Hunter and Prey

It was early morning when Hermione woke. She stumbled upstairs, went to the bathroom and checked on Elinor, who was still asleep. Hermione decided to follow her example. Returning to the sofa bed, she made a mental note to chart the metabolisation rate of serum 42 because she was feeling particularly dull and sluggish this morning. She should be smashing a window and running down the lane away from sodding Fenrir not pulling a blanket over her head.

Where was the bloody werewolf? She sat up again. If he was out, this was an unrivalled opportunity. However miserable she felt, she couldn’t mope around if he was gone. Hermione checked the ground floor then peeked out the kitchen window. The rain veiled garden beyond was mostly hedge with a broken gate just visible behind the shed, and Fenrir pissing in the carefully planted hydrangeas. Marking his god damned territory, no doubt.

Her hand reached instinctively for the knife block but he would just laugh those off. There might be silverware in the dining room. If it was sterling, she could sharpen it. Surveying the kitchen, Hermione noticed details she had missed last night. There was a phone torn out of the wall and a broken plate near the sink, which was stacked with dirty dishes. Elinor’s parents had been tidying up from dinner when Fenrir came in through the gate.

Hermione visualised it. One had been at the sink, the other in the dining room. Surprise at seeing a creature of myth for he would have attacked in hybrid form. A dropped plate. A scream of warning for the other? But there was no blood in the kitchen and they would have died here if that had been the scenario. No, Fenrir came through the gate naked. Surprise and a cry of alarm, yes, but they would have both gone out to find whether he needed help or shooing off.

They were in the shed. She was certain. He would have fed on them but one werewolf couldn’t eat two adults in a sitting. So he had stored them for later. Then he dragged her inside to the room with the toilet so she wouldn’t soil herself. Finding the house keys would have let him lock the doors. There would be a spare set somewhere even if she couldn’t take the ones he had from him. Pulling the phone out of the wall was an obvious precaution but depending on the damage, she might be able to fix it. She had done Muggle Studies, after all.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione turned her back on the garden to investigate the fridge. She was hungry and Elinor would be too. Fenrir would be making his own arrangements. Her stomach clenched but she found a loaf of bread and put two slices in the toaster. The way she was feeling, she wanted to start cautiously in refilling her stomach. And not think about the shed.

As she was looking for clean cutlery, the werewolf padded inside. He shook himself like a dog then slammed the door shut with his elbow. Licking teeth, he went to his bitch and with an arm across her back bent her over the counter. The cold rain had got his blood pumping. Fenrir snarled as his body twisted and warped. Fur sprouted, muzzle lengthened and the urge that had been distracting a moment before pounded now. He forced himself inside her.

She wasn’t ready for him and she bit back a cry of pain. He shoved her down until she was bent double with her feet off the floor. That was the problem with short bitches. On ground it was fine but standing was awkward. The counter was just the right height. Fenrir squeezed her backside, digging in his claws to make her flinch.

“Why are you doing this?” Hermione demanded as she tried to get some leverage to ease her position. Her toes scrabbled against the laminate cupboards before catching a handle and pulling out a drawer. She perched on that, lessening the strain on her hips. Why he was doing this was obvious. Just like in the yard, he wanted to assert his dominance over his property.

“Got no pack, bitch.” Fenrir growled. He pulled out and shoved back in. His bitch made a sound of pain this time, exactly what he wanted. “Got no cubs.” The Phoenix wizards had hounded them hard. He’d seen more werewolves die or be dragged away after Voldemort fell then he’d made in all his years of hunting. They had been strong. Now they were weak. Now witches hunted them with muggle weapons as though they weren’t worth a wand. “Got nothing.”

He snarled the last words, mating her roughly until she cried out again. Fenrir pulled out of his bitch. There was no blood so he hadn’t hurt her. He stepped back, letting her pull her dress down and turn around. Her hands shook and her eyes were lowered but her stance wasn’t cowed. She didn’t look at him so he didn’t see the challenge in her gaze. But it was there. Less than there had been? He stared at her. No, not less. Just hiding.

Fenrir traced a claw down her throat. He could open her neck with one blow. Her pulse quickened with fear. He scratched down to the top of the dress leaving red lines on her skin. Slashing across, the material tore baring her breasts now with his mark livid on them. “You can’t hide from me, bitch.”