Chapter Two

It was always the same dream. The dark, dank cell. The stench of centuries-old mildew thick in his throat. And the screams—the screams were everywhere and nowhere, pressing in on all sides, making the walls throb around him. They burned his chest and raked his soul. He was going to rip apart—there's no way, no possible way he could get through this alive—he was going to tear in two, he was going to shatter into a million pieces, he was going to die, die, die, over and over again—die a thousand deaths to the sound of that shrill, high-pitched laughter…

"…MALFOY!"

He gasped and sat bolt upright in his tiny cubicle, nearly colliding into the gigantic, hairy nose hovering above him. A second later, Draco realized, with a heavy sense of doom, that the nose was attached to a wizened old wizard with many quivering jowls and a temper fiercer than a Hungarian Horntail.

In other words: his boss.

Flavius Octavius Rippenhorn used to be a legend—in the magizoology world, that is. Rumor had it that he wrestled with an acromantula and played sweet, sweet music to a pack of chimaeras. But unlike his rival Newt Scamander, Flavius was no academic—in fact, he could barely write his own name—and so his travels and "research" were of a far more experiential vein and thus largely dismissed by the public as sensationalist garbage. He now spent his days as the Chairman of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, and—as far as Draco could tell—making his junior associates' lives a living hell.

"MALFOY, IF YOU THINK YOU CAN GO GALLIVANTING OFF TO LA-LA LAND ON MY WATCH, THEN THINK AGAIN, YOUNG MAN!" bellowed Flavius Octavius Rippenhorn. For such a wheezy-looking old man, he had quite a pair of lungs. "IF YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST SKATE BY"—flecks of spit hit Draco's eyes—"THEN YOU'VE GOT ANOTHER THINK COMING, YOU WHIPPERSNAPPER. JUST SCOOT ON OUT OF HERE, GO ON! SCOOT!"

Sadly enough, Draco was used to this. In fact, this was not the very worst he'd received during his time at the Ministry thus far. Flavius seemed to have made it his sole purpose in life to scream at his personnel at least twice a day. He called it "exercise for his lungs." Draco called it "a nasty afternoon spit-shower."

In any case, he knew what to do when Flavius was all in a temper.

Draco adopted his frostiest demeanor and said in a stone-cold voice: "And where, precisely, am I scooting off to?"

As his mother always said: parry madness with austerity.

"WHERE? WHERE, HE ASKS? WHY, TO HOGWARTS, OF COURSE, YOU BRAINLESS PANSY!"

Draco blinked. Now that he had not expected. Since when did Flavius give direct answers?

"Excuse me?"

Flavius was eyeing him as if he was a moron. "YOU"—he pointed at Draco—"GO"—two of his arthritic fingers mimed walking—"HOGWARTS"—his arms made a triangle above his head—"NOOOOW!"

"But what for?" asked Draco, starting to get angry. What in Merlin's name was Flavius playing at? Had he finally gone senile?

"BULSTRODE!" barked Flavius.

"S-sir?" said Malcolm, Millicent Bulstrode's ogre-like brother, from the next cubicle.

"TELL MALFOY WHAT I WAS DEBRIEFING YOU LOT ON WHILE HE WAS HAVING HIS BEAUTY SLEEP!"

"Errgh…" muttered Malcolm, clearly at a loss for words (no surprises there). "Errr… Wolves?" When Flavius said nothing and only swelled up like an angry, red bullfrog, Malcolm quickly added, "Errrr… W-wolf… Men… Wolfman… Werewolves?"

"CORRECT," boomed the old man. "FIVE POINTS FOR THE BLITHERIN' IDIOT." And with a well-aimed smack to the back of his head, Flavius sent Malcolm's face crashing down on his table with a sickening crack.

"Werewolves?" Draco repeated, now more confused than angry. "You want me to go to Hogwarts… because of werewolves?"

Flavius appeared to have topped his lungs' capacity for the day, for he simply wheezed, "Not werewolves—a werewolf. One. Singular. Found on the grounds."

Draco couldn't believe his ears. He even started to laugh—loud, short guffaws that seemed to suggest that he knew what Flavius was up to, knew the old man was just pulling his leg. But a glance around the room at the grim faces of the others caused the laughter to curdle on his tongue like sour milk.

He stared at Flavius.

"And you want me to catch the werewolf?"

"No. The Werewolf Capture Unit can do that," said Flavius breezily. He looked Malfoy dead in the eyes and simply said: "I want you to kill it."

Now Draco had been called a lot of things in his life. Arrogant. Bigot. Even spoiled bastard. But stupid was not one of them. And striding across the Hogwarts grounds now in the feeble late-morning sun, he certainly felt every bit as stupid as the troll-like human being trundling along beside him.

"Errgh, Malfoy?" grunted Malcolm, scratching his head. "How're we gonna, you know, get the werewolf to stand still long enough?" When Draco shot him a withering look, Malcolm went on to say, "'Cus I don't s'pose he'll stand still, will he?"

"No, Malcolm," spat Draco, disgusted with the level of stupidity he was dealing with. "He's not going to stand still when you're about to chop his head off. We're gonna use your entrails as bait, obviously."

But before Bulstrode could scrunch up his brain to figure out what "entrails" meant, a tall, familiar figure made its way toward them from the small group of people standing by the Herbology greenhouses.

"Well, if it isn't Draco Malfoy!" said Theodore Nott with gusto, his mouth and arms wide as if to greet old friends. It would have all been fine and dandy, except for the very crucial fact that Draco despised Nott.

He narrowed his eyes. "Nott."

Nott only chuckled. "Now, now, what's this surname nonsense? Theo would suffice, I think, Draco. How's life treating you?"

Draco stiffened as Nott clapped his shoulder in a good-natured way. "Great. An absolute hoot."

"Same here, same here!" said Nott cheerfully, as if Draco had asked him how he was doing. "Can't say life hasn't been kind to me. I s'pose you've read all about it in the Prophet, of course. Three beasts in a month! These days they call me the Wolf Hunter." Nott gave a loud, hearty guffaw. "Can you imagine them calling me that when we were back in school?"

It was meant as a self-deprecating comment, but Draco honestly couldn't imagine a less likely Wolf Hunter than the thin, weedy Theodore Nott of their Hogwarts days. That was the Nott he knew best, not this insufferable, fame-obsessed Gilderoy Lockhart wannabe. Granted, Nott was no longer the underfed teenager he was at Hogwarts, but Draco hadn't trusted him then and he wasn't about to start now. It was like his father always said—the meek, quiet ones were the ones you have to watch out for. In the past couple of years, there were rumors floating around that Nott had sold out his own father to the Ministry in exchange for a job. The Malfoys may have defected in the end, but they would have never ever betrayed each other. To Draco, Nott was as bad of a blood traitor as a Weasley.

So, in a tone dripping with ice, Draco replied, "I agree. What a ridiculous nickname."

The coolness in his tone must not have escaped Nott's notice for the latter's eyes immediately narrowed with contempt. But, as the voices and footsteps of other people approached them, that glint of contempt in Nott's eyes was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

"Malfoy! What do you think you're doing here?!" screeched a familiar—and thoroughly unwelcome—voice behind him.

Draco groaned inwardly and turned around.

Sure enough, there was Hermione Granger, Mudblood extraordinaire and one-third of the trio that had been the bane of Malfoy's adolescent and adult existence. She was standing right behind him, hands propped on her hips, her bushy brown hair positively crackling with self-righteous anger.

"Why, I could ask the same of you, Granger," said Draco smoothly, his mouth already curving upward in a sneer. "I don't think there's hardly a need here for the—ah—Office of Interspecies Reconciliation, do you?"

Granger stiffened almost instantaneously. "The Minister of Magic himself asked me to come here. And I think there is going to be a need for me, especially if you and your crony"—she jerked her head toward Malcolm who was staring blankly at them all—"are planning to wreak havoc!"

Draco pretended to look offended. "Us? Wreak havoc? The only havoc happening here is Malcolm's atrociously bad breath—"

The sound of a throat clearing interrupted Draco mid-sentence.

"Actually," said Nott with a hint of amusement, "since we're on the subject of who doesn't belong here, I'd like to know why both of you have shown up." Four burly wizards had suddenly appeared behind him; Draco saw that they were the same group who were by the Herbology greenhouses just moments ago. "You see, we're the Werewolf Capture Unit," said Nott, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the men behind him, "not you guys."

Granger's cheeks instantly reddened. Draco, having had no such decency where Nott was concerned, merely glared at him in return.

"We're here on our superiors' orders, and that's all you need to know, Nott," spat Draco, fuming. He refused to meet Granger's shocked glance. He knew what she was thinking. He couldn't believe he had associated himself with her, too.

"Oh, thank God you're all here!" called out another familiar—yet also unwelcome—voice, punctuating the thick-as-butter tension in the air.

"Neville! How are you?" greeted Hermione, embracing the round-faced man who had just stepped off the castle's steps to meet them. Draco, Nott, and the other men just nodded at him in acknowledgement.

Professor Neville Longbottom seemed too flustered to offer much more than a nod himself. "I've been better, Hermione—though thanks for asking—much appreciated." He motioned for them to follow him. Draco noticed that his hand was trembling ever so slightly. "Now if you'll all just follow me this way. He's chained up over there, a bit beyond Hagrid's hut, just inside the forest…"

He and Granger walked ahead, while Draco and the others followed close behind. The sun was high in the sky now, meaning it had to be nearing noon. It struck Draco as odd that the grounds were so empty in the middle of a school day; not a single student was in sight. In fact, it was so quiet that Draco could hear every word Granger and Longbottom were saying from where he was, though they spoke in semi-hushed tones.

"So… who was it, Neville? Which student was attacked?"

There was a pause before Longbottom choked out: "Dennis Creevey."

Granger gasped.

"I know. I don't think he ever got over his brother's death, to tell you the truth. Went a bit wild. Reckless." Longbottom shook his head and his tone was fiercer when he said, "It was foolish—utterly foolish—to go into the forest at night, even if it was on a dare. I don't know what he was thinking… But anyway, his friends said he wasn't in the forest for too long before the werewolf jumped out of nowhere. You should have seen the bite, Hermione. His entire arm was nearly severed… I've never seen Madam Pomfrey so frantic."

"And this all happened last night?"

Longbottom nodded. "His friends—if you could even call them that—came running into the castle in the middle of the night, screaming their heads off. Woke half the castle up. A few of us went down there after we heard what happened, but the werewolf was nowhere in sight. We brought Dennis up to the hospital wing just as the sun was rising."

"But I don't understand—why wasn't the Ministry notified earlier? We could have done something—the Werewolf Capture Unit could've been notified sooner—"

Here, Nott spoke up, startling Draco. He must have been listening in on their conversation, too, just as Draco was.

"Our Unit was notified early this morning," said Nott. "But since we were in a no-Apparition zone at the time, it took quite some time to get here."

Draco caught him exchange a glance with one of the other wizards in his unit—a tall, muscular bloke who looked a bit like an auburn-haired gorilla—but before Draco could figure out what it all meant, Granger opened her mouth.

"Still—we were in a departmental meeting all morning—surely someone could have delivered a message or—"

"Or, God forbid, interrupt you in the middle of your tiresome tirade on house-elf reforms, Granger?" cut in Draco snidely, smirking at the rage flashing in Granger's eyes.

But Longbottom merely sighed and shook his head once more. "Not like it matters, though, does it? Look around you. Classes have been cancelled. Parents have started pulling out their kids as early as seven o'clock this morning. The other students are under strict orders to remain in their common rooms. A werewolf on the loose at Hogwarts! It's unheard of!"

They had walked twenty or so paces past Hagrid's hut—and veering dangerously close to the shadowy edge of the forest, Draco thought—when Longbottom suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

"We're here." was all he said.

At first, Draco didn't know what he was talking about. They had stopped just beneath a clump of close-knitted trees, and Draco had to blink several times for his eyes to adjust to the cool dimness of the forest. And that was when the rough outline of a paddock shifted into focus, and he realized what he was staring at.

A brief but loaded silence fell over them.

"Longbottom," Draco heard himself say, sounding oddly strained. "I thought you said the werewolf was nowhere to be found!"

The useless dolt merely nodded, looking extremely grave. "It's true. We never found him. But"—and here, Longbottom gestured at the paddock—"he showed up at the edge of the forest this morning—in human form, mind you—expressing remorse for what he did last night."

Draco closed his eyes. And opened them again. But the paddock was still there, as was the shabby-looking man huddled in the corner, the iron shackles at his wrists and ankles attached to a thick chain that was wound around a gigantic oak nearby.

Even Nott looked surprised. "That's him? The werewolf?"

Again, Longbottom nodded. "Yes. We notified your unit, not so that you could catch him, but so that you could decide what to do with him."

And that was when, much to Draco's chagrin, Malcolm unsheathed the axe he'd hidden within the folds of his cloak.

"That's easy," said Malcolm in his slow, rumbling voice. "We kill him. Right, Draco?"

But before Draco could even open his mouth, Granger—who had thus far remained silent—suddenly stepped forward, turned her back on the paddock to face them, and flung both arms out as if to protect the paddock—and its lone inhabitant—from them.

She was looking right at Malfoy as she said loudly, bristling with indignation, "Absolutely NOT! Over my dead body!"

Draco stared at her. Could she be any more insane!? Even Longbottom looked shocked.

"Hermione…" whispered Longbottom, casting nervous glances at the pile of rags in the corner of the paddock. "I'm sure they're not going to… If we could just discuss this quietly…"

But it was too late. The pile of rags had stirred. The werewolf was awake.

In a flash, Nott and his buddies had whipped out their wands. Draco hastily followed suit.

The werewolf, however, did not even turn to look at them. He merely shifted around a bit amidst a series of clinks and clanks from the chain and shackles before curling up again, motionless.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. A werewolf in human form, no matter how much he looked like a harmless tramp, was a monster nevertheless. He was glad to see that wands were lowered but not stowed away. He was even glad for the axe in Malcolm's hand.

Granger, however, did not seem to be thinking along the same lines as him. In fact, she had whipped out her wand, not to point it at the werewolf, but at him—Draco. Her face was set with grim determination, and every inch of it looked like she was ready to hex him to oblivion.

"If you think I'm just going to stand idly by and watch you murder that poor creature without due process, then you are sorely mistaken, Malfoy!"

Draco's jaw dropped. "Poor creature? Poor creature?! Granger, he nearly killed a student! That's not a poor creature—that's a monster!"

He could feel his blood start to boil; he couldn't believe how irrational she was being. House-elves were bad enough, but werewolves? They were monsters—beasts—fit only to be killed!

"You're the monster for wanting to chop off his head without a legitimate trial!"

"WHAT IS THERE TO TRY?" roared Draco, seeing red. "He almost killed a student—an innocent life—and now he deserves death himself!"

Granger scoffed. "Don't you talk about innocence, Malfoy! You don't care about Dennis Creevey at all! You only care about how good it would look to have 'executed a werewolf' on your file!"

"Oh, stop playing the saint, Granger! If you cared about the kid so much, then why are you defending his attacker? You realize that Creevey kid is going to spend the rest of his life as a werewolf now, thanks to that beast in there—"

"DON'T call him a beast—"

"BEAST, BEAST, BEAST! RUDDY UGLY BEAST WHO DESERVES NOTHING BUT DEATH—"

"Actually," interjected Nott loudly, staring at them with calm bemusement. "I do believe we should grant him a fair trial."

Draco ogled him, utterly floored. Aside from him and Malcolm, he had been sure, dead sure, that Nott would want the werewolf executed. So the fact that he had miscalculated where Nott stood in this matter threw Draco for a loop.

"Granger's right," Nott said simply with a shrug. Draco screwed up his face at the ridiculousness of that statement, but Nott continued, "It would be unjust of us to execute him without getting the whole story. He should have a chance to defend himself in trial, if he wishes to do so. I think I speak for the entire Werewolf Capture Unit when we say that we do not believe in doling out the death penalty without due process."

For a moment, nobody said anything. Longbottom's mouth had fallen open so wide that Draco would not be surprised if a fly flew in there.

Finally, Granger, having found her tongue, stammered, "Y-yes. Exactly. Thank you, Theodore. We should prepare for trial straightaway. I believe we should keep the werewolf here for another night at least until we can—"

"You CAN'T be serious!" yelled Draco, incredulous.

Granger bristled in that distinctly self-righteous way of hers that he hated so much. "Yes, Malfoy, we are dead serious, as you can see from the absence of laughter in this conversation. Now if you would please tell Bulstrode to put away his axe—"

But Draco had had enough. Face livid with anger, he walked right up to Granger until he was literally nose to nose with her insufferably defiant face—and hissed: "Shut up, you dirty mudbl—"

He felt himself being yanked back, so hard that he fell to the ground in a heap of tangled robes. Draco looked up, furious, and saw Nott's equally outraged face staring down at him, wands out and pointing at his chest. So his former housemate was taking the Mudblood's side yet again. Well, he expected nothing less from someone who betrayed his own father.

With as much dignity as he could muster, Draco got to his feet, straightening his robes as he did so. He glared at all of them, especially at Nott, and spat, "You're all making a big mistake. Mark my words—you'll regret your decision soon enough."

And with that, he gestured for Malcolm to follow him, and the two of them stalked out of the forest. Though he was still seething inside, Draco reassured himself with the knowledge that all was not lost. The others might have thought he'd given up, but he knew better. Granger herself had unwittingly revealed to him what must be done.

Tonight, in the cover of darkness, he and Malcolm would visit the werewolf in his paddock again, and this time there would be no mercy.

Author's Note: First off, thanks to all those who read and favorited/followed Chapter One, especially Twilighternproud and Anonymous for leaving encouraging reviews! I didn't get as far in the plot as I wanted to in this chapter, but I hope you guys still enjoyed it nonetheless. I work full-time during the week, so my goal is to put up at least one chapter per weekend (hopefully lengthy chapters like this one so it's worth the wait!). And of course, any form of encouragement, no matter how small, goes a long way toward motivating me throughout the week, so do leave a review if you're liking where the story's going! :)