Disclaimer - I do not own Harry Potter because, well...I just don't. I'm too lazy to get all Hermione on you and give you various reasons and scientific facts to explain it and prove it.
Hermione couldn't concentrate, let alone breathe as she inhaled the toxic fumes permeating her senses. Thick clouds hung over the cauldron, obscuring her sight as well. She rubbed her head, trying to figure out how the formula in front of her would work.
If she added dragonfly wings, melted them into a paste, and added dusted powdered unicorn horn, she'd get the salve she desperately needed. But something wasn't right; the paste wouldn't stick together. It would lose its potency once cold and would turn into a sticky liquid. She knew there was something stupidly she was forgetting to add, but she couldn't think. All she could remember was showing up at breakfast and learning that the House Elves weren't on strike anymore. That would be wonderful, except that meant she would have to eat with real silver utensils in front of everyone. She noticed with distasteful jealously that Remus was pleasantly eating with wooden utensils. And looked very sexy in doing so, as well.
The thought of having to be confronted with silver in front of everyone was what brought her to barricade herself in her private labs. She had to come up with a concoction to help her eat with silver. Her options weren't too appealing.
She could have snuck into the kitchens and threatened to give the House Elves clothes if they didn't give her wooden utensils every meal time. She could have slipped her own utensils to the Great Hall every meal and hoped that no one would notice. She even could have gone to Minerva and told her that she was indeed a werewolf, but she couldn't and didn't. That brought her to her present position.
She knew that eventually would have to face silver and the truth. And she knew she would have to go to Minerva, but she just couldn't do it yet. Even though she used to bounce around energetically, she was too emotionally weak to confront her boss at the moment. It didn't help that she would, as she had recently read, be prone to unprovoked outbursts that might hurt somebody. So conclusively, she knew she would have to hide her secret for as long as she could.
The lotion she had made yesterday for her wound was currently resting on her bare thigh. The lotion couldn't touch anything but her skin, else the healing process would be interfered with. In order to keep this isolation, Hermione had to get into a rather uncomfortable position – one she had been in for over an hour and a half. She was getting stiff.
Thankfully her mind had cleared somewhat, and she added to the cauldron a few thick hairs she had taken from Remus' robes. This proved the most effective way in getting werewolf hair. It was quicker than ordering it and much less expensive. An added plus: it was much more discreet.
The genetic code the werewolf hair held might help to bind the potion to her skin instead of binding ingredients together. Testing her theory, she scooped the ladle into the bubbling paste and mixed the light brown hairs into the potion itself. The contents turned from light lavender to bright blue. So far so good.
Hoping for the best in her dark situation, Hermione tilted the ladle and watched the thick paste fill the cup she held. Then she poured the paste onto her hand and smeared it between her palms. An involuntary hiss erupted from her lips; it burned her flesh.
She watched with curious interest as it eerily absorbed into her skin, and waited a few moments for the tingling feeling to dissipate. Slowly, Hermione gripped her silver knife, the same she had used only nights before on that fateful excursion. She held the sharp blade and looked away, fearing the worst. If something were to go wrong, the silver would be able to absorb into her bloodstream quicker than before, thus leaving her in rather 'deep shit'.
After what seemed forever, Hermione began to feel weak and dizzy. Looking back at her hand, she saw with immense joy that there were no bubbles on her skin, only crimson blood. She was laughing slightly, feeling her energy drain as she dropped the knife, its blade crashing in echoes on the cold stone floor.
The metallic scent of her own blood was tempting, and she watched intently as it dripped from her palm onto the wooden surface of the counter. She rode the waves of temptation and brought her cut hand to her open and willing tongue.
With pleasure and gusto, she greedily licked her whole hand clean, sucking gently on the wound itself and finding intense pleasure in cleaning it dry. Once cleaned, she hesitated, waiting in anticipation of more blood to flow out. When it didn't, Hermione grabbed a piece of cloth from a drawer in the counter and regretfully wrapped her fresh wound.
Her ingenious creation was a success; its potential was endless. Werewolves could be less conspicuous in public, perhaps hide their true identity to prevent Ministry interference. She could grow rich in its production. But those were thoughts for a later time. For now, her weariness prevailed, and she rested her head onto her outstretched arm and absorbed what she had just done.
A few minutes were all she could afford, however; she had two batches of Wolfsbane to brew. One of which had to be kept secret. Sighing and wishing that Remus was actually trained in the Potions field so he could help her, Hermione stood up, gathered her crutches, and began to assemble the necessary ingredients.
It was full moon already.
Hermione had tried her best to create as many potions as she could to help her aid in disguising her disease and damnation. She had to hide it from everyone, especially Remus. Werewolves would be more than likely to recognize their own kind – especially when they were connected by blood. She couldn't allow that.
The value of these new potions was enough such that she could retire now and never have to encounter a brat, let alone another human being. But that would mean she would have to be open with her disease. Unfortunately, she simply couldn't lie, saying she tested them all on Remus alone. So for now, financial independence simply wasn't going to be.
She sat, feeling desolate, in her private labs where everything that would be harmful to her was cleared from the room hours beforehand. It didn't help that the dungeons were drafty and that she sat, huddled on the floor, naked as the day she was born.
Her bare bottom was freezing as she tried to huddle herself even closer to her frozen form. The book she had read said that when a werewolf was clothed before transformation, it was more than likely to get tangled up in its clothes and suffocate itself, or would simply shred every article to useless bit and pieces. Why waste her limited supply of clothing?
As the hours passed, she waited, her breath coming out in odd gasps. Time seemed to be trying to confuse her already cursed mind. She was cold and scared and still hurting. Though her leg was now nicely healing, it still ached, particularly every time she violently shivered.
Hermione took a glance at her wound. A sense of pride welled up in her; she, not Madam Pomfrey, was able to heal it herself with medicine that she herself made from scratch. Being a Potion's Mistress did come in handy on occasion.
All of a sudden, before Hermione could register what was happening, her bones began to ache like never before. Her muscles began to contort and deform. Pain shot through her body, signaling the beginning of her first transformation.
She cried out a groan and whimper, the sounds mixing horridly. Did that come from her? She fell forward onto all fours, waiting for the transformation to complete. It wasn't easy.
Her heart began to furiously pump more and more thickening blood. The veins themselves constricted then unnaturally widened to accumulate the flow of the blood. She wanted to desperately vomit.
Her pulse was increasingly rapid, her heart slamming harder against her chest. She swore vehemently a stream of curses when she felt the muscles widen and grow. As more pain flew through her body like loose fireworks, Hermione threw her head back, feeling her throat close up tight on her. She panicked, gasping for the lost oxygen her fiery lungs demanded. But her constricted throat wouldn't allow it. Dread and fear continued to seep into her brain.
Suddenly her throat opened, retching in a gulp of breath. She knelt down and leaned her sweat-drenched forehead against the cool floor. She gasped out breaths at a time, feeling relaxed, a tickling sweat roaming down her re-arranged body.
She looked at her body choked back a scream. Her body looked half wolf and half deformed human being seeking redemption from experimentation.
Her vomiting episode would have to wait, as would her trapped horrific shriek: a jolt rocked her jaw as her teeth began to grow unnaturally long. Her jaw snapped from its socket, and all the profanity she'd learned from watching Quidditch matches choked in her throat. Her facial bones widened and elongated, and just as she thought she could endure no more, her jaw then snapped back into socket with a sickening pop and a jolt of pain. The tears that had blurred her vision fell freely. But it wasn't over yet.
Other bones began their own transformations. Larger and larger they grew, additional, longer muscles forming about them. Her skin pulled and contorted sickeningly. Her toes scraped against the floor as she felt her feet stretch out, sending her ankles higher up her legs. She felt as though at any second her flesh was going to burst and show her new bones and muscles to her searing eyes.
A strangled cry ripped from her throat as skin cells began to multiply and fill with wolfish adrenaline seeping from her own hormones and genetic DNA. Her skin now fit her body like a tight glove. It was peculiarly relaxing.
But her relaxation didn't last long as the hairs on her whole naked form began to grow from the depths of their nerves. The sensations frightened her. The strands grew to show themselves, long, dark brow with a frizzy texture. Heat rose from her skin as though her whole body was on fire. The transformation was exhausting. Just as she thought it might be over, a final change wrought itself upon her.
Like a huge tidal wave, she felt her animal instinct and wolfish nature rush to the control the central core of her already battered brain. She could feel the battle between her own soul and the damnable curse. But the battle did not last long, and her own scarred soul won.
Relieved, she fell to the floor, feeling lifeless and afraid to move her own body. Or, what was apparently her body.
A hoarse cry escaped her, coming out more of a growl. Then she whined. The wound on her leg seared in renewed pain as she tried to sit up.
Taking in gulping breaths, she stretched her claws across the flagged stone in an effort to hoist her body up. But her efforts were futile, and, exhausted, she gave in to the weariness overcoming her. Sinking back down into a curled position, she closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing. If she cleared her mind, she might just get some sleep….
Remus lay curled up in his own private office.
The newspaper clippings hanging on his wall flowed silently from the cold air seeping in from the ill-fitting window. The only thing keeping him warm from the annoying draft he could do nothing about was his thick fur. When he regained his human form and powers, he was going to have to fix that pane.
He could hardly believe that it had been hours since his transformation had reduced him to his current state. It felt like mere minutes ago his body was alit with intense and reoccurring pain. His muscles and bones still felt weak from the powerful curse of the full moon. He knew the ache would go away if he tried to stretch himself out, but he didn't feel like it at the moment. He truly wasn't in the mood to do any sort of physical activity.
This past week had been a bitch. He'd trudged around the castle, an imaginary being pounding his head with a hammer. His eyes would come in and out of focus, tearing up from the blinding pain of blinking slowly. He remembered having to lean against the walls as migraines plagued him. He definitely remembered Hermione taking better care of him than usually Madam Pomfrey did.
He could barely work on the assignments Hermione tossed him. His attention seemed fixed upon her. She was bouncy and energetic, talking to him on how she had made close to at least twenty new potions. Her work was so intelligent that he began to look at her in a whole new aspect. Not only was she bright, but also very talented at her position. When she was determined and focused, she was more than likely to succeed.
Oh and how could he forget admiring her body, which he suddenly found to have grown up quite a bit?
As soon as he thought it, he shook the memory away regretfully. He growled softly and willed himself to forget all about Hermione and her appealing body. But he already missed her company, though it had been rare in the past week. If he tried hard enough, he could still smell her.
She silently and slowly disappeared from his mind. He focused on trying to roll over and find a comfortable position. It was rather difficult, though, since he was hiding under his cramped desk. Perhaps he really should retire to his rooms.
Growling softly in self-reproach, he crawled out from the cubby hole, intent on slipping to his rooms, when a scent wafted on the breeze. It was oddly appeasing and tempting to follow. It was the scent of another werewolf. A female werewolf.
A mate.
Instantly Remus was on point. He scrambled to the heavily warded door. He concentrated hard, eventually opening the door. He had taken to casting a charm upon his office and rooms before transformations. In the event the Wolfsbane Potion didn't work, the security would protect others from him. However, if he was in his right mind, he would be able to concentrate hard enough to allow the door to open of its own accord.
Silently and cautiously, he began to follow the scent.
Back in the old days he'd run into the Forbidden Forest to stir up some fun. Nowadays it was best he hole up in his rooms. But tonight he had a scent to follow.
It seemed to permeate up from the dungeons, her distinct scent harboring deep within. His heart began to beat at a quickening pace. He felt alive, surreal. He was absorbed… and aroused.
His claws scratched against the stones as he drove on down toward the dungeons. He was beyond caring if someone saw him. He was desperate and lonely, seeking something he didn't come across often.
It was common knowledge that female werewolves were harder to come by these days. It was even said that males were more than likely to be bitten or willingly cursed. Remus himself had only come across two females (not including this one he smelled now) in his whole life. The first already had a mate much larger and powerful than he was. The other was quite young, a small child actually, who had committed suicide after her first transformation.
Even though he knew there wasn't another male werewolf in the entire castle, he was still desperate in the chase. He needed to claim this piece of flesh before anyone else could.
Even though his logical side was arguing with him on a very dangerous topic, his animalistic side shoved it quickly aside. Never before allowing this, such primal power scared Remus. But his fear did not last long. The desire to mate with this newcomer was overwhelming.
He scrambled down the steps to the dungeon, skidding to a stop by the door he could sense was warded. He knew he'd never be able to open it as quickly as he wished, but he also knew that females were much weaker. He'd be able to break through the feeble ward.
He backed himself up to the stone wall and charged, ruthlessly bashing his head against the aging wood. Old though it may be, it was also quite solid. But he would not give up. Continuously, he bashed his head against the door, ignoring the pain. Finally, the door split open.
Hermione found herself rudely disturbed from her well-deserved nap when her office door was ripped apart, totally demolished. Through the jagged hole in the door, the very familiar face of a brown werewolf hung ominously. It was the one who had bit her, the cause of all her woes.
Hermione growled menacingly, not moving, as the hairs on her body stood up angrily. She was warning him, 'back the fuck off'. He snarled just before he disappeared from her door altogether. Just as she was bracing herself to stand on all fours and defend herself, she glanced at the bewitched window on her wall. The bright full orb hanging over the trees of the Forbidden Forest was rapidly disappearing. If she was able to defend herself long enough, they'd both transform, giving her enough time to escape. And she'd know who bit her.
Unexpectedly, the intruder jumped into her office. His fur was on edge, poised for attack. Slowly and painfully, she stood up on all four of her petite paws. Her body felt abnormally heavy upon her weak bones. Her movements were awkward and she felt her legs give slightly. She whined, flinched, and slowly stood up, feeling her wound seep its pain throughout her body.
The wolf looked intently at every aspect of her new body. His stare was disturbing, unnerving her deeply. It didn't help that his blue eyes were strangely familiar, their smoldering gaze full of something she couldn't understand piercing her very being.
A menacing growl erupted from her as she backed herself into a corner, her lack of coordination doing little to back up her verbal threat. Her stalker didn't even flinch. His prey was too tempting, his intent too focused. She was in trouble.
As he continued to eye her, Hermione's curious logic stepped in. Why would this werewolf be tracking her down? How did he get into the castle? He had already cursed her life (though the potions she'd created due to her contraction of lycanthropy would make her a fortune), so what did he want?
She poised to bring up another growl and strike him with her long, protruding claws. It didn't matter why; he was here and she would defend herself. But just as she made to attack, a scent tickled her upraised nose. Male… very male. Testosterone at its most potent. Like an illegal drug, it both heightened and dazed her senses. Her raised paw faltered and her body began to succumb to this mysterious new sensation. Never had she felt so helpless and betrayed by her body. She wanted to fight, but her body didn't agree.
Her silent hypnotism broke suddenly as the full moon disappeared from her window. Her body began to twitch uncontrollably. It lurched and tumbled back into the embrace of the corner she had backed into. She howled out just as her jaw snapped sickeningly from its socket. A gurgling sound rose from her throat as she felt her body reverse back the transformation to her human form.
The long hair she'd once had disappeared back into her skin sickeningly. Her mane of bushy hair grew, returning to its original length. Long, thin fingers replaced the petite claws; her feet and ankles shrunk back to their slender, pale skinned selves. Then her jaw snapped back into joint, denoting the final touch of her return to self.
She whimpered, her own human voice echoing in the office, her ears greeting the familiar sound. The coldness of the dungeons returned to her shivering body, the loss of her fur blatant in the frosty air. Unfortunately, her demented wound reappeared, too. With it came shards of pain streaking through her body.
Biting her lip against the pain, she turned to view her intruder, just now completing his transformation. The site of his naked body collapsing to the floor startled her, pushing away her own pain. Moving slightly to glimpse the identity of her attacker, she jerked back abruptly when his hand reached out to seize a piece of furniture.
She shrank back and cautiously watched as he pulled his body up from the floor. Slowly, ever so slowly, the man dragged his limp legs closer to him, sat up and leaned casually against the table in exhaustion. He looked up, wearily glancing around to see where he had apparently brought himself this time.
Hermione gasped. The man's head wheeled around. Recognition hit both like a shockwave. This couldn't be. Hermione's voice hitched in her throat.
"Remus!" She felt betrayed beyond words. Something tugged angrily at her broken heart.
"Hermione?" he gasped out, turning his whole body around to face her. His eyes widened and gaped at her.
"You bit me!" she accused, tears streaking down her face. Strands of hair adhered to her skin in the saltwater wakes upon her cheeks. She wasn't the least bit bothered that either of them was totally naked. The knowledge that Remus was the cause of her pain, however, unnerved her dearly.
"We… we can't have a civilized conversation like this right now," he rasped out, the transformation still torturing his worn body. "Let-let's get dressed, and then we'll talk like civilized beings about this, alright?"
"Alright," she heard herself reply weakly. Although she wanted to race out of the room, allow this feeling of insecurity to dissipate, her body wouldn't move.
For a moment their eyes locked. Her heart sighed and merrily skipped a beat. Her anger faded quickly as a new sensation coursed through her veins. Something deep within her compelled her to look at his beautifully bare body now. She longed to touch it with the lust that was rapidly being unlocked.
She gasped aloud as her eyes returned to his, realizing he was appraising her form as well. A giddy joy washed over her.
But sanity returned abruptly. She could not let anything happen. Oh, no. Not that… well, not here or now, anyway.
In a sudden rush she stumbled up and across the frozen floor to her private rooms, still trying to maintain her newly-nudist dignity. It didn't help that her audience was her one infatuation. Could it get any better?
The dark olive room greeted her weary body but doing little to appease the fresh rush of anger she felt. How just plain dare he! She was so tempted to grab the vase on the bedside table and throw it to the ground. Anything to destroy, to vent her anger upon.
But her intentions were rudely interrupted; a very slight and dominating cough called from the open doorway behind her.
She wheeled around, her hair cackling with electricity. Remus, still in all of his naked glory, was waiting patiently, a sheepish expression on his unshaven face.
"Oh, do hold on one minute!" she snapped angrily, quickly grabbing the bathrobe hanging from the bathroom doorknob. She slipped it on and tied it securely at her waist. Turning, she walked back to face the man who was rapidly making her feel more and more insecure by the second. His dominance was bloody well… well, dominant.
"I hate to ask, but as I do not wish to be found romping throughout the hallways naked again…" He paused at her quirked eyebrow, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "Unfortunately I was caught on a previous occasion for doing so," he explained, a faint trace of blush coloring his pale face. "So to prevent having 'my private bits being chopped off,' you wouldn't mind lending me some half-decent old attire, would you? I would be most grateful."
For what seemed the emotional rollercoaster ride of her life, her anger again abated, leaving behind bemusement, fondness, charity and attraction. "Hold on," she replied with a sigh, peeling her eyes away from his hairy and drawn-out chest.
She began to rummage through her drawers in search for the old pajama set her Aunt Winnie had sent her last Christmas. That they were several sizes too big was an understatement. The woman had an obsession for fattening Hermione up, often desperately shoving food down her throat at every family meeting.
The brutish plaid ensemble called pajamas were located and offered as nonchalantly as possible. Remus hesitantly stepped toward Hermione's outstretched arm, retrieved the hideous clothing and reluctantly drew them on. He watched Hermione slowly limp to her bed. She seemed worse off than he, and considering this must have been her first transformation, he was not surprised. She had not yet learned how to deal with it.
He slipped the top onto his frame, buttoning the abnormally large, white buttons into the sewn loopholes, all the while watching her through lowered lashes.
Her brown eyes were mesmerized by him, curious at nimble fingers that worked seriously to cover up his hairy being.
She must have dozed, because when she was next aware, Remus had silently sat down onto the edge of her bed, cautiously away from her huddling figure. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up in territorial protection. Her heart constricted, and the hairs lay back down.
"We need to talk."
The words escaped her lips before they could escape his.
One more part to go before this is done!
The next part will be posted on Sunday, the last day for this challenge, just so you all know.
Review please! I'd truely appreciate it.