Ferocious
fe· ro· cious | \ fə-ˈrō-shəs
: extremely intense
Hermione laid on her back in a plush, four poster bed staring up at the ceiling of her bedroom. The smooth silk of her sheets wrapped around her legs and her hair fanned across a downy pillow. The ceiling was filled with more textures than Hermione recalled there being. The off-white paint coated over ridges of plaster, creating small, star-burst shapes to pattern in neat rows that stretched wall to wall, corner to corner. The room was comfortable and warm. It smelled of peonies from a candle lit in the corner and nothing at all like the damp, moulded wood of Remus' cabin.
Although it had been days, she could still feel him pressed against her. If she tried hard enough, she could recall the taste of him on her tongue.
She rolled over and pulled her journal from the bedside stand, flicking her wand to cast a soft glow in the room. Months of notes stared up at her from the pages, quickly scribbled connections she'd made back to the first of the killings in smudged, black ink. A list of names, the places they disappeared from and how long before they'd been reported missing.
First was Antonin Dolohov. It hadn't taken her long to find reasons that someone would want him dead. It had, however, taken a bit more effort to figure out that it was Remus. Dolohov had accumulated a long list of enemies during his service to Voldemort, after all.
Month by month, she'd tracked the names, trying to unearth connections between them to Remus, specifically. Rabastan Lestrange, Amycus Carrow, Nathaniel Scabior, Corbin Yaxley,
Gregory Goyle Senior, Thorfinn Rowle…the list went on.
Those had all been easy enough. They were more well known as being connected to Voldemort. Names that were prominent in society during the war. Names Hermione was familiar with in the context of Voldemort's inner circle.
But, there had been a few names she hadn't quite recognized; Ophelia Greyswoop, Nikolai Fietz, Romena Nichofet. Those had taken more effort. It had been the motivation she needed to break into Harry's office. After bringing the names to Dean Thomas, she had discovered that they were all Snatchers present and active in the killing of Ted Tonks.
Remus had refused to allow Hermione to participate in the hunt of his victims. Denying her the names for those he had left on his list. But, he was right about one thing during their argument days prior; if Hermione wanted to know something, she found a way to gain the knowledge.
It wasn't hard to figure out who was left. Lucius Malfoy, Dolores Umbridge, another snatcher by the name of Andrei Keskov sat surrounded by the cold, dank walls of Azkaban. And, regardless of Remus' inveterate bloodlust, she didn't believe he would be so foolish as to try and infiltrate the prison.
There were, however, four names on her own compiled list of suspected victims that had not been imprisoned. Augustus Rookwood, Theodros Nott, Alecto Carrow, and Fenrir Greyback.
As she looked up to the window and stared out at the nearly full moon—barely a sliver missing—Hermione wondered who would be apprehended tonight.
Early morning light twisted through trees, illuminating the ground between the winding shadows that rippled across the long grass. Dew droplets clung to the hem of her jeans, soaking through to darken the denim. Hermione couldn't put into words the feeling that had forced her up at the predawn hour, but it had gripped her throat in fear and worry. The gut wrenching feeling had forced her awake, demanding she go against Remus' wishes and apparate back to Yorkshire. When she found him lying in a heap between the treeline and cabin, she was thankful she had blindly followed the instinct.
She knelt next to him, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch him. His chest rattled with short breaths and she sighed in relief that he was at least breathing. He was covered in blood, his side oozing dark red over his ribs, dripping down the gentle creases of his stomach and pooling beneath him. His face was badly bruised, a violent slash ran over his chin, splitting his lip in two. His left arm bent at a painfully awkward angle, the break visible through his skin.
"Oh, Remus…" Hermione whispered, pushing his sweat and blood soaked hair from his forehead. "What happened to you?"
She used what healing spells she knew off hand, working to staunch the flow of blood from his side first before cleaning his arm and face. His arm would definitely require Skele-Gro, and she prayed he had some on hand. She was in the process of trying to figure out the best way to get him into the house when he finally opened his eyes.
He blinked slowly, turning his neck slightly to look up at her. "Hermione?"
"Shh," she shook her head. "Don't berate me for coming back now. You can do it later, after you've been healed and have had some time to rest."
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly and his eyes fell closed again. "Give me a few minutes," he ground out, through a ragged breath. "I'll be able to walk in a few minutes."
"Remus, I don't think—"
He shushed her. "Trust me."
Hermione swallowed, but nodded, sitting back on her heels to wait beside him. She pulled off her jacket and transfigured it into a blanket, draping it over his bare body. Remus whispered something that may have been gratitude and remained silent for several minutes.
Slowly, colour began to return to his face. A series of loud, sickening, crunching sounds pierced the air and his arm straightened out. Hermione could feel her eyes widen as the blanket began to flutter where it covered his torso. She pulled it down, letting the fabric drape loosely over his waist, watching with interest as his skin tugged and rippled. Remus let out a low moan of pain as his ribs shifted, bones grinding painfully together, before slotting into place.
Hermione reached out a tentative hand, hovering centimeters above his skin, dropping her fingers to delicately ghost over the hot, bruised flesh of Remus' side. She inhaled sharply as she felt the last of his broken ribs adjust and fuse itself back together.
Her hand flattened against him, her small palm resting a few inches beneath the pit of his arm, her fingers gently grazing the skin that outlined his lean pectoral muscle. With her opposite hand, she reached out and pushed the hair from his face again, gaze roaming over his clenched eyes and slightly crooked nose. His lips, thinner and rougher than her own, slightly parted as he took in slow breaths; the rattling in his chest finally ceasing.
For days, those lips had wormed their way back into her mind. The crushing force of them on her own, the way he claimed her mouth, the taste of him.
It was no secret to her friends that a much younger Hermione Granger had a bit of a school girl's crush on her handsome, brilliant Defence Against the Dark Arts professor in third year. It was, however, a secret to just how long she harbored the feelings of affection toward him. Fourteen year old admiration quickly shifted into seventeen year old attraction. His kind, calm exterior coupled with a vast knowledge of defensive magic and Dark Arts was what initially drew her in. It was his sharp wit and commanding demeanor that kept her there.
Briefly, morbidly, she wondered if Tonks had seen it, too. If the fire that burned behind his eyes was what had drawn her metamorphmagus friend to the werewolf that laid on the grass before her.
In the many times—an embarrassing amount of times, really—that Hermione imagined Remus Lupin's lips against her own, she had always thought they would be gentle, sweet. She always assumed his kiss would taste of lingering chocolate and Earl Grey tea. That every press of his lips to her own would be with care and consideration.
She had never imagined his kiss would be brutal.
That his lips would sear themselves into her mind, igniting a flame of need deep inside her belly. She never pictured his teeth scraping against hers, his tongue laying claim to her mouth and his lips to move forcefully. It was not tea and chocolate on his breath when his tongue slipped between her parted lips, it was spice and heat. The embodiment of the very fire that burned behind his eyes—a warning that he was not simply a sickly ex-professor who had been ostracized from society. But, that he was a hunter who had the ability to be a little more than human.
Hermione craved that side of him.
Finally, his shallow breaths came deeper and he forced his eyes open, twisting around to lay halfway on his back and stare up at her. Her hand remained on his chest, slipping down slightly to cover a deep, circular scar that rested in the space between the front of his shoulder and his nipple.
"I appreciate that you've offered me a bit of modesty," he mumbled, his eyes darting down toward the transfigured blanket draped over his waist.
Hermione felt her head bob in acknowledgement to the statement, but couldn't piece the words together. Not with the way his eyes pierced through her, golden irises staring into her very soul.
"Why did you come here?" he asked, finally.
She blinked a few times, breaking out of the trance. "I...I honestly don't know."
Remus raised an eyebrow, "You...don't...know?"
Hermione shrugged, "I had a strange feeling that I couldn't shake. The same type of feeling I get when I have a lead on a really good story or—or when I know Harry is cross with me and avoiding me. I can't explain it—it just felt like something was wrong."
"Didn't you always say that Divination was rubbish?" he asked, amusement glinting in his eyes.
"I stand by that," Hermione smirked. "But, I think intuition is a little different."
"Some would argue that it's the same thing."
"Some would also argue that the dredges in my tea cup will tell me my future. Not all arguments are worth the effort of listening to. But, when my gut tells me to do something, I've learned to listen to it."
"Without researching all possible outcomes first?" He teased, "doesn't sound like you."
She knew he was joking. Despite the obvious exhaustion of the moon on his face, he seemed to be in good spirits. In a better mood than she'd seen him in the weeks she spent at his cabin. She wanted to laugh, to poke her tongue out at him and cling to this jovial banter he was attempting to create. But, she couldn't shake the memory of him calling her a 'stupid girl' less than a week ago from her mind. She couldn't rid the memory of the way his lips felt on hers or the way his eyes still burned bright.
Her fingers twitched against his chest and she could feel the steady thumping of his heart beneath them. "I rather think you don't know me well enough anymore to make those observations. I have grown to be a much different woman than the girl you once knew."
Something changed in his gaze, his pupils dilating ever so slightly, the crease between them deepening as his jaw tightened. Hermione could almost see the realization as it struck him: she was not a silly, overemotional, inexperienced teenager. She was a woman who was not easily scared.
She had, after all, kissed him back with matching ferocity.
.
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a/n: up at a bit of a later hour than I usually post, sorry about that. But, it was a busy weekend! Anyway, I hope you liked it!
xo