Wilted Moon [Rhys]

[dahlia jade greyback]

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June 15, 2029

The Daily Prophet had broken the news of Fenrir Greyback’s death in their morning edition. Of course, Dahlia had known for two days now that he had expired; it was by her hands that it had come to be. The paranoia mixed with the realization that she had killed another human being had been hard to handle. She managed to get home to London before anyone could stop her and ask questions in Egypt. Though it probably wouldn’t take the authorities long to put two and two together. One of his turned offspring just happened to be in Cairo on work at the same exact time he died, and then left the same day? Those kinds of coincidences didn’t happen without some level of suspicion. Dahlia only realized that now, as she hid in her flat with all of the curtains drawn and lights off. Would she need to run if they came knocking? What she had done was more of a public service than a murder, though still a crime, nonetheless.

The entire event - from her tracking him down in that back alley, to the feeling of his larynx being crushed in her hands, to the final escape of air as his eyes bulged in that twisted grin, which she had long thought she had forgotten - must have replayed in her head a thousand times since. The past two nights, Dahlia had drunk herself to sleep. It was the only way to have a dreamless slumber, because being awake was haunting enough right now.

She was sure she was going to start receiving calls or texts from her siblings soon. The article was front page. Normally, it would be a cause for celebration. Dahlia had always believed that if she managed to find Fenrir and kill him, she would have been excited by it. That she had finally avenged her mother and so many others that had been harmed by him. Yet that hadn’t happened, or at least it hadn’t yet. Maybe it wouldn’t. The worst part of it all though? She had killed. How was she now any different than him? Her hands were marred by what she had done. She barely recognized herself when she looked in her bathroom mirror now too. What she had done was surely the right thing to do, right? By killing him, she had protected everyone in her family, those known and unknown, as well as the finally removed part of the stigma towards the werewolf community. Unfortunately, her choice towards eradicating violence only begot more violence.

Dahlia sat in silence in her flat, door bolted shut firmly and the morning’s edition of the Prophet sprawled on the floor by the front entrance where she had dropped it earlier. An empty bottle of firewhiskey sat on her coffee table, next to the one she had opened just this morning and already taken several long drinks out of. The pain in her stomach, both by her own actions and the alcohol abuse she had put herself through these last two days, was slightly eased by the warmth before coming right back. The knock on her front door made her jump, the blanket that she had been wrapped up tightly in falling from her shoulders as she immediately assumed her time was up and the Aurors were here to haul her in. She knew there would still be a tribunal for her crime, even if the broader community didn’t want to convict her for her vigilantism. At least that was what she assumed.

Creeping slowly from her couch to the door, Dahlia stepped on the newspaper without caring about it and peered through her peephole. Rhys was on the other side. Today should have been a cause for excitement for all of them. And she almost didn’t want to open her door. Pretend she wasn’t there and ignore her phone until the other Greybacks showed up and knocked down her door to check on her. That would be selfish of her though. They deserved to celebrate. Slowly sliding the chain lock off and opening her door, she let it swing open as she shuffled back towards her couch and curled back up under her blanket again, returning to her ghost-like state.

rhys alexander greyback ● 709

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[rhys alexander greyback]

i've been feeling empty

something's in the way

June 15, 2029
dahlia jade greyback

The moving photograph on that morning’s edition of The New York Ghost had stopped Rhys in his tracks, nearly causing someone behind him to swear loudly as they nearly avoided a collision. The picture might have been black and grey, but he’d recognize those eyes anywhere. After the chill had gone up his spine, Rhys’s eyes then focused on the headline. It was all he could do to steady his hand while handing over the dragots. Rhys didn’t often focus much on the news, especially anything International. Merlin knew MACUSA’s scandal and bureaucracy provided enough reading material without including the rest of the Wizarding World.

Rhys hadn’t lingered in his small apartment he’d called home near the Pacific. What other sign could there be that he should return home? Months away, existing in blissful ignorance had brought him a bit of peace while the distractions filled in the rest. But the front-page news was a pullback to reality. Despite the apparent unemployment for the year, Rhys was still technically employed by Gringotts. This allowed him to secure a portkey on short notice and arrive home quickly. But despite finally turning on his mobile after all these months, Rhys didn’t contact his family or friends. Buzzing silently on the couch, Rhys immediately searched for whiskey while letting the messages pile in.

But, Rhys wasn’t in the mood for a family reunion—particularly if the entire family would not be present. Losing custody of Amelia still pained him greatly, but it wouldn’t do him any good to complain. The paper he’d bought in the States remained on his dining table. Creased and wrinkled, small tears appeared at the edges as Rhys searched for more meanings hidden between printed words. But he found none. Who had finally killed the monster? Who had done what Rhys couldn’t do? Or had he died a peaceful death as a last brutal act against his enemies and his children—denying them vengeance?

The anger coursing through him made his hands tremble. The idea that Fenrir Greyback, the man who’d murdered his mother before his eyes, only infuriated Rhys. And there was only one other person who could understand that anger and that pain. Rhys had not spoken to Dahlia since suddenly leaving three months ago. She hadn’t questioned him at the time. She never did. And surely Dahlia had told Sol and Max that Rhys was away not long after. It was their natural order of things at times. Not that Max or Sol was ever keen to simply obey their older siblings without a few questions.

After knocking on the door to Dahlia’s flat, Rhys caught a glimpse of himself in some of the metal. He looked serious but also tired. He found it hard to believe that there was ever a glint of anything in his eyes—his father’s eyes. Then again, that’s merely what he’d been told. As he waited, Rhys prepared to call or message Dahlia as he tried his best not to look at the unread messages. Questions from those who cared about him, especially after this recent news. Nell, Sienna, Rob, Juni and his sisters. There was even a recent one from Sage, but Rhys was not ready for that, not after what she’d done to him back in February.

The door creaked open, and his eyes had to adjust quickly to the dark interior. Dahlia didn’t say anything as Rhys entered, closing the door behind him. Fenrir had killed her mother, too, with the ultimate goal of turning her. Rhys could only assume she felt this strange fury that he was now dead. Scanning the room, he saw a state that reminded him of his own flat. A bit of a mess, and visible bottles of whiskey. ”Have you spoken to Max or Sol?” Rhys asked gruffly. The time shift was beginning to creep in, along with these long hours of consecutive sobriety he wasn’t accustomed to. ”You got any more?” He asked, picking up the half-empty firewhiskey bottle from the side table. Rhys had to admit that another reason he’d chosen to see Dahlia first was knowing she would not lecture him over his absence or drinking. It felt good to have at least one ally in this world.

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[dahlia jade greyback]

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Dahlia didn’t mean to meet him with silence. She simply couldn’t think of how to start the conversation. Because ’Did you read the paper? Yeah, I murdered dad while I was in Egypt. Also, where have you been for the last few months?’ didn’t really work all that well. Outright admitting to a crime, even to her own brother, seemed like such a foreign and insane concept that Dahlia didn’t think she could do it without prodding. Even thinking of it made her stomach churn in an unfriendly way, with little to no help from all of the whiskey she’d put into it.

With only her face exposed to Rhys, she wrapped her blanket around her tightly. That was the only comfort that she’d had over the last few days. After the adrenaline-driven panic wore off, of course. In a way, the homicide she had committed had been relatively clean for magic-kind. No magic involved. Just all ten of her fingers crushing his windpipe. The classic way. The more she thought about it, which was every waking moment, she realized that Fenrir wouldn’t have had it any other way. Maybe a duel on the full moon between two werewolves would have been more violent and honorable for him, but death via strangulation seemed to get him grinning right until the very end. At least she was living up to her pedigree now though. A violent werewolf, just like her father. A killer.

Rhys’s first question was completely missed by her. She only realized he was talking when he picked the firewhiskey bottle up from in front of her. Her eyes tracked it, wondering if he was going to drink from it. Deprive her of her only medicine currently. ”No,” she finally said after a long silence. Her voice was dry and cracked, having not spoken to anyone over the last two days. Part of her wanted to jump up and snatch the bottle out of Rhys’s hands and down the rest of it. She deserved it after what she had done. But she also knew that would give it away that something was wrong. As if he probably couldn’t already tell that.

rhys alexander greyback ● 362

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