A/N: I wanted to write something new and dark (surprise surprise) so when I saw the DHr Monsterfucking Mini Fest on Tumblr, I jumped at the chance to take a brief break from TEOAL and WWKOW to write a oneshot (which basically turned into a short story). Thanks to senlinyu and heavyliesthecrown for organizing this!
Non-con +dub-con ahead. mind-control. dark in general. Draco is an evil bastard. No redemption/happy ending whatsoever. Gore elements. Mentions of child-death and lots of talk of murder. Breeding kink. Religious themes. Human sacrifice. Graphic description of injuries from fire.
If you're familiar with my works, this pretty much goes the same way. We got another Dead Dove fic. Don't like? Don't read. If you're not into non-con, possessive/toxic Draco, and violence and a little bit of gore in general, do not continue!
I don't really have a specific time period in mind for when this is set. All I know is it ain't that modern. Hermione is a Muggle here, and Draco is an evil bastard of a wizard who was turned into a werewolf and terrorizes villages for fun. Enjoy!
(ARTWORK FOR THIS FIC, CREATED BY YOURS TRULY, CAN BE SEEN ON THIS SAME STORY BUT ONLY ON ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN. Find me there under the same username to see it.)
He had first spotted her walking up the road, just as the sun had begun to dip gracefully closer to the horizon. He had stopped, sniffed the air, and followed. Watched her from afar. Followed as she made her way back to the village, and by then his curiosity was too much to resist, her scent too tempting to ignore.
He could have let her by. He did not normally kill women. He had other uses for them. He had seen the other women of the village from afar, and never given them a second look. But he was so much closer to this one. His mouth watered as he stalked her through the tall grass. Her stays and skirt were richly colored, demanding his attention, never letting him lose sight of her. He watched her walk, clearly deeply embedded in some human concern he probably wouldn't care about. Likely, he was the main factor.
The village was not far away. The sky was not yet dark.
By now he had established his pattern. She probably thought she had enough time to get home safely.
She was wrong.
The wolf that had slaughtered dozens upon dozens of sheep and cattle by now had previously been known to only come at nighttime. Hunters in its pursuit had been found gutted, carelessly thrown away in the fields or the main road. Others were never found. The village people had heard distant howls; hunters had occasionally seen movements of a massive beast prowling through the tall grass at night. When they had shot at it, it had appeared not to notice at all, and not even take any damage. This had been going on for several months, and the ordeal took toll after toll.
They had tried everything. Traps. Hunting parties. Poison. None of them ever worked. At the start, when it had not yet sunk in to the villagers how deep this problem would become, they had joked amongst themselves that the wolf seemed to be uncommonly clever, to manage to avoid every single trap they set for it.
The local priest had been heavily consulted from the start. He had offered prayers for the village and they had made offerings to appeal to their god, who they must have displeased in some fashion to send this monster upon them. The shrine at the church boasted the most exotic flowers they could find or afford, the richest foods, valuables of all kinds, and at any time one went in to add their offering, a handful of villagers could be found there, prostrate in prayer at the feet of the crucified wooden icon that stared down at them impassively, as if to say I am not moved.
When the first child had been found mauled in the field, a mob had formed within seconds, and in the waxing hours of dawn they had gathered more men and ammunitions to tear the thing apart once and for all while the grieving parents had rushed the body to the church.
The mob had found nothing but a trail of huge paws that led them to a clearing about a half-mile away, and then stopped with no other trace, not even a scent. The prints were larger than any of their own feet—it horrified them. When they got back to the village, the information spread like fire in a dry field, and it was universally agreed upon that this was no wolf but a demon that harangued the poor village.
Another mauled body was found, and then another. They were both men, and both had shotguns with them at their death—useless, apparently, to a beast who could gut you with no trouble and disappear when it wanted. They had been found outside their homes, as if they had heard a strange noise and rushed out to defend their families, and met their god instead.
The demon appeared to have an insatiable appetite and killed at random—it sometimes ate from each of the livestock it slaughtered, and other times, it ate none at all, which baffled them. They continued to find its prints here and there, but never a solid enough trail to truly track it well, and the hounds, when brought out, followed the tracks until they stopped, and then they themselves stopped and brayed at nothing in confusion.
The farmers and the livestock herders feared for their livelihoods—what perplexed them the most was that they had managed to raise a tall fence around a portion of their land to house their animals in at night, tall enough that even a beast of this supposed size could not overcome. They had added two doors with standard locks. To their horror, the very day after the fence had been completed, they awoke to half the population of sheep and cattle dead on blood soaked ground.
What was there to do against such an evil? Folk began to fear that there was no escape. Those who had the means took off to other villages with their families and as much as they could load into wagons, and their animals herded, following behind—always in the daytime, under the safety of the sun. Those who could not afford to leave prayed harder, dabbed their doors with concoctions of oils thought to ward away evil. Others used blood.
Still, the beast came and went.
The priest was found dead in late September. His body lay face down in the apse, and when the people who had found him propped him up, a gruesome expression of such horror and bewilderment had frozen his face that they shrouded his face, too, before he was buried. No wounds had been found on his corpse. It was hotly debated whether he had suffered a heart attack or if he had encountered the demon itself and been struck to death by fear. The hounds had sniffed the scene but found nothing again. There began whispers that the demon could turn invisible, and that was how it was getting around so easily. Somebody suggested that the beast was actually a shapeshifter, and was laughed from the room, for while they were superstitious and believed in gods and angels and demons, magic was where they drew the line.
A new priest was quickly ushered in but by then the village folk had begun to doubt his words and prayers. Too much had been lost. The flowers at the shrine were no longer replaced daily, and thus began to rot.
By now it was long-established protocol to always be home before nightfall. Women always had to go in pairs or groups wherever they went, and gifts of silver daggers, knives, and other charms and trinkets made to ward off evil had become common. No man ever went out without his gun. Many still carried bibles with them.
It was conceivable, looking back, that the creature might escalate its behavior. Considering the fact that it had met no real opposition of yet, it made sense that something would inevitably change, as all things must. But the ordeal had lasted the better part of a year by then, and the villagers had long gone numb to the horrors they faced daily—almost complacent. If their god had abandoned them, then there was nothing to do but accept their fate.
Not all agreed on this point, however.
A more zealous minority had argued that a larger sacrifice had to be made. What good were flowers and baubles to a deity? If their god was testing them to this scale, they had to respond in kind to show their devotion and repentance: the only way forward was human sacrifice.
This had horrified the rest, initially. Heated debates went on all over the place for weeks, and the morality of such an act was brought up again and again. Cooler heads prevailed, and the topic was dropped.
Until the second priest was found dead in exactly the same manner as the first.
Surrounding regions had long since been aware of the plight of these people and offered their condolences, a word of advice or two, and gone about their business, largely avoiding that area if their travels took them in that direction. Higher powers had been contacted, begged for assistance. Upon receiving and reading the letters, the powers in question merely laughed at their pleas, mocked them for not being able to deal with one common wolf. They didn't bother to reply.
Another priest could not be persuaded to move to this unfortunate village and replace the second.
One of the zealots took matters into his own hands and appointed himself the role, meeting with little resistance from the others, who were grateful for any sort of leadership, and believed his controversial beliefs would not be brought up again.
They were wrong. He made the appeal over and over until the number of those who were in favor began to overlap those against. And the very moment he realized he had the majority, he put it to a vote and thus it was established, to the horror of those who had loudly opposed it: the god would have their sacrifice, and it would be the answer to their troubles.
The congregation had sat in silence, some furious, some excited, some frightened, to hear this new priest decide how it would be done.
He said he would pray for guidance on how to choose correctly, and upon their next meeting, would announce the results.
There was no time for reaction and mingling after the service—it had gone on longer than usual, and the sun was halfway down—all hurried to their homes.
Except one.
It was true that the sky was growing darker, but the young woman was quick of foot and got to her destination rapidly, found the headstone she sought and knelt there, pressing her head to the ground. The tears she had repressed during the service broke free now and ran down her face, dripping into the ground.
"What has this come to, mother?"
The headstone was small, engraved with a name and a death year that predated the demon's arrival. She had died on the year of her daughter's twentieth birthday.
"They've all gone mad. They talk of sacrificing someone! I should have left with Sophia when her family offered to take me, but I couldn't leave you here by yourself."
She cried there for as long as she dared, every precious minute ticking down in her mind, highly conscious of the time she would need to go back home.
She kissed the stone, having made up her mind. A sudden breeze started, stirring her hair. She clutched at the grass, her mind racing.
"I'll go. First thing in the morning. The wagon is still broken and I can't afford to have it fixed, but I'll walk if I have to. I'll come back when it's safe. I promise. I love you."
She stood, brushed herself off, gave one last, fearful look at the headstone, and turned, walking quickly through the uneven terrain and out of the little cemetery.
She was halfway to the village and the home she had once shared with her now deceased mother when a curious noise stopped her in her tracks.
It was a blend of a sigh and a hum, with the tonality of sudden interest; so distinctly human she almost screamed, not having expected anybody else to be nearby. The road was empty ahead and empty behind her. Only fields of tall grass surrounded her, swaying in the wind.
Caution bade her to keep moving anyway, and her hand instinctively went into her pocket, folding around the hilt of her silver dagger. She had strong legs, and took long, quick strides. She had just convinced herself it had been a trick of the wind when the hairs at the back of her neck raised suddenly.
Cold sweat trickled down her back.
Something was watching her.
She was in the middle of the road—if she looked ahead she could see the first houses on the fringes of the village—yes, there lived Tom, the blacksmith, and that little house with the brown-tiled roof was where Adrianna lived with her husband Finn.
She walked harder. Her house was in the middle of the village, and she would be safe soon if she hurried.
The breeze had grown stronger, and when she dared take her eyes off the road to look up, the sky was still half-light. The waning sunlight still illuminated enough of the way that she felt a mixture of relief and confusion.
It isn't night yet. Not completely. There's still hope.
"You shouldn't be outside, maiden," came a smooth, low voice.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
Something rustled suddenly in the tall grass to her left and she jumped, moving instinctually to the right, her breath catching in her throat. Her dagger was out at once, held by both her shaking hands out in front of her. Her heart raced.
"Oh, god," she whispered. She took another step back, but her legs shook so badly she stumbled. "Who speaks?"
There was no reply.
She scanned the area she had heard the voice come from, her brows furrowed, her dagger still raised. She thought she saw a flash of movement but with the wind so strong, it might have been nothing at all.
Something screamed at her to run. Nobody was ever out at this hour except the hunters sometimes, and if this were one of them he would not be hiding from her, and never in the tall grass, where the beast was known to lurk.
If I run, it will chase me.
She was fast but knew there was no hope against a beast of this power…a beast that could talk, apparently. But it couldn't be. Her only hope was to stand her ground and fight back, if there would even be a chance to. It might launch itself out from the grass and kill her before she could even think to scream.
No, best not think too much on that yet. She cleared her throat, spoke more loudly, made sure her voice was firm as if she were not afraid.
"Who speaks? I know you're there."
There was more movement then and this time beyond a doubt it was not the wind, because it moved in the opposite direction it blew, and from between two thick bunches of tall grass, in the darkness between a yellow eye appeared and stared at her.
Her knees went weak. She almost dropped her dagger.
Demon. What sort of wolf has eyes like that?
"You should not be outside, maiden," it repeated, its delivery horrifyingly playful though the voice had gone deeper. "For now I have seen and smelled you I will not forget you."
There was the sound of a deep inhale and a slow exhale following after. A ragged sigh. The eye did not blink. It did not break its stare, and stunned, the maiden could not look away.
"Why are you alone?"
She shook her head, uncomprehending. That eye...
"I—"
"No matter. It has been some time since I came upon a lone woman. They urged you all to lock yourselves up at night, didn't they? Like precious hens in your coops. As if mere wooden doors could stop me. I satisfied myself with your hunters. Let the women hide. I saw them all move around in their packs. I wanted none of them. But now…"
He inhaled again, and a light growl emitted from the darkness.
She couldn't reply. Fear gripped her throat.
"Come to me," it said in a low purr, "pretty maiden. Tell me your name."
"Hermione," she whispered against her will. A tear fell from her eye. There was a strange magic in its yellow eye that compelled her to obey although she had been about to lie.
"Come into the grass, Hermione," the creature said, savoring her name in a way she didn't care for. "You need not fear me yet."
She took one step forward. Another. The creature still had not blinked, and neither had she—the horror in her mind had been pushed back, made distant at its order. The only thing that mattered was to obey.
"Please," she managed to whisper. She tried hard to blink, but it was as if her eyelids had frozen. "I don't—how? Let me go."
"Lower that toothpick," it said. "That can't harm me. I'll use it to pick between my teeth."
"No—"
She clung to it as hard as she could, though one by one her fingers began to slacken their hold. She struggled internally against the beast's bizarre hold.
"What are you?" she breathed.
"Wizard, werewolf, demon," it replied nonchalantly. "Take your pick."
She tried to picture what the rest of it looked like. All she could see was the yellow eye and a wide, sharp smile.
"Why can't you just leave us alone?" Two fingers left curled around the hilt of the dagger. It had been over a minute since she had blinked, but her eyes didn't feel dry or even try to blink automatically. She couldn't even shake her head to look away. "We did nothing to deserve what you've done."
"I've had my fun, it's true," it replied smugly. "Why do I do this? It's fun, that's why. What else is an outcast like me supposed to do?"
There was a bark of laughter.
"They say the child spurned by the village that raises it, in turn burns the village."
The grass was shifting—the beast was coming closer. She couldn't back away.
"The village that shunned me after the attack that made me what I am now lies in ashes. But I found it wasn't enough."
The thought of her own village, already at its wits end, going up in flames had her knees buckling.
"Please," she said hurriedly. "We'll give you anything—"
"Anything?" came the amused reply.
"—if you promise to leave and not come back."
"Would you surrender your life to me, then, if that was the price I asked?"
Her pulse stuttered.
The eye gleamed.
"You regret your words now, I see. Did you think coin or silks would tempt me? I met your priests. The first one offered to pray for my soul, he urged me to repent. Promised me salvation... What need do I have of salvation? When I showed him what I can do, he died of fear. The second one died because he also offered to save my soul. I told him to stop breathing."
He laughed again, and then ruminated.
"Things have been getting dull. I would probably have left within a month—I figured I had bled you all long enough. I would have gone without a fuss. But now that I've found you, lovely, delicious maiden, I'm tempted to stay longer."
She was crying more freely now.
"No crying," he ordered. Her lip still trembling, her tears slowly ceased. "I told you there's no need for fear yet. Surrender yourself to me and I will leave this place at once."
Her head spun. Why had she insisted on coming out here? It could have waited until morning. It should have waited until morning. Had she not been so bullheaded she could have been safe at home this very moment, with her main concern being what she would have for dinner.
"No!" But she had taken another step forward, to her horror.
He laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound.
And then he straightened, stepped out of the grass.
The first thought that registered in Hermione's thoughts was that he was human. Or, had the appearance of a human, because his eyes were definitely not. They were both yellow, and they almost glowed in the darkness.
The second thought came as a cold realization that darkness had fully descended in the time this event had taken so far. Her heart dropped down to her feet.
The third thought that came was that he was massive. She thought of the paw prints she had seen—if he was this big as a "human" then he was probably bigger as a wolf. All her life here she had been teased over her height, considered too tall amongst the other village women, who were on the shorter than average side, but this man was like to crack his head open if he tried walking into any of these houses without minding the clearance of the doors.
She couldn't stop staring. He was broad, densely muscled but lean and pale with long white-blond hair that fell in wild curls that almost touched his shoulders. He was rough with stubble, scarred just about everywhere, and emanated a wickedness that made her skin crawl. He wore nothing except for a pair of ragged pants that had been cut down at the knee, and his forearms were hairy, half-covered with a gray-white fur. She looked for a tail but could not see one, looked closely at the features of his face for a more clear sign of his lycanthropy. If he put on a hat and normal clothes and walked about in the street, she never would have given him a second thought—except for his size and clear strength.
These observations helped calm her somewhat. She found the strength to speak.
"You don't look like a werewolf."
A smile spread across his face.
He was beautiful—savage, from the look in his eyes. From the way he held himself she knew he was aware of the effect his presence and might had on those unfortunate enough to encounter him, and it was clear that he relished it very much. She knew without a doubt he could gut her without a second thought or even remorse, and her throat ran dry as he approached her slowly, assessing her as much as she assessed him, but his stare was not so much disinterested. There was a dangerous heat in his eyes as he stared, and he was smirking as he stopped before her. She had gone red, feeling somehow dirtied from his lewd appraisal, and wished she had thought to bring a cloak.
"Maiden, if I was always in my animal form, I would have been found immediately. I was born human and like to stay that way to observe my prey and walk among you. This village is so bloody small, though, I never got the chance."
"What's stopped you from just killing us all at once?" she asked.
"It's not as fun, doing it all in one go. I like to draw it out." He cocked his head, appraised her again. "Somehow I get the sense I've disappointed you."
He finally blinked, and she tore her gaze away, slammed her eyes shut.
If she was going to die, she might as well be candid.
"I've never seen a werewolf before. I expected more."
"Are my eyes not enough?" he asked, and she knew he was grinning again. He had come closer, she could tell. She edged backwards again, opening her eyes and focusing on his throat. He had been taking another step forward, and stopped. "Those I can't explain. They became that way after I was initially turned. The werewolf that turned me abandoned me immediately after, but I know his eyes weren't the same. I suppose I just got lucky."
"Can you speak in your animal form?"
"You ask a lot of questions." But he sounded pleased.
"I told you I've never seen or met a werewolf before. If you're going to kill me, the least you could do is answer a few questions."
He cocked his head again.
"I'll answer all the questions you want. I'll even transform just for you. But first I'm going to take you home. Now drop that stupid dagger once and for all."
Home?
But there was no time to process that. A shot rang out suddenly, making the werewolf turn, startled, and Hermione flinched, hearing something whizz past a few feet away.
Another shot rang out and he grunted, reacting as if a dog had just nipped him. Suddenly furious, he looked down at the back of his thigh and reached into the wound, pulled out a bullet, and let it drop to the ground. She stared, transfixed, as the wound began to heal immediately and close back up.
There were shouts up ahead. She thought she recognized the voices. They were coming to help her! She almost slumped to the ground in relief but resisted. He was still very close, and very much a threat. There would be time to fall over and have her hysterics once she got home…if she could manage to get away, first.
Those precious seconds of broken eye contact freed Hermione at last, and grasping her dagger firmly again, remembered just in time not to meet the demon's eye again. She stared at his mouth instead. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, and his teeth were so sharp she almost recoiled.
"Look at me," he growled. She fought back a shudder. "Don't you dare move."
An idea struck. She pretended to freeze, and locked her gaze between his eyes, on the bridge of his nose.
The voices were getting louder. She heard them calling her name. It sounded like they were calling her to move away—they were planning to shoot again and didn't want her in the crossfire.
But if she moved now, she would lose her chance.
The demon leaned forward, caught her chin in his grip, angled her head back to stare at her better.
"Don't you play games, girl," he growled. His other hand pressed against the small of her back, yanked her roughly to him so her front collided with his chest. She gasped, braced herself against his chest with one hand. "There's no getting away, I promise you."
"Release me!"
He gave her a sharp shake.
"Look. At. Me."
With her other hand, she raised her dagger and slashed at his eyes.
He let her go at once, a scream of rage and pain pouring from his throat so loudly that it rattled her teeth. He doubled over but realized his mistake and grasped her skirt just before she could run. There was a loud tear and she screamed, falling as he yanked her back with so much force he tore her skirt clean off, and she was left with her petticoat exposed. It was already wet with his blood, and as he crawled atop her blindly, his enraged face a horror of gore and spraying blood. She felt it rain down on her skin and fought the urge to vomit. Her vision swam with shock.
He tried locating her wrists to restrain them, but unable to see, failed. He settled for planting his palm onto her abdomen, putting some of his weight onto it, effectively pinning her to the ground. She struggled to breathe.
"Clever girl," he said, grinning. "So much will in you. I'll destroy it all."
Annoyance cut through her terror.
"I'm a woman, not a girl, you flea-ridden imbecile."
She turned her head to avoid the inevitable shower of blood and slashed again blindly. She felt something give away beneath the blade and he let out another enraged scream, letting her go.
She rolled onto her side, kicked her legs wildly to rid herself of the mangled fabric of her skirt, pushed herself up and ran as fast as she could, the dagger still held tight in her hand. She felt rather than saw him reaching wildly for her again, and barely managed to avoid his grasp. There was blood getting into her eyes, half-blinding her. His scream had morphed into a howl that followed her like a death knell. More shots rang out. There was shouting up ahead as she went, sobbing, plunging headfirst into the crowd.
"He's running!"
"Did anyone hit him?"
"Where did he go? Go after him!"
"Hermione!"
There were arms around her and she automatically struck out again with the knife, barely avoiding cutting off somebody's sleeve.
"It's just us, Hermione! You're safe!"
She nodded, barely able to form words.
"Are you alright?"
She couldn't answer. Someone carefully tried to take her dagger. She refused to let it go, and they backed off.
"Can't you see she's in shock? Let her hold it."
"Quick, get inside before it comes back!"
"The rest of you, go find its trail!'
She was ushered to her house upon her insistence, as they'd wanted to take her directly into the nearest house.
She had told them everything, repeating the sequence of events at least four times before the night was through, and they had asked what felt like hundreds of questions in between. By then she had changed her clothes, washed the blood off her skin, wrapped herself in her thickest blanket. Somebody had made her tea. They had crowded the inside of her small home, fevered with the first true sighting and the tale of her encounter.
"He said he was a wizard, a werewolf, and a demon. I know how it sounds. I know."
"Enormous. Taller than anyone here. I don't think he's human."
"I saw the wound heal. It happened immediately."
"Look, I don't know how, all I know is he could control me with his eyes. I can't explain it. He told me to drop my dagger and go with him...I nearly did."
"I'm telling you, he said he was all three."
Eventually somebody asked what had been on Hermione's mind since she had calmed down somewhat.
"Why was he out so early?"
"I don't know," she said. "He was watching me from the grass. I don't know how long he'd been there, or if he'd been following me. He just started talking."
"This is unusual," the priest said, and for the first time Hermione realized he was there. "Many of his previous attacks have been much later than this. Why strike now?"
"I think he got bored," was all Hermione could say. And he said he'd been ready to leave until he saw me.
But she didn't say that out loud. It would mean nothing good for her, considering what had just happened before she'd encountered the demon. The priest would need no prayer to conclude the obvious: if the creature had said it would leave only if she surrendered, he would have her restrained, cast outside into the tall grass like a scrap for the local stray dog.
This went on until well into the morning, and Hermione was finally left alone and slept through the day, but not until she'd made sure each and every door and window of her small house were locked and covered.
She slept deeply at first, then more fitfully as she gradually awakened. When she finally sat up, she felt no better than the night before. The dread she had felt upon the encounter had not yet left, and so she did not leave her house that day.
Since her mother's death she had managed to support herself through the modest inheritance she had been left and made her living by teaching at the local schoolhouse. It was a meager income but enough to get by, until the demon had arrived. The school was on the fringes of the village, where the grass fields were; most children were allowed to walk to school on their own in pairs or groups, sometimes accompanied by adults, but crime had never really been a problem here so it wasn't until the first little corpses had begun appearing that parents stopped letting their children out as much, day or night, and homeschooling became popular for those who had spare time and energy. Hermione had taught a group of children whose parents worked and couldn't do it for a time. Three of those children had been the ones murdered by the demon. It had affected her deeply, and she had decided to take a break—a week or so.
That break would end in a few days, and she was not sure she wanted to continue. It had been on her mind all this time. She had toyed with the idea of leaving. Her best friend, Sophia, had been one of the first to leave. Her family was wealthy and had wagons enough to hoist their belongings and large family and Sophia, worried for Hermione, who lived alone, had pleaded for her to join them. Hermione had declined, not wanting to leave her mother behind even if she was dead, and back then the situation had been early enough that she secretly thought the people who were moving away were overacting and that this wolf menace would be gone within a week or so.
How wrong she had been.
They still wrote to each other, and each time Hermione debated whether or not she should ask if they could send someone for her. She knew Sophia wouldn't hesitate, but Hermione hated the thought of being a nuisance to her family for changing her mind months later and using their resources for an escape—costly resources she wouldn't be able to pay back quickly.
But that break was ending soon, and she had to decide—strike out on her own, brave the journey with whatever resources she could find (and that was looking more and more grim by the second), or beg for help and suffer the shame.
Or, stay and keep weathering it out.
She could still hear his words in her mind clearly.
"I would have gone without a fuss. But now that I've found you, lovely, delicious maiden, I'm tempted to stay longer."
…that didn't seem like an option anymore.
She had wounded him—was it enough? Could he be dead? The men that had immediately gone after him had come back with no satisfactory news—the werewolf had simply vanished again.
Say he had just fled in order to heal, and would be back tonight? The thought brought on a wave of nausea. She clutched at her stomach.
He could just have been joking around to scare her. He struck her as the sort to play with his food.
She was jumpy the rest of the day and the day after, carefully going about her business and staying inside as much as possible. People checked up on her—both sweet and annoying, because it was three times now she had dropped whatever she'd been holding at the sound of the knock on her door.
The priest had been among one of those visitors. She had made the mistake of not checking who was at the door through the window before opening it, and found him there, to her dismay.
She'd had no choice but to let him in. He had sat at her small dining table and inquired after her health, offered a prayer that she reluctantly accepted.
He was a man around four years her senior, with wide blue eyes and a thin-lipped mouth whose smiles she had not liked from the day they had met.
"I'm afraid I have more questions," he said after a pregnant pause in which she had deliberately not spoken to make him uncomfortable. "If I may trouble you again to recount that terrible night."
"I've shared everything I remember."
"And we couldn't be more thankful," the priest assured her. "To think this is the first actual sighting we've had of the demon, and that you came away unharmed! I offered the Lord my deepest thanks for watching over my flock on that night."
He leaned forward, suddenly serious. "But I can't help but wonder…"
"Why he didn't kill me immediately?" she asked and looked away. "I wonder about that, too."
"That has always been his method," the priest said, looking troubled. "For every person he has killed, and I have looked over their records in detail, there was never much sign of a struggle. It seems he likes to take his prey unaware. Which is why I wonder that you managed to stay alive until we found you, if the encounter was as long as you say it was."
"I distracted him," Hermione said. "I asked him questions, and it turned out he likes to talk. I don't know why else he didn't kill me outright."
The priest's lips pushed together. Dread gripped her spine and pricked at her skin. He feigned an innocent expression.
"He has only killed men and little boys. To my knowledge, until you, he had not encountered a woman. Could that be why?"
She had gone stiff in her seat. "He said he's seen women from afar."
"Yet it was you he chose to reveal himself to." He gave her an imploring look. "Can you understand what I'm leading to, my dear?"
"I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That's all there is to it." She stood so sharply her chair scraped backwards loudly. "I have a headache. I can see you out."
The priest did not look at her, didn't rise from his chair.
"I can't help but think perhaps there is something you might not have remembered to share," he said. "We saw you attack him—but he did not attack in response. He only restrained you. Why do you think that is?"
"He couldn't see. I'd blinded him. He didn't want me to attack him again."
"Perhaps he did not want to hurt you." She gave him a look of disbelief, and he shrugged. "Perhaps there is more to this story, Miss Granger. I would like to hear it."
"I don't like what you're implying. He threatened to kill me and I defended myself."
"A young, attractive girl like you would tempt a demon, don't you think? A wolf with a sentient mind, and a wizard, too, if what he says is true… Perhaps it was never his intention to kill you." He had the decency to blush a little. "Perhaps there was something else he wanted."
She couldn't even look at him.
"I insist you leave."
Again, he did not budge.
"I prayed to the Lord that night and asked him for guidance, so I might make the right decision for a sacrifice." His eyes met hers and held there despite her cold glare. "And not an hour later, we find the creature blinded, bleeding, but fighting with all his might to keep you from running away. The Lord answered my prayer, child. You have been chosen."
A furious tear escaped, rolled down her cheek. Outside, she could hear a woman laughing, a dog barking. Normal life. How had hers changed so much in such a short span of time? How had all those terrors from the past several months led to this fate?
"You would offer me to that thing to please your god?" she asked stiffly.
"Our god," he corrected her, frowning. "Have you denounced him so quickly?"
"I denounced your god when you started this nonsense about human sacrifice. You're mad. This is not the right way to solve this."
A shadow settled over his expression.
"Watch your temper, child."
"I am two and twenty, and you are not that far in age from me. Do not call me girl, or child."
He leaned away, sighing.
"How many more lives, then?" he asked. "How many more of your own people must that creature kill before it either grows bored and leaves, or you change your mind? You'd put your own life before everyone else?"
"I'm not saying my life is worth more than theirs," she replied, gripping the back of her chair. "I was able to defend myself from it. He heals quickly but was still incapacitated enough for me to get away. If we set a trap, and overwhelm it somehow we could defeat him—"
"That is not a risk I will take," he said firmly. "You are a sensible gi—woman, and your plan might have merit, but we have lost too many already. If something went wrong, we would be facing a near annihilation of our village."
"So then you would feed it whoever is left?" she asked bleakly. "If you go ahead with this, it will not stop at me. It will burn this village to the ground."
"You speak nonsense, my dear. You are still in shock from the attack. Our faith will light our path."
"Lit by the sacrificial bodies you'll burn after the werewolf has mauled them."
He raised his chin defensively, and his eyes had gone hard.
"The Lord has chosen you," he repeated. "I do not want to force you. I hope you will realize this is God's plan, and that your selflessness will save us all. I would prefer if you consented to this, so I will give you until Sunday to give me your answer…and your house will be watched for your own protection. If that day comes and you are still resistant—we will proceed with the sacrifice and restrain you if we must."
"So I'm a prisoner unless I say yes," she retorted furiously, "but either way I'll become that creature's prisoner until it kills me, is that right?"
He finally stood, collected his coat.
"Our God is merciful," he said, his voice a few degrees less warm than it had been upon his entry, and she barely managed to hold back her derisive snort. "I will pray for you, that it will be a swift end."
No deaths had been reported since Hermione's encounter with the werewolf. Not unusual—sometimes they were spaced out, but Hermione remembered the damage she had done to the creature, and she, along with the rest of the small population of that village, dared hope.
Another day passed with no incident. That hope climbed higher. But every time she looked out her window and saw the hunters standing too casually around the perimeter of her house, the hope came crashing back down.
How quickly they had turned on her.
The priest had fed them his bile and they had consumed it eagerly. There was shame in the eyes of some when she looked at them, but firm resolution in the others, and the guns at their sides were a silent reminder that it was futile to resist. These were people she had known and lived with for years. Days ago, they had just helped her save her own life. And now they would throw her to the beast without much remorse. It was a slap in the face every time she looked out her windows.
She tried to think of what to do. The letter she had written to Sophie was on her table—she had meant to send it off, but the priest's visit had interrupted her, and now it was too late. One of the men standing outside would escort her, and even if she managed to do it, by the time Sophia received it, much less made the necessary arrangements, she would be nothing but a carcass in the tall grass. She took it to her hearth, set it on fire.
At night, the men stayed in her neighbor's houses that surrounded hers (the actual residents had been moved elsewhere within the village) and kept watch. She kept her curtains drawn and kept her house as dark as she could bear. She could hardly sleep, knowing they were there waiting.
There were no surrounding trees big enough to hide her if she dared make a run for it. She would have to pack really light or take nothing but the clothes on her back, and she was fast, yes, but she couldn't outrun a bullet. Or a werewolf, if he was also lying in wait among the tall grass. The other villagers had also fallen in line with the priest and his hunters, and avoided her and her house—not that she went out much since the priest's visit.
There was nowhere to go.
That short span of days went quickly. She struggled to sleep. Enjoyed none of her meals. Could not concentrate. She had cleaned her dagger, kept it with her at all times now— to the latrine when she had to go, and even to bed. She kept her oil lamp a short distance from her bed. It gave her some comfort, but when she closed her eyes at night, it was still those weirdly glowing yellow eyes that stared back at her—
And were watching her intently now when she awoke suddenly from a sharp bang on the window above her bed. It frightened her so badly she was on her elbows scuttling backward into her headboard at once, her chest heaving with quick breaths. She crawled to the end of her bed, the hairs on her arms standing on end, a bleak certainty filling her like seawaters flooding a sinking ship.
There was a hideous squealing noise, like sharp nails on a chalkboard, or glass—she looked up, going pale with horror—it was exactly that.
His face was right there and she had barely missed meeting his eyes…his intact, completely healed eyes. Her legs turned to rubber.
His claws scraped the glass again, then stopped.
"Let me in, woman," came his voice.
She dove to her dagger, held it tight.
"I won't ask nicely again," he said, his voice low, slightly muffled through the window.
How was he even up that high? Had the hunters not seen him? To reach that window, there was very little purchase for anyone to climb there—unless they had some sort of freakish inhuman strength. He must have been holding on to the roof for support. She waited a moment, tense and shaking, for the cry of alarm, the bang of a pistol, anything. But nothing came.
She got off the bed, edged her way to the window, keeping her eyes glued to his chin again in case he tried breaking in. When she hit her front window she pulled the curtain aside, allowed herself a quick but thorough glance outside.
He had come up from behind and broken their necks. They had heard him after all, but they had been too late. If she looked closely she could see the fingers of the one who had come closest to her house were still twitching.
She closed her eyes, let out a shaky exhale. She went back to the center of the room where she could see the beast at her window better.
"I freed you," he said, tracing a claw over the glass so gently it made no sound. He was nothing but a silhouette with the clouded moon far above and behind him, but his eyes glowed enough to illuminate the sharp points of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose. "You're welcome."
"How did you know?"
"Because I followed that prick priest after I heard him giving those men his orders. I took care of him, too. Just for you." Now his voice was strangely tender. It did not comfort her.
"I'll pull your eyes out and cut them off this time if you even try to come in," she said, and though her voice shook it was still firm enough, and she was proud of that small mercy.
"I don't have to force my way in," he said. "You're going to let me in."
"Just leave me alone!"
"You know why you're going to let me in?" he asked pleasantly. "Because I've been good since I met you, sweet one. Not a single kill. Not even a stupid lamb, and I'm rather hungry tonight."
"And what about them?" she pointed angrily out her window.
"They don't count."
She scoffed.
"Come tomorrow, they would have kicked your door down and dragged you out to the fields and tied you up like a lovely little gift just for me. I could have waited, you know. Sat back in the fields and have you placed on my lap for all to see. But I didn't like the thought of those brutes grabbing at you just to bring you to me. Don't tell me you're sorry they're gone."
"I am. They were misled."
He snorted.
"And now they're dead. Now let me in and thank me properly."
"Stop," she clutched her stomach, and suddenly remembering she was only in her shift, froze and rushed to pull a robe on.
He watched from the window, frowning.
"Don't. I'll tear that off you, too."
She crossed her arms so he wouldn't see her hands shaking. Her stomach turned.
"Thank you for freeing me," she said coldly. "Now you've had your thanks, and you can go."
"Not without you, woman. I'm going to feast tonight."
She pulled her robe more securely around herself.
"I'll take more than your eyes, then, if you're stupid enough to try."
"You got cocky just from landing two blows," he observed, amused. "And you've got a smart little mouth. I like your barbs, and I like your questions, but I tire of waiting. Be a good maiden: let me in, come with me, and I let everyone else live," he concluded. "And if you don't, they all die. Isn't that simple? There's your choice—what will it be?"
She hissed a curse at him, and he laughed. The moon was suddenly released from its screen of clouds—it cast his shadow down onto her floor, looming towards her.
There was nothing to do. Her life, or the lives of everyone that remained in the village. The damned ultimatum that refused to leave her alone. She shook her head, restrained a sob, and went to the door.
He was there when she opened it, his collarbone at her eye level, his eyes glowing. Staring at her so intently she felt naked despite her robe.
"What's your name?" she asked suddenly.
He went still, surprised.
"My family name was Malfoy," he said. "A noble family. I was raised like a prince. I was their only heir. I was careless one day and went riding by myself, let my guard down. A werewolf found me. When my parents recovered me and saw what happened, they couldn't bear the shame of having a half beast for a son. They would sooner cast me off and conceive another heir despite their age. They faked my death and cast me off into the wilderness. I was only eighteen."
She recalled what he had said before. "The village that spurns the child…"
"Burns the village to the ground," he finished, and smiled. "Once I was finally settled into my abilities, I went back. They had moved on like I'd never existed. Didn't bother revealing myself. I killed them all—even my new brother, who I'd never met. I didn't say a word, but I know they knew who it was that felled them."
He leaned forward, and she froze. He smelled of sweat and blood. His hair was unwashed but shone like frost on glass. He was so big, so overwhelming, she felt suffocated by his proximity.
"But I kept my first name. And you'll tell no one after I've told you."
"Why?" she asked.
His hand raised to trace over the exposed portion of her clavicle her robe did not cover.
"Because that's how I want it to be." His knuckles traced her cheek. "My name is Draco. Only you can use it."
She didn't know how to respond. She shook so hard it was hard to stand straight. His hand fell back to his side.
"Now drop it."
She dropped her dagger. It fell heavily to the ground, thankfully landing away from her feet.
"Kick it to the side."
She stepped on the hilt, shoved it away to the farthest corner of the room.
And then he lunged at her. He muffled her scream with his palm but enough had bled out into the empty, silent street. Somebody would hear it. They would come for her. She bit his hand—he yanked it away—she screamed again, as loud as she could. It rattled her lungs.
He slammed the door shut.
He backed her into the wall roughly, knocking the air from her lungs. She gasped for breath.
She had thought he would be furious. She braced herself for shouting, for a slap, anything.
Instead, he buried his head into her throat, inhaling. She shook, tears coursing down her face, tense and shuddering, waiting for a bite, for the slash at her throat that would end it all there.
It didn't come. He stayed that way for a moment, just breathing her scent. His breath was hot, rushing over her skin that was rapidly turning damp.
"What are you doing?" she finally asked. Her voice sounded so small.
"Memorizing your scent. Mine will be mixed with it by the time we leave this place."
His hand caught in her hair, tore the scrap of fabric that held her braid in order, released it, bunched it in his fist, pulled back to expose her throat. Hermione whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut.
He descended, and she jumped violently when his lips landed on her pulse point. He chuckled, gave her throat a slow lick going upwards. She cringed away as best as she could, but he was pinning her to the wall with his body—there was nowhere to go.
"Delicious," he rasped, and then his lips overtook hers.
Her muffled cries of fear were drowned out, suppressed at once by his hand around her throat, squeezing, a warning to not scream. She faltered, sobbing aloud as he ravaged her mouth, his tongue invading, threatening to choke her. His free hand tore at her robe as promised until it was in tatters and he was able to slide it off. She managed to bite him and he hissed, but in excitement and not pain, as she learned to her horror when his other arm wrapped around her and moved down to grope her bottom.
She was left in her chemise. The fabric was so thin she was sure he could see everything. He made no move to tear that apart yet, however, and so she clung to the last shreds of her hope. Her face was red, sweat beaded at her hairline.
He broke the kiss, and this time she couldn't avoid his gaze—she froze under its strange hold.
"Don't scream. That's for later. Now spread your legs."
Against her will, she did. He jammed himself between her thighs, his free hand yanking her skirt up, tearing it when he lost patience with the amount of fabric.
"God, no, please," she pleaded. Her palms pressed at his chest, trying to push him off.
He stopped, made a point to show her his clawed hand. As she watched, the claws retracted.
She was still so horrified that the dart of relief that ran through her went almost unacknowledged. He saw this, and gave a playful tweak of her chin.
"Wouldn't want to hurt my maiden, would I?"
But his hand was back at her vulva and his fingers were rough, large, demanding, pulling and rubbing as she sobbed. He pushed two inside at once, and muffled her cry of pain with another messy, searing kiss. She was wet, but not from arousal. It didn't matter to him. He began to thrust roughly. She gripped his arms, wincing, her face crimson.
"Just kill me," she panted. "Get it over with."
He cocked his head. "When have I ever said I'm going to kill you? I'm going to mate you, and then I'm going to take you home, Hermione. If I wanted you dead, I would have smashed that window and ripped out your throat before you'd even woken up properly."
Her heart skipped a beat.
"Mate me?"
"It's the devilish part of being a werewolf," he admitted after leaning down to steal another unwilling kiss that left her gasping. "I've got this wretched need to find a suitable woman and mate and mate and mate. I'm going to fill you so you're leaking from every hole, my beauty. Look at how well you take me already. You'll carry my pups when the time is right."
She recoiled, disgusted. Undaunted, he curled his fingers inside her, and she unwillingly buckled.
She tried to push him away.
"Never."
He laughed, used his thumb to tease her clitoris. She whimpered in pain as he bent down, worried the delicate flesh of her throat between his sharp teeth. His erection pressed into her lower abdomen as he stepped more closely into her. He had withdrawn his hand from her quickly—she winced again.
"You made your choice. I won't let you take it back. You're mine."
She was in his arms suddenly, the room blurring around her, dizzy at the speed with which he moved. They were on the bed in the next instant—he was on top of her, wrestling his way out of those ragged pants. She tried twisting, crawling out from underneath him. He kicked his pants off, pinned her down with one hand pushing down on her abdomen. She flailed, striking at him anywhere she could reach.
"Stop!"
He said something then, something she didn't quite understand, and suddenly she was restrained by every limb, laying spread eagle on her own bed. She stared down at herself in anger and confusion.
Then she remembered. Wizard.
"No, no, no," she flailed again, tried to free herself.
"That's the wizard part," he murmured, straddling her, his hands crawling all over her. He took hold of the neckline of her chemise and tore it in half easily all the way down, baring her to his gaze.
He admired her for a long moment—she refused to look him in the eyes but her gaze landed on his erect penis, and she paled.
It was not going to fit. There was no way.
He noticed her reaction and laughed. His hands gripped her thighs, massaged them in a futile attempt to get her to relax. The tension was too tight on her binds to allow her to kick at him.
"You should know I've fucked other women while in wolf form. You'll be no exception."
"How?" she asked, horrified.
"Easy," he said, "I pin you down like I'm doing now, and I lick that lovely little cunt until you're wet enough to take me, and when I've fucked you plenty, you'll take my knot and my seed."
"But you'll be an animal," she replied, aghast.
Now he looked angry—offended, even.
"I'm no common mongrel," he said slowly. "Almost every attack I've done here was in animal form. Could any normal dog or wolf open a fence with doors and locks? I think and operate just as well as I do in that state as I do now, even if I can't speak. Remember that distinction or you'll regret it."
She nodded because he was very close to her face and she wanted the glow of those eeries eyes to not filter through her lowered eyelids.
She had to stall him, find a way to get free.
The oil lamp! If she could just get to it—she writhed, trying to free herself from his restraints, but those added with his weight on top of her made it an impossible task. She went limp, exhausted, and glared at him.
"And the demon part?"
He shrugged languidly. "People assign that name to things they don't understand. Your lot called me a demon and raised a little shrine, put blood on their doors to ward me off. There's plenty of blood in my diet, do they not realize that? They might as well have flung open their doors and left them that way."
His hand was spreading her open, rubbing at her clit. She shifted in discomfort of the rough texture of his skin.
"Why me?" she asked. "Wouldn't this be better with a woman who wants you?"
He thought for a moment.
"I watched the other women. Got close to several through the grass. This was in the daytime, too, so they didn't expect me. They were relaxed. They sensed me, like you did. But they ran. You almost did, too. But you stopped. You got your damned little toothpick, and you faced me. Intriguing, to say the least. I liked that a lot."
"That toothpick did a lot of damage to your eyes," she spat.
"And it made me want you more," he replied, his rubbing slowing to a crawl. He pressed hard, touched a spot that made her hips jerk involuntarily into his hand. "They heal a little more slowly, yes, but once that was done, I hunted you down. And here I am to collect my mate."
He crawled up, grabbed her chin, forced her to meet his eyes. "I don't have all night, sweet. If you could show a little excitement, that would be a help."
"No—"
But her body obeyed, and as he continued to rub her arousal became evident. She shook her head, crying. He smiled.
"Don't be miserable, my love. I'll take the time to properly seduce you once we're home and settled. But soon enough that idiot priest and those bodies outside will be found. I've got a grudge to settle and a woman to mate at the same time, and if I'm to hold up my end of our bargain, speed is of the essence."
He pumped two fingers inside her, stretching her. She was still caught in his hypnotic gaze under his command, and moaned.
"That's right, doesn't it feel good?" he asked, and then paused. "I'm not gentle. Remember that, too."
He bent down, kissed her again. She reciprocated eagerly. He withdrew his fingers, rubbed them together and held them to her face to let her see what he had collected there. Her face twisted, but his hand was on his cock, rubbing the tip along her seam. She wanted to cringe, to roll into a ball, to douse him in the oil she had intended to use on her house, and set him alight—but her muscles were clenching, grasping for something she didn't really want, and her breasts ached in need for his mouth.
"You're going to take all of me, and you're going to love it, won't you?" he murmured. To her relief—and disgust—his hands came up, roughly kneaded her breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples.
"Yes!"
She felt his erection graze against her inner thigh. She was screaming herself hoarse inside.
"And you're going to take my seed, too," he assured her. "Every last drop. And you're going to beg for more."
He pushed inside and began pumping his hips, moving in such a frenzy that Hermione could only grit her teeth as he hissed with pleasure. She felt it, too, thanks to his command, but tried with all her might not to show it. Her hands had formed into fists that were so tight she could feel herself drawing blood from her palm with her nails. His breath was hot as it washed over her, his body was like a boulder that kept pushing against her, threatening to obliterate her. His eyes were all she could see. He stretched her, true to his word, almost to the point of pain, and pressed her thighs against her chest so she was folded in half so he could himself in deeper. The binds that held her legs had somehow lengthened enough to allow this maneuvering. Her cry of pleasure was laced with pain.
He growled, a haunting, pleasured sound.
"Mine."
He reared forth, bit down on her shoulder. Hermione cried out, her voice fading in and out from the strain of the night. And then he began to pound.
She had not expected it to last so long. He was still surging in and out, a glazed, lustful look in his eye as he gripped her throat, pushed his fingers into her mouth. The bite throbbed in pain, and she felt blood still leaking from it. She didn't panic, knowing the lycanthropic effect would only take place if he bit her in animal form, or under a full moon, and thankfully, neither of those were present. His eyes were fevered, glowing as they held hers. He grunted in time with his thrusts, and the punishing slap of him against her was loud within the small room. Brief flashes of pleasure occurred here and there, but even with the spelled control of his gaze, it wasn't enough to override her pain, her inner turmoil.
Without warning he withdrew, sliding out of her with an audibly wet sound, and in the next instant her limbs were free. She was so sore it almost hurt to move but it didn't matter because he was forcing her onto her hands and knees, shoving her own pillows underneath her shaking body. She was too weak to resist. Now that she faced her headboard and not his terrifying eyes her will returned, however, and the horror of what he was still doing turned her stomach. He was mounting her, hissing in pleasure. He had an incredible body heat that was making her perspire even as she did nothing. As he moved she felt the soft ridges of his scarred skin rub against her.
Her back arched as he grabbed a thick handful of her hair and pulled, and in the same action impaled her. Hermione bucked, a soft wail coming from her throat, one that he paid no heed to. His other hand had such a tight grip on her hip he would no doubt leave bruises. He was going to split her apart if he continued this way—her thighs shook.
"You're hurting me—"
He rutted against her, so ferociously she struggled not to collapse into a puddle. The loud, wet slapping sound coming from the joining of their bodies was humiliating.
"I warned you," he said. "Did you expect a beast who's killed half your village to be considerate when mating?"
Until very recently, she hadn't allowed herself to entertain the thought that he really wanted her for reasons other than a vengeance.
He was panting from the exertion, sat back on his knees, pulling her with him so she was still on her knees and impaled by his cock and seated on his lap. His hands restricted her arms behind her back and he forcefully guided her into bouncing on his cock. He moaned loudly, a sound that had her shuddering in disgust, and he bound her hands with another spell, and groped at her breasts, squeezing hard enough to make her cry out when she slowed down or wriggled too much.
"I can't," she gasped, finally stopping when her legs had grown too tired to keep moving, and she felt raw between her legs. "Please, I can't."
He had hold of her hair again. He pulled her backward until her back was flush with his chest and his head was in the crook of her neck. He licked at the bite, at the blood, and moaned.
"You'll take it until I'm finished."
He pushed her back down so she was on her front with her hands still restrained behind her back, and he rammed himself back inside. She grunted with every thrust, biting down hard on her pillow. Her bed moved, the headboard rattling loudly against the wall in time with the werewolf's movements. A crack was forming in the wall.
Just when her pain peaked and she was about to try one last time to push him off he growled again, making her flinch, and burst inside her. He had buried himself so deep inside her she felt him pulsing, tried to distance herself from what was happening and succeeded—until he laid atop her fully, crushing her with his weight.
She struggled, breathing fast.
"Get off—"
His fingers pushed inside her mouth, gagging her.
He laughed. It shook her body and the bed. He was still coming. So much. There was so much of it. He was an inferno, scalding her inside and out. Sweat rolled down her skin everywhere.
"I am, sweet one, I am." He rolled his hips for emphasis, and she groaned. With that movement, he had allowed some come to leak from her, and slide down her seam to pool on the sheets.
"Look how well you're taking it." He kissed her shoulder. He gave one final, languid thrust. She turned her head away but couldn't escape his fingers. His fingers thrust in and out from her mouth slowly—and she silently prayed he would not rape her there, too.
"A perfect mate."
She shook her head in denial.
"Has any other man ever touched you?" he asked.
She refused to answer.
"No matter. Now that you're mine no one else will ever have you." He finally pulled out, his free hand palmed her roughly. He rubbed at her—she was so sore and over sensitized that her hips jerked in discomfort—a weak whine emitted from her mouth involuntarily. More come leaked out. So much of it. She couldn't believe it. She was sore, so sore. Exhausted. Dizzy. Her fury ebbed as shock set in.
When he finally freed her hands, she was too weak, too stunned to move or even roll over. He stretched, a perversely content moan rising from his throat. He stood from the bed, surveying his work. She felt his stare and closed her eyes, her head spinning, bile crawling up her esophagus. It was suddenly very quiet, and she remembered her screams, realizing belatedly that nobody had come to help her.
They had to have heard. Even if her immediate neighbors were gone, and the hunters dead, somebody had to have heard.
She felt the werewolf's eyes on her, flinched when he went to her and rubbed his fingers along her slit, then licked them clean.
Her eyes were fixed on the wall beside the bed. Her body was limp, throbbing in pain in several areas. His mess still leaked thickly from inside her—her thighs were slick and sticky from it, and her vagina burned from the assault. She was afraid she was bleeding but didn't want to look. Didn't want to see how badly he had used her.
She could hear him walking around her home, slowly perusing her books, her clothes, everything. She heard him going through her food, tearing apart some dried meat she had been preparing and downing it ravenously. She had not eaten in hours. She should probably eat something now. But hunger was the farthest thing from her mind.
There was the sound of him going out the back door to use the latrine. Her heart skipped.
His arrogance burned at her, more than her own body was burning on the inside.
That indignance flared a new, scant store of energy—she worked up the strength to raise herself up on her elbows, work herself into a sitting position. She decided to forego the personal assessment. He was distracted. There was no time. But as she shuffled herself off the bed, the red on the sheets became clear in her peripheral view, and she bit her lip, kept going.
Walking was painful, awkward, but possible. She bit her fist to keep from whimpering and managed to reach the oil lamp and knelt down to it. Her fingers shook so badly it took three tries to turn it on properly, and by then she could hear his heavy footsteps outside leading back in, past the back door, and through her tiny kitchen into her tiny bedroom, where he found her raising the lamp over her head. He stopped at once.
"Don't you dare, Hermione."
She used so much force to do it she lost her balance and fell on her side.
Fire sprang at once, caught on the curtains, and spread. Its heat grew quickly. Her heart pounded, both in fear and hate as she saw his outraged expression. He was holding a plate and cup. He had brought her food. He flung it aside.
"I'd rather burn alive than be your prisoner," she snarled.
She grabbed the remnants of the lantern, flung it at him with the last of her strength—it glanced off him, crashed back onto the floor, spreading glass and oil. But he was not on fire.
Yet.
Neither was she. But the flames were growing closer and closer rapidly, and the black smoke that was already filling the room choked her lungs. Her bed was aflame now, and she was glad to see it go, glad to see the evidence of her rape turn to ash. It had grown so hot in the room her hair was plastered to her skin from sweat—would she ever feel cool again? He was trying to reach her but the fallen lantern had started a patch of fire in front of the bed which was now as tall as him, and it blocked his path to her. He staggered at its size, swore loudly in frustration. He raised his hand, shouted something she didn't quite understand—was that Latin? And water suddenly poured over the fire, not extinguishing it, but taming it enough to allow him to leap over it.
No. She had forgotten he was a wizard. Until a days ago she hadn't even known magic was, in fact, real. Were she under less duress she might have done a better job of processing and remembering that. Her wrists still ached from where he had tightly restrained them. Her stomach plummeted.
He was stalking towards her, pure murder in his eyes, she scuttled closer to the fire, coughing. The room was so full of smoke now she had lost sight of him, but it didn't matter. Her head felt light. Her lungs burned. The fire had caught up to her—she watched as her arm began to burn.
She was going to lose consciousness very, very soon. But she had to make sure she was dead, first—or very near to it. Or else he would haul her out. To his home, as he'd said.
She was starting to feel pain, but not as much as she'd expected. Fire was not a pretty way to go. She could barely breathe. Her vision began to waver. She could smell burning hair, could feel her skin begin to melt. It was abjectly horrifying to watch, but she couldn't look away, gruesomely fascinated. She lost consciousness just as the werewolf cast water at the flame burning her, hurled himself atop her, and picked her up as easily as if she were made of straw.
He too was plastered with sweat, singed here and there. She was limp in his arms and his heart pounded—he had a brief thought to extinguish the fire, but it was uncontainable now. He turned on his heel, gripping his woman tightly, and vanished into thin air.
The house continued to burn, and a gentle breeze started as the roof began to collapse. Ashes and embers flew everywhere, caught and ignited the grass, the dead foliage lying around. It spread quickly. Another house ignited. Then another. They formed a hellish chain, and the villagers who had indeed heard the screams and banging of furniture but had pretended to be asleep despite having a strong suspicion of what they were hearing, lied in their beds and continued to do nothing. They lied in fear until the noises stopped. Some prayed. Some plugged their ears and hoped that come morning, Hermione Granger's would be the last body they would have to burn.
As they tried to reason away their inaction and bury their guilt, their houses burned around them. Many of them did not realize at first the danger they were in until the smoke began to choke them, and by then it was too late anyway.
A/N: TO BE CONTINUED. When? Once I wrap up TEOAL and have more time on my hands. Until then!
