Some of you previously read this from the first chapters of a Hermione/Alcide—Hermione/Fenrir fic entitled Pack that unfortunately had no further spark or steam behind the plunny than getting Hermione & Alcide into bed, so I'd pulled the fic, hoping there would eventually be more & I could repost with new content to follow. After a long time trying to get that to work, nada, so I decided to strip down the content to focus, instead, on that particular scene to give you all this smutty li'l OS. 😊

Locale Note: The area of 'Willow Bend' in Shreveport, LA is a fictional location I'd made up specifically for Pack.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, True Blood/Southern Vampire Mysteries, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit, in any form, from this work.

One Night in Shreveport

Standing on the shore of the river, she drew in a lungful of the muggy, salt-heavy air. She wanted to pretend it was refreshingly different to feel like the warmth of the environment was positively hugging her skin, but the insects kept at bay with only the grace of a repellent charm, and the oppressive summer heat of the southern United States did make Hermione Granger long for home more than she'd ever thought possible. Oh, not that England couldn't get unseasonably warm, but it was her understanding that this, here and now, was seasonable for this region, and she wasn't quite sure how long she could stand it. And though her typically wild hair was tied back in a bun, she could just feel what this humidity was doing to it—probably looked like she'd set a tumbleweed atop her head by now.

It was a little bit brisker here by the water, but it was also slightly more buggy here, and though the gnats and mosquitos seemed happy to keep their distance from her, she could tell they were even more prevalent on the shoreline because of their infernal buzzing getting louder. The constant hum of cicadas in the air was actually pleasant to her ears, the almost-rattling noise of things that would bite her if only they could get close enough? Not so much.

There were a few people, scattered along the shore, enjoying what likely for them was a balmy afternoon. Smoothing the length of her sundress against her bum, Hermione took a seat in the gritty sand. She carefully tucked the material between the backs of her thighs so that as she bent her legs up to rest her head on her knees, she was not inadvertently flashing anyone her knickers.

The witch let her eyes drift closed, also pretending England's climate wasn't the only thing she missed.

She shook her bowed head at herself. It had been weeks since she'd seen him, weeks since she'd come here on her 'assignment'—though Headmistress McGonagall had not minced words about the necessity of the trip, referring to it rather as her former student's excuse—but still she missed him, though she didn't want to. When she'd confided in her favorite mentor about the problem she found herself faced with, however, Minerva had quietly suggested Hermione go do field research. Come to the Southern States, observe firsthand what it was Muggles considered 'magic,' for possible future subjects of study. Report back when she felt she'd gleaned all she could. Oh, and don't feel the need to hurry, she'd said.

And of course, Minerva was one of the only people who knew Fenrir had passed on his affliction to her. There was also Minister Shacklebolt. Both kept her secret out of friendship, and respect for her monumental war efforts. She couldn't bring herself to even tell Harry, because she knew having a friend who was a werewolf—again—would only bring back painful memories of the werewolf friend they'd lost. Well, that and he'd never let her hear the end of how he was right, Fenrir Greyback couldn't possibly be the changed man she swore he was following the war if he'd turned her. She didn't have the heart—or the nerves—to look Harry Potter in the eye and explain to him that Fenrir hadn't bitten her, but that the cause of her affliction meant that if Tonks and Remus had survived, Tonks would've eventually become a werewolf, too.

She was, of course, seeing to it that, moving forward, it be included in werewolf studies throughout the Wizarding world that other bodily fluids besides saliva could transmit the curse if encounters happened frequently over an extended period of time.

Hermione made a face, idly picking up a fistful of sand and sprinkling it around her in a random pattern. There was a chance she also hadn't wanted to have to explain to Harry just how often 'frequently' had been for her and Fenrir. And then there had always been that other issue—her shift had come on faster than it might have for another witch, since she had werewolf ancestry. Oh, the fit she'd thrown when the lycanthropy expert at Saint Mungo's had revealed that little nugget to her. Had she known from the start about that, she'd have been more careful.

But there in lay the problem. She used to watch over Fenrir when he shifted. And then, when she turned—a shock to them, both—they shifted together in a warded section of forest behind the cabin they shared, waiting out the moon in relative safety and without fear of getting out and harming anyone.

Except the last few times . . . . She'd woken up in the woods after the moon had set and found Fenrir had somehow managed to break free of the wards. The first time nothing big had happened, he just seemed dazed and uncertain of how he'd broken free, how long he'd been loose, or what he'd done. But the next two? There'd been blood he couldn't explain and a heaviness in his very presence. Worse, he claimed to have some memory of what he'd done this time, but he refused to tell her.

They'd even fought about it when she suggested ways they could find out what he'd been up to, in case he'd hurt anyone. She understood then that she could no longer trust him when he didn't feel he could trust himself, anymore. When he didn't feel he could trust her enough to share what he felt he might've done. She always thought they were putting the past behind them since his release from Azkaban after proof had been brought forward—by the Malfoys of all people, shocking, that—that Fenrir Greyback's crimes were committed at the Dark Lord's behest, but more importantly, against Fenrir's own will. Ruddy mind-controlling magics. Voldemort had wanted a monster on a leash to make himself all the more frightening, and so he'd created one.

What had truly scared her was when he told her he felt part of him—the wolf, the savage—reveled in that chaos. That as horrible and soul wrenching as it had been, some strange, sick part of him missed it.

And she knew why he wouldn't tell her about the blood or those lost hours. He feared he'd been giving in to that part. Feared he'd missed it enough that his wolf had taken over and made the decision for him. Feared that because her wolf was so different from his—she was so connected to the chaos of nature when she shifted, rather than the chaos of savagery and bloodshed like him—that she wouldn't understand. That she'd turn away from him.

Oh, the irony that it was not telling her whatever had been happening to him that forced her away.

She'd packed her bags and left, staying at The Leaky Cauldron as Professor McGonagall had made arrangements to send Hermione off on her excuse. Hermione'd alerted both Minerva and Kingsley about Fenrir, but made them both swear to only observe him, to make sure he wasn't hurting himself or anyone else during the full moons, and only act within reason if her suspicions were proven correct.

Inhaling deep, she stood and dusted off her bum. It was really time she get to the B&B she was booked at in town. It wasn't a Wizarding establishment, but then she supposed this was why she was the ideal candidate for any in-the-field studying of Muggle ways—unlike someone raised in the Wizarding World, she didn't mind immersing herself in the Muggle world for a few days here and there when needed. And, more importantly, she knew how to blend in.

Sighing, she gave the river one last look and then turned, starting across the shore back toward the road. Returning to her rented car, she spared a moment to check the map open on her passenger seat. She hadn't stopped to get a closer view of the river, no, she'd stopped because despite everything being clearly labeled, she'd gotten herself a bit turned around. Sure, she could use magic to point her in the proper direction, but she had started to feel the easy answer of 'just use magic' was becoming a bit of a crutch. She'd spent much of her adult life immersed in the Wizarding World, she wanted—needed—to remember to do things the Muggle way, too.

With a frown, she set the map aside and started the car. Though she was determined to not use magic unless absolutely necessary, that didn't stop her from offering up a little prayer to the powers that be that she might find the correct side street as she drove off.

Hermione pulled up on the side of the road, letting her forehead drop down against the steering wheel. She must've missed her turn, she must've! Groaning, she lifted her head and snatched up her map in an angry gesture. Smoothing the infernal folds of the enormous page across her the wheel, she frowned at it—yes, because giving a ruddy piece of paper an angry expression was the answer!

A corner of her mind was screaming at her to cave and get her wand. Just cast a bloody charm, already, and get her answers. But no. She'd been determined. Plus there were Muggles passing on the sidewalks and driving along the street. She didn't need any of them seeing her whip out a literal magic wand as they went about their business.

Frowning harder, still, as she realized she couldn't understand where she'd gone wrong—one of the most brilliant minds of the Wizarding world, and yet she was having trouble reading a Muggle roadmap—she looked about. It was late afternoon, though she knew it would be hours before the sunset, bloody summertime, and she dreaded stepping out of her airconditioned rental and back out into that heavy, oppressive warmth, but she needed help.

She also dreaded the humor that was undoubtedly going to come with her asking locals for assistance, but then she didn't shy away from much. And she certainly wasn't going to let some 'look at the lost little English girl' nonsense stop her from finding her destination.

Then she spotted the pub. All right, it didn't call itself a pub, or even a bar. The sign read Savage Noble Tavern. Hermione couldn't help a mirthless smirk that curved her lips. Well, if that didn't smack of fate.

And maybe she could use a drink, anyway. Yeah, the bartender would probably be a bit more amicable and less a laugher at her circumstances if she were a paying customer.

Holding in a sigh, she grabbed her map and her purse and braced herself for stepping back out into that damp, roasting heat.

The inside was, well, it was a pub. It appeared to have just opened for the evening, and so was not currently seeing much business at the moment. She took a few seconds to re-smooth her humidity-wrecked hair as best she could.

Plastering a smile on her face, she approached the bar. The man behind the counter came over with a smile—notably more genuine than hers—as Hermione pulled out one of the high-backed silver bar stools and took a seat.

Oh, it had been a while since she'd had Muggle brew. After so long drinking the wizarding equivalent of the liquors that lined the shelves, she wasn't sure any of them would even take the edge off her day. Well, at least she'd still be okay to drive. That was a bonus.

"What can I get you?"

"A pint of whatever your strongest ale is?"

"Oh," the man said as his grin widened. "Not from around here, huh? Seems like I'll have to impress you. I think I might have just the thing."

She nodded as he wandered back off along the shelf behind the bar.

Spreading her map out on the bar before her, she waited for him to return. She liked that the place was quiet. Liked even more that the air inside was pleasantly cool. Of course, she also considered that if she could stop obsessing about the bloody heat for a few moments, it might not bother her so much. But blasted Christmas, she thought Louisiana summers must be one of the lesser-known rings of Hell.

The gentleman came back with a mug of something that looked a bit pale for Hermione's liking, but she reminded herself that this was Muggle brew, and it was likely a little watered down as was common practice in Muggle pubs. Oh, well. All the better for making it to her destination in one piece.

"D' you think you could help me out here, sir?" she asked in her sweetest lilting tone.

"Sure thing." He nodded, leaning forward to look over the map as she took her first sip of the—oh, Merlin's arse—watered-down ale. Though, she would give him credit, it wasn't very much so, and it was a pretty good ale for Muggle brew.

She nodded back as she set down the glass. "Well done, sir. I am impressed."

"Thank you! Now, where are we looking for?"

"I'm supposed to be at a bed-and-breakfast in a place called Willow Bend? I think I missed a turn somewhere and—"

The pub door opened just then and Hermione's voice died on her lips. She wasn't even looking in that direction, but she could feel something from the person standing in the entryway.

Swallowing hard, she turned her head. Bloody hell . . . . Dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned . . . and he was massive. Tall, maybe tall as Fenrir if not hint more, and heaven help her, were his shoulders broad. He was staring right at her, his expression carefully blank, but somehow she was acutely aware of his chest rising and falling with his breathing. There was an earthy, almost feral smell winding the air as their gazes held and she realized.

He was a werewolf. A Muggle werewolf. She knew they existed, and not simply on account of her own fuzzy-detailed ancestry, but her studies into her kind. Yet she'd never expected to cross paths with one!

The bartender, however, didn't seem to notice any of the nuances in the moment of their eyes being locked like this. Not shocking, though it felt like time had stopped for a moment—Hermione could feel the thrum of her own pulse beneath her skin and beat of her own heart as she stared at this man—she was perfectly cognizant that to the human, it appeared no more than the other werewolf had entered the establishment, and she had turned to look at him.

"Alcide," the bartender called with a wave. "Can you help this pretty li'l thing out? She's looking for a place in Willow Bend. Isn't that near your new—?"

He never finished the question, the words hanging in the air as Alcide tore his gaze from hers and turned, storming out into the street.

Hermione had no account for what she was doing as she rummaged through her purse, suddenly, for some cash to slap onto the bar. She also had no idea what the kind bartender might think of her abrupt departure, but she simply felt like she had to talk to this Alcide.

"Sorry, thanks for the ale." Snatching up her map, she bolted out the door after him.

The suddenness of the heated air settling over her once more just after the more comfortable interior of the pub had forced her to stop for a second. Drawing a breath, she looked about. The man was nowhere to be seen, and he was certainly hard to miss.

Frowning, she realized she had one weapon at her disposal she was not using. He was a werewolf, so was she. She'd caught his scent when he'd first stepped into the pub. That was when it became clear to her. If she'd caught his scent, he must've caught hers, too.

He must know she was a werewolf.

But why on earth would he run from her like this? She was hardly an imposing sort, even if her presence here stirred feelings of territorial protectiveness in him, the way most wolves would behave would be to fight, not to flee.

Collecting herself, she inhaled a few times—she wasn't as good at using her canine senses yet as she would like, and definitely not in the thick air here. After a few heartbeats, she finally managed to catch his scent.

Hermione started down the block at a jog, wanting to hurry, but afraid of drawing too much attention to herself. She tried not to pay attention to how far she was going or the temperature, both things that were a struggle to ignore for her, yet that she knew could distract her from her search.

But she didn't simply need to find him, she needed to know why it felt so important to find him. And since she had no idea of the reason, herself, there was only one other person she could ask.

She thought—her attempt to pay no attention to distance notwithstanding—she must've gone four or five blocks before stopping. Still no sign of him, and how far was she willing follow the scent of a man she didn't even—

Her thoughts screeched to a halt as a hand clamped around her neck and she found herself yanked around a blind corner.

Her back pressing to the rough brick of the wall she'd been pulled behind, Hermione was rendered utterly breathless as found Alcide's gaze boring down on her. Utterly speechless as she stared up into eyes that had gone from the dark-brown she'd glimpsed earlier to vivid, burning amber.

His hand . . . his impossibly large hand was circled around her throat, his grip firm yet allowing her enough space to take in air even as his fingers held her pinned in place. She could feel the press of his calloused palm against her skin, scraping every so slightly with each quick, shuddering inhalation she drew.

To her own dismay, despite that the change in his eyes had triggered hers to shift, as well, her immediate reaction to the danger was the instinct of a witch, not a werewolf. The weapon she'd refused to draw all this time had somehow found its way into her hand from her bag, and she held it now with the point digging into the vulnerable spot beneath his bearded and . . . markedly rugged jaw.

Alcide's nostrils flared and she knew he was picking up the scent of magic from her wand. Fenrir had told her that magic had a scent, but one had to know it. One had to recognize that that was what they were smelling, and being a Muggle werewolf, Hermione thought the man before her possibly did not quite understand the scent he detected from her.

Realizing there was something here that eluded his comprehension, he gritted his teeth. Asking in a low and gruff whisper, his words spilled out in a drawl, "What are you?"

The expression coloring his features looked like anger, but he sure didn't smell angry. Aware she probably wasn't in danger—of dying, at least—she lowered her wand, her unblinking gaze never leaving his. "My—my name's Hermione and I'm a werewolf . . . just different than you."

"That I got," he said, agitation positively ebbing from him. "What are you doing here in Shreveport?"

"If . . . if this is your territory, I'll leave. I didn't mean any harm, honestly!"

"You didn't answer my question." He leaned down, bringing his face closer to hers in what she knew was intended as a threatening gesture.

"I'm here to study the magic used by human locals."

One dark brow flicked upward as he considered her explanation. "That it?"

She shrugged, unable to help her attention falling to trace over his mouth for a heartbeat. God, this close he didn't just smell earthy and feral . . . he smelled divine. The scent of him brought images to mind, like sunlight playing across bare skin, fingertips tracing over blades of grass . . . . Lips skimming along her limbs and sweat beading the length of her collarbones.

Well, she supposed this was as good a time as any to say it. "That and putting distance between my ex and me."

Alcide nodded, perfectly cognizant of why she felt the need to let him know she wasn't attached and all too aware of her gaze slipping from his just now. Aware of the heat in the air causing droplets to dapple her fair skin. Aware of her pulse racing and the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed.

This was why he'd run. Not just because he didn't want to be around other weres anymore. But because of this—of her. He'd been around female werewolves before, done stupid, impulsive things because of the presence of a female before.

But now?

Now he realized he'd leaned nearer at some point, and the woman was pressed between his body and the wall at her back. Not that she seemed to mind. In fact, her currently amber eyes seemed a bit hazy as she stared up at him and that heady little hint winding her scent . . . .

A growl rumbling in the back of his throat just then forced Hermione to speak. "Are you going to kill me?"

He shook his head. His grip on her throat had loosened, but he hadn't relinquished his hold entirely. Alcide traced the edge of his thumb along her jaw.

"You don't seem like you're planning on letting me go," she said, her voice barely a thread of sound. Hermione could feel the heat of his skin against hers, somehow distracting her entirely from the uncomfortable mugginess of the air. She was far too focused on the tingling sensation in her lips.

Once more he shook his head.

She carefully slid her wand back into her purse, moving as little as possible. "Then, what are you planning on doing with me?"

"I wasn't sure before, but now, unless you're objecting, I think I'm planning on fucking you."

The witch had never felt her cheeks fill with warmth so fast in her life. She wasn't used to hearing a spade being called a spade in this context, and there was something utterly delicious and enthralling about how vulgar that one little word seemed to her because of it.

"No objections here." She tacked on hurriedly as he bent his head, his mouth hovering over hers, "But perhaps we should go somewhere? I don't imagine public shagging is any less frowned upon here than it is in England."

Leaning back from her, he sank his teeth into his lower lip as he held her gaze. Getting the glow of his eyes under control, he nodded. "Good point." Dragging his hand down from her throat, he trailed his fingers across her shoulder and then lower along her arm to capture her hand in his. "C'mon."

They ended up in a loft apartment above an office that looked like a two-story house by its exterior. But Hermione had no time appreciate the homey-but-professional décor of the first level, with its proud sign reading Herveaux Construction beside the door. After ushering her into the passenger seat of his pickup truck, Alcide had made the trip to Willow Bend in what she imagined was probably some sort of record—and definitely way over the local speed limit—and seemed to hurry her right back out and up the stairs to the upper level of his place nearly as fast.

He barely had the door closed behind them before he was on her, his mouth capturing hers in a hungry kiss as her fingers scrambled to unbutton his shirt. She didn't even register the relief of the cool air in the loft washing over her damp skin, far more focused on getting his clothes off.

The tearing of fabric met her ears and she realized she'd been more eager than she expected, some of the buttons popping right off to go flying. Breaking the kiss, she laughed as she caught her breath. "Sorry."

Alcide smirked, pulling the shirt off and dropping it aside. "Eh, no big loss." Slipping his fingers into the top of her dress, he pulled the material down, bunching it beneath her breasts.

Hermione choked out a delighted gasp, letting her head fall back as he ducked his head, catching one of her nipples between his lips. Just as she curled her fingers into his dark, tumbling hair, a chime sounded from her purse.

"Ignore it," he said, chuckling as he slipped his arms around her, holding her tightly to him.

She groaned turning in his embrace. "I never get phone calls. I should take it, might be important."

Shrugging, he dropped his mouth to the side of her neck. The little moan she uttered and the way she pressed back against him as she extracted her cellphone from her purse told him she was just fine with his decision to keep going as she saw to her caller.

"Hullo?"

God, her accent was adorable. Alcide sank his fingers into her wild, loosely-pinned hair and curled them into a fist. She bit her lip on another delighted sound, her eyelids fluttering closed. He tilted her head to one side to rake his teeth along her pulse.

"Have we reached Miss Hermione Granger?"

Hermione needed a moment to collect herself enough to answer clearly. Alcide's free hand was tugging the length of her sundress up and out of the way of her knickers. "This is she," the witch said trembling a little as his fingers slipped inside the flimsy bit of white cotton to start stroking her.

"This is Arlan Place Bed and Breakfast. It's getting pretty late, so we're checking in with you. Do you want to keep your reservation with us?"

Alcide lifted his head, dragging his mouth to her opposite ear. He nibbled on the lobe between words as he said in a gruff whisper, "Tell them to hold your reservation 'til tomorrow."

She wasn't at all surprised he'd heard the other end of the line clearly. No, what surprised her was that she was able to string a coherent sentence together as she covered the phone with her palm. "Yes, I do imagine we could be at this a while, hmm?"

He met her gaze, his eyes blazing amber like earlier in the alley, and nodded.

"I'm so sorry, something came up," she said into the phone, ignoring Alcide's snickering in the background—and pretending he hadn't just pushed his hips forward against her, validating that something had indeed come up. "All very last minute. I'm terribly sorry it didn't occur to me to call. Is it possible to move my reservation to tomorrow morn—"

"Afternoon," Alcide murmured, the fingers working between her thighs pressing harder.

She bit her lip, just managing to not squeak out a sound of pleasure at the poor B&B receptionist on the other end of the line. "Tomorrow afternoon?"

There was a sound on the other end of the line, keyboard tapping, Hermione thought, before the other woman responded, "Okay, we'll have to put you in a different room. That all right?"

Hermione leaned back into him rocking herself against his stroking fingertips. "Perfect."

"See you then."

She ended the call and threw her mobile on the nearest piece of soft furniture. "God, I thought they'd never shut up," she said, shifting in his arms to pull her sundress off over her head and toss it to the floor.

He withdrew his hands, then, laughing at the little growling sound of disappointment she uttered. Before she could voice a complaint about the loss of his touch, however, he scooped her up. Cradling her against him, he carried her across the floor.

As he moved, Hermione turned her attention to littering his chest with kisses and playful bites. He was very broad, and she was trying to reach as much of his beautiful pectoral muscles as she could by the time he reached bed.

Though, as he dropped her onto the mattress, she did give him a calculating look.

"What?" he asked, a half-smile curving his lips as he undid the button and zipper of his jeans.

"We're werewolves Alcide, the floor where we were standing would've been just fine. I don't need the pomp and circumstance of cushions."

"The floor?" He arched a brow as he pulled off the article of clothing to stand bare before her. "Not for a first time."

"So," she said, crinkling the bridge of her nose as she watched him crawl over her. "That's a third or fourth go sort of thing, then, hmm?"

"Thereabouts, yeah."

Hermione uttered a throaty groaning sound as she braced her legs on either side of his hips. "God, I love your accent!"

Alcide gave her a funny look as he shifted his pelvis, burying himself inside her in a single, sharp thrust. "Guess you're the one that usually gets said to, huh?" he asked, only after she yelped out an ecstatic sound at his entry.

She wound her arms around his neck, clinging to him as she started rocking beneath his motions. "Most people I've met talk like I do, so . . . no, not really."

He smiled, then, a full-blown grin. Their amber-eyed gazes holding, they both fell silent as they moved against each other, the only noise filling the loft that of their rushing breaths, every so often edged by growls or barely-restrained moans.

She had no idea how long they went at it this first time around. She was too utterly lost in the feel of his skin against hers, the feral gleam in his eyes, the exquisite repetition as he plunged forward and withdrew again and again.

She could feel body clenching tight around him, could feel the little shivering tremors that wracked her at the sensation of him pulling out almost entirely before thrusting into her once more.

He quickened his pace, movements getting harder somehow, too, as her limbs went taut around him. In jarring contrast to his rough motions, he traced over her features with the tips of his fingers, his touch gentle as he stroked across her lips, her cheekbones, her brows.

The combination was too much for her, pushing her over the edge. Hermione shrieked, the sound slipping out from between clenched teeth as she came.

Alcide quickened his thrusts again, giving her more as the orgasm tore through her. It was complete bliss, the way she lowered her head in the middle, sinking her teeth into his shoulder.

As the sweet, rippling pressure began to ebb, he clamped his hands over her hips and turned them, so that Hermione suddenly found herself on top. Sitting, she braced her palms on his chest, rocking her hips to ride out the aftershocks as his own movements became erratic just before he stilled.

He let out the most shiver-inducing animal sound as he spent himself.

She worked herself around him, coaxing him until the sound died on his lips. His body relaxed beneath hers and he settled against the mattress, his breath escaping in rough little spurts.

Easing to a halt, she waited, giving them both a few heartbeats for their racing pulses to slow. Finally lifting herself, letting him slip free and then collapsed beside him.

She tried a few times to talk, but didn't manage to get any words out until after she'd caught her breath a bit. "So . . . . There's going to be a third or forth time?"

Turning his head to meet her gaze as the amber glow ebbed from their eyes, Alcide smiled. "Oh, yeah. And that's just before dinner."

Thanks for reading ^_^

P.S. There'll be a Hermione/Alcide-Hermione/Eric poly fic in the near future ;)