary, and Ron sprang to his feet and took off like a jackrabbit across the wide expanse of open field. Running as if life and limb were at stake toward higher ground. His sight had been partially obscured by a thick lock of hair when he'd been so roughly pushed forward, but there was no mistaking that voice or the mottled coat of the creature; it terrified him even more.

This would be the second time a Weasley had encountered Fenrir Greyback. And as he scurried up an incline littered with pieces of uneven, sharp-as-glass slate that tore his hands and shifted underneath his trainers, something told him he wasn't going to make it. Mauled to death - or worse - in some godforsaken shit hole in the Welsh countryside hundreds of miles from family or friends. What a way to go.

Terror has a way of pulling things into stark clarity like that, you know.