She cringed when she came across them – once upon a time, years ago.
Her wand would be in her hand as she glared at them in distrust, expecting them to be as inhumane as she had always heard – as horrifying as Fenrir Greyback was – believing everything her parents had told her about them. The werewolves were all supposed to be angry at the world, at wizardkind, and taking every opportunity to kill and torture.
Lavender had believed that.
She had believed everything she had been told about werewolves – until she learned Professor Lupin was one. That changed things, because Professor Lupin had never been violent just constantly tired and kind and Lavender thought that just maybe she had been wrong.
But she put it out of her mind. There was no need to think so hard about insignificant things. Her daily life wouldn't be affected by whether she thought of werewolves as kind or as monsters. Professor Lupin had already left, after all.
Living in that ignorant bliss was beautiful, until reality crashed in.
And regret threatened to suffocate her.
Regret for treating the werewolves as terribly as she had – for misjudging and distrusting them; and regret for not abandoning the Battle of Hogwarts. She had been brave, then; she had been a Gryffindor then, brash and foolish without considering the consequences. Lavender had only wanted to be part of the heroics, to have her name down as one of the fighters against the dark and evil forces.
Death was the only negative outcome she had considered. It was the only other possibility anyone had considered. They had all been willing to face that possibility as they hid in the Room of Requirement during the year the Death Eaters had taken over the Ministry. It was what they faced every day; that year had made them numb to the fear of death.
Nothing could have prepared her to be knocked unconscious and wake up as a werewolf.
It was because she fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, and was known as a result, that her werewolf status was known. Lavender was sure she could have kept it quiet otherwise. She was certain that she would not have to face the same distrustful glances and parents warily pulling their children away from her.
If she hadn't wanted that small amount of glory, perhaps she wouldn't even be a werewolf. She could have continued with her careless life of boys and shopping without having to control her temper lest someone claim her to be another violent werewolf – the stereotype still existed despite Fenrir Greyback having been dead for years and the Ministry's attempts to openly reintroduce known werewolves into the wizarding world.
Even if her reputation didn't give her away, her scars did. It wasn't possible to cover them up all the time, and eventually Lavender found herself tired of covering them up at all, at being self-conscious and careful all the time.
She was still a Gryffindor, after all.
If people were going to avoid her for something she wasn't able to control, for something that may have saved their lives, then they simply weren't worth her time. Lavender had fought and killed and nearly died, and somewhere, somehow, she realized that had never been all about gaining everyone's approval.
It had also been about proving to herself that the year of suffering had been worth it.
Written for Badass Lyrics Inspire Badass Fics [We cry out for those who can't be saved, one foot on sacred ground and one foot in the grave; Lavender Brown]
