Author's Note: This was written for the 2012 HP Zombiefest on LiveJournal and inspired by this prompt from UnseenLibrarian: Werewolves are immune to zombie infection, it turns out, but they are indifferent to the world's plight. Hermione must find a way to convince Greyback and his pack to fight. Some warnings include main character death, gore, violence, strong profanity, and implicit sexual situations. A big 'thanks' to my betas, Joanna and ADP. Any remaining errors are entirely my own.

Chapter One

It was never meant to be like this.

Hermione Granger stood in the middle of a room full of carnage. It stank of rot, blood, and excrement, and a fair helping of each was spattered across the peeling walls, the exposed metal pipes, herself, and the three other Survivors who had accompanied her on the hunt. She held her wand limply at her side as her heartbeat finally started to slow.

She wished it could have been different.

"Shite!" Joshua cried, almost simultaneously with the report of his weapon. All eyes turned to him. Two pairs were glaring. Hermione simply raised her eyebrows.

"Was still alive," Joshua said a little sheepishly. He hid his eyes behind his long fringe and holstered his gun. "Grabbed my leg."

"Good instinct," said Cole stoutly. "Don't want to bring one home with us."

"Did any escape?" Hermione asked. Her voice was sharp, demanding attention and a prompt answer.

"No," responded Cole at once. "We got them all."

Her eyes swept over the carnage and settled on Patrice. "The eggs?"

"As many as I could find crushed, smashed, and destroyed," she answered, wiping her hands on her trousers. They came away no cleaner. "All that's left is to burn them."

That task fell to Hermione. "Do a final sweep," she said. "Shout to me when you rendezvous in the front."

Three "Ayes" were like music to her ears, and Hermione watched them mount the stairs to the first floor. She waited until they were gone to kneel beside one of the corpses.

It had been a little boy, no older than thirteen, with sandy hair. Blue eyes, too, she'd bet, though there would never be a way to tell. His eyes were missing, as were the lids. Hosts had no need to see. They had no need to do much of anything other than nest, lay eggs, and defend themselves. That was why they tended to group up like this, in whatever warm, dark places they could find.

Hermione glanced around the room and took a quick count. There had been fifteen Hosts down here and as many nests. No Burrowers, though, which was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because fifteen Hosts were hard enough to kill without the threat of Burrower infection. A curse because it meant the Burrowers had overwintered somewhere else, possibly somewhere closer to their refuge.

Hermione could trace Burrower history back to day one. They were the product of the research branch of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, a result of magical experimentation on Muggle insects, though why someone would ever want to create such a creature was well beyond her understanding. The first time she heard of them, she had been working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She had shared the news with Harry and Ron over lunch. Predictably, neither of them had read the press release, and neither had listened all that intently when Hermione summarized it. The news of a new bug was not at all interesting to them, especially when there was a growing Dark wizard threat in Italy.

Then the rumors began, and even Italy could no longer distract them.

The real mess started when a man named Niles Clawson went missing. His colleagues assumed it was an unannounced vacation. He'd always been a rather odd bird, after all, and research scientists were encouraged to heed their whims; it was said to counter the eventual insanity that crept on from working in a windowless laboratory for forty or more hours per week. But when the lab began to reek a few days later, the research department contacted the fieldwork department, and an expedition was hastily put together. It took only two hours to find him, stuffed into the corner behind the steam sterilizer. He was still breathing, but eyeless and jawless. His face was as bruised as if he had been run over by a bus. Luna had shown her pictures of both so that she could make the comparison herself.

They had rushed Niles to St Mungo's, where he remained in stable condition until he ransacked the room for blankets, tore the feathers from his pillow, and pulled the shower curtain down from his en suite bathroom. Healers found him in the corner hunched over a makeshift nest spewing perfectly oval, perfectly white eggs about the size of figs from his eyes, nose, and mouth.

By the time he stopped, over one hundred eggs had been deposited.

Not all of them had been found.

As a novel species with an abundance of prey and no natural predators, the Burrowers spread rapidly and uncontrollably. The population of England – both magical and Muggle – was decimated within six months. As they spread to Scotland and Wales, the economy collapsed. Trade ceased entirely as their allies, with justified paranoia, placed an embargo on all goods incoming from the United Kingdom. Aid was promised but never sent, and what few humanitarian organizations made the trip were soon overwhelmed and stranded themselves.

After two years, England's population had changed dramatically. People were no longer defined as Magical and Muggle, but rather as Survivors and Hosts.

Host was the clinical term for what happened to a human post-Burrower infection. It was the term Hermione most enjoyed using because it was the least sensational. Others, the majority of them Muggles, preferred to use the word zombie. It had annoyed her at first, but she'd come to accept it. Both were accurate: Humans-turned-Hosts were undeniably dead, only capable of walking, fighting, and reproducing because of the Burrower's own magic.

A shout from above woke her from her reverie.

"All clear, Hermione!" came Cole's voice from the top of the stairs.

She looked once more at the small boy with sandy hair and empty eye sockets and hardened her heart. With a silent spell, she set fire to his body, then moved to the far corner and lit the nest she had found there. Then it was the corpses and nests closest to the stairs.

The basement began fill with smoke, and Hermione made her way toward the stairs. She walked halfway up, then turned around to listen. Above the crackle of the fire were several loud pops made by exploding eggs. Then there was a loud, wailing screech, like metal scraping across porcelain.

A dying Burrower. A lucky female that had managed to escape her Host, which had been decapitated improperly or not at all.

She smiled a grim smile: that was precisely why she burned them.

She met the rest of her group on the front lawn. They held their coats around them tightly; their breath created wispy clouds in the air.

"Getting dark," Joshua said, glancing at the sky. "Looks like it might snow, too."

Hermione squinted upwards. Thick, light grey clouds covered the previously blue sky. "Back to St Giles, then," she said. "The Burrowers won't be out if it snows, and I think we've killed enough Hosts for today."

"Twenty-seven of them!" said Patrice proudly, falling into step behind Hermione and next to Joshua. Cole, as usual, brought up the rear.

"Twenty-eight, by my count," corrected Joshua. "There was one stuffed in beneath the kitchen sink of that second place."

"Oh, I didn't see that one," Patrice said with disappointment. "You should have showed me!"

The two chatted for the entire ten-minute walk, which was ideal: their banter was a welcome distraction. For Hermione, hunting Hosts was far more trying a task than hunting Burrowers. Burrowers were just insects, after all: dark brown and about as big as a man's fist, with six scrabbling legs that were barbed at the ends, and – depending on sex – either a needle-sharp proboscis or a pair of sizeable pincers which could dislocate a jaw as easily as break through skull. Not remotely human. But Hosts… Shreds of humanity still stuck to them. She could almost imagine what their lives used to be.

They were met at the edge of St Giles-in-the-Fields by Sera and Marc, the afternoon patrols.

"Success?" asked Marc.

"Twenty-eight," said Patrice, with a swift sideways glance at Joshua. "Tell them where you found that one."

Hermione let them talk and accompanied Cole into the church. He paused in the foyer, awaiting her instruction.

Cole was a Muggle, nearly sixty years old, and one of the sharpest hunters they had. Though he was mum about his past, the determination and precision with which he fought, his eye for strategy, and his strict, regimented lifestyle made her suspect that he had military training. "You did well today," she said. "Go eat, then rest up. I'll take your watch for tonight."

He nodded once. "Thank you, ma'am." Hermione smiled as he walked away. Another reason she liked the old man? He didn't challenge her or ask unnecessary questions.

After changing out of her soiled clothes and grabbing some dinner, she relieved Kim of watch duty and stationed herself at the front door. She greeted the incoming patrols and listened closely to their reports. They said nothing of interest, which was the news she best liked to hear. People who passed nodded to her, but few of them stayed to talk. Darkness was approaching, and everyone had responsibilities to fulfill. Some would sleep in preparation for dawn patrols, an early hunting party, or the supply run they'd scheduled for tomorrow. Others would be putting on layers for watch duty in the exposed steeple, braving the frigid cold for a better long-range view of the surrounding area. Others still would patrol the church's halls, making sure that everyone was where they should be and that nothing was out of place.

It was a routine established as much by trial and error as by common sense. Hermione liked to think that it was as close to perfection as it could be.

True darkness fell, and the church's activity finally reached its minimum. Content that all was well, Hermione stepped out onto the church's small portico. The night was still and quiet; a luxury compared to the activity of the day. It had started to snow, just as Joshua predicted. It had been a good decision to bring her team in early. The temperature had dropped significantly – into the single digits, she suspected, perhaps even below freezing when the wind blew.

Hours passed. Hermione undid the buttons of her coat and embraced the cold. Too many watches before her had looked without seeing, and the lapse had resulted in severe injuries. One was a fatality – the death of the watchman himself. There were only seven people she trusted enough to maintain a night watch. She was one of them.

One of the others put his hand on her shoulder. She did not need to see Bill Weasley's scarred face to know it was him.

"You should be sleeping," she scolded lightly.

"So should you. It's Cole's night tonight."

"He fought hard today, and I thought I saw him limping on the walk home. He deserves a rest."

"You don't?"

"It was your night yesterday," she pointed out evasively.

"And you came out to keep me company," he rebutted, correctly. "We're breaking even."

Hermione smiled and took his hand. She was happy for his company and grateful that he didn't need to hear it.

"I heard you had a good day."

She shrugged; good was a relative term. "We cleared out a few restaurants on Neal Street."

"Any other day, you'd be giddy with the victory."

She shrugged again. "Winter is ending."

Bill scoffed. "We didn't have much of a winter to begin with. Too mild, hardly any snow. Way more Hosts than we're used to seeing around this time. It'll probably only be another month or two before warm weather arrives for good."

"This season's kill totals are the lowest we've had," she said.

He nodded. "We've had to range much farther for supplies, too. Our trip tomorrow will take us an hour."

"Round trip?"

"Each way."

Hermione bit her lip. After two years in the same place, it was inevitable that they would use up the resources available to them. She had hoped they could stretch them at least one more year, but an hour each way for necessities was risky. It would be downright dangerous in the spring and summer months, when Host and Burrower activity peaked.

"We need to begin to look for another place to settle." Bill's voice was low and gentle, but it did nothing to soften the truth.

Still, Hermione shook her head. She did not want to consider it. "Moving thirty people with all of our supplies?"

"Just because we haven't done it before doesn't mean it's impossible."

"I didn't say it was impossible." Her voice was tense. "We'd have to split up and move in shifts, with one witch or wizard per group. We'd use trolleys for the supplies. It would take the better part of a season."

"Maybe even a year, depending on how far away the new place is."

Hermione sighed and leaned into Bill's chest, trying to draw some comfort from his warmth and steadiness. It didn't work, and she straightened again, preferring the cold.

"This summer is going to be bad," she said. "Burrower and Host presence will be high. We'll stay here for the season, and move nearer to autumn or winter."

"Our stocks…"

"We can send smaller parties. They'll travel faster. Attract less attention."

"They'll be weaker," Bill countered. "Four pairs of eyes are better than three."

"And three pairs of eyes are better than two, and two pairs of eyes are better than one, yet even with both of us looking, there doesn't seem to be another solution."

Bill sighed; she was instantly sorry for snapping at him.

Hermione crossed her arms; she had to make him understand.

"Do you remember last spring?"

Bill dropped his arms and stepped away from her. She took her eyes off the road to look at him and was both satisfied and disgusted with what she saw. Bill's eyes – usually such a clear, bright blue, just like Ron's had been – clouded over and darkened with grief.

He remembered last spring. Of course he did. That was when his daughter became infected.

There had been a rainbow that day. A rare sight for London at any time of year, but irresistible to five year old Victoire. She burst from the front door before anyone could grab her and made it as far as the street before she was attacked. Surrounded. Swallowed.

A piercing shriek. A cry for her father. Her honey-blonde hair streamed as her body fell to the ground and disappeared, engulfed by Burrowers. The double-pop of her jaw dislocating was horrendously loud, but not as loud as her screams of pain and fear as her tongue was shredded. Her body thrashed for twenty seconds as the female Burrower tore through her hard palate, shattered the base of her skull, and attached to her cerebellum. Twenty seconds of utter silence, except for the crisp snap of young bones breaking.

Victoire was dead. Then nightmare began: the slow, lurching rise of a Host in the shape of a loved one.

As soon as he had realized what was happening, Bill dashed out of the church. The only reason he himself wasn't worse than dead was because of his immunity to the male Burrower's paralytic poison. An immunity that came courtesy of the weak lycanthropy virus that ran through his veins.

He had killed every Burrower he could get his hands on that morning, but he did not have strength enough to decapitate and burn the thing that had consumed his daughter.

Hermione had.

Watching Bill suffer through the loss of his child was impossibly hard. What it felt like to have actually lost her, Hermione could not begin to imagine. It wasn't a surprise that Bill had changed after that. They were coming up on the one-year anniversary of the attack. He'd recovered somewhat – moved on, come to terms, whatever. But when it rained, or when someone was pitiless enough to remind him of it, she could see what he lost, like tearing the skin of a barely-healed wound.

They were silent for a long time. The snow had stopped, leaving a fine dusting upon the ground. Then, Bill sighed.

"We can't stay here forever."

It took a moment for her to reply. "I know."

"There will never be a good time for a move."

"But some times are better than others."

"You should send scouts out now. They can get a lead on new locations. When we really need to move, we'll be ready. As ready as we can be."

Hermione grimaced. "We can't spare the resources."

"The scouting party can find food while they travel."

"People, Bill. I mean people."

"I'll lead it."

The urge to tell him no was strong. She bit her tongue to keep from shouting it. The wind gusted, howling and crying through the nooks of the old church. As it died, the howling continued.

Almost simultaneously, they drew their wands. Bill shoved his way in front of her.

"We have at least two weeks until the full moon," Hermione whispered. "They can't be-"

"Quiet," Bill hissed. "Did that sound human to you?"

It was a rhetorical question. Hermione glowered at his tone, but remained silent. Fenrir Greyback's attack on Bill was hardly a blessing, but his slightly more attuned senses made him one of the best scouts they had.

Another cry drifted from the dark, softer and more plaintive. The word, "Help."

"That was human," Hermione said certainly. She muscled her way in front of Bill. His hand clamped around her upper arm, preventing her from taking another step.

"Wait."

The darkness shifted. A figure staggered toward their sanctuary.

Bill swore violently and shoved Hermione into the door of the church.

"Sound the alarm. Post four people at the back entrance and station another six on the second floor. Assemble everyone else at the altar. Make sure they're armed."

"Bill-"

"Now, damn it! GO!"

"No! Will you calm down?" She shoved past him once more and ripped her arm away from his clutching fingers. "It could be human!" she hissed.

"Or it could be Host!"

"It's below five Celsius!" Hosts didn't do well below five degrees Celsius. Burrowers had trouble functioning under ten.

"You think we should take that chance?"

"I don't think we should curse first and ask questions second!" she barked over her shoulder. "Back off, Bill. Whoever that is may need our help."

"Your help," he snapped, turning on her. "You can play with your life, but you have no right to play with mine."

"Yes, I am quite aware," she deadpanned. She took another step away from him, never taking her eyes off the figure. "If it looks like I'm in trouble, raise the alarm. Otherwise, just watch my back."

She could hear his teeth grinding as she stepped off the portico. She was about two steps away from the gate when Bill yelled, "That's far enough!" She only raised her hand in acknowledgement.

She was close enough now to see that the figure stumbling toward her was a man. He raised his hand at her, too, then tripped over his own feet.

Clumsiness. That wasn't a good sign. She raised her wand and leveled it at his head.

"Stop right there!" she yelled. "Stop!"

The man obeyed without question. That was good: Hosts were incapable of reason.

"Are you infected?"

He shook his head, and Hermione was once again on her guard. If a Host were somehow able to carry on a conversation, the facial injuries sustained upon infection would have been enough to prevent it.

"Are you infected?" she shouted again. "Answer me!"

"No!" came the man's hoarse reply. "I'm not infected! Please-" He surged forward a step. Hermione leapt backward out of his reach, and a sizzling jet of light blasted a hole in the concrete just to the left of him.

She would have yelled at Bill had his warning shot not been so effective. The man stopped immediately.

"Wizards?"

"Yes." Her answer was immediate. "You?"

The man paused for a moment, then answered bitterly, "Muggle."

"Name?"

"Graham. Graham Cortland. I'm injured. I need help."

She was sure he did. His clothes were in tatters, his entire body shook, and his voice was thick with exhaustion. There was a protocol in place for these things, however. Since she didn't recognize his name, she had to follow it to the letter.

"Take off your coat. And the balaclava."

"But it's freezing!" he stammered.

"I am losing my patience," she seethed, readjusting her grip on her wand. "You are the one wandering around London in the middle of the night with nothing more than a coat and a hat. I am the one with food and shelter, and I am quickly losing the urge to offer either. Now take off your thrice-damned coat, or I will turn you away right here."

Graham glared at her sourly. "You're a vicious bitch, you know that?"

She neither dignified him with a response nor bothered disguising her victorious expression as he unbuttoned his coat. From what she could see, he was weaponless, but she only lowered her wand when he took off his balaclava. His jaw was covered in a thick, dark beard, but otherwise un-extraordinary. His eyes were likewise present, and his face showed none of the bloat, bruising, or deformation that were hallmarks of Burrower infection.

She took a step backward and gestured toward the entrance of the church. "My name is Hermione Granger," she said tightly. "Welcome to St Giles-in-the-Fields."

Graham pocketed the balaclava, buttoned up his coat, and nodded to her as he walked past. She waited until she heard Bill's, "I've got him," before walking backward toward the door, her eyes still scanning the streets.

"You're insane, you know," Bill groused when she reached the portico.

"But not stupid," she countered, shooting Graham a quick, sideways glance. He stared back uncomfortably, as if he didn't know what to do. Hermione pulled Bill close and whispered instructions in his ear. "Put Ed and Laurel on perimeter patrol, Keenan and Gus at the doors, and Kim in the steeple."

"She won't like that," Bill remarked sotto voce.

"I don't care what she likes. This is what needs to happen. From what I could see, he's not armed, but he could have a cell phone. He may be a spy from another group. We need to be ready for an attack."

"I'll tell Amanda to trade with Kim when it gets too cold."

"Do what you have to. We'll be in the office getting better acquainted."

Bill sent the stranger a glare, then disappeared to dispense orders at Hermione's stern look. She pointed her wand at Graham once more, who put up one hand in surrender. The other arm he held against his chest with his hand in plain sight.

"I'm not armed."

"That doesn't mean you aren't dangerous. Walk."

He rolled his eyes, but obeyed. Hermione directed him through the nave to the small office in the sacristy.

"Strip."

He looked at her like she was insane. "I'm not-"

Golden sparks shot from the tip of her wand. "I don't care what you say you are," she snapped. "If I have to ask you to do anything a second time from here on, I'm going to throw you out. Is that clear?"

Graham paused to weigh his options. Apparently, he found them in favor of obeying and shrugged off his coat. He glanced quickly at the door.

"You might as well forget about modesty," Hermione said, interpreting his glance. "There are thirty of us, three bathrooms, and one shower. If we decide to keep you here, you will become very close to the others very quickly."

"You'll let me stay?" Graham asked quickly.

"Well, I won't know the answer to that until you strip."

At long last, he realized just how thin the ice he stood upon was and his fingers flew to the hem of his shirt. In a matter of minutes, he was naked except for his shorts and socks. He stood there shivering as Hermione visually and magically inspected each article of his clothing. Aside from some fidgeting as she ran her hands over his hips, buttocks, and genitals, Graham tolerated the inspection well.

She paused as she reached his left forearm. Several deep scrapes marred his skin; one still bled.

"How did you get these?" She conjured a bowl and rinsed the wounds with a gentle stream of water from her wand.

"Climbed a fence." He did not elaborate.

"Not very well." She bandaged his wound as best she could. "I'm not the best Healer here, but those should do for tonight. If they give you any problems, talk to Magdalene. You can get dressed now. Bill?"

He poked his head around the door. "Yes?"

"A plate of food and a cup of tea, please."

He nodded and left at once. Hermione turned toward Graham once more.

"Take a seat," she instructed.

He did so gratefully, and she did the same on the opposite side of the desk, placing her wand so that it was in his sight and within her reach. Graham eyed it warily, just as she'd hoped. Using magic as a threat was not her favorite type of persuasive argument, but it was certainly effective.

"Where are you from?"

"London."

She scowled. "That's not what I meant."

He sat up straighter, apparently realizing that his inspection had not yet concluded. "Near Marylebone. There was a group of us there. Small – about eight regulars. Two or three came and went.

"What happened to leave you wandering the streets alone at night?"

"Rotten luck." He muttered his thanks as Bill returned with dinner and tea. Bill took a seat next to Hermione and watched with shrewd eyes as Graham ate.

"We were moving around, trying to find a fresh area," he explained around bites of food. "We overestimated our abilities a few nights ago. We hadn't reached our next scouted camp yet, but it was getting dark. We decided to stop at an un-scouted location. A house."

Bill scoffed, and Graham stopped eating to glare at him. Hermione was grudgingly impressed: not many could stare at Bill like that. The scars tended to throw people off.

"We had elderly and young," Graham spoke to Hermione but stared at Bill. His voice was brittle with unnatural calm. "It's dangerous for them to travel at night."

"It's more dangerous to camp at an un-scouted location."

"You don't think we knew that?"

"Apparently you didn't, or else the rest of you would be-"

"Bill!" Hermione shot him a quelling look. He quailed only the slightest and leaned back in his chair. She waited until he took a few deep breaths and could suppress his territorial instincts. She turned back to Graham. "What happened?"

Graham looked between her and Bill with narrowed eyes, but gave up trying to decipher what had passed between them. He took a sip of tea and continued. "We did a preliminary scout, but it was dark. We missed a nest in the basement, tucked in behind some half-rotten drywall. My second in command and I got away. The rest…"

Graham shrugged in forced nonchalance, but his eyes shone. Every Survivor had witnessed death by infection, but even with the time and experience, the loss of a life – a true, human life – was not something one ever grew accustomed to.

"What happened after that?" Bill asked sharply.

"There was no way we could have managed our scouted location. We changed plans and headed toward Buckingham."

Bill growled loudly. Hermione laid a hand on his arm without taking her eyes from Graham. Not for the first time, she wondered if this stranger was insane.

Graham looked confused at their expressions. "You… You don't know what's at Buckingham Palace?"

"'Course we know," snapped Bill. "What we don't know is why any self-respecting human would willingly go there."

"Protection." He said it like it should have been obvious, and the tone brought Bill to his feet.

"Greyback doesn't offer protection!" he yelled. "That bastard doesn't give unless he gets!"

"We had weapons!" Graham protested. "Food!"

"You think he gives a shit about any of that? What Greyback wants is flesh, and you more than happily obliged him!"

Graham shot to his feet, his cheeks red with anger beneath his beard. "I did what I thought was best!" he yelled, jabbing a finger at Bill's chest. "We didn't have any other options!"

"There are always other options! What you did was as good as murder!"

"You-"

"That's enough!" shouted Hermione, jumping to her feet and inserting herself between the two men. She put a hand on Bill's chest and shoved. She barely moved him an inch, but did manage to get his attention. He turned his snarl on her, but she had grown immune to its power. "Bill, please leave."

"No, I need-"

"What you need," she interrupted, "is to calm down. Leave."

With a final snarl at Graham, he turned and left. When she was certain he would not return, she turned to Graham, who looked too triumphant for her liking.

"Did I touch a nerve?" he snarked.

"Several," she snapped, "and next time it happens, I won't stop him from ripping you apart."

"You would let-"

"I won't let him do anything, but even I can't stop him if his anger gets out of control."

She did not elaborate, but that seemed to be enough for Graham to think about. She retook her seat, as did Graham. After taking a moment to collect herself, Hermione resumed their conversation.

"How did you get away? Greyback isn't known for his philanthropy."

"We drew straws. My second in command went first. Once he didn't come back, I… I ran."

He turned his eyes to the floor, and Hermione kept silent. She was in no position to judge.

"What made you think he'd look at you any differently?"

"Nothing," Graham croaked. "Absolutely nothing. But what other options did we have? We had lost our home, our group. We had no food, little ammunition. This life…" Graham put his elbows on his knees and clasped his bandaged arm. "This existence isn't easy."

"You think I don't know that?"

He raised his eyes to look at her. "No. You know it better than most. You know what it feels like to be desperate, to be out of options. And if you don't, then you will soon. You'll have to make the same kind of choice I did, and you'll have to live with whatever happens afterwards. Just like me."

She met his challenging look. When neither of them looked away after a minute, Hermione spoke.

"If you're going to stay here, you'll be required to pull your weight. You will stick to rations, make your rounds, and keep out of trouble. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

"Your first few days here may be rough. You're another mouth to feed, which means that everyone else will be getting less. If you prove yourself, the others will come around sooner than later."

"I can handle it."

"We'll see."

She must've sounded dire. Graham considered her for a moment, then said slowly, "Say, for argument's sake, that I can't."

"Go to Bill. He'll help you."

He paused a beat. "And if my problems are with him?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Then I suggest you resolve them quickly on your own. I do not tolerate fighting."

After a moment of obvious internal conflict, Graham nodded. It would take him a while to transition from leader to follower. She could only hope he made it soon and with as little conflict as possible.

"Follow the corridor and take the stairs up to the second floor. Ask for Ana. She'll show you where you can sleep, introduce you to a few people, and assign you your rounds."

Graham nodded and stood. "Thank you," he said. "I really-"

Hermione cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Assimilate," she said. "Know your role. That will be thanks enough."

He hesitated and opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more. He thought better of it after a moment and left without another word. Hermione waited until she heard the door open and close before leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes.

It wasn't odd to hear of survival groups seeking succor with the werewolves, though it was strange to meet one who had escaped with his life. Most who managed to escape were disemboweled or gored past healing, magical or otherwise. Walking corpses, too destroyed even for the Burrowers to consider.

She grimaced at the thought. Gored by werewolves or reanimated by Burrowers. What pleasant lifestyle alternatives they had.

She rolled her eyes at her own morbidity and turned her chair to look out the window. Some days, it already felt like her group was teetering on the edge of survival and ruin. The mild winter foretold a verdant spring and a sweltering summer. Each promised difficulties that Hermione was not sure her group would survive. However, despite her grim outlook, she was not nearly desperate enough to consider seeking help from a monster like Greyback.

She ardently hoped she never would be.