Savage Seduction

***Last updated: 19/01/10 – Chapter revised please re-read. Also changed an inconsistency in the Yaxley story the Muggles had no idea how it happened even though it later said she had multiple wounds to the head.***

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Savage Seduction

14



As for all the things you taught me

It sends my future into clearer dimensions

You’ll never know how much you hurt me



****

When Hermione awoke she immediately felt the husky dryness in her throat – she was dying of thirst. One eye opened and surveyed the room, sunlight pushed its way under the curtains like ivy trying to spread across a wall; it was morning. The bitter winds of the night before had gone away, and the room was now dense and stuffy with warmth.

Behind her the werewolf slept soundly, he was on his back as usual – spread over more than half the bed, leaving Hermione with only a quarter. One look at him brought about an unusual sense of vexation. She threw the covers aside and crossed the room, on the landing outside the bedroom she pulled the curtains apart in curiosity and sun burst through the grimy windows. The sun was round and yellow and high enough in the sky, almost noon perhaps. That shocked Hermione, she wasn’t used to sleeping in, but she had had a tough and eventful day yesterday, she guessed she was more tired than she had thought.

Padding her way down the stairs she found her way to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The water was cool and soothing, and the witch stared thoughtfully through the kitchen window that overlooked an overgrown garden and then hedgerows behind that, and then fields which sprawled across the horizon only leaving a thin line of sky in her vision.


Sitting down at the kitchen table she lifted her feet up to settle them above the drafty flagstones of the kitchen floor. The silence was so peaceful, the house was so warm in the sunshine, and she could see dust rising in spirals in the sunbeams. She smiled slightly, everything seemed so harmonious.


Her eyes pored over the room and eventually lingered on the black material hanging from the handle of a kitchen cabinet. A frown grew on her face. Getting up the witch walked over towards it, then as she picked it up she remembered what it was. Fenrir’s blood-stained shirt from the night before. She held it with both hands, studying it in a mystifying silence, the frown growing even more perplexing on her face.


The emotions of last night’s events came pouring back, this time like a nightmare. Everything was hazy the night before, but now the effects of the events were bolder to her than ever. What had he done? She thought thumbing over the hardened blood stains. Last night it seemed as if the werewolf had only been protecting her, doing what had to be done. And she had thanked him for that. But now, everything seemed to hit home: He had killed those two men - killed them savagely, and without mercy. Why couldn’t he have just scared them off why did he actually have to kill them? Hermione grew more distressed by the minute; she set the shirt on the counter shakily and noticed that the door to the cupboard that the shirt had been attached to had swung open as she had lifted it.


A stack of newspapers sat loosely inside, intrigued she picked one up. It was quite old and faded. The headline as she looked on said, “Woman savagely murdered in Tinsworth.” Intrigued Hermione read on, a horrible sinking feeling began to arise in her stomach. A woman had been murdered near Tinsworth, her throat completely ripped out, her face disfigured and her limbs had been savagely torn, fingers broken and missing, amongst other things. Hermione gagged first then frowned, that’s where Bill lived.


All she could think about was Fenrir being the culprit, her eyes began to prickle, please don’t let it be him, she thought. But as she reviewed the paper she felt guilty for accusing him because the date of the paper went back too far for him to be an adult, and no matter how savage Fenrir had been in his later years she could not imagine him killing another person when he was still a child. The story lead the witch to believe it was in fact Fenrir’s mother who had been murdered, her thumb ran over the text where the ink had been spoiled as if water had been dripping over it in places ever so slightly.


Hermione set the paper down on the table, something inside told her not to read anymore, the hairs stood up on her neck. She didn’t want to know anymore about him now; just as he was gaining her favour these things would come to light and spoil everything. But what was she thinking? What would it spoil? Did she really believe there was something, anything there at all? The witch sighed and looked at the stack of papers; they were obviously Fenrir’s private things that he had kept out of sight for a reason. But she did still crave to know more about him in a way, more about his past – the things he wouldn’t elaborate on over the past few weeks. Lifting a handful of papers she placed them on the table, and sat down ready to peruse them.


The next paper was actually just a clipping, in fact most of the papers seemed to be just one or two page inserts from a whole newspaper – she gathered that they had all been collected in significance rather than just collecting old back copies, as they were not complete. It read, “Boy of Five Missing, Presumed Dead.” Hermione frowned, reading on, in her other hand she held another clipping which had a similar date and read, “Family of Murdered Witch, Vanished.”


The witch read one article then the other. Both seemed to be the same story but from different papers, both were linked to the murdered witch of Tinsworth, and both mentioned her family that had mysteriously gone missing. Neither paper could get good sources on how many members there actually where, some sources from the village said a few children and a man, and several more said no children and only two people said just one child. One eerily equitable source, by an old lady from Tinsworth commented, “[That] there was a boy, a small thing that lived in that big house. He would sit by the window and watch the other kids play, and he would never come out. He looked lonely, but I remember now as he got older he would sneak out and – he did look different then. More like a gypsy than anything. Back when he was a young lad he looked much more pleasant. I can’t say I knew much about the family, the mother; nervous creature she was. But I would be too, if I were her. Some villagers treated her awfully. I never heard about what she’d done – but they stayed away from her and in turn so did I. However I don’t think that’s why she was so quiet. That man – sometimes you could hear strong words being said, awful commotions as you were walking past. I don’t know what went on in that house but I’ve no doubt that the disappearance of the husband was no coincidence.”


Hermione bit her lip as she mused over the article. She had only assumed he was an only child, because he never mentioned otherwise. But it made her skin crawl unpleasantly as she recalled Fenrir’s tale about his mother and father, and the village. She switched to another article which read the same story, missing boy, where was the missing boy? It seemed as if he and his father had vanished. Another source from the village claimed the small boy had been foul, and wretched and a loathsome little creature who loved to tease her granddaughters and disrupted their lessons at school. And he was then expelled from the school, from then on they seen very little of him, he had practically disappeared long before the murder.


A pang of unease took over Hermione, hadn’t he said he got expelled? She had no doubt now that this was him, how awful would it be to have your mother brutally killed. Was he there? She sifted through the other articles, all about the whereabouts of the missing boy, some feared he had ran away because of the murder, or that he had done it! Others said he was taken away because his father was a liable suspect. Nobody seemed to have any more sources for the father though, oddly enough – because Fenrir had said how much people thought him insane, unless the people did not really want to let their feelings be known on paper.


The next paper took her by surprise, the headline read, “Savage Werewolf Sighting in Bromley,” she scoured the paper looking for Fenrir’s name, when she could not find it she began to read over the article properly, was it about him? No name was mentioned, but she still was inclined to believe that the werewolf sighting, and the attack of some livestock had been by him. According to the date of the paper, she then calculated he would have only been about 6, a year after his mother died. The witch wondered if he had been with his father then. Fenrir had said he suffered with him for a long time until he was old enough to get away.

She sifted through the next batch of clippings, all about werewolf sightings, until she came to one that was a bit whiter than the older, fading prints. Looking immediately to the date, she realised that Fenrir must have been about 15 at the time, curious, and trying to displace the image of Fenrir as a teenager she read on to see what it was about. The headline, she found, contained not one thing about a werewolf. But as she turned the sheet backwards and forwards in her hand, she caught sight off a small article on the inside page, “Boys Will Be Brutal,” it read.


Hermione snorted curious as to what the article would entail. Reading on she found a small passage about a group of teenage boys seemingly caught up in a gang war in some village near Carlisle. It was some townsperson going on about how young boys need more stimulants to stop them from harassing each other on the streets. The article referred to the latest riot on the weekend where a young boy had brutally attacked another schoolboy before running off. The attack had been savage, much more so than the regular scuffs. The description they gave made Hermione gasp, had it been Fenrir? Something in the clipping had to have some significance; why else would he have it? Was this the start of his tirade against mankind?


She frowned setting the clipping aside to pick up the next one, more fights and odd attacks, and then the witch stopped, her eyes scanned over the paper she was holding. They lingered against the title, “Werewolf ravages village, 3 dead others wounded.” Frantically she whipped through the paper to where the story continued. Three villagers dead, two more had been bitten; they were going frantic with worry. Looking at the dates she saw these to be two years after the article about the fighting schoolboys.


The sickening feeling in her stomach wouldn’t go away; she flipped through the next set of papers all of which held gruesome tails of murder, attacks and sightings of werewolves. They had all been him, she knew it. Hermione momentarily shut her eyes every time she read something horrific, but for some reason she couldn’t just set the paper down and walk away. She had to know everything.


Before long his name began appearing alongside the articles, so he had made a name for himself by now! The papers were now spaced apart, only one every few years, although she knew that in his sick reality that more horrors were going on behind the papers – she knew he wouldn’t have only done this once every so often. He wasn’t a mass murderer who plotted, he was an animal; a cold-blooded killer. No matter what he was now, he was still guilty of all of these events from his past, and that was unforgivable to her.


The next paper she read really caught her eye, it was more detailed than the others, and after glancing at the other articles that were included around the main article she could tell it was a muggle paper. The story itself bore no name to Fenrir, and they had no idea why this fatality had occurred, it was still a mystery at time of print.


The article was about a young woman, she was in her late twenties, who had been found dead in a house not far from Stoke-On-Trent. They had been able to identify her as Leonette Yaxley, a young woman from a well-to-do family in Derby. Hermione noted their trouble at naming her profession and had the odd sense she may have been a witch, this was enforced by the statements made by her neighbours who had said that the whole family was strange and reserved, and they didn’t know a lot about them.


It had been an obvious murder; the house she had died in was littered with evidence, somebody or something had been there, and left. But she hadn’t been mauled, or beaten or attacked in any form as far as they could tell, except for some bruises across her wrists, so they still didn’t know how she had died. To Hermione this didn’t seem like it would have been Fenrir, and so she scoured the rest of the clipping for another article. When she could find none she frowned, propping her chin up with her elbow. Suddenly her eyes focused in on an article she had been staring at for awhile without noticing, “Young Yaxley Found Dead,” it read. Grabbing the paper she unfolded it with a snap. The top read, “The Daily Prophet,” which most of them had done before, but it implied that Hermione had been right – she was a witch.


Scanning the article meticulously she read the same story over with a little more understanding, suddenly it clicked. Yaxley was a pureblood name; she had known she had covered it whilst studying about the remaining pureblood lines at the ministry. The article didn’t elaborate anymore than the muggle paper, the facts were limited – this must have been the day after the incident. Yet Hermione still wondered what this had to do with Fenrir, perhaps he had done it, but why? And he hadn’t bitten her. The witch crumpled up her brow in frustration, but then suddenly something dawned on her.

The witch slammed the paper down and grabbed one from the pile she had already read, she flipped through the pages until she was back to the oldest article about Fenrir’s mother. They never gave her surname away, she was named only as Madeline, and her mother had even spoken to the paper and addressed her as Madeline Rosier, which was the family name, not her current name under her husband. The mother of the witch was very distraught in her interviews, as any mother would be – who wanted to bury their child? But it was the name of the mother that intrigued her.


Hermione picked up another clipping, searching the text to find what she was looking for, her finger lingered at an article she had skimmed over earlier, a tribute to a young witch named Leonette. She had never got the surname the first time she had perused it quickly, but now she could see it was Yaxley. She read down the article hastily, pausing when she found the sentence that was the last piece in the puzzle. Her eyes lit up as her scanning came to fruition; but then they fell when she realised what it had meant. The tribute had read, “...the Yaxley’s had originally set up a betrothal at birth for Leonette, with the Rosier family but it never came to pass, for reasons unknown. Therefore Leonette was hoping for another betrothal when unfortunately she...”


Hermione put the paper down, what had happened to Miss Yaxley really? She had been Fenrir’s affianced, had he known? Had he gone after her or something? The more she read about the murder the more it seemed to be a complete accident, the fact they couldn’t find a suspect meant Fenrir was definitely one. He was good at hiding, she knew that.


The witch sat silently, her eyes had glazed over as she mulled things over in her head. She had known, of course she had known that he was a murderer. But she had always pushed it out of her mind, especially now, that she was under his watchful eye. It was easier to do than she had realised, she scarcely thought of him now as what he once was. After all, his golden years were before she was born, she hadn’t lived through his torment to hate him as much as she should of. But still, she couldn’t help herself but feel overwhelmed by what she had just read. In writing it was much, much worse than just words.


Her eyes had become prickly, and she threw her gaze onto the kitchen sink as she tried in vain not to stare at the clippings. The more she tried not to stare the more her eyes prickled with anguish, why had he done this? It confused her. Why was he so evil, and cruel? She gave an audible squeak as she tried to hold back tears that were welling steadily in her eyes. She didn’t even know why she was crying. Maybe because these last few days being around him didn’t seem so scary. He didn’t feel like a criminal, he didn’t feel like a werewolf. He was a human, and the more she was around him the better he became.

When she had stifled her tears, she looked at the next paper – which she had no intention of reading but she lifted them joylessly, putting them into a neat pile again. The papers she hadn’t read spelled out headlines from before the war. About werewolves and uprisings, and attacks and Fenrir Greyback as sworn leader, and lynch mobs and deaths and kidnaps and Voldemort. She suppressed another sigh, and dragged a few of the worst papers into a pile of their own before putting the rest back in the cupboard – it was only in her nature to be tidy.


****


The werewolf rolled over, and gave a comfortable yawn. He lazily drew his right arm up and down the sheets like a blade, noting that the witch was absent from the bed. Under drowsy eyelids he searched for her around the room but she was nowhere in sight, his gaze averted to the hangings above.

A hand wandered up to his face, and he rubbed over his stubble which had grown considerably since the night before. He grimaced slightly, running his fingers over his sideburns and down over the braids that hung loosely from his chin. A smirk etched on his face.

Swinging his legs from the bed he got up quickly, and dressed and was about to search for the witch when the door burst open. The witch appeared, and so distressed she looked that Fenrir nearly ran to her. He corrected his eagerness with a rigid formality. Her eyes were tearful, and her cheeks flushed and red. She held the door open with one hand and the other clutched newspapers, and she tossed them on the ground with a sob.


“You’re a monster,” she cried. The werewolf turned around completely to face her, one glance at the newspapers told him all he needed to know. He knew this day would come, and to be honest he wasn’t as guilty as she would have hoped. It was his past, he knew it like the back of his hand, many, many times he had to put up with these kind of retorts, even from the Death Eaters, and they ranked him more despicable for his acts than themselves and theirs. He said nothing, he seemed a little confused, but he wouldn’t show it. Why was she so upset now? Didn’t she know what he was before? Of course she did.


“I guess I know all about you now,” said the witch as she pulled his blood-stained shirt from her pocket and tossed it at him, the rage she was trying to develop got lost in her croaky voice. She could no longer even try to be angry at him. He caught it with a grin, and she grimaced weakly at his expression as she moved further into the room closing the door behind her.


“You always did,” he announced calmly. Fenrir nodded slowly, “You always knew what I was, what I had done to a certain extent. Didn’t stop you from leaving before, didn’t stop you from screaming my name.” He added with a touch of relish.


Hermione remained silent; what was she supposed to say? She had known what he was, to some extent, and she had still pushed it to the back of her mind; he was right. “It was just sex Fenrir,” she retorted, trying to emphasis as much as possible, but she wasn’t a good liar. Although to her she did think it was just sex, but underlying they both knew there was something more. The werewolf smirked and took a step forward, placing a finger on his chin pensively.


“Ah, Hermione, don’t try and kid yourself. We already played that game, I admit I was wrong to lie in the first place about sex – I should have never have wound you up about that night - it was definitely more than just sex, but you already used that card before remember? Outside? You had your little tantrum.” But he didn’t sound very much like he was apologising, his voice was laced with sarcasm. The witch sneered again in distaste.


“A bit of a late apology,” she folded her arms defensively and walked to one side of the bed, and childlike replied, “But still, it was just sex.”


“Bullshit,” he growled aggressively, his hands had become clenched at his sides. Now was not the time to lose his cool, not this time. Not about this either, how humiliating – he couldn’t let on he really had feelings. The witch smiled sarcastically.

“You didn’t think it meant anything did you?” she said in mock disbelief. The werewolf gritted his teeth, trying to hide his annoyance from her, he could tell how hard she was trying to lie, but the fact that she was trying to hide it annoyed him more.

“You don’t mean that,” he said slowly and as calmly, and as quietly as he could, although his rage was already beginning to surface – his temper always ran rampant at this time of the month. She was no better, already her tears had dried and she could feel her own temper rising.

The witch walked, arms folded straight to the pile of newspapers on the floor, she grabbed them and held them against one arm, and she lifted one copy up and raised it for him to see.

“Hmmm, did you mean this?” she said firing the copy towards him, her voice had risen considerably. “Or this?” she said firing another, “Or this? Or this? Or this?” She rounded the papers off like shots in a gun. But then she came to the last one, and she held it up and it quivered in the air. Her cheeks were burning red from emotion; her hair seemed to crackle with electricity and all the while the werewolf stood, face like a serial killer, fists clenched at his sides.


“What about this one?” Her voice trembled, and her eyes watered. She shook the paper in the air. “Did you mean it with her?” She threw the last copy so hard at him that she gave an audible grunt as it threw her whole body forward, until her head was near touching the ground. Her voice resonated around the room, but before the werewolf had a chance to speak, not that he looked like he was going to; the witch had already started off on another rant.


“And don’t think I don’t know who she is, - I know who she is,” her nostrils flared, her voice had become so broken through tears which were streaming down her face. “Did you want a happily ever after?” She screeched, “Did you think she’d fall in love with you?” she trailed off venomously.


The werewolf looked at her furiously, his cheeks had begun to flush red, his breathing was already heavy as he tried so hard to contain shouting at her – it would only make it worse. That last snide had been particularly nasty and uncalled for. The way the witch was reacting – well he could understand her being upset at the other things but she was being almost jealous over this other girl. He knew it wasn’t really the reason though, she would never actually be jealous of her, but he could see the maliciousness that women often had beginning to make an appearance, like a green eyed banshee. And she was crying again, he hated her crying.

“Stop it,” he said firmly, as a warning. His teeth were gritted so hard it made his jaws hurt.

“Don’t think for one second Fenrir that you can tell me what to do!” Hermione pointed a finger at him, nostrils flared.

“When have I ever told you what to do?” He growled.

“You disgust me,” she said ignoring to his reply, “Why did you kill her?” The witch nodded towards the crumpled newspaper. The werewolf stood silently, they were both standing beside the corners of the bed; Hermione stood aggressively and the werewolf made no move to come closer.

“Did you want to marry her like you were meant to? Did you not like it when she said no?” The witch persecuted scathingly, “Why did you kill her?”

The werewolf growled, his teeth grinded against each other, but he couldn’t help lashing out. “Because this is what she was doing!” He stared directly at the witch for a few seconds before continuing, his voice lowered; his rage dissolving ever so slightly. “I kidnapped her.”

Hermione watched him warily with one eye, as he averted his gaze, “Why?”

“Because I thought it would make everything better; the way it was supposed to be.”

“But Fenrir, didn’t you have any common sense?” Hermione frowned; couldn’t he see the plot holes in his own plan?

“I just wanted somebody. I thought she would come round, but all she did was cry...” he trailed off, his fists clenched again as he remembered the poor girl. “All she did was sob all day,” his voice was growling with anger, “And she would crouch in the corner and she was petrified of me. I knew she would be at first, but I thought it would get better...I thought she would calm down after awhile but she wouldn’t,” he finished the sentence with a spiteful rasp. “I thought she would get better,” he muttered incoherently.

“Of course she would be petrified!” Hermione screeched, “After you had kidnapped her, and raped her and god knows what else!”

“I DID NOT RAPE HER,” the werewolf barked and Hermione, taken aback, threw her hands down at her waist as Fenrir drew himself to his full height. She was surprised that he hadn’t.

“Well you raped me!” She spat as she recollected her anger. The werewolf seethed silently, but had nothing to say. He didn’t regret what he did at all; he still remembered the taste of her on his hands. The witch paced towards the window, but she was not finished.


“You don’t care do you?” she said firmly, but still quietly. He shook his head, and she was ready to kill him then, really go for it and murder him. Her eyes were livid, but his voice cut through her thoughts.


“You don’t either,” he said plainly. To anyone else this may have been grounds for an instant lynch mob, but Hermione felt a lump stick in her throat as she searched in vain for a vicious reply. She had hardly even thought about what he had done almost a month ago. He was right, she felt so guilty to herself and all of female society for not caring very much. It was horrible at the time, horrible and cruel and terrifying. But the truth was anytime she did think about it now, it was fuzzy and hazy and it instantly just turned into them having consensual sex. It was as if she had forgiven him already and she hated herself for it.


And then the witch began to sob as she relived the event – though now she was numbed to its original effects, but still, he really had hurt her. The werewolf began to whine, he hated the sound of crying. “Stop it,” he growled. The witch ignored him, she just stood there arms hung by her side limply as her head hung forward shaking as she cried.


“You took it away from me,” she sniffled pathetically.

“I did nothing,” he spat, irritated. “Nothing that you wouldn’t later give me willingly.” The witch shot him a livid stare, how dare he suggest that - but the werewolf continued. “Not then, but you know now that you would have given in eventually. You did give in.” The witch stayed silent, turning her gaze away from him.


“I...” she started a retort but the werewolf suddenly moved towards her. The witch closed her mouth and eyed him dangerously. His cobalt eyes stared honestly into hers, his hands reached her shoulders and he said quietly, his rage disappearing, whilst shaking his head.


“It’s not true Hermione. It’s not true. You don’t mean those things, I know you don’t,” pleaded the werewolf. The witch looked up at him, tears welling in her eyes. She shook her head as well.


“It is true. It is...I wouldn’t...I...Why did you do those things? Why did you do them?” The witch burst into a fit of sobs and pulled out of his grasp, she slumped on the floor and he backed away looking shell-shocked.

“You’re a monster,” she sobbed. The werewolf growled, he was not a monster. He hated the way she called him names. His fists clenched at his sides, she had no right to try and guilt him, and he wasn’t capable of feeling that anyway. She was just trying his patience.

“And you...” she exhaled through stifled sobs, suddenly realisation dawned on her face as she remembered something he had said a few weeks ago, she seemed shocked, “You killed your father!”


“He deserved it,” Fenrir spat. The witch began a retort but he cut her off, “Don’t even try and justify that you little bitch. If you knew him, you would have done the same. He is the reason I am who I am.” Hermione looked up at him with a sudden burst of anger, her cheeks were flushed red.


“You can’t just blame everything on him, people have a choice to act, if you saw him kill somebody it doesn’t mean you go and do it too!”

“Argh, you don’t understand. I was brought up that way. I don’t do these things because its instinct, it’s just there. It’s just what I do, I don’t know any different.” The werewolf was averting his gaze, and the witch was near exploding point. Did he know how ridiculous he sounded?

“That’s bullshit,” she said, “It’s not in human nature to kill like you, ok maybe when you are a werewolf it is, but not all the time, only at full moon. Look at all the other werewolves – they’re not like you!”

“I know,” he shouted painfully at her. “But most werewolves live like normal wizards. I didn’t. I was brought up by that bastard until I was old enough to get away from him, I owed it to all the people I’ve ever killed to put him to sleep.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” Hermione snorted. She wasn’t even going to try and press Fenrir again. What was the point? He clearly could not see how pathetic he was sounding; he couldn’t blame it all on people. It shouldn’t be in his nature to be the way he is.

What the witch didn’t know was that she was the one who was biased here. She couldn’t sympathize for his childhood. She couldn’t understand that he had been indoctrinated into that way of life and he knew no other.

After all he had put up with, she should be lucky she wasn’t already dead or bitten. Hadn’t he shown her compassion, and mercy? (Although he never intended to kill her in the first place), and when she had finally came round to him; didn’t he treat her with as much respect as could be expected of Fenrir?

“Shut up! Don’t you say that! You didn’t know him.” he roared, lunging forward and grabbing her by the shoulders. He pushed her accidentally, not knowing his own strength, and she fell back against the wall, and then slid to the

ground, unhurt. After a few seconds of shocked silence she looked up at him.

“Or what? Going to kill me like you killed that witch? You’re pathetic. You aren’t capable of loving someone Fenrir, that’s your problem. No one will ever love you, she didn’t love you – You’re a monster not a person! ” She spat, looking at him maliciously.


“How do you know?” He roared infuriated. “HOW DO YOU KNOW?!” The werewolf repeated in vain, and a fearful pang tore at the witch’s insides. The rage had appeared in him again, his face contorted into a vicious snarl, and as she looked at him she noticed his hands flex uncomfortably from his fists, and then he turned away from her.


She was about to throw another insult out there when she heard him gag, a horrible blood-curdling noise – like choking but more of a howling rasping attempt, and she stretched to see what the werewolf was doing. But she already knew, deep down inside. He straightened up again and his face was fraught with rage, and agony.


“Don’t!” she screeched, “Don’t you dare,” she shouted again. He couldn’t transform – he wouldn’t would he? Maybe he couldn’t help it? As she looked on terrified at the struggling figure as he made excruciating rasps and his whole body went rigid he let out a fierce growl that had her screaming.


Hermione had already curled up against the wall, her heart thudded against her ribcage, she watched the werewolf fearfully, and she hoped that he was only trying to stop himself – like last time. Suddenly he let out a gurgling growl that echoed around the room and made Hermione cover her ears and cry out at the same time.

Then he hung his head, and his arms fell down beside him, “Get out,” he said between laboured breaths. The witch let her hands drop from her own head and looked up at him, but he was turned away and she couldn’t see his face or his expression.


****



A:/N: So how did you enjoy this chapter? Let me know about it because I like feedback from you. Writing about Fenrir’s childhood is not something I like purely for the fact that I hate writing about things that we don’t find out from the books. I don’t want to ruin HP for anybody, or its characters for that matter, and everybody has their own views on what characters are like outside of the book. So for me delving into Fenrir’s past is something I didn’t want to do but I felt I needed to for the story’s sake. So only to the extent of which I needed to, did I write it.



Enjoy the next chapter! Review as well please :D

*Lyrics- Simply red, Stars (Cuz AHHHHHHHH AHHHH wana fall from the stars *_* )