Fenrir.
He had me from the first time he pushed me against the wall and took me with the animal aggression that often seemed to drive him. I had resisted at first, scared and crying and trying to push him away from me, but soon his calloused hands and strong hips had convinced me to enjoy myself. His teeth had grazed the skin of my neck and shoulder, and his nails had clawed my back and sides and thighs, threatening to rip me apart, but he never did. It was all over very soon, with him crushing me against the stone wall and growling loudly, and then he was gone.
Two days later he came again, ravishing me like the time before, but this time I didn't bother to try and stop him. It was the most pleasure I have ever felt, having him inside me, the big hands roaming my body like two dragons looking for prey, and his hot, rough breath hitting my throat. I was not disappointed when he left as stealthily as before, because this time I had expected him to. But without my knowing it at the time, he had gotten me hooked.
I only realised my addiction when my friends pointed out I was more impatient, more on edge than usual. I laughed at their comments, brushing them off as nothing, but in my mind there was a buzz as little wheels worked to find out what could possibly be the matter. It was not until he had left me after the third time that it struck me. Standing there, panting and hurting and leaning against the wall so as not to collapse to the floor, I found myself wishing he would return soon. The thought confused me. As a pure blood, I had heard about the dangers of werewolves since I was a little girl, and everyone knew he was the most dangerous one of them in England, maybe in all Britain. And I wanted him.
Even the thought of telling anyone was naïve. I realised I should have reported it after the first time. Yes, he had broken into my apartment. Yes, he had forced himself on me. No, I had not been willing. Or had I? I wasn't sure why I had been resisting in the first place. He only caused me pleasure – I didn't care about the bruises and scratches, they were nothing serious. He was rough, but I confessed to myself, blushing brightly, that it was something I liked very much. Then I wondered whether he had many women whom he visited like he did me. Probably. I knew that that should have hurt me, made me cry, made me mad, but it didn't. Oh, how I wished he would return!
And, to my relief, he did. He came in like he had before, without me hearing a sound but knowing it was he when I was once again pushed against the wall of my apartment, this time in the kitchen. His smell was like it always was; a mix of sweat and earth and musk, and it alone was almost enough to arouse me. His lips went for my neck, where his last marks were still visible, but I took his head in my hands and pushed my lips on his. He was surprised, if that's what the moment's hesitation meant, and then his tongue was in my mouth, almost choking me. He took my initiation better than I had hoped for, tearing apart my robes and pushing me against the sink until I was sitting upon the metal counter.
He detached his lips from mine, leaving me gasping and panting and trying to pull his head back to me. Our eyes met for the first time, and in the blue depths there was the feral look of what he was, the yellow flash of a ravenous wolf staring at me. This contact lasted only a short while before he spread open my legs and pushed into me, and I moaned and tried to press against him, my back arching and his gnarling next to my ear. New wounds, scratches, but all that meant nothing when I was one with him.
Afterwards he left again like a shadow, but this time I knew he would come back. He knew he was welcome.
He came, not regularly but often, and I was always ready for him. I wouldn't say I was in love; he was more of an addiction. There was once a whole week he didn't show up, and I got both nervous and irritable, receiving commentary from my friends again.
"You should get laid," one of them snapped at me once when I was particularly sulky and annoying. 'I know!' I wanted to yell. 'But he won't come!' But the words had to stay inside my mouth, and I would double my efforts of keeping up a happy face. No one could know, and no one would.
But that night he came, and I could not be mad at him, could not resist him when he approached me with that burning look of his and the wry grin I soon learned to love. This time he took a little more time undressing me, though in the morning I still picked up torn clothing, and he kissed me ferociously, and licked my body all over, until I was almost in tears with frustration and was begging him to have me.
"Say my name," he prompted, his face hovering close to mine, grinning so that I could see his yellowing teeth and sharp canines. He had me pinned down on the living room carpet, his member touching my entrance.
"Fenrir," I whispered, my voice barely in control. He bent his head to my ear, whispering:
"Louder," and then letting one of his claws press against my side, almost breaking skin.
"Fenrir!"
It was a shriek induced by pain, and now he growled his approval and bucked his hips against mine, all of him inside me at once, and I threw my head back and moaned his name loudly again and again almost in time with his thrusts. The world went hazy in my eyes when I reached my peak, and I screamed, and he grunted, and only later it occurred to me that I did have neighbours.
This time he stayed for a while, lying on top of me and panting, his face buried somewhere in the crook of my neck. He was sweaty and his hair greasy, but I clung to him, sated and something resembling happy. When he moved to rise and leave, I asked him whether he would like to shower before he went. With a glint in his eyes he replied he would not say no if I showered with him, and by his tone I collected I would have little choice in the matter now that I had brought it up.
I had never had sex in the shower before.
As the months passed I learned things about his life. He would come to me smelling of forest, or of sweat, or sometimes he would be soaked in blood that was not his own. On those occasions, after a kill or infection, he was roughest, and I would have to take a few days off work to be able to sit at my desk at the ministry again. When the moon was small or invisible, he was slightly gentler and would sometimes stay to eat something with me before disappearing again. He preferred water over tea or coffee, though could be persuaded to have orange juice at times. I got into the habit of storing raw meat, because he loved it. He was particularly fond of veal; he said it was almost as good as a human child. I would smile slightly, knowing what my reaction should be but unable to feel guilty.
Then someone found out. I don't know how that happened, but I guess a neighbour had seen him come into the house and had informed the ministry. He was gone before they came, but they took me in for questioning. At first I admitted nothing, and when they told me they had an eyewitness I remained silent. One of the Aurors was impatient and hit me with a curse. The pain was horrible, but it took two more before I told them I didn't know where he was, whom he was with, and where he planned to hit next. They wouldn't believe me, but in the end had to let me go home. My only wish was to know how to contact him so I could warn him not to come again, even if that would kill me inside.
But he had his sources, for one night he appeared again, and we Apparated to a little woods I had never been to before. I didn't ask where we were, because I didn't want to know, and his eyes were very clear about the point that we had much better things to concern ourselves with. He asked me whether the rumours he had heard were true, that I had been questioned. I told him everything that had happened.
"I didn't tell them anything," I said with a smile.
"Because you don't know nothing," he said.
Then there was no more talking, only the language of our bodies that we were now so familiar with. At first the stones and twigs and roots on the forest floor felt uncomfortable and unpleasant, but as he wouldn't allow my attention to be split between him and things so insignificant, I soon felt nothing but extreme pleasure.
Afterwards he disappeared into the woods and I Apparated back home. The apartment seemed cold and uninviting, stuffy after the fresh air of the forest. I took a shower to wash away the dirt the forest floor had left on my shoulders, my back, my buttocks, and my hair, and barely noticed the large, purple-blue bruises that littered my thighs and arms. The scratches caused by nature I did feel, when the hot water made them burn, but those caused by him I didn't. When I got out of the bathroom I simply went to my bed and collapsed there, picturing his fierce eyes and his coarse hands. Just before slipping into sleep I thought of the whole of him, and wished he was with me.
It was a long time before I saw him again, and it almost drove me crazy. My friends came up with excuses to avoid seeing me, and in the end I stopped caring. It was not them I needed, it was him, and I cursed the world for making him the one person I could not be with. So I buried myself in my work, staying at my office long after the others had gone, proof reading documents for the Wizengamot and filing papers after papers. The thought of going home was painful each night, because I knew I would be alone. There were safer women for him to go to, other women to whom he was a narcotic like he was to me. He would not take the risk of getting caught.
Slowly there were changes is the general atmosphere. The Ministry was restless, much like I was myself. Trouble arouse everywhere; Death Eaters on the run, Azkaban falling apart, magical catastrophes to be explained away to the muggles. Just before summer came the startling news of Dumbledore's death. I hadn't been much interested in any of the other incidents, but this one startled even me and halted me from my work for a few minutes. I pondered over what this would mean, what would happen, but I couldn't piece the details together, and the full picture eluded me. I didn't care much.
It didn't take long before the Death Eaters took control of the Ministry. My blood status protected me, as well as my indifference as to whom I worked for, and I was moved from my former duties to take charge of a team paying the Snatchers for each mudblood they dragged in. It was not that I enjoyed my new occupation, but it was work and I did it mechanically, without any passion, just as I had before.
And then one day the world lit up again. A team of Snatchers came to bring three half bloods for questioning. I was busy with the accounts and one of the members of my team took them in, but I looked up when I heard voices and he was there, rugged and filthy and a cruel smirk on his lips, and I could only stare. My colleague said my name, trying to attract my attention enough to inform me of how much these men had been paid for their findings, but the reaction didn't come from me but from the man who now held my eyes firmer than gravity holds a stone. He looked at me, surprised for but a split second and then his lips pulled into that wry grin I had missed so much. My insides flamed with desire and my heart beat in my chest like trying to break its cage and leap at him. Our gazes held for a little while longer, and then someone I vowed to hate from that moment on spoke to him and he turned away from me. I let out the breath I hadn't known I had been holding and tried to collect myself, my hands shaking with adrenalin and my mind too feverish to concentrate. I stared at the figures on my notepad without being able to make any sense of them. When I looked up again I saw him staring at me, the familiar yellow flash of the wolf crossing the blue eyes, and with one more grin he turned to leave with his fellows.
That night it was pleasure beyond anything before, him rough and wild and pulsing hot inside of me, his weather-beaten skin under my hands and against my thighs a provocation, his scent of forest and musk as much an incentive as it had always been, his breathing a charm that lured me deeper into the oblivion that awaited me only a few touches, a few grunts, a few thrusts away. It was fireworks, it was explosions, it was rapid waters and red-hot coals, and I clung to him and screamed his name in the empty office.
It took a long time for my breathing to slow and my body to cool, and I waited for the moment he would get off of me, pull on his clothes and leave without a word, just like was his habit at times like these when the moon was in the process of waning. That moment never came, however, and he was in no hurry to leave. Instead he kept staring at me, from time to time tracing some feature of my body with the tips his large fingers. Twice his fingers caressed a certain curve of my neck, at the junction where it met my right shoulder. I realised that was the place he liked to lay his head on while in me, his teeth often against the skin but never breaking it. The realisation led to a question. Why had he never bitten me? I asked him, and he gave me such a look of disdain that I blushed and looked away.
"What fun would you be then, hmm?" was his answer, and I noticed the contempt of his face was not in his voice, so I turned to look at him again. His expression came as a surprise. It was not a smirk, not even the grin I loved, but a smile. It was neither soft nor gentle, but it could have taken my legs away from under me had I been standing. "You'd be like me, and that'd be a turn-off, wouldn't it? Besides," he continued, leaning closer and letting his fingers now run up the inside of my thigh, "I like to toy with the idea of eating you."
His words should have made me frightened of him, and I suppose they in some way did, but I had abandoned my brain around the same time as I had my friends, and I was happier than I remembered ever being. An addict had been granted regular doses of her drug again. It was now easier than ever. It was no longer dangerous for him to come to me and, even though it was not our game, I could have found him any time I wanted and gone to him. Sometimes he would go with the Snatchers to be their nose, and I would get impatient and unfocused, but it never lasted for more than a few days. My colleagues also noticed what was going on, and I was obeyed without question whenever I issued a command. They were afraid of his bemused cruelty, and they feared for their children, and I didn't care, as long as he would come to me whenever he was around.
It was almost a full year of bliss. Being with him was all I needed, and I cared little for what happened in the world that didn't concern him. Of course it was impossible to avoid hearing snippets of information, working at the Ministry, but I only paid attention when there was finally mention of a battle that would require the participation of all those loyal to the Dark Lord. It would mean he would have to go, too. He had no tattoo to prove his loyalty, but it was expected of him to join. It frightened me, and I longed to tell him not to go, but at that time his visits grew few and short again. And before I knew it the day of the battle was on us, and when I arrived at the Ministry that morning I found it emptier than was usual, with only me and a few other workers present.
When the news came that the Dark Lord had fallen I went into a frenzy of desperation and demanded information from anyone I could find. Was he among those dead? Where was he? Why didn't anyone know? Why didn't anyone care? I stayed at the Ministry, convinced that whatever information there was it would reach me fastest there. I was there when the new Minister came. I almost attacked him, screaming the questions that corroded my mind and burnt me inside. Three Shield Charms hit me and I was taken into custody for questioning. I told them of my work, of everything I had known, but when they asked me about him they only got my questions in return. They soon tired of this, and left me in imprisonment because of my relationship with him. I was deemed dangerous in my urge to find him.
I never found out what happened to him. In my cell I sat, day and night, and thought of him. I didn't eat. I didn't drink. After a time I started muttering to myself, repeating his name over and over.
Fenrir.