Chapter Three
Logic and reason were usually the first to go when someone was stuck in panic mode. Though Hermione was well aware of the fact that rushing off towards her home was dangerous, she did it anyway. The Sorting Hat hadn't put her in Gryffindor for no reason after all. There was a streak of foolish bravado in all of them that was difficult to squash even with a clear head. At times she felt like she was held to a higher standard than everyone else in her life. Hermione wasn't allowed to make mistakes like a normal, imperfect human being. It could be more than a little frustrating to have constant perfection expected of her at all times.
Yes, it would have made more sense to hide in the shadows watching her house for any signs of an intruder before she ran for the front door, but it was characteristic of a Gryffindor who spent a good portion of her adolescence in danger to act first and think later. One couldn't be Harry Potter's best friend without being prepared to run off into battle at a moment's notice. Even in times of peace and relative security, old habits died hard. It was only as she stared at the slightly open door that she was one hundred percent certain she closed and locked that morning that she decided approaching alone without any sort of backup was a dangerous move. Gryffindoric bravery would only get her so far.
At least she had a firm grip on her wand that time. International Statute of Secrecy be damned, she wouldn't let the filthy man touch her again. She wouldn't let any man touch her without her permission. If she had to curse him and ask forgiveness later, she would. She didn't think she would get into much trouble from the Ministry, but if she did, she wasn't going to hesitate to use her friendship with the Minister for Magic to her advantage. Kingsley would approve of her defending herself if it came down to it.
Before she could take the first step into her home, she felt the prickling of the skin at the back of her neck that had become an almost common occurrence since the previous Friday night when all of her problems began. Surprised that it had taken Fenrir Greyback several minutes to follow her home from Diagon Alley, Hermione tried unsuccessfully to ignore the relief she felt knowing he was there. That was a problem to save for later when she wasn't terrified that there were strange men in her home waiting to exact their revenge on her as soon as she stepped inside the door.
In times past when she felt the enigmatic werewolf lingering just inside the shadows on the outskirts of her life, he wouldn't approach her. Not unless she was being attacked by a Muggle, of course. He would simply watch her from a safe distance. When she turned around to look for him at the first hint he'd arrived, she was startled to find him only steps away. Stealth was evidently a skill he excelled at when it suited him. So was understanding when something was wrong. Maybe she made a bigger fool of herself in the stationary shop than she was aware of or perhaps more likely, he could just sense something was off.
If Hermione were to utilize reason and logic in this situation, she would've recognized that there was no greater danger to her safety than the man she was inexplicably glad to have at her back. Logic would tell her to forget the Muggle intruders and immediately alert the aurors of the homicidal werewolf that everyone believed dead for over a decade. She would not look to him as an ally, as someone with the ability to help keep her safe. Trusting her instincts and eschewing rationality and what she read in her books was already difficult. In that moment, however, she intuitively knew that Fenrir Greyback would never hurt her again.
He didn't say a word. Didn't even need to. With a questioning raise of a single eyebrow, Hermione knew what he was asking without speaking. Her intuition, far from being logical and rational, took over again.
"The door was open. I know I locked it this morning. I think my wallet fell out of my handbag that night."
Fenrir turned his gaze to the door, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. With a single step forward, he placed his body between hers and the entrance to her home. Perhaps it was done as an instinctual move to shield her from any potential danger inside. Hermione didn't really care. The fact that he didn't question her fears or dismiss her concerns as irrational flights of fancy was encouraging. It was rare that anyone she knew just trusted what she said without question. Knowing that she wasn't about to be forced to prove herself affected her more than she realized in that moment.
He gently pushed the door open no more than inch or two further. A sudden inhale and flaring of his nostrils proved he was relying on the prodigious sense of smell that came with his affliction. His lip curled into a slight sneer, evidently not caring much for what he smelled. Hermione felt her stomach twist further in its anxiety. Someone had been in her home. Maybe they were still there. It was the violation of her privacy and her sense of security that was difficult to bear. Would she ever feel safe again in her own home?
She kept her eyes focused on the man standing only centimeters away. Once upon a time she remembered him being a creature who enjoyed bragging and boasting. He would force anyone who had the displeasure of his company into loud bursts of declarations of his intentions. Especially during the horrible time when Voldemort was in charge that last year, Greyback felt a confidence that allowed him to go through Wizarding Britain without fear. She would never forget the night she laid on the floor of Malfoy Manor terrified out of her wits as he made it clear that he had plans for her sweet, young flesh. Whatever happened to him in the years following the end of the war changed him into someone she didn't recognize. Maybe that was why she wasn't afraid of him as she should've been. She was in too much shock from the change to think clearly.
He pushed the door open further and took a step inside. As frightened as she was about what was going to potentially happen next, Hermione didn't want to be left standing alone outside. With every ounce of determination she could muster and a tight grip on her wand, she followed the werewolf inside. All hope that there was simply a problem with the lock on her front door disappeared instantly.
Someone had been inside her home. By the looks of the living room, it was likely that several someones were in there at some point that day. Hermione had only ever seen a house completely ransacked and destroyed in the movies. Never did she think she'd walk inside her home to find just about everything she owned broken. Giant rips in her upholstered furniture covered ever square centimeter of the room in the soft, white filling that once made them squashy and comfortable. Feathers from the pillows that once sat on her couch floated in the air. Every single picture frame she owned was smashed, glass crunched under their feet as they walked slowly further inside. The level of destruction must have taken hours or a small army.
She was grateful that she didn't really own many valuables. There were no expensive electronics or priceless jewelry to steal. Anything that had any value at all, her Order of Merlin medal and her late parents' wedding bands, were locked safely up in her Gringott's vault. Stuff never much interested Hermione. She was more interested in knowledge and experiences than items that just collected dust and cluttered up empty spaces. Besides, it wasn't as if she spent a great deal of time at home to begin with. Most days it was just simply a place to sleep a few hours before returning to the Ministry.
The house was eerily silent. Either the perpetrators of the disgusting crime were long gone or waiting silently in some dark corner to jump out at them to exact their revenge in a more physical display. She was tempted to cast a Homenum Revelio spell to see for herself if they were alone, but stopped herself. If a Muggle was present and she cast the spell, a representative from the Ministry would be there to investigate. The last thing she needed was Fenrir Greyback's presence to be noted in her house. Somehow she doubted Harry would just ignore that revelation. She had enough to worry about without the added aggravation of her boys showing up.
Harry was likely to do something obnoxious like insist she have auror protection. And, knowing how much he wished she and her ex-boyfriend Iain would get back together, he'd order Auror Proudfoot to be her personal guard. She couldn't resist the eyeroll at that prospect. Too complicated. Given the opportunity, she also was afraid Ron would take this incident as an excuse to encourage his brother Charlie to come back to the country. Once it was clear their relationship wasn't in their best interest, he'd gone down the line of his eligible brothers, fixating on the idea that the dragon keeper would somehow make her a good husband. As much as she liked Charlie, she just couldn't see a future with the man.
When it was clear no one was going to pop out at them in the living room, Fenrir continued his meticulous investigation by climbing up the narrow staircase to her first floor. With each step closer and closer to her bedroom, Hermione found herself growing ever more nervous and uncomfortable. It was one thing to have the practical stranger in her living room and quite another to have him in the more private areas that few ever got to see. Even in the midst of the stressful situation she was in, her mind kept jumping back to wondering how much time had passed since the last time she had a man in her bedroom. Because it was both a depressing thought and because she didn't want to decipher what it must mean that imagining Fenrir Greyback, of all people, in her room didn't bother her as much as it should, Hermione turned her attention to the shattered glass of the framed pictures lining her walls on either side of her stairs.
It was fortunate that she didn't openly display any of her wizarding photographs around her house. She could only imagine what the wretched Muggles would think of pictures that moved. Most of the evidence that she was a witch was kept either at her office or warded safely in the desk in her spare bedroom. A sweet, elderly lady who lived two doors down from her came once a week to tidy up her house for a little bit of money. Any sort of housecleaning that Hermione needed done could have been easily accomplished by a wave of her wand and a simple incantation, but soon after moving in, she met Margaret. She was a widow who was just barely making ends meet with her pension. It was mostly charity that Hermione offered disguised in such a way to not injure the kind woman's pride. Having a Muggle as the only regular visitor she had meant that she had to be careful what magic items were easily accessible.
The spare bedroom at the top of the stairs was in the same mess that the downstairs was in. Fenrir examined every corner, every potential hiding place in the small room while Hermione tried not to cry at the level of senseless destruction. What was the purpose of shredding her mattress to bits? Why would anyone want to rip her drapes to pieces? She didn't understand why she was the target of such an attack. Though she didn't see what happened after she ran away, she didn't think Fenrir savagely murdered the Muggle who attacked her first. All in all, based on what she saw, the notorious werewolf was quite restrained in his actions. He could've easily ripped the man to tiny bits just like her mattress. How was tracking her down and destroying everything she owned an appropriate payback? He should've just been thankful for the fifty pounds she had in her wallet and gone on.
Once he was satisfied that there was no one hiding under the bed or in the cupboards, Fenrir crossed the narrow corridor to Hermione's bedroom. She didn't know why she was so embarrassed to have the man inside the room she slept. It wasn't as if he could really see how it normally looked. Everything was smashed or ripped or shredded. She felt her cheeks burn when she stepped in the room behind him to find that every piece of clothing she owned, right down to her frilliest of pink knickers, was strewn across the space. When she realized he was stepping over her most mortifying of inappropriate black lingerie that Iain liked to see her in for about half a second before he ripped it off her body, she wanted to melt into a puddle in the floor. For a reason she couldn't understand, the intruders left those items perfectly intact. There was no way the werewolf didn't know what he was looking at when he stepped over them to verify that there was no one hiding underneath the ruined mattress or taking shelter in the attached bathroom. At least he wasn't the sort of man to draw attention to her humiliation. Maybe he would have years earlier, but this man was different. He didn't even clear his throat or look in her direction. What he must have been thinking was a complete mystery to the lady of the house.
To get her mind on anything else, Hermione focused on the ripped pages of her books covering every surface. She had always had a bad habit of leaving a tall stack of books next to her bed. The arseholes took delight in ripping the pages from the covers and haphazardly throwing them where they wished. She was of the opinion that there was a special place in hell for those who treated the written word so disrespectfully. Thinking about what she would like to do to them if given the opportunity for ruining her books helped her to not focus on the fact that the werewolf had seen her knickers.
Truthfully, it wouldn't take her long to repair everything that was broken. Being a witch came with some wonderful perks. She could put everything back just the way it was that morning before she left for work. Few things, if anything really, would need to be replaced. Over the years she'd become an expert at repairing and cleaning charms. She wouldn't even have to worry about where she was going to sleep that night. One spell would make her mattress as good as new. It was the senselessness of the act that bothered her most. Part of her wanted to cross paths with the Muggle and his mates again just so she might understand what their reasoning was.
Once it was clear that no one was upstairs, Hermione followed Fenrir back down the stairs to the ground floor. The downstairs loo was inspected quickly. Only a broken mirror and a ripped hand towel proved anyone had been in there. Though she knew to expect the kitchen would likely be bad, a gasp of surprise slipped from her mouth at actually witnessing it firsthand. All of her dishes and glasses were shattered in pieces on the floor. Drawers were ripped out and overturned. Cabinet doors hung half on where they'd been pulled on.
Fenrir went straight for the backdoor. The point of entrance was clear. Whomever was responsible for the destruction kicked in her door. None of her neighbors were home during the day. Most had jobs. Some of the elder residents spent their days with others their age walking the streets when the weather was nice or playing cards when it wasn't. She had the feeling that if she went up and down her small street asking if anyone had seen anything suspicious that day, they would all tell her no.
An orange blur of movement startled Hermione out of her thoughts. She pointed her wand at her kitchen table, ready to curse, if necessary. Crookshanks' loud, angry mewling calmed her down. She felt her shoulders sag with relief knowing that her cat was all right. In all of the chaos she hadn't even stopped for a moment to think about where he was during the ordeal. Fenrir sniffed the air and moved closer to her cat. To her surprise, Crookshanks wasn't bothered at all by the werewolf's presence in her kitchen. When she witnessed the man pick up her cat's paw to examine it, she was even more surprised. Her familiar was very particular about who he allowed to touch him. Even some of her oldest friends weren't given the honor. A dark red spot on the animal's fur pushed all thoughts beyond his welfare aside.
"Is he hurt?"
Fenrir turned his head in her direction when he had a closer look. The first of his smiles she could ever recall seeing transformed his face.
"It's not his blood."
The werewolf turned his attention back to the cat. Releasing his grip on his paw, Fenrir smoothed his palm up and down Crookshanks' fur.
"Brave, wee creature you are, protecting your home."
When he started scratching behind his ears, her cat rubbed his head against his hand, his purring loud enough to be heard across the room. Hermione was shocked. Her half-kneazle had never been terribly trusting and as he'd gotten older, he was even more suspicious. She wasn't sure she'd ever heard him purr for anyone other than her before. At least not for many years. Part of her felt a little jealous.
"They might be back. You must strengthen your wards. Put up a Muggle-repelling charm."
His suggestions broke the spell that fell over the room. Hermione wasn't used to anyone giving her orders in her own home. While she appreciated him being present for the inspection of the house, that didn't give him the right to tell her what she should do.
"I can't do that."
When she explained that she couldn't put up spells to keep Muggles away because of her little, old neighbor that came in once a week to clean, he gave Crookshanks one last scratch and turned his full attention on her. Clearly, he was of the opinion that she was being foolish. Maybe she was, but she knew that Margaret relied on the little bit that she gave her each week. To suddenly tell the woman that she wasn't needed anymore, even though she truly wasn't, would have broken her heart and sent her into a worry. He clenched his jaw.
"It's not safe to allow Muggles to enter your home until we're sure they won't come back. Strengthen your wards."
She pushed aside the "we're" part of his statement for the moment to focus on the fact that he was trying to tell her what to do again. What gave him the right? Beyond knowing that she would have to deny Margaret entrance to her home with the additional wards, she didn't like the idea of hiding behind spells because of the awful Muggles. It felt like she was letting them win by adjusting her life against her will. Maybe it was those same Gryffindor traits that made her rush towards potential dangers, but she didn't want to do as was suggested. When she repeated herself, Fenrir sighed and rolled his eyes.
"You're a stubborn little witch, aren't you?"
Whether he meant that as a compliment or an insult was unclear. Perhaps understanding that he wasn't going to get any further, Fenrir moved towards the damaged back door. He stepped outside into the garden to complete his tour of her property. She followed him out to where he was staring at her open gate with a scowl.
"Was this even locked?"
It shamed her just a bit to have to shake her head. She'd never seen the need for a lock on the back gate. There wasn't anything of value in her back garden and until that night, she always thought she lived in a relatively safe area. He didn't care for her answer at all if his annoyed expression was any indication.
"You are a woman living alone in a large city. You should be more careful."
The very idea that he was implying she was somehow helpless just because she was a woman irritated Hermione. His implication was obnoxious and sexist. Hadn't she proven herself capable of taking care of herself over the years? She'd ridden on the back of a fucking dragon, after all! She was the one of the winning side of the war, not him. No, she couldn't deny that it had been comforting for him to suddenly show up when she was alone and standing in front of her open door, but she didn't need him.
With a wave of his wand, the gate that had always been a bit rickety and difficult to latch was fixed. He closed it. A conjured lock appeared to secure the garden gate. When he was satisfied with his work, he turned to face her again, his frustration still evident.
"Any wizard worth a damn can unlock it, but it should at least stop a Muggle."
She followed him back inside the broken back door. A reparo was all that was required to get it back into perfect shape. He closed and latched it when they were both inside. Hermione wasn't sure what to expect next. Was he going to argue with her again about her security? Tell her what a fool she was being for not covering every square inch in heavy spells? His boldness didn't surprise her. His impressive spellwork, however, did. In seemingly no time at all, every piece of crockery and glassware floated in the air repairing themselves and settling back in their proper places in the cupboards. It was an intricate orchestra of movements and spells, working together to make the room better than new. When the corner of his eye caught her staring with wide eyes, he smirked.
"Did you forget that I was a wizard before I was bitten?"
It was the first mention of who he actually was, what he actually was, since they spoke for the first time in ten years days earlier. She hated to admit that he was right. Based on the past, it was easy to forget he hadn't always been a violent monster intent on biting small children to overpopulate their society with malleable, young werewolves. Unsure what to say or even how she was supposed to feel, Hermione crossed to the door leading to the living room, leaving him alone in the kitchen.
She needed something to keep her mind occupied until she was ready to face the reality of the predicament she was in. How could she explain the fearsome werewolf being invited into her home? Being welcomed into her home? She set about clearing up the mess in the living room in a much less elegant manner than Fenrir had in the room next door. It didn't matter. The results were much the same. Only a few minutes passed before she had the battered and broken room back to its usual plain and ordinary self. Though she felt him just behind her on the stairs, she didn't turn around or acknowledge him.
Fenrir rushed into the spare bedroom to Hermione's relief. She wasn't sure she was up to having him present in her bedroom again, especially not after the embarrassment of knowing he'd seen the delicate clothing she shared with very, very few others. Thanks to the fact that she truly didn't own a lot, it didn't take either one of them long to repair what had been damaged.
When she walked him to the front door only a short time later after all traces of her intruders were gone, she didn't know what to say. Would they go back to him watching her from the shadows while she pretended she didn't know he was there? Was everything different? And if it was, what was it? Were they friends? Or just acquaintances who shared a bonding experience that night in the dark street?
"Thank you. I appreciate your help this evening."
"Strengthen your wards."
The werewolf didn't say anything else beyond his repeated order as he exited out into the cold night. She closed the door behind him, locked it, and reluctantly placed a temporary locking ward on it that would discourage any Muggle from approaching her door. There seemed no harm in doing it at night while she slept at any rate.
She waited a few minutes after he left before she peeked out through a small crack in her newly repaired drapes. Standing in the same spot he had been each time she looked outside at night, he watched her house from the safety of her next door neighbor's garden. It should've made her mad that he was so insistent that she should be more careful as a single woman living alone, but knowing that he was just outside calmed her more than she wanted to admit.
Feeling exhausted but a little hungry after her ordeal, Hermione crossed the room towards her kitchen. No doubt Crookshanks would be grateful for something to eat after his harrowing adventure as well. Two steps into the kitchen she stopped in her tracks. Left in the middle of the kitchen table were the three violet quills she left on the counter of the stationary shop. She wondered if she would ever understand what the man was up to.