Title: I put my fate in your hands
School and Theme: Beauxbatons - Theme 3: Fate
Write about a character facing or fighting their fate.
Mandatory Prompt: [Emotion] Trust;
Additional Prompt: [Word] Sweat
Year: 2
WC: 1843
Notes and Warnings: Slightly AU!, might be considered OOC by some readers, conversations around death and negative self-perception.
Beta: Lady Sloane, bea writes, x Hemlock x, Socrates7727, JanieOhio, loverloverlover, Ash Juillet, Paceso, Arasulgil. Thank you to all of you who provided a second beta, just to calm my fears. You have my eternal gratitude.
"How do you embrace fate?" Lavender asks. Her voice is wrapped in layers of emotions, but fear is what comes to the forefront. If it weren't for the cold air, seeping in from the cracked windows, her forehead would be covered in sweat.
The tea leaves that sit at the bottom of her cup aren't giving her the answers she wants. She thought that the restlessness clouding her Inner-Eye would have long been gone by now. This seems to be one of those decisions where the stars, bones, and glass balls have no guidance to offer her. She swirls the dregs of tea around once again, but the leaves stay in vague blobs. It had been a last-ditch attempt at asking the Universe for the right answers, which it still, stubbornly, withheld from her.
"There are no ghosts in your cup," Fenrir's voice says without venom.
The sound of it takes Lavender back to five years ago. Back in the years when she had just barely come to terms with the fact that she was going to live as a werewolf for the rest of her life, and she didn't know where else to look for help. So she had come here, to this cabin in the woods that Fenrir had once called home.
It was hers now. Lavender didn't like to think about why he had chosen her to take over this abode, its small space with the tiny bedroom giving the feel of a temporary hideaway, barely better than one of those prefabricated classrooms Hermione talks about. The area is usually overrun with werewolves when the full moon appears and acts as a safe haven for so many of her kind. Lavender hadn't expected to feel at home here. In her mind, it was still Fenrir's. The lilac-painted walls and chipped kettle Lavender uses to make her tea say otherwise.
If it were anyone else questioning Lavender's unwavering belief in the power of Divination, she would have stood up to them. But this is Greyback, the person who had carefully put her back together after the war had destroyed her. He's become like a parent to her, and therefore, he gets away with saying stuff like that.
Fenrir Greyback leans back in his chair. The wood creaks under his weight, and for a moment, Lavender is worried that it might break. She takes her wand out to cast a simple reinforcing charm. As the gentle blue light dies away, she puts her wand away, reassured.
Greyback snarls, and his eyes glare at her above his yellowed teeth. It is a childish move, one that most werewolves grow out of. But Lavender knows Fenrir still fears magic and resents her use of it for simple tasks.
"You could have bought a sturdier chair," he grumbles but continues to get comfortable. "But I'm guessing some hag told you that buying dainty furniture would be just fine?"
"Well, this isn't your home anymore, is it?" Lavender taunts back. It's a reflex that she will probably never get rid of. Fate herself had allowed Lavender to survive the final battle at Hogwarts, and Fate had brought her to Fenrir's door. Too many coincidences have aligned themselves for her to write off their relationship as something superficial.
Fenrir chuckles. "I guess werewolf cubs nowadays do act like they know everything."
Lavender knows she shouldn't get defensive; it would only encourage his taunting comments, but she can't seem to help herself. Her jaw clenches, and her painted nails dig into her palms through the slippery sweat. "You gave me this home, complaining you couldn't take care of it. I haven't changed too much. Just the ugly bits."
"You are getting too big for your boots."
She tries to remain calm by not engaging in banter that, she knows from experience, will devolve into a screaming match. She tries to keep the mood light and jovial throughout their conversations, but it doesn't stop her palms from sweating—her armpits, too. Fenrir can probably smell her insecurity. She isn't ready for this conversation and wants to stall as much as possible, so she ignores his obvious dig at her character. There are far more important things to talk about, although neither of them wants to.
"Hermione said that the Ministry wants a werewolf representative to sit on the panel." Once Lavender starts talking, the words don't seem as scary any more. What she wants to ask of this once-strong man doesn't seem impossible.
"I was thinking...maybe I could sit on the panel...or you could recommend someone else to fill the role. Either way, your blessing on the entire situation would be nice." Her words come out in a garbled mess.
They both know whoever sits on the panel cannot have someone challenging their power within the werewolf community. She had once dreamed about killing him for turning her into a werewolf—she wasn't the only one. She hasn't thought about that dream for what seems like years. It is almost ironic that she now fears telling him this news and watching as he picks his own end. Mostly, she isn't sure how to tell him that he needs to die.
His twisted enjoyment from teasing her disappears, and his eyebrows pinch together. He rests his elbows on the table and drops his head into his palms. Lavender knows this is a dream come true for him. This might not be radical equality, but it is a step closer. This is further than werewolves have got in years.
She can see the battle raging in his mind; his breathing comes off as too deep and deliberate, but she trusts him to make the best decision. He has, after all, fought the hardest for werewolves rights.
Fenrir has had to fight for every inch of freedom that he currently enjoys. But his methods have had repercussions, and now, Lavender is asking him to choose between his pride and his people.
"I—" Fenrir begins, then stops. He reaches over to pour himself a glass of water. His eyes drop to her armpits, where sweat darkens and clings to her clothing. A visual reminder that Lavender is not ready to let him go.
Lavender needs him to know that, by giving him the option to choose the person who will represent their kind, she trusts his decision and will move only as he asks of her. She watches as he drains the glass of water before pouring himself another. Her eyes don't leave him.
In idle moments like this, Lavender is taken back to the time when she thought that Fenrir bit children out of some version of sick bloodlust. And while that analysis turned out to be partially true, the whole truth was so much sadder. Fenrir had thought that, by targeting children, he would force Wizarding Society to make life better for werewolves. Children were, after all, the manifestations of the hopes and dreams of the generations before them.
Part of her wonders if she should have waited for the full moon. This conversation, with all its nuances and repercussions, might have been easier to mull over while running in a forest and allowing her canine-side to take over. But that feels like a cop-out and letting instinct determine her daily life doesn't seem right.
He looks up at her, his stormy-grey eyes holding her brown ones captivated.
Fenrir was exactly the same when she first met him. He was so sure that she would succeed where Professor Lupin had failed, but she knows he didn't expect her to get them here so soon. The glint in his eyes tells her he's proud of her, and she is thrilled.
"But will they see us as people?" Fenrir asks. He sounds unsure and takes one of Lavender's hands into his own.
There are scars, poorly healed, that cover her hands and mirror Fenrir's. She is suddenly shocked at how old he looks. She has never thought of her mentor as a frail man, but when she sees his hands hold her own, she knows his time is running out.
She breathes in and then out. The action is slow, heavy, and grounding. Her bare feet are on the floor, and her face is reflected in his eyes. It no longer matters that her palms are sweaty or that she is scared of failure. She has the best people on her side, and with his blessing, she can not only make a fair future a reality for werewolves like herself but, most importantly, bring to fruition the dreams werewolves like him have had for generations. The ones who have had to fight Fate herself to be seen.
Lavender nods. The scars on her face feel tighter, as if reminding her that this is a promise she cannot break.
She is not prepared for what happens next.
Fenrir cries. His face scrunches up, and he sobs. The sounds coming out of his mouth break Lavender's heart and strengthen her will. His hand grips hers even more tightly, and Lavender knows this may be the last vulnerable moment they will ever share, other than his deathbed.
"I want you to sit on that panel," he says roughly. His tears haven't dried, and the sight of them causes Lavender to cry, too.
Lavender has been working on this for years. She appealed to Hermione's need for social justice and begged Parvati to help with the research required to bring the matter of her freedom to the Ministry. Lavender has poured her soul into getting to this stage, a place where she can fight for their needs in front of people in charge of actual change.
She has spent years trying to be a leader worthy of leading something so important. Yet, the child in her, the one that was overlooked for Prefectship and who fought on the sidelines of the war, knows how hard she has had to struggle for it.
This is all Fenrir has ever dreamed of for her, and Lavender knows it.
"I'll have to kill you. They—our people and the Ministry—won't think I'm the legitimate leader unless I do." Her voice comes out calm, but her tears betray her. Werewolf politics are simple. There can only be one leader representing the Pack, and that means Fenrir must die.
He is a stubborn old wolf. There is a reason he is still respected in their community, and Lavender will not take Fenrir's place without his blessing. She has lived long enough to know that whatever forces guide their lives require this of both of them.
Why does life (or is it Fate?) have to be so cruel?
But Fenrir doesn't look scared. Every pack leader knows this day will come and has to learn to accept it. If his death must come early in order to make them equals with men, so be it.
"For a better tomorrow for all of us, it is the least I can do."
Lavender sees his hope, and she hopes, for herself, that it is not misplaced.
A/N: Thank you to the Beauxbatons IWSC Season 3 team. You've all taught me so much these last six months. I probably still have a lot to learn about writing. Each one of you approaches the craft so differently, whether it be as a master of technical skill or fiercely protecting and refining your vision. I am grateful to have received this opportunity to write with so many serious writers. It's been an honour to write with you all *insert blue heart*