#this crow is an angry crow

Voldemort’s Generals: Fenrir Greyback, Angry Young Man.

Bitten with the bug, anger - not a bug, not a disease, anger - at fifteen. 

Turned weapon at seventeen.

It could be tragic, but it isn’t, not quite. After all, tragedies are the province of princes and kings. Rich men with places to go. Tragic, all the things he could have been. Poor boys have nowhere to go. Poor boys made poorer have nothing left to lose.

Or for that matter, win.

Sometimes, sometimes he wonders why he serves when clearly, he is powerful in a way that none of them are - ponces, prancing about in their silk and tweed robes, princes. Princes who will command armies, when he, with all his power, with all the fear he wields, will only ever be a weapon. When with a bite he could take all of their princely realm away. Make them a tragedy.

Perhaps that is what makes him content. With one swift stroke he writes tragedies. That is a rare talent. A poor boy’s only talent.

So he takes his anger instead and turns it into a weapon. They call him bloodthirsty? He shows them how bloodthirsty he is. A monster? They do not know how monstrous he can be. 

Tragic. He turns them all into tragic figures because he cannot be one.

Revenge is sweet, but for now, blood is sweeter. One day, one day he will remind these princes of the power he bears.

Till then, he contents himself with snarling at their patronizing outstretched arms - good boy, go kill, kill, kill.

(Princes never worry about their weapons turning on them. Pity. Some weapons have wills.)

Some weapons are virtuous.

Some weapons are smart.

And he is all of these.