Letters to The Boy Who Lived

17. Blood- Fenir Greyback

Dear Harry~

I'm to teach you about blood in this letter. This is my story.

It's like an addiction. An addiction to alcohol, drugs, smoking... or something like that. Plenty of people struggle from that sort of thing, right? And although it's bad, it's not that bad. Only, my addiction is worse- much worse.

I'm addicted to blood.

I hate it. I wish I could be 'normal'... but I've never known what that feels like.

I was left out to die soon after I was born, abandoned by parents who never loved me. Found by a werewolf, who tried to care for me as best as she could. But of course... her transformation was inevitable. I assume that it was the first time she transformed after she found me when she bit me.

There was nothing she could do- nothing I could do. We both transformed every full moon, since the Wolfsbane potion was tricky and we didn't have anyone to make it for us, certainly didn't have enough money to buy it. For a time, she took pity on me, even while she was transformed - perhaps because I was just a cub and even werewolves have some level of sympathy.

But it was right around the time I turned thirteen that she began to attack me. Up until that point, we lived far removed from humans and rarely saw even animals, so I'd never actually attacked anything while being a werewolf. When it happened the first few times, I was so shocked that it's a miracle I wasn't killed. But I learned quickly - it was time to toughen up and do things for myself. So I did.

I don't remember killing her- I just remember slowly returning from my transformed state and seeing my surrogate mother on the ground, blood pouring out of her still-transformed body.

I did feel pangs of remorse, but it wasn't like I could do anything about it and I didn't remember actually killing her, so it wasn't so bad. Actually, I realized that it was the first time since I had started transforming that I had awoken from it without immense pain and feverishness that usually lasted for days.  

Was it really murder, cold-blooded murder, that would ease the pain? Was it truly that simple? I mean, if I could attack someone who raised me from my birth, who was as close to me as anyone ever could be, without much remorse, couldn't I kill someone I didn't know that much easier?

So I did... and it worked. Killing eased the pain. And it was just as simple as I'd thought - by positioning myself close to a well-inhabited village a few days before the full moon, I could almost ensure that I would have someone to prey on when the time came. Even if I did not manage to kill, the taste of blood was enough to ease my pain slightly.

Children, I soon discovered, were the most satisfactory prey. Either because they were young and innocent, or because their blood was full of a life not yet lived, children were the source of the ultimate freedom from pain. 

And then, years later, well... if Voldemort could promise more blood than I'd ever had before, why wouldn't I follow him?

Eventually, it became like any other drug; I was dependent upon it. I could not go a month without the taste of blood, for when I did, I spent nearly the entire month afterwards in unbearable pain. I could not even go the whole month without the taste of blood, so I had to begin attacking humans without waiting for the full moon. It wasn't so bad, really. The only hard part was the memories that came with  attacking while not transformed.

Could I ever break this addiction - this horrible addiction to blood?

Harry, taking from others for your own gain may seem easy and simple, but it is not. Be selfless always, so that your character stays pure.

~Fenrir

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Woah, it's been a while... sorry guys! I've just been super busy and I wanted this chapter to turn out well (because I hate giving you guys crap).

The next one shouldn't take as long!!!

RVC(: