"Live a little, Rowle."

He recalled how her voice had held laughter then, and mockery. He'd fallen for her then. She'd been a little thing then, short and thin. She'd wore dust and blood from the battlefield like war paint. Her magic had been buzzing then, her hair was frizzy, wild, wilder than usual.

He words would have been insulting then, with him tied up against a column in Hogwarts' yard, with his fellow Death Eaters sitting in a line, their white masks trampled under the feet of the many Order's fighters.

He recalled the way she leaned against a column, her arms loosely crossed on her chest. She had two wands; a black one, oozing black magic held tightly in her left hand, fingers grasping the wood. Her regular one – and he hated himself for being able to distinguish between them, was in her right hand, the tip resting against her shoulder.

She'd been smirking. He had noticed the blood smearing her knuckles – did she fight the Muggle way?

Her pants were hanging low on her hips, showing just enough skin to make him salivate. Her blouse was cut and that ugly cut on her forearm could be seen from that distance.

He had fallen for that smug expression on her features, with her head resting against the wall behind her, and her leg crossed at the ankles.

Hermione Granger grew up well.

Years later, in a dark, dank room surrounded by screaming bodies and pulsating music – music he could feel within his bones – he remembered how well Granger had grown.

She had never been the prey people had wanted her to be. She had always been a predator.

And she showed it as her left foot smashed into the other girl's ribs and he heard the hiss and gasp from the enemy and he admired how Granger's features turned feral.

She'd smelled blood.

She attacked and howled like a goddamn wolf when the other girl fell and didn't stand up right away. The judger raised her arm above her head and here she was, standing in the cage, looking at him with an intensity in her mascara-heavy eyes that he had never seen before. She smirked at him before the official spun her to face the other side.

Rowled swallowed painfully at the sight of that tattooed leg, from the top of her foot to her thigh, an apocalyptic, dystopian story painted, between light and shadows and monsters – of which he knew were creatures in the magical world.

But here they stood, among Muggles.

And he would never have a wand anymore but Granger – bloody hell – was a hero and she had the world at her feet.

And yet, yet, she was a dirty fighter –

And she knew how to fight.

He left hours later, drenched in sweat, with money in his pockets and a leather jacket wrapped around his muscles and he wasn't not surprised to see Granger leaning against the wall of that street with broken glass on the ground, cans and blood.

She held her wand, much in the same way as five years ago.

And the person who considered her the lamb was a fucking moron.

"Rowle."
"Granger."

He started to walk towards the mouth of the street and she followed, her wand deep in her tight jeans pants. He swallowed hard. She wore a leather jacket, black, weathered, beaten, with patches on the shoulders and on her breasts. He couldn't quite make up the patterns. She wore her sport bag on her shoulder and there was a bounce to her step one wouldn't expect to see after a fight.

"I didn't know I would find you here."
"Aye. Impulsive, hot-tempered, unpredictable Princess Gryffindor."

Rowle snorted. "If you're a Princess, I'm bloody Cinderella in a tutu."

She laughed and there was something else, a story.

He wanted to strip that story off her bones and swallow it whole.

"What are you doing here?" she asked softly.
"An old friend of mine went in and came back bloodied. I wondered who did that?"

Granger erupted in a laughter and Rowle smirked. "Parkinson was the best fight I've had that night, but she didn't get bloodied in the cage."

Thorfinn frowned. Granger gloated and she turned to face him and he couldn't read her features.

"I fucked her, Rowle. She whipped my back, I begged her and she made the mistake to cocoon me."

All blood left his face and went to his groin and she knew, from that fucking twinkle in her eyes and he leaned against her, until she leaned against the filthy brick wall behind her. "I fucked her, big man and she came so hard on my fingers she tried to make me her dirty secret."

Anger now.

Rowle swallowed and there was so little space between them.

"What the fuck were you doing in a cage fight, Granger? Looking for another Parkinson? Looking for another Dark Lord to kill?"
"Chasing my demons," she admitted.

Her breath puffed against his lips and he licked his mouth and he tasted her. He said nothing as he stared at her and she was so small like this.

He wasn't a fool.

"What demons?" He whispered after several seconds of loaded silence.
"I'm not a princess."
"You're a werewolf, Granger. You fight and howl like an animal."

I wonder if you would howl between my legs too, woman.

"Maybe I am."
"You're not a Princess, you're not a lamb. You're the predator, with magic and anger and violence. You reek aggression. What kind of demons an apex predator could have?"
"His name was T-"

He stopped her, with a finger on her lips and he hated his cock for twitching.

She chuckled.

Fuck, he hated her.

"His name was Lord Voldemort and he made me feel like the weakest lamb of the herd."

Granger sighed and closed her eyes and he wanted to kiss her.

"You're not weak."
"I'm not strong."

She looked at his shoulders, his flat stomach, his strong thighs. He swallowed when her hands went to his chest. "I'm not strong," she repeated.

And before he could convince himself to lean on her and kiss her, she extricated herself away from his hold and stood at the mouth of the road and she stared at him. Neon lights flashed behind her head – free alcohol, free X – and she looked magnificent, in a kind of broken, angry way.

"I hope to see you in the cage, on night, Rowle."
"Do you remember what you told me, that night before I was arrested?"

She grinned – he only saw the way her cheeks stretched up. The light was blinding the rest of her features.
"Live a little, Rowle."
"Ditto, bitch."

She laughed and she left.

He wanted to see her again. See her knuckles smash into someone's ribs, leaving bloody prints on one's abs. He wanted to twist her hair in his fist and pull until she became malleable under his hand.

He would make it to his apartment and it suddenly seemed too small for his large frame.

He needed to see her again.