Author's Note: Well, I feel compelled to apologize as this is moving veeery slowly – but I have a behemoth of a term paper to finish. By Monday. Priorities, priorities. Also I apologize in advance to fans of Scabior – we are sniping at him in this chapter. He did, after all, rather usurp Fenrir's position in the movie. (I'm not sure we could expect anything less of someone who works as a Snatcher, though.)

Divide and Devour

Chapter III

The Witching Hour

Hermione felt a pair of well-muscled arms wrap around her, the uncomfortable compression of side-along Apparition, and then – nothing. Fenrir and his unconscious burden appeared suddenly in the middle of a forest. He paused to sniff the air, glancing around briefly before setting off due north. Shortly a small house came into view between the dark trees. Fenrir passed swiftly through the grounds and into the building, the wards recognizing their caster and admitting him easily. Hermione was no threat, and she too passed easily if insensibly through the wards Fenrir had placed around his small home. He set her down with uncharacteristic gentleness on a large armchair that occupied most of the space next to the large stone fireplace. The werewolf busied himself lighting a fire, took a fleeting look at the young woman in his chair, and went to draw himself a bath.

With the water heated beyond normal human tolerance, Fenrir stepped over the side of the bathtub and sank gratefully until only his nose remained visible. It was dirty, tedious work, being a Snatcher. And the idiots I have to work with! Fenrir lamented, not for the first time. He knew that the job he'd been given was beneath his intelligence and capabilities, as were most of the tasks he'd been assigned by the Dark Lord. As a werewolf he enjoyed tracking, loved the thrill of the chase, and the final spasms of his prey as the life drained from them. He didn't particularly enjoy Apparating around the countryside picking up people he couldn't even kill in the company of a man who perpetually dropped his aitches and frequently used double-negatives. Damn Scabior right to Hell, he thought ferociously. He annoys me even when he's nowhere near me. As for the rest of the Snatchers he worked with, he was grateful they had the decency to remain mostly silent. An irritated growl burst from him and bubbled to the surface of the bathwater.

Hermione gradually regained consciousness, surfacing slowly like a deep-sea diver, but kept her eyes closed, listening. Everything was still. There were no voices, just the crackling of a fire and the faint ticking of a clock from somewhere above her head. She opened her eyes, craning her sore neck to look blearily at her surroundings. There was no one in the little room with her, just a merry little fire and several large pieces of furniture that made the room look even smaller than it was. The fire cast a tiny circle of light and warmth; everything outside of that circle was shrouded in darkness. A glance at the small clock on the mantle told her it was nearly midnight – the witching hour, she thought feverishly. She cleared her throat.

"Ha – Harry? Ron?" she called. "Anyone?"

The creak of an un-oiled hinge from somewhere over her shoulder answered her.

"So, you're awake, girly?" queried the disembodied voice of Fenrir Greyback. She whimpered as she heard his feet pad toward her over the bare wooden floorboards.

"Tea," he rasped, setting a cup and saucer down on the small table next to her.

Her eyes flew open and she glanced from the offering of tea to her captor – who was strangely clean. He had evidently had time to have a bath, or groom himself however he so chose: His hair was still tangled but lacking the dull and greasy quality it had had, the blood had been removed from the corners of his mouth, his fingernails – claws? she wondered idly – had less dirt and blood caked underneath.

"Th – thank you," she whispered timidly, falling back on her manners in the exceptionally odd situation in which she found herself. Oh, please let him leave now, she thought deliberately, hoping against hope he would somehow disappear. (A logical voice in her head told her that even if he did disappear it wouldn't help her much. Shut up, she thought at the logical voice.)

Instead of departing he stood at her side, observing her. Her hair was tangled and matted with sweat; her face crusted with dried blood and the winding tracks of her tears; the cuts the mad Lestrange woman had made on her face were sticky with congealed, blackened blood. He let out a rumbling sigh. He was going to have to fix her up if he wanted to have any fun with her at all. Bloody hell. A faint growl reverberated through his chest as he turned and moved toward the kitchen. He was gong to need a drink. If there was one thing Fenrir Greyback did not particularly enjoy, it was caring for humans in any capacity. To his fellow werewolves he was caring enough – the pack had to stick together, on principle – but healing the little human's wounds wasn't high on his list of things to do.

Why has he brought me here? Where's 'here' anyway? What happened to Harry and Ron? What's going to happen to me? Hermione's thoughts raced, her heart starting to pound in her chest as she felt the rise of panic within her. She tried breathing deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth as her mother had once taught her to do to calm herself. She heard his footsteps coming back toward her. No good. She put her head down between her knees. She heard the footsteps stop, and the massive man standing next to her chair let out an unexpected, barking laugh.

"What are you doing?"

Without raising her head she explained briefly that she was trying very hard not to pass out.

"Here," he said, carelessly tipping a fair amount of whiskey into her tea before retreating to the couch across the room. It was only a difference of a yard and a half or so, but when he sat Hermione brought her head back up, feeling marginally less threatened.

"Are you… what are you going to do with me?" she asked softly.

"Drink up, girly," he smirked. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you... yet."

She took a cautious sip of her whiskey-laced tea, pulling a face at the flavour, and regarded him over the rim of her teacup. He was nonchalantly picking at his fingernails with a large knife he had picked up from the coffee table in front of him, but Hermione didn't believe for a minute that he wasn't watching her as she observed him. He was tall, she knew that. He had to be over 6 foot, with broad shoulders. Even in the dim light she could see how muscular his arms were – and she had been right. She didn't see the Dark Mark on his forearm. He had a strong, angular jaw, and sharp wolfish features. His face wasn't displeasing… just… feral, she thought. His knotted hair fell past his shoulders by a few inches; it might have been a dark brown once but it was mostly grey shot through with silver streaks now. Those fingernails are something else, though, Hermione thought as she watched him clean the remainder of dirt from under them. Too much.

"Well?" he said, his scratchy voice quieter than she had yet heard it.

"Well, what?" asked Hermione, nonplussed, as she continued to sip her tea. Her head buzzed pleasantly.

"See anything you like?" he flashed a pointy-toothed grin at her.

"You have got to be kidding me!" she shrieked, her eyes widening and narrowing at him in a split second. "You! You… why you bloody bastard! You've taken me hostage and – wait, you've taken me hostage twice in one day and you've got the nerve to sit there and… and…!"

The werewolf erupted into howling laughter as she sputtered to a stop, unable to complete her tirade.

"That's right," he wheezed, still laughing. "I've taken you hostage twice now, I've got all the nerve in the world and all things considered, I'll do as I please."

She sank back into the armchair, giving Greyback a look that would have made Professor McGonagall proud. The pounding of her heart had transferred somewhat to her head, so she closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, Greyback was watching her intently. He wasn't sure if he wanted to kill her, or keep her as a pet. There was a certain amount of ironic appeal to a werewolf having a human pet. He found it mildly amusing to think of the girl kept like a housecat – an image of her on his lap flashed through his mind. He shook his head to clear it.

"There's essence of Murtlap in the bathroom," he said abruptly.

"There… what?" Hermione inquired. She felt dull and slow; she didn't understand the sudden change of topic.

"Essence of Murtlap," the werewolf repeated slowly. "For the cuts. On your face."

"Oh! Oh… thank you... er…" she had risen from the chair, but paused awkwardly. I can't very well call him by his first name, can I? Then again, 'Mister Greyback' doesn't seem fitting either, she mused. There was nothing else for it but to ask. "How… how should I address you…?"

It took Fenrir several moments before he could process what she meant. He wasn't entirely sure he could remember a time when a witch or wizard had worried about how to address him.

"Hmm," he grumbled, trying to cover his momentary astonishment. "Lord and Master might do nicely, don't you think?"

Apparently she didn't think so, judging by the roll of her eyes as she moved shakily toward the bathroom. Fenrir swirled his whiskey absentmindedly in the tumbler as he waited for Hermione to emerge. Kill her? Keep her? Or… he mulled over his options, considering each one. Killing her outright was no fun, and he wanted some fun. Keeping her as a pet was probably – judging by her attitude – a bit more trouble than it was worth, and likely to lead to killing her. Keeping her as a plaything (he thought of the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips) was just as likely to eventually lead to killing her. A lot of things, he reflected, seemed to lead to killing people. The last option, one he wouldn't voice to himself just yet, floated hazily in his mind. He finished his whiskey without tasting it: That was probably a sin considering it was good whiskey, he thought as heaved himself to his feet. If the girl was trying to climb out of the bathroom window, she would be in trouble.

He found her asleep on the floor, slumped against the bathtub. The container of Murtlap salve was still clutched loosely in her hand. Sighing and grumbling, the werewolf lifted her and carried her to the couch, laid her out, and went to find a blanket.