The next morning found the Great Hall adorned in black. Replacing the usual house banners were somber hangings displaying the Hogwarts crest, while the ceiling was bare of magic. The entire room was lit only by grey morning light and sparse black candles. At the head table the staff had assembled in a similarly grim state, their faces aged and weary. This having followed what was widely regarded as the most exciting Halloween in years, students immediately began to whisper about what had happened. Most had written the troll off as a bit of good fun. Now, no one was quite so sure.
The Slytherin Elite appeared no different from any other student. They walked in as they would have any other day, their behavior shifting appropriately as they took in the changed décor. Sensing the atmosphere—as was expected of any good Snake—they settled their courts and set an example for their House. Between pacifying worried members and tactfully quelling the rumor mill, they earned an approving nod from many watching professors. They broke composure only to exchange a few harried looks, as if they didn't all know perfectly well what had happened.
Celeste Yaxley bit back a grin. Never a prouder Queen of Slytherin had there been.
As the last of students arrived at their respective tables, Dumbledore rose. Silence fell without any prompting, every eye turned to his unusually dark figure. In a great, tired voice, he proclaimed, "It is my utter displeasure that I must inform you of an unimaginable tragedy. First year Gryffindor Hermione Jean Granger was killed last night in an altercation with the troll spotted in our dungeons." Dumbledore paused here, allowing for the wave of gasps and whispers that followed such news. After a moment, he cleared his throat and carried on.
"Like many of you, Miss Granger was a Muggle-born just starting out in this world. Already, she had a bright future planned for herself. It is a great misfortune that her life was taken from her so cruelly. Clever, driven, and courageous, she was not just a credit to her House, but to our entire society." He swept his blue eyes across the hall, as though to provide comfort. The only ones who seemed to need it were the Puffs, who were the sort to become swept up by that kind of speech, and a few guilty-feeling Gryffindors. Dumbledore, however, appeared satisfied with the emotional turn out.
Closing his eyes as though it pained him to do so, the old man brought the impromptu ceremony to a close. "Let us have a moment of silence for Hermione Jean Granger," he decreed. He and the rest of the professors swiftly bowed their heads. After a minute or two passed, Dumbledore unbowed and declared, "Today, in order to pay our respects and remember our fallen peer, classes will be canceled. After this meal, please return to your common rooms." He sent a last searching glance across the room. "May we all remember the girl that was Hermione Granger," he finished gravely.
The food appeared a moment later and with that the hall descended into its true purpose: the rumor-trading hub of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Holding back their pleased smiles, the Slytherin Elite ate quietly. They had just gotten away with murder right under the great Dumbledore's nose! Celeste Yaxley looked particularly pleased with herself, like the cat with the canary. The other Dark Slytherins who had participated personally shared her expression. They were pleased with how this would increase their standing in the Dark, Harry thought. Personally, Harry was just exhausted.
Careful to keep appearances platonic, Harry leaned as much as he could get away with against Ron's side. With the adrenalin of the night gone, a deep lethargy had settled in his bones. One of their aggressors was dead, but still an entire war sat on the horizon. His hatred, fear, and rage had carried him this far, but Harry couldn't help but regard the future warily. His life so rarely flowed this easily…
Where Harry was broody and Ron was pensive in the face of Dumbledore's pronouncement, Neville felt practically giddy. Hermione Granger was gone and Neville was unabashedly pleased with her absence. Frankly, as far as Neville was interested, his most pressing concern now was how to keep Ron from mangling his poor Trevor. Everything else could be dealt with in time.
Slinging a friendly arm around Ron's shoulder, Neville tucked a smile behind a sip of tea. He withheld a snort as his eyes settled on Harry. Sure, Ron might be the planner of the three of them, but Neville could already see Harry mulling over the future. Brushing the fingers of his outstretched arm gently against Harry's shoulder, Neville sent him a smile. Hesitantly, as though he weren't sure the expression fit, Harry returned it.
Rolling his eyes, Neville pulled his arm back with dramatic flair. A startled laugh escaped from both his yet-husbands and Neville flashed a grin. Such a pair of worries, his loves. Neville had spent the majority of his old life worrying. He was determined not to make the same mistake again.
Bolstered by the subtle support of his loves, Ron couldn't help but toy with the thought of writing his mother a note. Perhaps, 'Love potions, really?' in a nice, poison green.
But there was no reason to poke the woman who had planned the deaths of his family. He didn't want to drive her to showing her temper early. No, Ron would avoid his mother for now. With any luck, this was her only plan and regrouping would take her time.
Ron would take his own time now and give it to people more worth his while.
Following breakfast, the Bloody Baron informed the Slytherin Elite that Professor Snape wished to speak to them in the sitting room. Located off the Head of House's private suite, the sitting room was traditionally used for discussing matters deemed too delicate for the Head's office. Countless blood feuds, family scandals, and marriage contracts had been hashed out and hidden within the walls of the innocuously named 'sitting room'. As such, it was also one of the few rooms in the dungeons designed to radiate comfort and calm. Large, squishy couches in bright evergreen formed a squat U around a pretty woven carpet and, being one of the rare Slytherin rooms above ground, huge windows dominated the far wall. There were even flowers on the coffee table.
The room felt a little like walking from a tunnel into broad daylight, Theodore Nott mused. But while his classmates merely blinked and moved on, Theo found himself fighting off a wave of dizziness. As a Charms Master from a family known for their warding, the buzz of the privacy spells layered over the room was suffocating to his finely tuned senses. Professor Snape's magic, black and thick and choking like smoke off a burning corpse, was the most overwhelming, telling Theo that the newest, most copious wards had been woven solely by him. Theo felt sure that no one, not even the headmaster, would be able to view past such a miasma.
Personally, Theo expected that no headmaster had ever been able to see into this room. When he closed his eyes, he could sense the remnants of personal wards of thousands of witches and wizards. If he looked harder he could even pick out the whisper of his grandfather and father's magic. Unsurprising, really. Theo's grandfather had been one of the original Walpurgis Knights and had been Lord Voldemort's best warder until his death. After the funeral, Theo's father had taken his place. That they had both warded this room for two different generations of Death Eaters was likely. Manipulating Slughorn into letting such talented students use the room as a place to study wouldn't have been hard.
Pulling himself from his reflections, Theo cast a lazy glance around the room. Perhaps twenty Elite shared the couches while the rest stood, purposely casual. Most were mingling, using the genteel atmosphere to work on their social positions. From where he sat Theo could see Draco holding court with Celeste Yaxley and her probable heir, sixth year Prince Alexei Dolohov. Third year Prince Terence Higgs hovered nearby.
Theo didn't think Higgs would last much longer in his position. The twins had made a splash in third year Slytherin, their wit and economic interest a breath of fresh air in the political smog. They were fast increasing their popularity and Higgs barely seemed to notice, too caught up in their handsome faces. Percy was similarly taking shots at the fifth year Prince, Eldritch Travers. Unlike the twins, Percy used political tensions to his advantage. He seamlessly backed Travers into conversation that highlighted his worst opinions, pinning down his comments and slickly cutting away any justifying context. By December Theo expected to see quite the shift in the hierarchy.
Unexpectedly, Theo felt a pang of loss. He could only imagine how Luna would see the machinations of Slytherin House. She'd probably laugh at the madness, he thought. Gods, he missed her. His heart ached without her hand on his arm. Even at their most nightmarish, sometimes his memories of their life together were all that got him through the day.
In their last life Luna had come to him unexpectedly. He had been watching, pained, as Draco tried to teach a hundred stanchly Light teenagers offensive magic. Theo had only been there for Draco's sake. He had dragged Theo to the Dumbledore's Army meeting in an effort to pull more of Slytherin House out of the Dark Lord's influence. Theo, who hadn't been particularly enamored with the Dark Lord since Voldemort's insane rages had made such a mess of his father, had been the perfect place to start.
That the Malfoys had turned out to be Light spies had never surprised Theo very much. For all their pretenses, they were a very fluid family. Magically speaking Malfoys were Dark, but politically whoever was in power could expect to find a Malfoy at their shoulder. As such, Theo had taken his best friend's 'betrayal' in stride. Unfortunately that meant acquiescing when Draco invited him to rebel meetings in the middle of the bloody night.
Theo had been in the process of devising an escape strategy when Luna had joined him on the bench he had staked out. "'It seems a nargle's met you, too,'" she'd murmured dreamily, barely looking at him. Then she'd turned, grinning, "'Would you mind terribly if I shooed him away?'"
I don't think I'd mind you doing anything, Theo had thought, stunned. Beyond her beauty, which was enchanting, her boldness had surprised Theo. A member of the controversial Draco Malfoy's court and grandson of the infamous Justinian Nott, not many people had the guts to approach Theo. That he could feel the Light magic pouring from her skin had made her even more of an anomaly.
Trying not to show his questions, Theo had given the strange girl a nod. At the very least, he'd thought that could learn her name. Maybe even find out what in Morgana's name a nargle was. Yet with a last wicked grin, the girl had sprung gracefully to her feet. Unnoticed by the masses, she had moved to stand just behind Draco. A flick of a wand later and a color-change jinx went hurdling over Draco's shoulder to splatter obnoxiously green across the famous Harry Potter's back.
Too stunned to speak, Theo could only watch as Draco and Potter devolved into an angry shouting match for the ages. The match almost ended with Draco spattered in Potter's own red color-changer. But Draco was a fast little shit. Thus, the jinx hit Lavender Brown instead. Never such a shriek had Theo ever heard. From that point on, the only training managed was how to dodge and shoot simultaneously. Chaos reigned supreme, with the beautiful blond giggling joyfully in the middle of the mess.
Theo could honestly say that he had never felt more alive than he had in that one hour, in that one room, all because of that one girl.
"'I told you,'" she'd confessed to him later, as he helped her spell away the jinxes covering her. He'd sought her out purposely, unable to resist asking her why she had done it. "'A nargle was in your hair. I could only assume it had stolen your smile, like he has so many others. And everyone knows fun is the only way to bring a smile back.'" She had looked at him, then, her expression softer than he'd ever known an expression to be. "'You have a very beautiful smile, you know. I've always thought so, but now I know for sure," she'd said. "Has anyone ever told you that before?'"
She had grinned again, then flounced away down the hall. Theo had found himself alone with red cheeks and a stunned expression, mind rushing to drastically change his plans. Now, instead of finding a way to tell Draco to politely fuck off about Dumbledore's Army, he would need a way to hide his participation from his father. It appeared he would be covertly changing sides. Even if the Light side's spellwork was shit.
Theo wouldn't find out her name until the third DA meeting, and by that point her surname hadn't been enough to spook him. After all, Theo was now considered a blood-traitor, too, wasn't he? He had happily kissed away her insecurity, having never once regretted his decision. Not when the Inquisitorial Squad began to shadow his every move, not when his father kicked him out, not when Marked Slytherins began making unsubtle threats to his person. Even when he'd found himself locked up in Gaunt Manor's hastily constructed dungeon, he had not regretted switching sides. How could he when, for each of those awful instances, Luna Lovegood was there to kiss his cheek and hold his hand and make them matching necklaces of woven string bits?
They had married days after the Final Battle, then left for Africa. Luna was determined to find the Southern Crumple-Horned Snorkack, not to be mistaken with its Swedish cousin, and Theo was happy to join her.
When the Ministry decreed that all British wizards and witches abroad must return or lose their citizenship, Theo could smell the potion brewing. His instincts told him to take Luna to the nearest nation with no extradition treaty and say fuck it to Britain, but sentimentality had held him back. Luna's father had still been in England, along with most of their friends. Money he didn't much care about, but Theo had given up running away in fifth year.
Still, he had never quite imagined just how bad the world they were returning to would be.
The moment they had set foot in Britain, Theo was condemned a non-combatant Dark wizard. In the new order, that meant his assets were seized and turned over to the Ministry, apparently to pay for war damages. By that point, the Malfoys were dead along with most other Dark magicals. Any survivors, like Draco and Blaise, were on the run. Harry Potter was decreed a Dark Lord and his followers were considered Dark rebels. Luna and Theo, who had appeared Light on the most part, had lived in Lovegood House with Luna's father under what had amounted to house arrest.
But they had done their part. They had used the Quibbler printing presses to give Rita Skeeter a platform and did what they could to help refugees escape into Ireland or the States. They had forged papers and prepared care packages and smuggled notes. Luna had developed a code incomprehensible to anyone without the key and Theo had warded so many safe houses that he'd developed chronic magical exhaustion. Going on the run wasn't an option for them. Xenophilius was in no shape for it, and they could honestly do more fighting in plain sight.
But Theo could see the end coming. Life was only becoming harder as it went on and even Luna's glow was dimmed by the constant struggle. Eventually, they had faltered. And the Ministry had crucified them for it.
Theodore Nott had died on April 17th, 2001, holding Luna Nott's hand, hanging from the neck in Diagon Alley. He could still remember the chilly fear, waiting for the floor to drop out. The rough rope against his throat. How he had bounced and wriggled like a fish on a line as he died, gripping Luna's hand so terribly tight, cringing as she gasped and choked…
A sharp clearing of a throat broke Theo of his memories. Snapping his head up, he grimaced slightly. How had he missed Snape's entrance? The man wasn't exactly subtle. Standing at the front of the room, he held himself as though taking cue from the reaper. His black eyes narrowed, observing his students as a cobra might a nest of baby mice.
"In respect for both my time and yours, I shall be blunt with you," Snape murmured, having no need to raise his voice. "No one knows which of you were directly involved with the Troll Incident, nor do any but I suspect a student of any House had a hand in it. I am also alone in the knowledge that those assembled here did know of what was going to take place. Does anyone have anything to add?" Snape cast a cold glance around the room. "Perhaps a motive?"
The Slytherin Elite all stared at their professor, their faces impassive. Even the stupidest and weakest of the Elite could manage that much.
Snape arched an eyebrow. Whether he was pleased or irritated was anyone's guess. "I see. I do assure you, however, that I will find out eventually. For now, I would like to say that I was very impressed with the spellwork I saw last night—"
"I was under the impression that there was no residue found," Celeste spoke up, her face a mask of polite interest. "If there was, surly the aurors would be here to track it?"
Snape smirked. When he spoke this time, there was a definite air of approval to his words. "Quite astute, Miss Yaxley. To the standard Light tracer spell, there wasn't any. However, a Darker individual might dig deeper. Perhaps by using the runes ansuz or kenaz in application with a bit of the victim's blood to find who, if anyone, used magic during her last moments. From there, it is rather simple to trace those peoples' magical signatures to the door." The room sat silently, watching as Celeste's jaw fell slightly open.
Snape's smirk gentled a touch. "Yet, I would not worry over much about that. Quite cleverly, the door was open when we professors stumbled across the unfortunate Miss Granger. With no blunt sign of foul play, none of my colleagues saw anything beyond a horrible accident. I also took it upon myself to ensure that no lingering traces of magic could be found and misinterpreted by someone looking for a scapegoat," Snape added delicately.
If there was only one kind thing to say about Severus Snape, Theo thought, it was that he looked after his charges.
When Celeste inclined her head to show that she understood, Snape carried on. "As you well know, I can give no points in the case of such a tragedy. I do trust, however, that you are all well pleased." There were nods, though no one was so blunt as to smile.
Snape nodded sharply. "Good. Then you are dismissed."
There was a hushed scramble as everyone stood and sorted themselves. A general thrum of excitement bounced among the Elite. For most, this was the first serious plot they had ever been involved in. The success left them giggly. The Weasley Prewett twins could be seen speaking in low tones, their grins mischievous. Obviously, a delivery of celebratory contraband was in the works.
Tilting his head so that his smile was hidden behind a curtain of hair, Severus Snape thought of a different wicked smile that he hadn't seen in far too long.
Bill Weasley was fucking done with Scotland. The food, the weather, the people: all of it could sink back into the freezing grey ocean. Might make an improvement of the place, really. At least there wouldn't be any more miserable forest pockets or backwater hamlets to search. No cities to scour, either. In such a perfect world, Bill would have been able to catch the first portkey back to hot, sunny Egypt without feeling the least bit guilty.
However, Bill's world was far from perfect. Helping his father suffer through Amortentia withdrawal for that first month had nearly killed him, let alone managing his own nightmares. Lucius and Narcissa had been invaluable, and Charlie had swooped in from Romania by October, but even so Bill had been on his last legs. Hence Charlie kicking him out of Malfoy Manor to go find his wayward mate. As if that task were any easier.
Bill rubbed an exhausted hand over his eyes. Malfoy Manor. Two months ago, he'd have thought anyone who told him he'd be crashing in that place was off their rocker. Now he had a portkey that would take him right into the foyer tucked in his pocket, a room with his things all over it, and a favorite Malfoy house elf. All because he'd woken up one Monday evening with an extra decade of memories crammed into his head.
Bill had been pacing his boarding room in Cairo, trying to figure out how to excuse himself from his contract with the Gringotts branch there, when the owl informing him that his father was at St. Mungo's had arrived. Thankfully, as his father's heir Bill's contract had a clause allowing him to immediately cease commitment to the bank should his father prove incapacitated. Amortentia poisoning certainly met that criterion, and within the hour the Cairo bank manager herself was handing Bill an international portkey back to England. He then spent the next three chaotic days in his father's private room, holding his hand while a team of healers coaxed Arthur Weasley back to himself one agonizing minute at a time.
Bill had been trying to forget the sound of his father's whimpers while nursing a coffee in the cafeteria when Lucius Malfoy had swanned up to his table and sat himself down. The rest, as they say, was history.
Sighing, Bill slumped down on an invitingly located stump. He'd been traipsing around this part of Scotland for the last week. He logically knew that he shouldn't have expected finding Fenrir to be a quick trip, but he wasn't sure how much more time he could devote to looking. When Charlie suggested—ordered—Bill go find his mate, Bill had only gone because he'd thought that living three years of his life with the pack had given him an edge. He was a stupid man.
Unlike what most people thought, Fenrir's pack didn't restrict themselves to one forest or to forests at all. Rather, they cycled through various territories from woodlands and rural towns to Glasgow. The entire pack was also extremely Muggle-savvy. Technology was used in ways Bill hadn't thought possible, almost entirely replacing magic. Most werewolves also had Muggle jobs, using the traits they had learned to bring forward from their wolf forms to their advantage. Rarely did the entire pack meet together at one time and instead lived in smaller chapters headed by lieutenants loyal to Fenrir. Bill had this veritable candyland of werewolf information memorized, but it was all veritably useless as Bill hadn't yet been able to figure out which chapter Fenrir was moving with. A month into his search, Bill figured he was running at least a week behind his mate. With how randomly the chapters moved, Bill might as well be lifetimes away.
Half of him wanted to set up a trap and wait, as he would hunting a target for Gringotts. But Bill was only a little bit stupid. He couldn't be seen as a threat—not until Fenrir had claimed him, at least. Bill had experience with what happened to threats. He had no wish to see more.
Being a wizard, Bill hadn't understood how claiming their mate could supersede a werewolf's mind. Usually they could hold back, but as he and Fenrir had met in the middle of a horrific battle Fenrir hadn't had enough of a grip on his humanity. The wolf had taken him over, leaving Bill confused and terrified. For the longest time, Fenrir would only approach if Bill invited him expressly. Never would Bill see him resemble anything like the werewolf he'd fought. Only as he'd died, watching Fenrir fight against their assailants, did Bill see even a hint of the monster he'd first met.
Fingernails biting into his palms, Bill pulled himself to his feet. That wouldn't happen again, none of it. Not if Bill had a thing to say about it. Instead, Bill would run across Fenrir unassumingly, walking through his territory like the idiot wizard Bill really wasn't. That Fenrir hadn't returned complicated things, but Bill worked for Goblins. Complicated was his specialty.
So, here he was, walking through another damned forest, trying to look as hapless as an international top-ten cruse-breaker could. He hummed carelessly, hands swinging aimlessly. He cracked sticks underfoot and let his body brush against leaves and trees, leaving behind his scent. Bill had even let his hair out of his standard ponytail and replaced his usual dragonhide with flimsy jeans that hugged his ass and a flannel button-up. From a werewolf perspective, Bill would have to be actively fucking himself to look anymore available. Now, if he could just find the right werewolf—
"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"
Bingo. Finally.
Fighting down a triumphant fist pump, Bill whipped around dramatically. A chill ran down his back. Not quite fear, but close. Even from across the glade he'd stumbled into, Fenrir looked intimidating. His eyes glittered icy lupine blue and the cut of the grin he wore was predatory. Yet, Fenrir's face was purely human—high cheek bones, strong nose, sharp, aristocratic jawline. His hair, long, thick, and dark, was tied back neatly and his clothes were intact. The pack hadn't been in the forest long enough to slip into their half-transformed states, then. That would bode well for Bill.
Quick to play his part, Bill drew his wand from his pocket. As he well knew, though, Fenrir was faster. The alpha charged, clearing the glade and knocking Bill over in a blink. Bill let his wand go flying, figuring it would be easier to summon it back wandlessly than risk Fenrir breaking it in some trite show of dominance. Still, you had to sell this sort of thing. Bill let out a piteous moan, looking up at Fenrir from under his lashes. Fenrir's nostrils flared, his eyes dilating. Something like glee lit them as comprehension dawned.
For the nth time, Bill wished he had been able to notice those reactions the first time around.
"Mine," Fenrir growled, "My pretty thing, lying right here for me. Mine. My mate." Bill sputtered lamely, trying for disbelieving and confused. Terrified was too hard—especially with Fenrir pinning him down, the delicious bulge in his trousers pushing against Bill's stomach.
"I am Fenrir Greyback," Fenrir murmured, nearly nose to nose with Bill, eyes intent. He had a knee between Bill's legs, big hands firm around Bill's wrists. There was magic thrumming in his voice, as old and ancient as lycanthropy itself. "I claim you for my own, for always, unto eternity. My mate." Fenrir said and caught Bill's mouth in a hard, possessive kiss.
Completely distracted from his character, Bill let the kiss wash over him. It had been a little more than two months, time he'd spent worrying for his father, his brothers, his friends, his pack, for Fenrir. His every instinct cried for him to submit, to let Fenrir take some of the burden from his shoulders. But no, not yet.
Once they'd fully mated, there would be a moment where the bond settled. Typically a bonded pair only shared emotions, impressions, and sometimes dreams. But in that moment where the bond took hold, entire memories slipped between mates. Bill was counting on using that moment to show Fenrir the life they had already lived once through. It would be a hell of a lot easier than trying to convince Fenrir of his sincerity at any other moment. His mate was such a suspicious bastard, Bill thought affectionately.
Fingers scrabbling at Fenrir's leather duster—whether to pull him closer or push him back was anyone's interpretation—Bill broke the kiss. "What the hell!?" He breathed, deliberately thrusting his hips upward. Fenrir hissed.
Pulling Bill's arms above his head, Fenrir shifted to hold both Bill's wrists with one hand. The other came down slowly, softly tracing the line of Bill's jaw to the edge of his lower lip. A wicked smile spread across Fenrir's face. Without warning, the hand that had been so gently tracing Bill's features fisted in his hair, pulling sharply. Bill gasped, back arching as electricity zipped along his spine.
Fenrir laughed, a low, rolling chuckle that made Bill's gut go warm. "Sensitive," he murmured, hot breath ghosting against Bill's throat. He pressed kisses from Bill's chin to his breastbone, pausing to suck a red mark on Bill's throat. "I always hoped."
Satisfied with the dazed expression floating across Bill's features, Fenrir broke his hold just long enough to shuck off his long jacket. His shirt came off similarly, allowing Bill to ogle the exquisite architecture that was Fenrir's chest. Not very subtly, apparently, as Fenrir laughed again upon catching Bill's eye. Bill flushed, turning his head demurely, and bit back a smirk when he heard the growl rumble from Fenrir's chest.
Hands fell to Bill's jeans, pawing at the buttons there. Fenrir's patience apparently spent, Bill swallowed his tongue as he lengthened his claws and shredded the denim, tossing the remains far from them. Bill's top followed, baring him to Fenrir's attentive eye.
"Hope you weren't too attached to those," Fenrir breathed, his words warm against Bill's exposed skin. Bill sucked air in hiccups, overpowered by the insane heat of Fenrir's body competing with the November chill.
"Not as much as I thought I was," Bill gasped. He sunk his blunt nails into Fenrir's shoulders. His mate snarled, deep and primal, and roughly parted Bill's legs. Briefly, Bill patted himself on the back for going commando today.
Shucking his own pants off, Fenrir pulled back. Under his possessive glare, Bill couldn't help but bare his throat. He was so used to Fenrir watching him, studying him, as though he were something that needed watching, protecting. Gods, but he had missed that.
"You want this," Fenrir murmured. Not a question nor a request, but merely a fact pending confirmation. Likely, Fenrir could smell and sense just how much Bill wanted this. Still, this was the consideration, the humanity, which had been missing the first time around. Bill melted, rolling his hips.
"Please," Bill replied, breathless. He tossed his head back away, flashing his throat anew.
Fenrir obviously appreciated his gesture, as he branded a string of hot kisses along the exposed skin before claiming Bill's mouth. Fenrir let go of Bill's wrists to cradle his face in both hands. Desperate, Bill drew him closer, wrapping his freed arms around Fenrir's neck. He tossed a leg over Fenrir's back, pulling their hips together. Fenrir would probably have a bruise from where Bill's hiking boot pressed into his ass tomorrow. Bill couldn't wait to leave more of them.
As though sensing his thoughts, Fenrir deepened the kiss before pulling back, nipping at Bill's bottom lip. Blood bloomed from Bill's skin and Fenrir suckled at the tiny wound, looking pleased as he pulled away.
"Still don't know your name," Fenrir prompted, running possessive hands over Bill's skin. Liquid heat flooded Bill's lower belly.
"Never asked," Bill panted, helpless to hold back as Fenrir bit at the curve of his hip, furthering a trail of bruises leading to his cock.
Fenrir growled and let his claws trail over Bill's ribs, just hard enough to draw blood. Bill hissed, Fenrir's big, strong hands keeping his hips from thrusting in retaliation. "I am now, mate."
"How gentlemanly," Bill whispered against Fenrir's lip. He never had been able to resist testing his werewolf's limits.
"Tease," Fenrir snapped and suddenly there was a finger in him, twisting mercilessly. How he had missed the lubing charm Bill had no idea, nor did he much consider it as he howled against Fenrir's bare shoulder.
"Bill," he wheezed. "My name's Bill. Sweet Merlin, Fenrir."
"Bill," Fenrir replied teasingly, tasting the name on his lips. Experimentally he slid in another finger and was rewarded with a lovely gasp. He curled his fingers and Bill writhed, fallen leaves catching in his vale of fiery hair. He clawed at Fenrir's should like a wild thing. Fenrir itched to bring him to heel, if for a moment.
Dipping down again, Fenrir traced the contours of Bill's chest, taking time to mark up each pert nipple. Bill ground down impatiently, wanting more, begging in a bubbling stream of words. Fenrir's wolf bit at his tether, eager to jump to the forefront and take and take and take, but Fenrir held back. He could smell the virginity on his mate's skin even as Bill took to sex with a hedonistic joy. Of all the sins Fenrir had committed in the name of his people, he would not add harming his mate to that list no matter how hard the animal in his chest struggled. Instead, Fenrir sucked Bill's throat a bright red and pushed in a third finger, grinning smugly as Bill's enthusiastic cry shook the woods.
"Please, please, please, please," Bill choked, nails scrawling lines into Fenrir's back, fingers knotting in his hair. Both of his legs were wound around Fenrir's waist, dragging them both into the ground, into each other.
Fenrir couldn't take it anymore. Fixing his mouth to his mate's, Fenrir lined himself against Bill's hole, moving his fingers at the last possible second before thrusting in. Bill's head snapped back, his lungs airless and wanting, only able to produce a high, keening whine. Fenrir lost himself in the tightness gripping his cock, his back arching, hands bruising in their grip on Bill's slender hips.
"Gods, you're so good, so beautiful, never going to stop wanting you," Fenrir hissed. "Going to look like an idiot, staring at you so hard I'll walk into walls." Bill laughed breathlessly, head thrown back and gorgeous to any eye that dare look at him.
Though none would, Fenrir swore. Not so long as he was there to slit them from gullet to gut if they did. After a few testing thrusts Fenrir finally allowed his animalistic nature to take over, pistoling his hips in and out. Bill moaned obscenely, delirious from the pleasure. His fingers scrabble deliciously across Fenrir's back, Fenrir paying him back with thrusts that took the breath out of both of them. By the time they came, heaving, Fenrir couldn't think straight. He was running completely on instinct.
With a snarl Fenrir bit into his mate's neck, leaving his mark and triggering the bond. He'd heard of werewolves too lost in their animal to savor this, and he was grateful to not be one of them. Their stories always ended tragically. Pushing those thoughts away, Fenrir watched eagerly as Bill's childhood memories rolled by, picking up odd bits of knowledge (eldest child of seven, mother was a hag, hated walnuts, once stuck a jellybean up his nose on a dare). He was anxious over what Bill would make of his own memories, but Fenrir had enough faith in the Moon that he wouldn't be mated to someone who would hate him for his actions.
The memories progressed quickly, floating through Bill's Hogwarts years (O's in Charms, Runes, Arithmancy, DADA, and CoMC, a prefect and a Head Boy; his mate was wickedly smart) and after (Goblins, tombs, hot sun, one terrifying incident with river-bound inferi, the rush of adrenalin, and freedom). Fenrir expected them to end there, but wait, no; the memories were still going. Bill couldn't be more than twenty, twenty-one, though. Confused, Fenrir let the settling bond take him further, through a string of events he had no reference for.
Bill, meeting a young black-haired boy ("The Boy Who Lived, are you?"), attending a Quidditch World Cup in England? Fighting, the Dark Lord's morsmordre in the air, Bill slashed by a Death Eater's curse. Later, meeting a pretty blond girl (Veela, even in a memory Fenrir could smell it in her), panic, Voldemort is back. Boredom at a desk job, only doing it for the Order's sake, only break from the monotony the pretty blond Veela; still, Bill would trade her in a heartbeat to be back in Egypt. Father almost murdered, Voldemort on the rise, marrying the Veela because everyone expects it. Bill thinks they'll probably both die soon anyway. Death Eaters arrive early, the wedding never happens, just death as the fighting picks up. Battle of the Astronomy Tower, attack a werewolf to save a girl, no, wait, that's Fenrir—horrible mating, oh gods, a nightmare.
Three years of life after, half with Fenrir and the pack, half in England, always longing for Egyptian sun. Can't go, though, even when the Goblins offer. England is so Light it's blinding, people are dying, there's another war to fight, and they do, both of them, together, until—
Cornered on the edge of Knockturn Alley, a huddle of terrified children around their legs and in their arms. The safe house was found, they have to move the kids somewhere else. Oh Gods, they won't make it. Even with the residents of Knockturn coming out to help, the Light are too many. Bill looks at him, blue eyes bright with fury, old scars from Fenrir's claws blunt on his neck. His face is youthful but the broken edges are obvious. Both Fenrirs, the one present and the one memory, are sick with his pain. Memory Fenrir meets Bill's eyes, though, and nods. Together they usher the children into Dark arms, then turn back to the mouth of Knockturn Alley. They fight, blood soaking the burning cobbles. They do not survive but their distraction succeeds.
Then Bill's back. Fresh and twenty-one again, somehow in Egypt with two sets of memories. Fenrir catches sight of Bill's mad dash to England, the horrific month spent nursing his father through Amortentia madness, and then—
Searching for Fenrir. Finding him. Loving—
Fenrir settled in the present to the sensation of fingers running through his hair. He must have pulled out, because he lay quietly, resting comfortably against Bill's shoulder. Bill's fingers were the fingers running through his hair and Fenrir's long jacket had been pulled up over them to protect against the chill. Distantly, he could sense warming and privacy spells cast from the wand Bill was twirling in his free hand. The wand Fenrir was sure had been flung half-way cross the glade a moment ago.
Fenrir swallowed, a little unsure of what to do. Maybe even (dare he think it?) scared of what would happen next. The world he had seen in Bill's memories—and they had to be Bill's memories, there was no way to fake that—was horrifying. The circumstance of their first meeting was horrifying. With memories like that, how could Bill have even bothered to search him out? How?
"Hush," Bill murmured, pulling Fenrir's attention to him. There was a soft look on his face, an expression Fenrir felt was distantly familiar. "I can hear you thinking from here, Fen."
"Fen?" Fenrir asked. He thought he'd heard it before, in one of Bill's memories.
Bill hummed, "You always got so growly when I called you that in public. Or worse, in front of the pack." Bill smirked. "Turned you on when we were in bed, though."
"How?" Fenrir replied, looking into Bill's eyes. Without the low-grade lycanthropy caused by Fenrir's attack in their last life, Bill's eyes were hazel.
"We don't really know," Bill replied, answering only half of Fenrir's question. He kept up running his fingers through Fenrir's hair, which had come loose from its tie. "Magic, I suppose. There's going to be a meeting of us soon."
"I will be with you," Fenrir said, voice final. No matter what bullshit was going on, he would not leave his mate to fight alone. Not unless he asked me to, Fenrir thought, but didn't dare say.
Bill smiled softly and at once the tension between them rushed away. "I hoped you would be," Bill replied. They lay like that, content and together, until the pack's warning howls chased them back into their clothes, Bill wrapped in Fenrir's jacket.
Well, much later than I promised it, here is the Bill/Fenrir stuff. I hope it's good, but this is my first sex scene so I can only guess? Also, Luna/Theo just kinda snuck in there; hopefully it's as cute as I thought it was. Also, a ton more culture porn because I am a fucking addict. The stuff about runes came from here: /rune-meanings/rune-meaning-analysis-kenaz by the way. Great resource, that is.
I pulled two all-nighters to get this done, so I'm very tired. Nighty-night, sweet hearts, feel free to send me your questions and comments any time, I'm dying to know what you think! Also, this has been newly edited as of 8/13/2022.
Sincerely,
BlackRoseGirl666