saints and sinners ; dorcas/fenrir, 07 august 1978
He was tired. This wasn’t uncommon- most people assumed that werewolves were tireless beasts, running rampant through the night with their teeth out, tongues lolling, and throats yearning for blood, sticky and warm. This simply was not true. They had been working hard for several weeks leading up to the orchestrated attack on Gringotts. He’d seen the paper and skimmed it for any mention of his name- not that he much cared. He had no interest in reading the text; words and words only made him more tired. The Dark Lord had assured him that he would be protected, anyway.
Why then, was he here?
The man occupied a chair in a small, square-shaped room tucked away in some barely-trafficked wing of the Ministry of Magic. It was hardly staffed, he’d noticed when he was brought in. Simply for questioning, they assured him. No harm, no foul. Whatever that meant. He’d squinted at the young man who’d said it. Built like a Quidditch player- broad in the chest and shoulders, narrow through the hips. He looked just like so many of the fools he’d attended school with. The ones so intent on making him feel like shite for not being as good as the rest of them. He could see the glinting mockery in his eyes but remained quiet, amber-eyed gaze boring holes in the back of the boy’s skull. At his core, Fenrir was a hunter, and one of the first lessons of hunting was observation. Observe your prey- become them. Because only when you truly understood them would you be able to decimate them. He was obedient, because to be a true leader one had to know how to be subservient, and he understood that this would all go more quickly if he simply fed them the lies answers that they wished to uncover. His wand had been checked at the door and Fenrir was hesitant to part with it. Standard procedure, he was assured yet again by the broad-chested boy. How old was he, anyway? And what was his purpose, to tell the wolf this was all bright an’ shiny, nothing amiss, totally normal? That his operation definitely didn’t have a chance to go tits up at the first slip of the tongue?
The wolf scowled and slid into a chair, ignoring the aches in his back and legs. Muscles took longer and longer to heal as he grew older. Aging was a right bitch. He stretched his legs in their tattered trousers (perpetually dirty but not unmended, though the stitches were sloppily done and in entirely the wrong colours) and refused to drink the cup of lukewarm black tea they’d set in front of him. The questions they asked were not unexpected and he answered them almost mechanically, his words brief and to the point. The wolf was never one to waste syllables. His whereabouts on the afternoon of August fifth, who he’d been with, who could verify that, etc. They were nothing he wasn’t already prepared for, and Fenrir had made sure that it would be him that was brought in. He could not trust any of his lesser pack members to withstand the pressure (though, in retrospect, this particular law enforcement unit didn’t seem to be utilizing the full extent of their strength, which made him wonder exactly how much intel they had-).
Apparently he hadn’t supplied them with the information they wanted- because of course he knew that they were pressed to convict, and without evidence they had no grounds to. The pair- two men, one older and one much younger, had left him, then, sprawled half-out of the metal-backed chair in what had served as an interrogation room, probably while they attempted to dig up more information that could prove his involvement in the attack on the renowned bank.
He’s scowling into the two-way mirror when the door creaks open and the man turns his feral, amber-eyed gaze on the person entering. His teeth are bared and if he’s surprised by the young-looking girl that enters, he doesn’t show it.
“Don’t wan’ anymore tea,” he speaks gruffly, watching her warily from his seat, taking note of her stride and the curve of her neck, the scent of her shampoo wafting toward him on the rush of air after the door slips shut. The man nods toward the still-full paper cup. Caffeinated stuff- he didn’t bother with it. Fenrir avoided all substances that he considered to be harmful or toxic to his body- caffeine and cigarettes (he’d denied the older man’s offer for a fag moments before they’d gone), alcohol and medications (pain elixirs, to be specific). In some strange, extended show of his piety, he preferred to keep himself pure and untainted, affected only by the pull of the moon herself. His eyes never left her; the girl with the square jaw and upturned nose, eyes too wide and innocent to have witnessed something truly horrific in her lifetime. He found himself drawn to her- had it been closer to the full moon he might have been pressed to act on the lure, but for now he was content to simply watch her from afar (well, as far as they could be in the compressed box of a room).
