Persuasive Means [Raphael]

[Deleted]

the things that you might like don't grow inside of me Their words broke from bruised lips, gushing out in panic. They were weak, best off dead. Despite his methods of torture Fenrir was disgruntled at how fast the pair had surrendered, tails tucked between quivering legs. A sneer split his mouth downwards. There was not an ounce of pride bleeding within their veins. He reached out, hooking his claws into the mop of hair to his left. Grasp held firm, the tips of his nails dug into the scalp as though Fenrir were carving melon. A shrill scream echoed out further provoking the attack. Jerking his arm sideways and pulling down there was a clipped snap of bone. Then silence. He grunted letting the head drop. It smacked dully against Fenrir’s booted foot before rolling off onto the floor. The newly solo captive attempted vainly to shake free of his bonds. The wolf bit back a smile. Musty odors intermixed with spilt blood, wafting beneath eager nostrils-flared and at the ready. Fenrir’s tongue flicked at crusty flakes lining the rims of his mouth. There was scarring from various sores which bordered between healed and fester. The digestion of human flesh was not without its cons. But Fenrir thought the inflamed marks symbolized the bearing of an apex predator. He stood before his victim, peering down beneath fat lids. Slowly Fenrir crouched lowering himself down to one knee, stare locked straight and cold. The joints of his knees cracked but were barely heard beneath the terrified whimpers. Snaking a hand into the depths of his pocket, the werewolf produced a blade. The metallic surface gleamed in the beams of moonlight. He grinned. Twirled between the pads of his fingers, the dagger came to a halt pressed against the man’s jugular. His shaken breath stained the steel’s edges. It shifted with every erratic heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. Fenrir cut through the quiet. Crimson beads bubbled up along the gash before spraying out, showering the front of Greyback’s robes. The dusty earth morphed to a red-tinged sludge, blood pooling at his feet. The body slumped backwards. It was a messy slit-too deep; the blade had caught along the muscles prompting Fenrir to roughly tear across. Sucking the metal dry he growled, nicking the side of his tongue. Warm, salty fluid filled the bottom gushing out over his teeth. He swallowed it back, once more pocketing the dagger. It hadn’t been the struggle he had wanted-nothing was ever fun if taken without a fight- but he was now armed with the information he had craved. Going upright, Fenrir apparated to Cannock Chase Forest. Tracking the scent of a wolf was much easier than that of a witch or wizard-there was less stink. Bramble twines splintered beneath the weight of his boots. He trampled across the mossy pads of forest floor not bothering to even attempt masking his odor. He wanted his presence known. There was no pride if the catch was caught utterly off-guard. The rims of mouth peeled back into a yellow-stained scowl. There were no visible signs of foreign life-wizards and witches did not belong in the woods, this was wolf territory. A better sense of curiosity snagged at his thoughts. Fenrir froze, tilting his head towards the ground. This was the area babbled by his previous company, and of course magic hid things well. But how the devil was he to get inside? Snatching up his own wand, often left abandoned in a back pocket, Fenrir gave it a wave beaming wide as an entrance came into view. Too easy. He hastened his way within. His broad shoulders barely fit through the opening. Encompassed by darkness Fenrir stumbled in, ramming against a solid silhouette. Porcelain shattered. “The hell?”, he snarled, light pouring out from his wand’s tip. A small tea cup lay on the ground in shards, reminiscent of an ear long since passed. The dresser it had rested upon was of a dark mahogany, intricate designs carved along its borders. Instead of a hidey-hole in the middle of nowhere it felt as though he were in a woman’s flat. Stepping across the mess Fenrir made his way for the couch and sat, smearing blood and dirt along the fabric. He nose wrinkled. Damn it even smelled like a woman. raphael@tag

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[Deleted]

"I’ll see you, sweeties."

Raphael blew a kiss, followed by a wink, at the girls who were drinking with him at his frequent pub before turning around for a walk. Strolling down the street of Knockturn alley, he lazily glanced at the things displayed behind the dusty glass windows. This creepily quiet alley was like his house. There were no corner he had not set foot into and the dreadful feeling the alley constantly give out was like sweet scent to him. His improved hearing told him the path was not empty as it seemed. Night time always provided the best working condition, which was why it was more crowded here after sunset. Of course, not the lovely crowds of a nice shopping center, but the uneasy feeling that you were not alone on the deserted street. Only a professional criminal – which he proudly preferred himself as – could notice the presence of other “colleagues”. While some carelessly sell their illegal things in the open, people like him would rather conceal themselves.

He might appear as a wealthy young business man from a wizard family to the outside world but Raphael had tons of secret to be unloaded. For the sake of his freedom and occupation, nobody should know his parents had nothing to do with magic. He had learned a valuable lesson about not revealing one’s true blood status in the wizarding world, especially when their clients were usually the elites. He knew many of those who asked for his services would not enjoy working with a muggle-born wizard. It was crucial to keep his customers happy. Therefore, the majority of his acquaintances now knew him as a half-blood descendant of a rich French wizard family that came to live in Britain several generations ago. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Where did he get all the money to support his stories? Going to work? Nah. Working in integrity was something he strongly opposed against. He disliked the idea of working for someone, or be told what to do. He was a werewolf and a criminal. People would hire him to attack their enemies on the full moon night. Sometimes, infecting them or killing them permanently would earn him a big bonus. He would also do side tasks such as selling illegal goods. His current profession allowed him to just refuse a client when he felt like it, and had all control over his own life. Also, it would take him ages to gain enough money for his liking. Between saving payments bit by bit and immediately receiving a fortune for each job done right, it was obvious what his choice was. Being a criminal, a thief, a hit-man, or whatever people might call him, was pretty much his dream fulfilled. The life he constantly wished to have since a young age: free of all worry, thrilling and having money to spare. His first ever lesson in life was the ultimate power of money. Without money, he could never find the happiness he desired. He had been poor for half of his life and he hated it. Never in a million years would he want to re-live that life.

The main street leading to Diagon Alley was slowly coming into view. The werewolf decided it was time he apparate to the forest which was now his home.

It was supposed to be a very normal night for him. Supposed to.

Appearing right in front of the trapdoor to his ‘house’, he was surprised to see the door had been lifted.

The only rule he had not broken from the werewolf registry was the requirement of werewolf to live away from normal society, simply because it would serve at a better hiding if he live somewhere away from cities. After some difficult choosing, he decided Cannock Chase was the best. Mainly, most residents in the area were muggles so he could hide his hideout easily. Just some simple charm work and he would not be bothered. They would not be able to find or see the trapdoor. Therefore, the only explanation for this was that a magical individual was invading his privacy. Could be a traveler… or another werewolf (he knew there were several also live in the area)… or worse, an Auror.

He cautiously took out his wand from the inner pocket of his vest. Whoever the trespasser was, Raphael would be ready to handle them. Slowly, he set foot on the stone stair-steps. It was dark inside but he could see a dim light from deeper inside the room, looked like a Lumous spell. They had better not ruin anything. He waved his wand at the light bulb on the ceiling to cast a sudden light throughout the room. The first thing he notice was not Fenrir’s appearance but the shattered pieces of his favorite tea cup. Scanning his eyes up to the person, he was even more furious. The stranger was destroying the couch with his messy outfit and hands.

“Who the fuck are you?” He raised his voice, wand pointing firmly at the person. No one ever ruined his belongings and got away with it!

Vivi said sorry for the wait. This post for you is 861 words long, boss. I'm still very mad at you for doing that to my furniture by the way.Man, remember to shower next time. Hm, but at least you didn't peek at my... uh... magazine collection.

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[Deleted]

the things that you might like don't grow inside of me Stifling a gag, Fenrir’s attention was immediately snagged by a nearing presence. His fat lips cracked into a grin. Through shadow his lids flickered towards the approaching silhouette. The shards of cup were examined-Fenrir could taste the emitted displeasure, but over something so tedious? He could hardly fathom the porcelain held anything other than tea. Shifting his weight upon the couch Fenrir stretched out, laying back. It had been a long night. The balls of his calloused feet stung with ache. And he was gradually become more relaxed than previously anticipated. He hardly batted a lash at the vulgar query of his identity; though in truth he was thrown off by remaining a figure of mystery. Was his size not proof enough? Flashing a yellowed smile Fenrir could only arch a brow, drinking in the ignorance of the wolf pup before him. It was but a small dent to his pride. No matter. It could easily be straightened. Preferring the silence to fester, Greyback picked at a shred of meat wedged between two incisors. The nail dug deep and nicked at swollen gums. Carelessly he flicked the leftover off into space, tongue caressing his mouth’s roof. A dull metallic lingered in the crevices of his taste buds. He needed a drink to rid himself of the vile. Eyes roaming Fenrir finally spoke aloud. ”Get me a drink, pup.” Brushing a blade of grass matted to his robes, Fenrir cast Raphael a critical glance. He sniffed. Definitely wolf. In Fenrir’s logic the young man could make a feasible recruit; his structure appeared strong and he was tall enough. Scratching his chin’s whiskers the werewolf nodded in silent thought. Obviously Raphael had the guts to do what was necessary, even with the onset of gore and tears. His skills were echoed through the chains of dark wizards and witches, and unfortunately enough for Raphael, these were easily eroded through fear. Allowing his gaze to circle across the room Greyback clicked the tip of his tongue against his teeth. The hideout held the atmosphere of a flat and through its décor faintly reminded him of Malfoy Manor, though the encompassing space did not carry the same gaudy history. Settling his stare on Raphael, Greyback could not peel the smirk from his mouth. “Don’t play the dumbass, you know exactly who and what I am, hm? he rasped, pleasure entwined between the syllables. Gunk-stuffed nails dug along the arms of the couch leaving straight lines engraved along the fabric. “Lower your wand,” he barked. The sound shot out in a crisp ring. Of all the things he loathed, it was the use of magic in place of physical force that irked him most. There was no satisfaction in the killing course-things were best done by hand. With a wooden stick you could not feel the snap of bone or appreciate the warmth of a passing body. The true reason Fenrir aligned himself with the Death Eaters was for the promise of victims-tortured bitches were easy to beat into domination and more oft than not became members of his pack. Unhygienic conditions and mentalities stinted the processes of reproduction. raphael@tag

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