For those who read Werewolves of London while it was posted, or have read [the recently renamed] She-Wolves of London, it's AU Spin-off, Roman makes an appearance. Though, the ferocity that is synonymous with his name in those fics is toned down here.
(For those who haven't read either story, Roman Fancast: Lasse Matberg)
He tossed and turned that night. How unusual. After the evening he'd had, Fenrir'd thought he would sleep like a baby. And though not unpleasant, the images that plagued his sleep were hardly conducive to a restful slumber.
Wonderings of what would happen the next time their paths crossed. Thoughts of what she'd look like on her knees . . . what it would feel like to grip his fingers into that wild hair of hers as she took him between those small, perfect lips.
A sound that could only be described as a mournful groan tore out of him as he awoke—right in the middle of a dream about throwing her onto her back and sinking into her. The feel of her limbs tightening around him as her body tensed beneath his seemed so real . . . .
The sensation of thrusting into her and withdrawing again and again was so delicious, he was surprised he hadn't burst before opening his eyes and bolting upright in his cot.
Dropping his face into his hands with a growl at himself, he tried to ignore the burst of rich chuckling from the rundown cabin's front porch. An irritated scowl marring his features, Fenrir threw back his ragged covers and climbed to his feet. He'd let the scents of coffee and grilled meat hanging in the air ease his frustration with letting her go so easily last night . . . and his agitation with his unexpected visitor.
He dragged his feet in plodding steps across the cabin toward the door. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, he took one last stab at trying to push the scent of her skin from his mind. Her taste and her voice seemed entrenched in his thoughts, however, so he opted for simply trying to ignore them as he crossed the threshold and turned to face the other werewolf, hunkered down at the small porch's table.
Arching a brow, his visitor grinned, speaking into his mug before taking a sip of coffee, "Sounds like someone had a good night?"
"Oh, yes, Roman, someone did." Fenrir rounded the table to claim the seat on the other side. "My instincts were right, I found her."
Chuckling, again, Roman's brows shot up. "Well done, Pup! How did it go?"
A wicked smirk curving his lips, Fenrir hummed lightly under his breath a moment as he thought back on last night. "Spent some quality time with my face between her thighs."
The older wolf let out a quick, howling sound of approval and clapped. "That's my boy! So, is she one of us?"
Fenrir picked up the mug his maker had set aside for him, taking a long sip before answering. "Better . . . she's a wolf-girl."
Roman nodded, frowning thoughtfully. "Nice. They are especially tasty. This wolf-girl of yours have a name?"
There was a moment of silence between the werewolves as Roman drummed his fingers against his bearded chin. "Why do I know that name?" He lifted his coffee for hearty gulp.
Wincing, Fenrir clarified—aware this was where it wasn't so nice. "Because she's a Granger."
Spitting out the mouthful of liquid, Roman slammed down his cup and shot forward in his chair. "Goddammit, Pup! Have you lost your mind?"
This was what he was afraid of. The lecture. Clasping his mug between both hands, Fenrir started, "Look, I know what you're going to—"
"The Grangers are a Dagworth line, and Dagworth blood is off limits!"
"I know," Fenrir said with a nod. "But what am I supposed to do? It's her, I'm sure of it."
Roman closed his eyes, willing the angry veins of red threading the blue of his irises to die down. His pup had every right to want to be with the girl meant to be his. But her identity made things . . . . Well, complicated was putting it lightly. Shit.
"I actually don't know if there's anything you can do. I suppose there might be a loophole in the law he laid down."
Fenrir's brows shot up. "Like what?"
"Fucked if I know," the older wolf said with a dark chuckle, shaking his head. "Maybe if she's the one who comes to you. Or if—"
"Wait . . . ." His amber eyes widening, Fenrir sat up a bit straighter. "She did come to me. She sought me out. No idea how she managed to find me so easily, but . . . I just looked up and there she was, barely a meter away from me and staring into the forest."
Roman's brows shot up as he sucked at his impossibly sharp teeth. "Huh. That's . . . hardly common, now is it?"
"It's not anything that I've heard of before. But you said maybe."
"Because I don't bloody know, all right?" Standing up, Roman paced the porch, raking his permanently clawed fingers through his long, unruly blond hair. "No one's ever challenged the law before."
Fenrir narrowed his eyes as he thought it over. "That brings us to the 'or' you mentioned."
"You want to bring an end to that law?" Roman let out a heavy, growling sigh, his enormous shoulders drooping. "Only way I know is to end the one who instated it."
Swallowing hard, fear—a foreign sensation to Fenrir Greyback—knotted in his stomach for a fleeting second as said, "So I have to kill him."
With a roll of his eyes, Roman nodded. "You have to kill him."
Albus Dumbledore was nothing if not surprised to find the young, would-be huntress asleep on his porch when he opened the door that morning. She didn't look injured, which was a relief, given Minerva's recent concerns that the girl was growing bolder in her pursuit of her family's lost profession.
Sighing, the old wizard turned on his heel and disappeared back inside.
She stirred, aware of a warm, sweet aroma close to her face. Blinking her sleep-bleary eyes open, she found the old man seated beside her, holding out a mug of herbal tea.
She was oddly happy for the faint, biting chill in the air. The briskness of the morning reddened her cheeks, masking a blush as she thought back on what she'd dreamed while dozing here.
The imagined sensation of Fenrir pressing her up against that tree, of her legs wrapped around his waist as he brought her to orgasm didn't feel imagined, at all. She used the disorientation of having just woken up to mask her need to collect herself.
After a moment of blinking at him, a grateful smile curved her lips. She took the cup between both hands. "Thank you, Albus."
He nodded, turning his attention to the morning sky. "Do I ask why you are not home, or would you rather I did not?"
She took her first, soothing sip before speaking. "I'd rather you did not, but . . . . I just had a strange night, and I didn't feel like going home, and even less felt like attempting to explain what happened to Auntie."
"Mm." Albus frowned thoughtfully and nodded. "I take it whatever it was that made the night so strange is something that would cause your Aunt to give you her infamous 'I told you so' look?"
Hermione snickered. "You know our family so well."
The old man returned his gaze to her, observing the young woman as she drank her tea. After allowing her enough time to finish half the mug, he said, "But there is something more, isn't there? You are not just here to escape a sagely expression."
"No, but . . . it's rather something I'd prefer if we could keep between ourselves?" At Albus' immediate look of disapproval, she tacked on, "It's nothing terrible, I just wanted to double-check something, and I don't want Auntie thinking I don't trust her. Please?"
His bony old shoulders sagging, he sighed. "All right. But you cannot use that pout on me again for another entire year!"
"Thank you!" She immediately threw her arms around him in a hug.
Smiling, he shook his head. "Yes, yes. Now, enough of this. What is it you need?"
Pulling back, she met his twinkling blue eyes behind those trusty, half-moon spectacles. "I just need you to examine my cloak. It was supposed to have an enchantment on it, but I'm not so certain."
Nodding, Albus stood, holding down his hand to her to help the girl to her feet. "Do you need to know the type of—?"
"No, no." She followed him into the house and removed the article of clothing in question. She could not begin to think of how embarrassed she'd be if the old man understood the sort of magic with which the cloak was supposed to have been imbued.
"Just please, whether or not it's enchanted, and the strength of the enchantment, nothing more."
"Okay." Albus took the cloak and turned toward his worktable.
As she left a few hours later, her cloak once more snuggly around her shoulders, Hermione didn't know what to do. She understood that Auntie had told her a lie so she would not need to come clean about their family history—she'd already suspected as much. But why didn't she then admit to it once everything had come out into the open? There was no need for pretense, then, was there?
Fenrir pulled back, meeting her gaze. There was the rush of his breath, again, this time against her lips as he exhaled sharply. "I know what you are," he said, his voice low. "You nearly had me fooled for a second, there."
Her steps stilled beneath her as she neared the short staircase to the cottage she shared with Aunt Minerva. Fenrir shouldn't have been confused. His words indicated that he knew the difference between the scent of a fellow werewolf, and the scent of a wolf-blood.
So why, then, had her scent confused him for even a moment?
Closing her eyes in a pained expression, she shook her head. How had Auntie expected that she'd smell more like a werewolf than a wolf-blood, enough to offer the cloak as a subterfuge about it?
Swallowing hard, Hermione opened her eyes and started up the stairs. She didn't like it, but she had to discuss this with Auntie, now.
She had to understand why there was more wolf in her scent than Aunt Minerva's tale of their heritage would indicate.
She had to know why the older woman felt the need to keep secrets from her.
Blinking back tears at the notion of confronting the witch, Hermione opened their front door and stepped inside. Her relationship with Minerva was so important to her, she couldn't imagine how either of them were going to feel if this conversation lead to revelations that damaged their very precious dynamic.
Again closing her eyes, she breathed past the stinging in the tip of her nose. "Please let this be some misunderstanding," she said to herself in a whisper as she heard Auntie's footfalls on the upper floor and coming toward the staircase toward her.