Title: we are sleeping, snowcapped volcanoes
Summary: Two werewolves walk into a bar.
Character(s): Cora Hale, Lavender Brown
Notes: I've been wanting a good HP/TW crossover for ages but I wrote this instead so I suppose that's okay? Title/quote are from Ana Castillo's Ixtacihuatl Died in Vain, or in the title's case, a variation of: "We are Ixtacihuatls, sleeping…" Also guesstimating that Cora was born in 1995, making her approximately fifteen years younger than Lavender. Post-TW, epilogue-compliant. Various pairings alluded to. Also on AO3, where I am laratoncita. Please review before favoriting :)

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life is long enough / to carry all things / to their necessary end

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You're far too pretty to be one of the European werewolves, you know. I don't tell you so, of course, but there's amusement in your eyes like you know already, making the lines around your mouth more prominent when you smile. You remind me of Peter, and when I glance down at the menu between us I can just make out the scar that curves around your neck. Your hair isn't even down to cover anything; all the scars that peek out from your clothes look like spider webs, and you're showing them off like it's something to be proud of.

Peter would say that we're something to be proud of, too.

"Why'd you break up with your boyfriend, anyway?" you say, and your hair isn't quite blonde, isn't quite brown. It's like ash fell into gold, because your eyes aren't hazel, either.

"I didn't say anything about a boyfriend," I say instead of asking about yours, and you laugh. You aren't like us, and you bare your neck easily when you toss your head back, yet when I look at you there's this aged sadness in your eyes. You smell like brine and bread and it's not entirely unpleasant, is the thing.

"I've seen a lot of girls like you," you say, yet we both know it's a lie, "they all react the same. Angry even if it's their own choice."

"I don't want kids," I say, and your face goes carefully blank.

"I can't have kids," you say, "werewolf pregnancies aren't entirely safe, you know. Well. Ours. Not much is known about the North American werewolf."

"They're found all over the West hemisphere," I say lazily, and signal a waiter to us. "And it's inheritable. Not a bad thing, though. Would you like something to drink?" I say, delicate like the Martin girl, and your lip curls. You'd make a magnificent werewolf, if you weren't already the monster the other legends talk about.

"Ready to order?" comes the thick accent, and I can almost pretend it's one of Derek's brothers-in-law—or something, considering his wife has no living siblings. She's a pretty thing, dark featured, with big eyes and a taste for spices. I'd tell you about the time she ripped a hunter's heart out but the waiter is busy making eyes at the both of us.

"Irish coffee," you say before I can get any words out, "for two."

"Potato skins," I say, "and what was it? Catfish?"

"Yes," you say smoothly, like we're friends and not two women ready to fight, "exactly."

The waiter disappears soon enough, and you rest an elbow on the table before us, wrist bent like a princess as you press the back of your hand to your mouth. You smile. The shirt you're wearing is almost see through—dark wine, nails painted to match. Black dress pants. You look like something out of a catalogue and me, I'm in an old plaid shirt and ratty jeans.

"All over those two continents, eh? And thriving," you say to me, sipping one of the glasses of water; "why haven't we heard about you?"

I take note of the we—you're not just a werewolf, then, or is the population huge? "There are three packs in California," I tell you, "including the Hales. In America there are five others, New York, Texas, the Dakotas, the West. We're hunted for sport."

You make a sound in the back of your throat. "We're discriminated against, if that makes you feel better."

"I lived off squirrels for three months," I say blankly, and you flash a smile with too many teeth, eyes glinting in the heavy light of the bar/café we're sitting in. You looks amused; I want to add scars to your pretty face.

"I almost tried suiciding myself," you say, tongue pink as it chases the words, and then, your voice hardening, "I was nearly killed saving a generation of M—England and they haven't even said thank you." When I don't say anything you say, "It's been nearly twenty years," like that should mean something to me.

"What's wrong with your kind?" I say once we've been staring at each other long enough, and you sigh, lean back in your seat. You light a cigarette. It's some classy looking thing, probably illegal here in the US. You're not wearing makeup.

"It's deadly," you say, "it's almost like. That zombie parasite, with the rats? Makes them suicidal? Similar, at least."

I haven't heard of that; Stiles had probably talked about it once, but I'm still trying my best to block out everything he's ever told me. I shrug, signal you to go on. You sigh, straightening up briefly before leaning on the table with both elbows.

"We're always feral. The only way to keep control is to use wolfsbane. And even—"

"That doesn't work," I interrupt, "that's can't. It's the complete opposite with us. Wolfsbane kills, and if it doesn't, it'll drive you insane."

Around us, the bar is quiet. There's a couple at the far end, near the bathrooms, a brunette with a red scarf around her neck and her hair pulled up. Her boyfriend is sitting next to her, slouched over, and they're discussing how to pay the rent. The bartender is itching for a smoke break, and keeps glancing longingly at you. You keep your eyes on me.

"I didn't say it didn't kill us," you say finally, "it's a slow poison. It's the price to pay to keep yourself from killing other people. There is no way to control yourself once you've shifted. Not without the wolfsbane."

I frown. "We learn control. That's the first thing you teach a werewolf—how to shift, and how to find an anchor. That keep the…murderous instincts…at bay."

You smile, but it's not a real one. Your teeth are white and straight and just this side too sharp, and I can see it now, that idea of you going feral. "What a luxury," you say, "to not fear your body. To have power over it. This is a disease."

"My uncle would say it's a gift."

"Your uncle," you say, voice sharper, "hasn't seen my scars, has he?"

I'm quiet, eyes narrowed. I duck my head, run my fingers through the condensation on my glass, and think. Meanwhile, the waiter leaves our drinks, and you thank him quietly, before settling back in your seat to look at me. I finally look up, and mirror your body language; your mouth curves.

"Who has seen the scars?" I say, and you roll your eyes.

"My ex-fiancé," you say breezily, "my parents. The nurses who helped me heal, and the ones who I saw for therapy. I tried killing myself," you repeat, and I shrug.

"I know a lot of people who tried," I say, "and I know a lot of people who've killed." Your eyes darken, suspicious. We don't know each other, do you realize that? I'm not sure why we're even here, to be honest.

"Are you going to tell me your story?" you ask, and I raise an eyebrow.

"Why should I? You haven't told me yours."

Your mouth purses, and you take a sip of your coffee. You close your eyes, briefly, at the warmth, and I can name at least ten ways I could have killed you in our time together already. A broken hand when we greeted each other, only to be pummeled into the ground; broken bottles when we walked in; strangled with your handbag and scarf; claws to your slender neck when we sat down, or when you laughed, or when you looked away from me. Your kind is weak, and yet you've escaped the genocide my family suffered. You leer at me.

"I was eighteen," you say, "and my world had been at war for two years. They attacked my school, and I stayed to fight."

I want to tell you that that seems like a dumb idea, but then I remember flames and forest and Derek, years later and broken. Running barely worked out for me; no doubt it wouldn't have worked for you, either. You lick your teeth, and then the waiter brings out our food. You glance at it, disdain easily painting your features, and I nod to the man serving us, taking a bite out of the potato I've ordered. I smirk at you. You roll your eyes and pick at the fish, lazily taking a bite before struggling to swallow.

"Everything is so vivid," you say once the server leaves, and I shrug.

"Three days 'til the moon."

"Yes," you say, twirling a fork through your side of potatoes. I pick at the side of green beans that came with my meal.

"You were saying?" I prompt after a moment, and you let go of your fork.

"Eighteen," you reiterate, "I was defending my school. My ideals. My father." You stare blankly at the coffee between us. An eyebrow raised, I finally begin to drink mine, and you snap out of your reverie easily enough.

"I turned my back at the wrong time," you say, and I set the mug down, "and then he—he just bit down. Had me face down to the floor and it burned. I don't even think he wanted to turn me; I think he just wanted a toy. Some girl—Her—if it weren't for her, I'd be dead."

"Or mauled," I drawl, and you fix me with a harsh look.

"More than I already am?"

"My uncle," I say, after a gulp of coffee, "had half his body scoured by flames." You stare at me, not sure whether I'm trying to shock you or throw things in perspective. I continue; "My brother made a choice, and it killed my family. The only ones, besides me, who survived were him, my older sister, and my uncle. He nearly died trying to save the rest," and I fix you with a look, "and it didn't work."

"How old were you?" you say, voice barely above a whisper, and I close my eyes. It smells like coffee and sour cream and fish, scotch and parsley and bacon. Underneath it all, I can still smell heady perfume and taste ash. I want to scream.

"Eleven," and you cover your eyes with one hand. After a deep breath you look up at me again, and I'm surprised to see that you're not tearing up. Your eyes are hardened, brown and challenging and for a split second you take my breath away. I see Stiles in you, and Scott, and Deaton, ferocity where there shouldn't be and I won't ever say it out loud, but it's awe-inspiring. Unbelievable. Your mouth twitches, almost like you know how I feel.

"We're not hunted," you say, voice still low, and clear your throat before continuing, "but it's nearly impossible to make a living. Few stores are willing to take on such a liability. And, maybe we're the same here? But the week or so before the moon—it isn't pretty. Wolfsbane is expensive, and you need several doses to keep control. It's. It's hard, yes, and there isn't anyone to turn to, because they know we're here…they just pretend we aren't."

I nod. I still have no idea what you mean by they, though. It's obvious there's a decent population of werewolves, but if there's job discrimination then…then there's a supernatural community, something like an eternal nation of werewolves and banshees and emissaries. I ask you, "It's. Is it like that everywhere? Or just the area you live in?"

You stare for a long moment, long enough that I shift in my seat. I narrow my eyes at you, because it's obvious I'm trying to get at information that you're not comfortable sharing, and that's how I know meeting with you was a good idea. Or a bad one. Neither one of us seem too sure of that, at least. You still haven't answered after several minutes of silence, so I ask instead, "How did you find me?" because that's just as important. I won't lose everything again because of some girl like you.

At that you shrug. "I met a boy your age," you say, "who shifted differently than we did. More human, less monster. I found his pack, and it was completely new to me, because we don't band together like that. We have no hierarchies." You're quiet for a moment, hand picking at your mouth while you think. You continue, "And he mentioned someone named Derek Hale."

A chill slithers up my spine and I stiffen, eyes focused on you. Yours widen, and I realize belatedly that they must have flashed. You offer a smile. "His did that, too," you say, and then tilt your head, "only his eyes were blue."

"He killed," I say without emotion, and your face betrays you easily this time, shock painting your features, "they might have been not-innocent, about something, but when he killed them they were innocent, at least, in relation to him. If that makes sense."

"It does," you say slowly, "but only if you're looking at the whole picture."

"Are you?" I ask, and you shake your head.

"How can I, when neither of us knows what the whole picture even is?"

Neither of us speak until I say, "What was his name?"

You look up from where you've been studying tablecloth, and your eyes are wide; "Why?"

I don't have the patience for this, say, "Tell me his name."

You frown at me and say, "Not if you're going to hurt him."

I let out an angry breath through my nose. "He can't go around London telling random women about my family."

"I'm not a random woman," you remind me, "and he only told me because, unlike you, darling, he was willing to share a little information with me."

"You know about the fire," I say coldly, "consider yourself lucky." You make a noise in your throat, something of a cough that seems to be clearing your airways. I still want to snap your neck, by the way.

"Your kind," you clarify, "he told me more than you've shared."

"You probably know all you need to," I snap, "if this idiot of yours was able to tell you about the Hale pack. Now what. Was his. Name?"

"They wouldn't tell me anything," you say instead of answering, "and his—what is it?—alpha didn't take to kindly to me knowing. I've been staying out of their…territory ever since. He told me he asked for the bite when he was in high school. He had an inferiority complex, from what I could tell."

That isn't enough information, and you know it. I'm glaring at you openly now, even as you just sit there with false innocence bleeding off you. "He said Derek Hale had been his alpha before he moved to London, and that he didn't know much about packs in America, though he knew the British ones," you say after a heated stare-off, "but his pack found out about our, ah, rendezvous before he could tell me anything else." You look fond, "Wonderful bone structure. Bit of a prat, if I'm honest."

The silence between us is far too repetitive, now, and I say, voice coming in a rush that surprises the both of us, "Alphas lead, betas follow, and omegas are nothing. The hunters kill us for sport, and they started in France. We're not the only born-shifters, and it spreads from an Alpha bite. We're people and my family is dead and, I don't know, wolfsbane kills within days. What do you want from me?"

Your mouth moves, but before you can make a sound I stand, toss a twenty on the table. "Don't contact me again," I tell you, "and don't contact my brother. I'm not even alive, according to records, so I don't know how you found me, and I don't really care."

"But listen," I continue, and lean in close, bent at the waist. My hair creates a curtain between us and the rest of the bar, but only the bartender notices us, and he's more curious than alarmed; "I don't care who you are, or who you think you are. Next time I run into you, I'm snapping that pretty little neck of yours. Don't. Try. Anything."

I pull away from you, and not even your heartbeat gives anything away. You raise a blonde-brown eyebrow. "Alright," you say, voice placating, "I get it. But, here's just a little something for you to chew on." You tilt your head at me, not even threatened by how I tower over you. "I. Have people. Everywhere," you hiss, and I can see the animal in you now, in the flash of your teeth and color of your tongue, "don't think you're superior just because you were made for this. I don't need you, I was curious. Have you ever heard of allies?"

That pulls a derisive scoff from me, and you just roll your eyes. I'm turning away as you say, "Oh, and honey? Throwing out his clothes might make things a bit better."

My head swings towards you, mouth half-open. I can feel the fangs lengthening, same as the claws. You smile delicately. "Adieu," you coo, and snatch up your things and drop another twenty next to our uneaten food before marching out the door, before I can even catch my bearings, the swish of your hips the last thing I see.

I want to rip your head off.