Fenrir watched the girl while she slept, wishing that he could puzzle her out just by looking at her. She was curled up in foetal position and snoring softly, although the faint sound was drowned under the other wolves who were sawing logs down the corridor.

Fenrir had tasked Scabior with identifying men who knew what Amortentia was and what it smelled like, to them, and his second had found three – there weren't many wizards amongst Fenrir's pack. They all agreed that the girl was the love potion made flesh, which didn't make any bloody sense. Fenrir had spent most of his time outside to research the matter, notably in London's largest wizarding library, but he'd come up with nothing useful. He would go to Leipzig when he had more time. Their library contained much older records; he might find something relevant there.

Jabbar had recounted what had happened when he'd showed the girl around the place, and what she'd said. It appeared that the girl was avoiding everyone, following that scene. Well, if she wished to cut herself off from everyone else, it was her problem.

The girl roused from her sleep, stretching, and turned around, a hand over her mouth to cover a yawn. She startled when she noticed Fenrir standing there and sat up rigidly, fitting the covers around her until only her head was visible. Fenrir snorted and moved forward, then leaned against the inner wall of her cell, hands in his pockets. "Exactly why do you think I'm here, girl? I'm not interested in you. Not like that."

Her face drained of all colour. "Bloody hell, I hadn't even considered…" She gulped audibly. "Gods, you really are revolting. I just figured, the more body parts I cover, the less likely you are to eat them. I never thought…" She shuddered, but Fenrir guessed that she was just being overly dramatic. Honestly…he'd almost forgotten about it. About eating her – well, parts of her. He'd been so shocked to see her alive that his mind had discarded these minor details. In any case, that night was a bit blurry.

Before he could say anything, however, the girl went on. "Seriously, I just don't get it. It wasn't even the full moon, so you don't have that excuse. I don't understand. Won't you at least explain why you did it? Why me? They're all so certain that there is a rational explanation," she added with a sour twist of her mouth.

"Whether the moon is full or not matters little to me. I was transformed when I bit you," he told her quietly. He chose not to reply to the multitude of other questions – at least for now. Let us see what she makes of that, first.

As he might've expected, she sniffed disdainfully. "Of course," she said flatly. "The godly Fenrir Greyback doesn't need the full moon to turn into a werewolf. Silly me."

Without even bothering to convince her verbally, Fenrir shifted to his wolf form – well, only his head. His clothes wouldn't survive a full transformation, and he'd already ruined one shirt because of her. This would suffice, anyway, judging by her reaction. She gaped at him, fear and disbelief suffusing in her scent. Fenrir shifted back and ran a hand through his hair.

The girl closed her eyes for a second. "It doesn't make any bloody sense," she muttered, likely unaware that Fenrir could hear her quite clearly - and that she was echoing his earlier thoughts. Then her eyes sprang open again, as though she were afraid that he would attack while her eyes were closed. She recovered more quickly than he'd anticipated. In a moment she was all cool contempt again, her lips pursed, though she still looked pale in the poor lighting of her cell. "That doesn't answer my other questions," she noted.

"It was a spur-of-the-moment thing," he said simply. He barely remembered any of it, in fact. Her scent was still sharp in his mind, however. Forcing him onwards to her house, teasing him, summoning him. It was different now, though.

The girl stared at him, mouth slightly ajar, as if the blunt answer had shocked her, but she made no wry remark. "You have to understand – I already told you this – it's your scent," Fenrir went on. "It's…what's the word…alluring? No, no, that's wrong. Compelling. Yes, that's it. Irresistible." He looked down at her. "We've concluded that your scent is like Amortentia. With our enhanced sense of smell, you can imagine the effects."

"Right," she said slowly. "I smelled like a love potion, and that made you want to eat me. Yeah. That seems perfectly reasonable." She scoffed. "Although, to be fair, I'd rather be eaten than…anything else, all things considered."

"Your scent was calling to me," Fenrir continued, ignoring her comment, "and I was miles away from your house, you know. Not even in your town. It literally drove me to your front door. When I got in, however, the scent permeated the whole place. I couldn't tell whose scent it was. I went to your room first, thinking you might be the source, because it seemed stronger there, but I saw that you were a girl and initially dismissed you. I sensed your wand, though, so I removed it from the drawer – a mere precaution. I went to your parents' bedroom, but I didn't think it was them, either. Well, I never considered it might be your mother, of course. I knew that the boy was awake, so I was reluctant to open his door. It didn't seem to be him, though. It was quite confusing. I returned to your parents to compare his scent to your father's, but your mother woke up. I didn't stop to think. I couldn't risk them rousing the whole neighbourhood." Their deaths had been quick. Fenrir couldn't afford the seconds it would take for him to shift, so he'd simply used the Killing Curse. "Afterwards, I heard the boy move and go to you, and I listened to what you were saying, up to the point where you advised him to jump out of the window. I couldn't risk losing him – by that time I had persuaded myself that he was the one I was tracking – so I stepped in." Fenrir paused, considering his next words, but realised that it didn't matter how much he told her. "The scent I was picking up, you see, I could tell it was a werewolf's." The girl frowned. How to explain it to her? "I can tell who can be turned into a werewolf and who cannot. Your scent-"

"That's ridiculous," she interrupted him. "Werewolves don't know if their bite will have the expected effect beforehand. I mean, if they knew…if they've known all along…" Her eyes widened, but she had it all wrong.

"It's just me, girl. It's my special talent," Fenrir said ruefully. In his early years as a werewolf, he'd hoped that the younglings he turned himself might inherit his ability, but none of them had, so far. "I'm not sure what happened next," he went on. "When I walked into your room, I finally understood that you were the one, by contrast to your brother's blander scent – although he had what it takes to be one of us – but the sheer proximity of you, it made me…lose control. I can't rightly explain it," he admitted out loud, for the first time since it'd happened. "Your scent…it urged me to bite you, to turn you, no matter how ridiculous the idea, but once I'd sunk my teeth into your flesh, I couldn't stop myself. Things got out of hand." He smiled in what he hoped was an apologetic manner. He did feel bad; not about biting her, precisely, but about losing control. That should never have happened.

"Are you…trying to imply that it's my fault?" she demanded indignantly.

Fenrir shrugged. If someone had to be blamed… "I've never lost control before. It must be something you did, or perhaps it's just what you are. Either way, it certainly wasn't my fault."

"I can't fucking believe this," the girl grumbled. "And if that's the case, why aren't you raving right now, being so close to me? How am I still in one piece?"

"The…coercive part of the scent…vanished after I was done with you," he said softly. "I assumed it was because you were dying," Fenrir added with a grimace. Granted, she'd been alive when he'd left the house, when his bloodlust or whatever it was had finally dissipated, but no one should have survived the wounds he'd inflicted her. "Now I think that whatever I turned you into must have altered your scent. Perhaps the bloodsucker bite modified it even further." He still didn't know who the mysterious Ancient was. He'd…interviewed several vampires in the past few days, but few of them were even aware of the Ancients' existence, and those who did had never met any of them in person. It had been a complete waste of his time, just like the countless hours spent at the library.

The girl was shaking her head. "Coercive scent or not, I still blame you, wolf. Attacking me because of my scent was one thing, but you butchered my family in cold blood, and I'll see that you pay for that. One way or another, I will," she said fiercely.

Fenrir hadn't expected anything less. He would have felt the same way, had the situation been reversed. In fact, he was quite familiar with the situation, and had indeed reacted as she had. It didn't worry him in the least, however. There was nothing she could do. If she'd considered killing herself, she'd obviously discarded the idea already. Not out of cowardice, Fenrir surmised; if she died alone in her cell, she'd have no way of knowing if her plan had worked, if Fenrir had died with her. She didn't want to die in vain, without the certain knowledge that she'd avenged her family in the process. It seemed to be the only thing that she cared about, vengeance, and Fenrir could relate to the sentiment only too well.

But it was about time he got around to the reason he'd returned to Asgard and come to talk to her in the first place. "Tomorrow's the full moon," he announced lightly. "Well, tonight," he amended. It was nearly five in the morning.

Before he could give her the details, she spoke again. "Where do you get enough Wolfsbane to supply the entire pack?" she asked with a faint scowl.

Fenrir barked a rough laugh. "We don't use that shit," he said scornfully. "It only makes it worse, you know, in the long run. You feel like you're getting used to the inner beast, like you can control it, but if you skip the potion just once… That's when wolves go berserk and start hurting people. Considering the price and difficulty of obtaining the potion, it does more harm than good. We don't have such trouble here in Asgard. My men are disciplined, and they possess the necessary detachment from their werewolf alter ego. They know what they're doing. No human has ever been harmed around here, not by my wolves. Of course, few people ever venture in these parts in the middle of the night," he admitted.

"So what, you just hang out in the prison all night? Marking your territory? Chasing your tails?" she said with a sneer.

Fenrir sighed. Now he could see just what Scabior meant by She's a bloody pain in the arse. She used sarcasm as a coping mechanism. "We hunt, Schatz. There are wards in place in the woods, to make sure Muggles don't stumble upon us, and most wizards know better than to enter a forest during the full moon, especially a reservation. We prey on animals. We take down the occasional troll. We're careful not to harm the unicorns, though. There are too few as it is."

"You just let your werewolves roam the woods freely?" she asked in horror. "All three hundreds of them, at the same time?"

Fenrir nodded. "Genau. Now, it's entirely up to you, but you may want to close the gate of your cell for the night. No one will come anywhere near you, but you may feel safer, I suppose."

"You bet I want the door closed," she said. "All the doors, preferably. Can't you just put the prison under lockdown or something while you're outside?"

He chuckled. "Girl, you are safe here. Even if we decided to remain inside, you'd still be safe." She just couldn't believe that werewolves could be civilised, could she? Maybe he ought to take her with them in the woods. She would see then that they were perfectly able to restrain themselves.

"You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it," she said scathingly, glaring at him.

Fenrir felt the last remnants of his patience dwindle. Come to think of it, it was probably better for her to fear them, and him most of all. She was too cheeky for Fenrir's taste. It seemed a good idea to subdue that part of her. "You will have to watch your tone when you address me, Fratz. I've allowed your impudence long enough. I've done what I could to make you feel at home here, the least you can do is be civil in return."

"At home?" she repeated incredulously. "I have no home, thanks to you," she snapped at him. "And what if I don't comply, huh? What are you going to do about it? Repeatedly stab yourself in the liver?" she said crookedly. "I will get used to the pain, eventually."

She hadn't looked so confident the other day, when he had stabbed himself in the liver. Fenrir gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment. He certainly wasn't about to do anything of the sort. He had only so many shirts, after all. "Maybe I'll consider another form of torture," he said idly. "The kind you hadn't considered until very recently, perhaps? Would you get used to that, you pretty little thing?"

That shut her up, at least.