A/N: Okay, so I have no idea why, but here ya go. I'm trying to get my inspiration back, so I chanced this one-shot, it's short and a bit dark.

I don't own Harry Potter or the song this was inspired by (I got my scream on by Chyna Parks in ANT Farm)

Lost in the dark

It was dark. Of course it was, it was night, but this dark was another dark. A darker dark. A scary dark.

There was something in the air, something more than the spooky shadows. It was the low growling, coming from every dark corner and every dark tree in the forest. A soft wind blew, bristling through a hole in a tree branch, creating a slight whistling sound.

A shiver ran through her entire body, he could see it, but she refused to stop running and sped up.

It was this kind of dark that Fenrir loved. It was just the right atmosphere to create a horror scene. No story would be able to top this. He relished at the idea of gore...

He could smell her. She was lost, she couldn't see, she kept tripping and fumbling over rocks and tree roots. He didn't know why she was in the Forbidden Forest – but he was glad she was. It meant he could hunt. And hunt he would.

He wasn't transformed, but the werewolf didn't need to be transformed to hunt, over years his thirst for blood had simply taken over any logical and plausible thought. He hunted because he could and because it was his addiction. He was addicted to killing.

He could smell her fear. She was panting, her breath smelled like mints, he could smell that too, he could smell the sweat that came from her skin.

He didn't know who she was, or why she was here, he thought she smelled familiar, but he didn't worry. She was there, in his territory, meaning he could attack and maul.

She stumbled again in her hurry to get away from him. He paused. He liked to play with his food. He'd make her think he'd stopped pursuing her for a brief moment, before he'd advance on her at full speed. A new scent hit him... blood. She was bleeding. Her blood smelled good. It smelled really good. He was salivating, of that he was sure.

He guessed it was nearly midnight. A leer formed around his slightly chapped lips; he licked his lips. He could still taste the chicken's he'd strangled earlier.

Shadows were lurking all around the forest, it would make any other being frightened out of their minds, but Fenrir was used to the darkness. He had to be to survive.

The Forbidden Forest had become his sanctuary after the war. He had nowhere else to go, and as a previous agent for the mad dictator, he wasn't exactly wanted either. He didn't want the world either, though.

When the werewolf had seen his former master fall, he crawled into the Forest, tail between his legs like the dog he was. After that he lived off chickens he stole from that stupid oaf or bats he devoured as he invaded their caves. A thief and a murderer, reduced to sleep on a tree branch or in cave if the animals allowed him.

He was constantly at war with the centaurs, because they didn't want him there, and, to be honest, he didn't want them there either. So he did what came naturally: he attacked the youngest centaur, leaving behind just the hooves and hide for the others to find. And a few intestines, smeared across a tree, but he didn't even think of that. That centaur tasted awful, but it made the centaur population leave him alone.

He hadn't even smelled a human in a very long while, the oaf didn't count as human and he made sure to keep out of the oaf's way: the oaf could just sit on him, and he'd be dead.

But he craved this. He heard her whimper, his ears turning towards the sound. She was scared out of her mind. He got an adrenaline rush from it, his entire body buzzed. He didn't wait. He shot forward at lightning speed, ready to sink his teeth into her hopefully soft skin, because despite the sweat and mints, she smelled delicious.

He swiped at her, catching her arm. He grinned again – if she survived, she'd be more like him, preferring bloody meat to something cooked, a raw pig to pork chops done well.

"Well, well," A voice drawled, "Picking on children again, are we?"

Fenrir froze. He knew that voice. He hated that voice. He abhorred it with every fibre of his being.

He turned quickly, launching himself at the, but his enemy just flicked his wand easily, causing the werewolf to crash to the side, breaking a flimsy tree.

"I've been looking for you," the man went on, "but you kept hiding... like a coward."

"Better a coward than a traitor." Fenrir snarled.

The man inclined his head, looking at the girl, "Are you all right?" His voice sounded oddly calm.

"Y... yes, I'm fine, thank you... I'm sorry." She squeaked, her eyes the size of football pools as she looked at the two men. Well, one man and a beast. Something told Fenrir she hadn't expected this man to be her saviour either.

"She's mine!" Fenrir growled, launching himself towards her. The man slashed his wand again, though harsher, slamming the creature against a thick tree with such force that Fenrir swore he heard a rib crack.

"Go, Lily, take Scorpius and go." He ordered her. She nodded, lit her wand, collected herself and disappeared.

"A Potter?" Fenrir barked a laugh, "You're truly saving a Potter, old friend?"

"I don't have pity for your kind," The man sneered at him, "And you and I were never friends. I hated you from the moment I met you."

Fenrir laughed again, ignoring the last part,"My kind? Werewolves, you mean?"

"No, I mean those who attack children. That's why I don't feel guilty for doing this," The man said smoothly, "Potter saved my son, I owe it to him to save his daughter."

Those were the last words Fenrir Greyback heard before he saw a green light.

. . .

A/N: Who do you think is the mystery man?