Chapter Eight
The smell of breakfast cooking downstairs woke Hermione up from a very relaxing sleep. Unused to the smell in her own home and certainly when she wasn't the one making it, she didn't know what to think. Was she still asleep and actually in the middle of an odd, unexplainable dream? That option certainly made more sense than the one that had Fenrir Greyback cooking in her kitchen. Crookshanks surely never bothered to learn how to feed his mistress beyond leaving dead mice at her feet when she was working too much and not properly caring for herself. She thought it strange that her cat wasn't in her bedroom vocally demanding his breakfast.
Of course, a great deal about her life was strange. Tempting as it was to try to deny the truth, she knew she couldn't. Not for long at any rate. At some point she would have to make her way down the stairs to answer for her rash decision the night before. Whether she wanted to admit it yet or not, she was responsible for changing the entire dynamic between them. How could they go back to him watching her silently from the shadows while she pretended he wasn't there after he spent the night in her spare bedroom? Perhaps it was finally time for some answers.
Just the mere thought of openly confronting him made Hermione want to hide underneath her covers. It wasn't like an unrepentant Gryffindor like her to be a coward, but a person couldn't be brave every second of their life. What if she discovered he'd been surveilling her because he'd gotten together with some of his old mates to try the taking over the world bit again? He could've simply been a good actor and competent caster of spells to put her at ease. She didn't want to fight another war. As long as she didn't know what he was up to, she could still pretend everything was all right just like the coward she was entitled to be from time to time.
Unwilling to make the decision of what to do or say when she faced her unexpected houseguest again, she chose to linger in the shower longer than usual. As the warm spray of water cascaded over her skin, she felt only somewhat more relaxed than she did when she first woke up. Her next step still wasn't clear. The one who usually made the plans, it was unlike her to be so passive. Age softened her thirst for adventure and even lessened, to a certain extent, her incessant need to prove herself to everyone. For once she could finally understand how tempting it could be to simply sit back and allow life, good or bad, to just happen.
She wished she had someone she trusted to talk to about the strange predicament she'd found herself in. Unfortunately, there wasn't anyone she could share her secret with. Harry had his whole 'saving people thing'. One hint that Fenrir Greyback was still alive and he wouldn't stop until the werewolf was dead or locked up in Azkaban with his former comrades. He would probably never trust her again if he discovered she was essentially harboring a well-known dangerous fugitive.
And her friendship with Ron was almost entirely a memory. Sure, she saw him at holiday gatherings because his mother was always kind enough to extend her an invitation because she was without a family, but there hadn't been more between them beyond awkward small talk since their doomed romance ended. With such heightened emotions during and after the war, when everything finally settled, they chose to try to be just friends again. It didn't work. Ron would listen calmly to her explanation about her current circumstances for about three seconds before he called over his best friend and brother-in-law to take charge. Likewise, her only other serious ex-boyfriend Iain would feel immediately compelled to report Greyback's return to his superiors.
The hot water ran out of the shower before she came to any conclusions. Cursing herself for never bothering with an unlimited hot water charm on her plumbing because she never showered long enough, Hermione turned the taps off as her teeth chattered. It was a miserable feeling to climb out of the shower cold. Her morning wasn't turning out how she expected. Cowardice rarely made her feel good after all.
Deciding that making no decision was the same as making one, she knew she had to stop hiding upstairs. Once she was warm again thanks to dry clothes and a warming charm, she felt more ready to face him. She further decided as she finally began descending the stairs that she would wait for him to tell her his purpose. There seemed in her frustrated mind some power in keeping her curiosity to herself for the time being.
Despite knowing he was down there and having a fairly good idea what he'd been up to based on the smells wafting up the stairs, actually seeing the werewolf seated at her kitchen table casually reading the morning edition of the Daily Prophet was hard to believe. Especially when she saw her cat laying in his lap, content with the idle rubs and scratches he received from their guest's free hand. A plate of food under a warming charm across the table from him was just another bizarre, unexpected aspect of the morning. She'd thought it odd to see the bed he slept in neatly made when she passed by the open bedroom door, but that was nothing. Crookshanks purring could be heard across the kitchen. Hermione had to rub her eyes to determine her mind wasn't playing tricks on her.
The slight grin at the corner of his mouth that he was trying to hide was all the confirmation Hermione needed that for the present, not inundating him with dozens of questions about his motivations or his whereabouts for the previous ten years was the right decision to make. She knew he was expecting her to rattle off question after question, so she didn't. Instead, she sat across from him as if what they were doing was the most normal event in an ordinary life.
"Good morning. I hope you slept well."
"Thank you. I did."
His lips twitched as he spoke. He seemed to be on the verge of laughing. Hermione didn't know what to think. Was he amused by her determination not to interrogate him or was he amused because his diabolical plan was working? Of course she didn't have the first clue what that plan could possibly be and not knowing would've ordinarily driven her completely insane, but for a reason she was sure she'd never fully understand, she was perfectly content not knowing for the immediate future.
The simple breakfast of eggs and toast looked surprisingly appetizing. Usually she didn't allow herself enough time in the mornings for a proper meal before work. Where he managed to find eggs that were suitable for consumption and bread that hadn't gone moldy was another of his mysteries. Her cupboards were mostly bare of anything remotely edible. Though he tried not to make it obvious, Hermione could tell he was watching her over the top of the newspaper. Was he concerned she wouldn't accept the kind gesture of breakfast? Or was he waiting for her to tuck in because he'd poisoned the eggs? She almost laughed out loud at that thought. There was nothing to fear. He would never hurt her again.
While it might have been entirely in her own imagination, she thought she detected a slight relaxing in his shoulders when she took her first bite. What had he been expecting? Her to test the food in front of him or worse, to throw it in his face? As she chewed in silence, she thought to herself that no one would blame her if she did. His terrible reputation wasn't just a myth. He'd done many terrible things in his past. Maybe he was still doing them. She had no way of knowing what he did when he wasn't watching her from the shadows.
Several minutes passed of an awkward silence between them. Only the sounds of her fork scraping against her plate and his rustling of the newspaper could be heard apart from Crookshanks' unbroken purring. It might have made little sense to an outsider but knowing her cat wasn't afraid of the man helped her feel more confident that she was right not to fear him. Wanting a neutral subject that had nothing to do with the werewolf's true intentions, Hermione gestured to her cat.
"He never lets anyone except me hold him like that."
The twitch of his lips turned into a full-blown grin. Unlike how he'd smiled at her years earlier, it was warm and made her want to smile back. There was something genuine in his expression, something that hadn't been there before.
"Your wee beastie sat on the edge of the bed all night staring at me. He's protective of you. That's good."
She was happy to hear that Crookshanks was so protective. The thought of him fearlessly staring at the werewolf all night almost made her laugh. Very few people in her life had ever truly appreciated her cat. Her friends certainly hadn't. The year she got him almost ended her friendship with them entirely.
Thinking back on third year, she remembered the close bond Crookshanks formed with Sirius Black. Even when they were all convinced that he was still a dangerous murderer, Crookshanks was prepared to defend Sirius with his life, if necessary. Once someone earned her cat's loyalty, they had it for life. Sirius told her more than once in the time he knew her that her cat was a good judge of character. Hadn't he been aware from the very beginning about Peter Pettigrew masquerading as Ron's harmless pet rat Scabbers?
Based on the way he lounged in Fenrir Greyback's lap, he had no fear that they were in danger. Even though he was a werewolf and that fact alone often made smaller animals uneasy, Crookshanks continued to purr and relax. If he felt he could trust him, she knew she wasn't wrong. Her logical side might've been screaming at her to run far away, but she knew there was no reason.
"Thank you for inviting me in last night."
His statement caught her by surprise. Would she ever get used to hearing the sound of his voice? It seemed unlikely.
"Of course. It was too cold to be outside."
He chuckled, a sound so far removed from the terrifying laughter of just ten years earlier that all she could do was stare at him without saying a single word. Was it possible that this man wasn't the same one who led the Snatchers the night they were captured? Had there been some sort of mixup and he had an imposter pretending to be him during the worst night of her life? Nothing about the man seated across the table from her was the least bit like she remembered. It hadn't been that long ago that she couldn't trust her memories.
"I do have a home, you know."
Hermione stopped staring at her guest to focus on her breakfast plate. It was a dare to get her to ask him the questions he knew she wanted to ask. They were both playing an elaborate game that had confusing, ever-changing rules. As much as she might have been tempted to forget her earlier promise to keep her questions to herself for the time being, she refused to take the bait. When she was ready to ask, she would ask. Not a moment before. He wouldn't trick her into doing it sooner.
"That's good to hear. This is a dreadful time of year for one to find themselves homeless."
He chuckled softly again, but didn't say anything else. With his attention returned to the newspaper, Hermione continued eating the breakfast he'd prepared. On the outside she might have seemed serene and entirely at ease with what was happening in her kitchen. On the inside, however, she was anything but. Even more questions and possible scenarios ran through her mind. If he wasn't on the run and had somewhere safe to live, what was his purpose of spending every hour it was dark watching her? It made no sense at all. Nothing about any of it made sense. She went back and forth between wanting to keep the power by not asking and saying damn it all and asking.
Neither of them spoke again while she ate. The silence between them could almost be described as comfortable. She hadn't expected that. Once she shoveled the last bite of eggs into her mouth, she caught a glimpse of the clock above the stove. Between her extra long shower and her reluctance to get out of bed upstairs and then the rare breakfast downstairs, she was late yet another morning that week. Robert was sure to be suspicious if she kept it up. The last thing she needed was for him to come to her home looking for her to find another werewolf at her kitchen table. There would be no containing that secret for very long.
"It's very late. I shouldn't still be here."
She stood up too quickly from her chair. Not one to usually be clumsy, she had to blame her nerves. Her foot caught the edge of the table leg in her scramble. As if everything was suddenly in slow motion, Hermione could feel herself tumbling to the floor to land on her face. What a delightfully humiliating picture that would make!
Except she never hit the ground. With the impressive reflexes that could've only come from his curse, Fenrir was able to leap to his feet to steady her before she fell. His hands held each of her upper arms in such a firm grip that it was easy to feel how strong he actually was. Not enough to hurt her, his touch was just enough to keep her upright. Crookshanks hissed at being so rudely dumped to the floor, but neither of them seemed to even remember his presence. Nor did they appear to be in any hurry to move.
Hermione could hardly breathe with the werewolf towering over her. Though she didn't feel fear, she was consumed with another intense emotion she didn't know how to describe. Only a matter of a few seconds passed with the two of them standing in the middle of the kitchen staring into each other's eyes and with his hands still on her body. It felt much longer. When the moment passed and Hermione's senses returned, she knew she had to get out of there fast. Shrugging her way out of his touch, she turned to rush for the front door without saying a word.
If he followed her outside and to her usual Apparition point, she didn't notice. It didn't matter. She just knew that she had to get away from him as quickly as she could. Only once she arrived at the Ministry out of breath did she feel like a complete and utter fool. She couldn't even explain what had just happened to her inside her home. Remembering she hadn't even stopped running long enough to lock her door, she sighed. What was she thinking inviting him inside? She must've gone completely mad.
Every decision she'd made since she first learned he was alive had clearly been the wrong one. Perhaps her theory that she was under some sort of strange compulsion spell wasn't wrong. Why else would she invite the man to spend the night in the spare bedroom? And how else could she explain the fact that she'd rarely slept so peacefully with the knowledge that he was only a few steps away? It was all complete madness.
"Just getting in, Hermione? That's a bit odd."
Hearing the voice of her ex-boyfriend cutting through her thoughts only made an already terrible morning even worse. She didn't want to see Iain. Her plan was to avoid him as best as she could for the rest of her life. After clearly giving him the wrong signals earlier in the week, she didn't know what else to do. Without even bothering to hide the heavy sigh, she stopped moving towards the lifts.
"Good morning, Iain. Yes, I'm running a little late this morning. Overslept."
"Everything all right?"
Once upon a time she would've appreciated his concern. That morning, however, she wished that he didn't care what happened to her at all. It would make her life easier, something she could use more of.
"Yes, I'm fine, Iain. Thank you. I'm allowed to oversleep from time to time."
The auror stepped backwards from her with his palms outstretched. Immediately she regretted the harsh tone she used. It wasn't his fault he popped back into her life at the absolute worst time.
"I'm sorry. I'll just… have a good day, Hermione."
"Iain, wait…"
Part of her was relieved that he didn't listen to her weak pleas for him to stop moving, but as always, guilt that she'd been so rude overrode those feelings. She watched him disappear into the stairwell next to the lifts. Not once did he stop to look over his shoulder. Sometimes he could be a bit sensitive when his pride was ruffled. Gryffindors weren't the easiest of people to love. At some point she knew they would need to have a discussion about what they did after too much wine. It would be uncomfortable even if it was completely necessary.
Robert appeared to be on the verge of calling for the aurors himself when she finally made it into their office. Pacing what little floor they had, she could sense the moment she crossed the threshold that he was anxious. It wasn't like her to be late. She would have to be more careful around her assistant. He'd been giving her the strangest looks when he thought she wasn't looking. Did he suspect something was off?
"Please tell me you weren't worried about me too, Robert. I forgot to set an alarm this morning."
The lie was easy enough to say. If she wasn't careful, she would find lying to become second nature. She didn't like the secrets, but couldn't see any other way around it. What would Robert or any of the others think if they knew about her silent shadow?
"Was someone else worried about you?"
As she brushed past Robert, she thought she heard a sniff. Based on the location of their grimy office, it wouldn't be a shock if they both died of some sort of horrid mold-related disease. The winter months always made it just a little more unbearable. She tried to keep their spirits up by decorating the walls in cheery pictures of warmer climates, but there was only so much she could do.
"I ran into Iain in the Atrium. He thought it odd that I was just now coming in."
"Oh, I see. Of course that makes sense."
Though he might have seemed as if he believed her explanation, Hermione couldn't shrug the fact that there was more he wished to say. Even as they both took their seats she could still feel Robert looking at her. What did he think he would see if he stared? Nervous to meet his eyes, she finally decided to put some of her own Gryffindor courage to work.
"Are you sure that everything is all right, Hermione?"
Robert's nostrils flared and his eyes looked strange for a brief second before returning to normal. Why did he seem so distressed? It was hardly the first time that she hadn't been there on time. Did he think that… Every muscle in her body tensed as she recalled the feel of Fenrir's hands on her arms just a short time earlier. Was that what had her assistant on edge? Could he smell another werewolf on her body? She couldn't afford to let him suspect anything was wrong.
"Yes, Robert. Everything is fine. I bumped into… Silas Crump outside the Ministry entrance. You remember Silas, don't you?"
"Yes, he's the bloke that refuses to register with the Werewolf Registry. What was he doing here?"
"Well, if you must know, he accosted me. Grabbed me by the arms and demanded we stop sending owls to his flat. I tried to explain to him that it wasn't our department that was bothering him, but you know how stubborn he can be."
It was a plausible lie. There were at least a dozen werewolves they each knew who refused to register for their various reasons. Hermione couldn't exactly blame them as the Ministry of Magic possessed an uncomfortable history with werewolves. Once or twice she'd been stopped on the street by one of the holdouts who wished to express their frustration with the reminders to register owled to them at frequent intervals. Robert appeared to believe the lie even if he didn't say a single word in response. The subject, thankfully, was dropped.
By late afternoon Hermione was no closer to figuring out a solution to her dilemma than she had been when she woke up that morning. Inviting Fenrir inside her home changed everything between them. She knew that they couldn't just go back to acting as if nothing was strange. The time to ask some questions she was sure she didn't want the answer to was rapidly approaching. Even her own Gryffindoric stubbornness couldn't delay it much longer.
A knock on the open door frame of the office came as a surprise to both occupants. Rarely did they get visitors down there who just dropped by without prior warning. Expecting to see poor Pius with another stack of cartons, Hermione looked up with a ready smile. Seeing Iain staring back at her removed it. Knowing he wasn't wanted, her ex-boyfriend tried and failed to pretend as if he wasn't bothered. She knew his mannerisms too well.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"No, of course not, Iain. What can we do for you?"
Emphasizing the word 'we' was just a hollow attempt to make it clear she didn't want to speak to him alone. He was intelligent enough to understand, but Robert was also perceptive enough to know he didn't want to be in the middle of whatever was happening. Reaching for his cloak hanging on a hook on the wall, he made his excuses to leave. It was late enough that he could meet up with his new witch before she left for home. Hermione could've cursed him in the back for abandoning her when she needed him to stay.
"Hermione, can we go somewhere we can talk?"
"What's wrong with right here?"
If they were going to have to have an uncomfortable conversation, they could at least get it over with as soon as possible. There seemed no reason to draw it out.
"I was hoping we could talk over a few drinks."
"That didn't really work out so well for us last time, did it, Iain?"
He sighed, frustration clear. She used to find it charming but it just annoyed her. One more reason she shouldn't have accepted his invitation for a drink. Too many complications for a few minutes of pleasure.
"Did you think the other night was a mistake?"
"I think we both drank too much and we were both lonely and not thinking clearly."
Iain sat on the edge of her desk only centimeters from her chair. The urge to put as much space between them as possible was overwhelming. He sighed again in a much more dramatic fashion when she stood and moved to the opposite corner of the office. Even if he was still close enough to reach out and touch, she wanted distance between them lest she do something foolish again. He'd always been very persuasive when he wished to be. Hadn't he proven that when he kissed her at her front door?
"Maybe you're right, Hermione. Maybe we were both a little drunk and a little lonely, but that doesn't mean we made a mistake."
"Why are you so desperate to try to make more out of this than there really is?"
Sometimes even a respected auror could be a bit sensitive and fragile. Hermione regretted her choice of words almost as soon as they tumbled out of her mouth. With reddening cheeks Iain stood up from the desk.
"I'm not desperate. There's still something between us. You can't deny that."
"No, I can't. There's a past between us. One that was quite lovely at times and perfectly dreadful at others. We don't make each other happy, Iain. Why don't we just agree the other night was a mistake and go back to how it was before?"
He stormed out of her office moments later without uttering a single word. It wasn't the last she would hear from him she was certain. Tenacity, even in insurmountable odds, was another one of the more frustrating traits Gryffindors were cursed with. If anyone knew that painful truth, she did.
Why did Iain have to choose that moment to come back into her life? She had enough complications as it was. Life had rarely been what she might've considered easy, but her recent days felt much more stressful. There was truth to that trite statement 'when it rains, it pours'. Now she just needed to figure out how to make it all stop. One frustration at a time was plenty.
A wave of anger she'd been trying to suppress since the moment Iain entered the office could no longer be held back. Needing something to focus her wrath on, she caught sight of the damned cartons stacked in the corner. Only the size of a single small shoebox thanks to her shrinking spell, they were the chosen target. One stiff kick with all her might would help her feel better, she was sure.
Too late she decided she'd been wrong to wave off Pius' offer to teach her the shrinking spell used in the Archives. Always one to believe she had the correct answer, even after she'd been proven wrong, her own arrogance and self-assuredness prevented her from seeking out the help she could've used in the seconds following her disastrous choice to kick the old, dusty files on werewolves likely long lost dead. Objects became less able to hold a spell or a charm the more often they were cast. It was one of the first lessons she remembered in Professor Flitwick's Charms class. Weakened over time and frequent use, a simple kick removed all traces of the shrinking spell.
The back of Hermione's head caught the edge of her desk with a sharp crack. Cartons of old files exploded all around the tiny office filling up every empty bit of space. Happening too quickly to react in time, she remembered only being pushed backwards by a growing mountain of cardboard. She was surprised to be staring at the ceiling when she opened her eyes again. Had she really hit her head hard enough to black out? Only a few seconds, perhaps a minute passed. A throbbing pain just above her neck was enough to make her vomit. She knew she needed to get home to a healing potion and her bed.
A couple of the expanded cartons had to be pushed off her body before she could even hope to stand up. Torn between wishing Robert was there to help her and relieved he didn't witness her embarrassing tantrum, Hermione somehow managed to roll over onto her knees. She was on the verge of using her desk to help pull herself up when her eyes landed on two very faded words scribbled on the side of one of the blasted cartons: Greyback, Fenrir. None of the other file cartons were labelled with a single name. What could possibly be in his old file that he'd need one all to himself? She didn't dwell too long on her next course of action. Shrinking the entire carton with his name on it, Hermione slipped it into the pocket of her robes. She wanted to look at it in private away from her assistant's knowing, perceptive gaze.
Somehow she managed to get out of the office without being crushed by a falling tower of old parchment. The files would need to be dealt with, but she didn't have the energy. They were problems that could be handled in the morning. She could only focus on the healing potion waiting for her at home. Peacetime made her complacent. When she went everywhere with her enchanted beaded bag, she always had at least a vial or two at hand. There seemed to be no reason to carry the bag around once the war ended.
Sheer stubbornness and determination was all that got her home. It would've been best if she'd asked for help from any of the other Ministry officials she crossed paths with on her way to the employee exit, but her pride kept her from it. She was too embarrassed. How could she explain her injury without looking like a complete fool? Never was she more grateful to walk up to her front door.
Unsurprised to find the front door unlocked after she rushed out of it that morning, Hermione was surprised to hear voices when she stepped inside. Worried that the Muggles who vandalized her house were back, she reached into her pocket for her wand. They weren't going to have a chance to attack her again. Loud familiar laughter and a soft, raspy chuckle put her at ease enough to relinquish her grip on her weapon.
Finding her elderly neighbor Margaret sitting at the kitchen table sipping tea with the notorious werewolf Fenrir Greyback was not something she ever expected to see. In her element sharing old, oft repeated stories with a new person, Margaret didn't have the first clue that her tea companion was someone to fear. Nor did Fenrir give her any reason to doubt her own safety. Maybe it was the bump on her head, but Hermione thought he even appeared to be enjoying himself.
"Oh, dear, I didn't realize I'd been here so long. You were kind enough to let an old woman prattle on, Fen."
Like a proper, well-brought up gentleman, Fenrir offered the elderly woman assistance in getting to her feet. She really was getting too old to be of much help cleaning Hermione's house, but she didn't have the heart to deprive the kind lady of the money she needed and Margaret had too much pride to accept it without attempting to earn it.
"It was a bit of a surprise to find a young man in your house again, dear. A pleasant surprise, but a surprise nonetheless."
Hermione forced herself to smile, ignoring the pain in her head. Her houseguest didn't even try to hide his amused grin. Did he find it funny that he was probably at least the same age, if not older, than the woman calling him a young man or did he find mention of Hermione having a man in her house again amusing?
"I like him much better than Iain. He's much less full of himself."
Margaret waved off any further assistance leaving the house. After a few more pleasantries exchanged, she left Hermione alone once more with Fenrir.
"What's wrong? What happened?"
He closed the distance between them only seconds after hearing the front door close. How could he know something was wrong? She hadn't been there long enough. The lightest touch of his fingertips on the back of her head made her hiss in pain. Showing her drops of red blood on his fingers, Fenrir used his clean hand to gently press her chin until their eyes met. She didn't have to know him well to see he was worried.
"I hit my head. I'm all right. I just need a healing potion."
"It's a wonder you didn't splinch yourself in this condition."
"There's nothing wrong with me."
Trying to push the werewolf's hands away robbed her of her last remaining strength. Feeling dizzy, she swayed on her feet and would've collapsed to the ground if he wasn't there to catch her. Pulling her into his arms, she remembered only hearing him mutter under his breath "There's nothing wrong with me" with a scoff.