Fenrir grimaced when he picked up the newcomer's scent. What the fuck did he want?

A middle-aged man entered his office a moment later, without bothering to knock. He carried himself proudly, rigidly. His features were plain, with a square jaw and a large forehead. He sported a well-trimmed white beard that contrasted with his deeply tanned skin.

"Well, well," Fenrir said with a smirk, "if it isn't Elephant Man himself."

"Your sense of humour never ceases to amaze," the other werewolf replied blandly.

"What do you want, Barca?" Fenrir growled.

"It's Whiptail to you, cub. I'm here to pass along a warning. We cautioned you last time, Greyback. You must forget these inane notions that your misguided maker instilled in you. It isn't our way. We use the gift to turn, not to kill. We have the ability to recognise those who can be transformed safely, and it is therefore our responsibility to use it for that purpose, and that purpose only. With moderation." He must be referring to the attack on that Half-blood family two nights ago. Fenrir snorted in disbelief. He'd followed the guidelines, burn the man. It was hardly his fault that the little boy hadn't survived the bite – even he couldn't predict that. The kid had the spark, but he'd been too weak to be transcended. It happened. It was hardly worth making a fuss, let alone showing up at Asgard with a formal admonition.

"We tolerate the fact that you serve the dark wizard – although few of us approve – but some things simply won't be allowed," the man who had once been known as Hannibal Barca said in a chastising tone. Fenrir had never known anyone so tedious. He was even worse than Moonsinger. And those idiotic epithets… Bloody hell. Fenrir often felt like he was the only sane one among them. "Tread carefully, cub. We wouldn't want to have to put you down. There are too few of us as it is, and we've already had to distance ourselves from your maker."

"I don't serve Voldemort," Fenrir barked fiercely when Barca finally stopped rambling. "I serve us. All werewolves. I serve our cause. What's the point of using the gift and turning so many, if they have no rights, if they're constantly persecuted? As their betters, we have a responsibility toward them and, as far as I can see, I'm the only one who's doing anything about the situation." Verdammt! It was one thing to hear that sort of talk from the girl, but from a supposed…well, not a friend, not quite, but from a fellow werewolf…it was frustrating.

Scheiße, Fenrir thought suddenly. Do they know about the girl? Whiptail might have detected her scent when he'd walked inside the building; it stood out, even amongst that of the hundreds of wolves gathered in Asgard.

If the older man had sensed anything out of the ordinary, however, he didn't mention it. "Heed my words, Greyback," Barca exhorted him. "Our patience has its limits." With that, he turned on his heels and marched out of the room.

They were unto him. Fenrir would have to be careful, that much was certain. He didn't have his maker to protect him, this time, and he had no other ally amongst his own kind.

The girl was his. Whatever happened, he wouldn't let them have her – at least not until he'd figured out what she was.

There had been no incident during the first full moon Evey had spent at Asgard. No werewolf had wandered inside the building – or at least, nowhere near Evey's cell. She'd heard faint howls coming from outside, but that had been the extent of it.

After their latest conversation and Greyback's threats, Evey had decided that it would be wiser to keep her mouth shut around the Alpha. He might have been bluffing, but he was the one who could – supposedly – sniff out lies, not her. In any case, she hadn't seen much of him since that day.

She'd resolved to give another try to befriending the other werewolves. She'd taken a seat at Jabbar's table a few days after the full moon – Greyback had warned her that everyone might be a little cranky for a while – and had been relieved when he'd simply engaged in cheerful small talk. Evey had hoped that she might change their minds about Greyback after recounting the details of their conversation about the night her family was murdered, but they merely looked troubled. They hadn't commented on her story, but perhaps it would at least cause them to question their Alpha and his supposed righteousness. Anything Evey could do to undermine Greyback was potentially profitable to her.

Now, a month and a half into her captivity, Evey had been adopted by most of the pack. She wasn't sure what influence she might have over them, but at least they weren't afraid of her anymore. She had been stunned to learn that that was why they'd been reluctant to talk to her. How could they be afraid of her? She was utterly helpless, unable to do any magic, and only a smidge bigger than the kids.

Evey had enquired further about the exact nature of the werewolves' alliance with Voldemort. It was clear that they resented him – Greyback included – and she was therefore curious to know what had initially led the Alpha to strike a deal with the dark wizard. As it turned out, it hadn't started out that way at all.

Croyd explained that Voldemort had captured Greyback during the early days of the First War, although how he had managed that remained obscure. Black magic had been involved, assuredly. Back in those days, Voldemort took what he wanted by force. It probably never occurred to him that he could make a deal with the werewolves until it was pointed out to him much later – by Greyback himself.

Voldemort wanted to study werewolves, to experiment on them, to make them his own creatures, and Greyback was, by all accounts, the most fearsome of them all. Voldemort had had several of his partisans search for a way to neutralise him, to control him. Croyd and his mates had sniggered at that. As if anyone could tame the Alpha, they'd said derisively. As the Death Eaters made no progress, the project was eventually discarded and Greyback was left in a cell to rot. Security around him grew lax. Wards weren't kept in place as they should have been. Greyback escaped, mangling eight Death Eaters in the process, only to make his way to Voldemort. He proposed a deal: to lend his services to the wizard in exchange for his promise that werewolves would be given equal rights once Voldemort ruled over England. Soon after that incident, Croyd went on, Voldemort's methods of recruiting had become somewhat more diplomatic, thanks to Rookwood and that Scottish bloke he sent out to enlist magical beings and creatures. Walden, Evey thought ruefully. Croyd said that he'd met Walden himself and, although he was obviously not doing this of his own free will, or not entirely, he certainly had a knack for it.

Evey had expected another visit from Greyback before the second full moon, but it was Scabior who came to find her. She was in the yard, playing basketball with a few werewolves – Evey was all but useless, but whatever outdoors activity they picked, they were all faster and stronger than she was. She'd always been a sore loser, but was quickly learning to accept defeat with a smile. She didn't have much choice.

"Fenrir wants to see you," Scabior grumbled. Everyone had interrupted what they were doing when Greyback's second had entered the courtyard, and they all kept their eyes on the ground, just like they did whenever the Alpha was around. Evey was getting used to that and was slowly figuring out how their hierarchy worked. Well, hierarchy seemed a fancy word for it. The way they explained it, or tried to, it sounded more like they'd had a pissing contest and thus determined who was more "dominant".

Men. Evey had laughed it off, but she suspected that it was close to the truth.

When she entered Greyback's office, however, she fixed the Alpha straight in the eyes. She would be civil – to the best of her ability – but she would not lower her eyes. She would not give him the satisfaction.

It only made him chuckle. "You do realise that it doesn't matter if you do that, don't you?" he asked with blatant amusement. "I don't expect proper respect from anyone outside the pack, and even less from you. It doesn't make you look defiant, if that's what you were hoping to achieve."

Evey made no reply. She had not realised that. From the shocked – and sometimes frightful – glances she received from some werewolves whenever she glared at Scabior, it seemed to have the desired effect, as far as she was concerned. But Scabior was not Greyback.

"Anyway," the Alpha went on in a more business-like tone, "you know that the full moon is approaching, but that doesn't really concern you. Scabior will lock you up, if you want." He made a dismissive gesture. "What I wanted to ask is the name of the so-called Ancient that the Order of the Phoenix is currently harbouring."

Did he, now? And that after dismissing the matter when Evey had first arrived here. He must have tried to puzzle it out on his own and failed.

"Does Dumbledore know what she is?" he went on. "And for that matter, how much do you know, exactly?" She. He still believed that the Ancient was a woman. But why was he suddenly asking after Antonin? Had something happened? Evey had no idea what was going outside of the prison. Although, if Greyback was mentioning the Order and Dumbledore, it hopefully meant that they were still operating.

"You can do whatever you want to me, I will never tell you who she is." Evey seized the opportunity to comfort him in his idea that it was indeed a woman, like most Ancients. How did Greyback even know about them? Perhaps Tony shouldn't feel so guilty about accidentally spilling out secrets – he clearly wasn't the only one with a loose tongue. "I mean it. I won't tell you anything about her," she said firmly, feeling a lot less confident than she let on. She did her best to keep her expression blank, but wasn't certain how successful she was. Truth be told, she had no idea how much pain and degradation she could withstand. And Greyback could probably tell that she was bluffing, anyway, just from the subtle increase of her heartbeat, or whatever it was that gave a lie away. "I'll tell you how much the others know if you answer one question, though," she went on in an attempt to deviate the conversation.

He arched an eyebrow. "And what would that be? Not that you're in a position to negotiate, but I'm curious."

Now that the moment had finally come to ask the dreaded question, Evey hesitated. But she had to know. "When you captured me at the Ministry, you said There goes Macnair. You said it as if he were dead. But he's not, is he?" She couldn't help her voice from rising slightly. She'd wanted to ask him that for weeks; she'd investigated among the rest of the pack, but they didn't know anything.

Greyback frowned, obviously taken aback by the question. "He's dead, alright," he said slowly. "Blasted by a Killing Curse. He was dead before he hit the floor." His face was utterly devoid of emotion as he told her that her fiancé was dead.

Evey closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. Don't cry, she admonished herself. Don't let him see how much it hurts. Don't show weakness. She didn't have any reason to believe him, anyway. She wouldn't believe, not until she saw for herself. It was still a hard blow. She shook away the images of Walden sprawled motionless on the cold stone floor that assailed her mind and opened her eyes, which remained mercifully dry. "Fine," she said crisply. "I don't know how much Dumbledore knows. I haven't seen him since…" She thought about it for a moment. "…not since I woke up after our initial encounter, actually." A year, or near enough. Had it really been that long? "The other members of the Order never mentioned it, nor made any remark that might lead me to believe that they know."

"But you know," Greyback stated. Evey nodded curtly. It wasn't really a question, anyway. "Alright. Let's put your imaginary defiance to the test, then, if you insist," he said as he stood and picked up a sharp-looking knife. No blunt letter opener this time. This time, it wasn't a mere warning.

Bloody hell, he's really going to do it, isn't he? Evey thought in dismay. He seriously intended to harm himself in order to make her talk. She closed her eyes once again and, for the first time in her life, she prayed. Not to any modern, Muggle god, but to all of the ancient ones. The ones who actually existed. Give me strength. Give me courage. Give me-

The pain soon wiped out any thought or prayer from her mind.