[Summary]: AU: Sirius Black did something terrible in his fifth year at Hogwarts, and it all had to do with Severus Snape. He made sure Snape met transformed Moony that night in the shack, but it did not end the way he expected. [HG/SS]

A/N: Plot Bunny. Had to get it out of my head to make room for everything else. Fellow authors… you know how this goes.

Rated M for delicate sensibilities.

Trigger Warning: talk of rape/horrible thoughts with underaged children because of Fenrir Greyback. He's a horrible excuse for a living creature.

Other warnings: Violence/gore

Beta Love: The Dragon and the Rose and Dutchgirl01

Hair of the Mongoose, Fangs of the Wolf

Chapter One

And So It Ends… Until It Doesn't

"I woke up one morning thinking about wolves and realized that wolf packs function as families. Everyone has a role, and if you act within the parameters of your role, the whole pack succeeds, and when that falls apart, so does the pack." —Jodi Picoult

They say that if you are bitten by a cobra that you will die within thirty minutes due to the venom. The figure goes down to twenty minutes if you are bitten by a black mamba. If you are unfortunate enough to be envenomated by a blue-ringed octopus, that figure goes down to about four to six minutes minutes after your diaphragm stops functioning— no air to the brain, things swiftly go downhill from there. There is a life lesson there somewhere, probably something involving such gems as: Don't lick poison dart frogs. Don't poke blue-ringed octopi with your finger. Don't pick up cone snails on the beach, Don't eat blowfish unless you like playing Russian roulette with your food. Don't eat green potatoes. Don't forget to soak your raw red kidney beans for at least five hours before cooking with them. Don't indulge your inner herbivore by eating rhubarb leaves. And really, don't eat the pits out of stone fruit. Sounds pretty logical to me, but considering how many people I've watched try to blow themselves up with nothing but water, a cauldron, and a wand— Well, I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that much that people frequently do some remarkably stupid things.

Speaking of stupid, I really should be dead. One Dark Lord? Check. One magically-enhanced, homicidal, giant venomous snake? Check. Multiple bites that felt like being punched in the head by a pissed-off Utah raptor in desperate need of a root canal? Check there too.

Realising I was alive was step number one. Knowing where I was was step number two, running neck and neck with the pressure on my bladder which, like most things involving the bladder, always seemed to come on precisely when you least wanted it: the wee hours of the morning on a particularly frigid winter day, five minutes after you leave on a long hike, precisely two seconds after the cat who may or may not be an Animagus finds the perfect moment to tap dance on your kidneys, or just before you reach that moment of perfect, boneless bliss before falling asleep.

I was grown man, or so I had been told, so relieving myself on wherever it was that I had found myself was probably not the best thing I could have done for either my dignity or my peace of mind. Surprisingly, I did indeed have peace of mind, considering my last memory had been a giant snake trying to tenderise me or use me as a punching bag. Both were equally possible. Moving only proved that either option was entirely plausible.

I opened my eyes very slowly. Potter wasn't there with a crooked halo and a out-of-tune heavenly harp. That was a rather glorious start. The Dark Lord wasn't there gloating over me saying, "Like that last one, Severus? You died famously, just like I planned it." Thank Merlin for that. Better yet? Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore wasn't there saying, "Lemon drop, my boy? You performed your last task quite well. Ready for me to come back from the dead now?"

The air smelled like fresh lemons, reminding of the time as a child when I helped my mother clean the house. I had actually enjoyed that time together, as it was the only time my father, Tobias, didn't try to drunkenly blame her for things she hadn't done. It was a crisp, clean scent, not like the smell of Albus' damnable lemon drop breath. The light in the room was dimmed, and I could tell that the blinds were closed. The distinctive light and dark danced on the far wall. Blinds had always been too expensive for my father. He far preferred to spend his money on more booze.

He was the distinct reason why I didn't drink even when I desperately wanted to drink the lingering pain of the Death Eater meetings away. I knew what my father was like when he drank, and I didn't want to risk ever becoming anything like him. If you had known my father like I did, well, you'd surely have done much the same.

The light in the room, or, rather, the lack of it, was just enough to see, and that pleased me. It was, strangely, just how I liked it. I kept the potions classroom just a hair brighter in the hopes that my dunderheaded students didn't mistake their mandrake for marigold petals, but I honestly believe that I could have put in Muggle halogen lamps and most of the class would have failed at simple ingredient identification. Either their nose and/or their brains weren't working, and I am pretty sure both were equally faulty in most of them.

To be fair, I suppose, I would have to admit that most people don't have my finely-tuned sense of smell. It had always been quite sharp, ever since I was little. However, thanks to the workings of one Sirius Black, I had gained a far sharper nose, hearing, and a furry little problem to deal with approximately three times a month. While Black hadn't been the one to turn into a werewolf and bite me, he had deliberately put the plan in motion. To top it off, he had also handily prevented James Potter from preventing me from failing to meet the fate he had assigned to me. Lupin had almost killed me, well, Lupin the werewolf. Lupin himself was utterly mortified by what he had done. He was even angrier with Sirius. They had found James Potter locked in a broom closet with Marlene McKinnon. Both had been heavily dosed with Amortentia.

From what I'd been told by Professor McGonagall as she filled me in at St Mungo's, Lupin had looked like he was going to transform into a werewolf right on the spot. He tore Sirius a new one, yelling at him that they were Animagi so they could keep him company and keep people safe, not arrange for him assassinate people. Dumbledore had had to wade in and keep things from turning into a massive brawl in the middle of his office floor. Somehow, the headmaster managed to salvage the situation without anyone going to Azkaban, and, by some not so minor miracle, the entire school did not find out about my being mauled by a werewolf. As for the unregistered Animagi and the escalating "pranks," those had come to an end. Part of it was that under the terms of their "probation."

I had been taken directly from the hospital wing to the Auror Office, and from there I was assigned a young Auror who barely looked older than I was. His job was apparently to watch over me during the first full moon and confirm that I did, in fact, get attacked by a werewolf. I could have told them that. I had been there, after all.

I ended up studying with my Auror entourage until the next full moon. I spent my first post-bite full moon in a large stone cell with iron bars that looked like it had been borrowed from an old Muggle western movie. I had heard that Lupin had been transferred to a community located in the wilds of Berkshire. I had never heard of it, but until then, I hadn't been a werewolf. Apparently, a village had been created specifically for them, policed by Aurors who were also Animagi. They had jobs, lives, property, and freedom, save for one— all of them were werewolves or were close family members of werewolves. They even had their very own magical school. All of it had been there all along for the use by the victims of werewolf bites for many years prior to my birth. Rumour had it that Lupin's were-hating father, Lyall, had tried his best to shut the place down, and that was the reason Remus hadn't been welcome there at first. However, his attack on me had finally changed their minds, and they decided to allow Remus into their community with the understanding that Lyall would not be permitted to visit under any circumstances and would never have the opportunity to further insult the other werewolf village residents.

They had briefed me on joining that community, which would depend on if whether or not I turned during the next full moon, prepping me for where it was, how it was run, and swearing me to secrecy about it. Secrecy was what kept the victims and their families safe— both from misunderstanding and being found by one Fenrir Greyback. I had no issues swearing to secrecy on that. For all I knew, it was the only place I would be able to live after my change.

Something, however, had changed. I woke the next morning the full moon with Auror Shacklebolt sitting in a chair near my cell, calmly reading a copy of the Daily Prophet.

"Good morning, Severus," he greeted, setting the paper down and waving his wand to open the cell. "Hungry?"

"Starving." I wasn't lying. I felt like I wanted to eat an entire hippogriff along with a serving platter of chips. I might even drink the bottle of malt vinegar for an aperitif, lick a block of salt, and then go back to crack open the bones and eat the marrow on toast points. What the hell was wrong with my brain?

"You, my friend, had a very interesting night," Kingsley said, uncovering a tray with the most heavenly-smelling steak and eggs with a double portion of chips, accompanied by all the fixings that would have graced the most luxurious of Christmas breakfasts at Hogwarts.

Kings, surprisingly, didn't even bother to attempt communication with me until I had inhaled everything. I may or may not have licked the plates clean— and the cutlery as well.

I couldn't even remember changing. I remembered reading and doing my homework as I passed time in the cell, talking with Kingsley about families and why we should be able to audition parents before we are born, and the most horrible werewolf in history: Fenrir Greyback. "What happened?" I managed, trying not to look longingly at the empty food tray.

"Unfortunately, my friend," Kingsley said, "You are a werewolf."

I gave him my best arched brow.

"And you are unlike any werewolf I have ever heard of," Kingsley continued, ignoring my expression.

"Do tell," I invited. "Did I break out in polka dots and sparkle?"

Kings snorted his amusement. "You slept through most of the night, woke up once, sniffed me, ate an entire haunch of beef, declared your utter distaste for the flavour of the bars, and then went back to sleep."

I felt my eyebrow rising again. "That doesn't sound like typical wolf behaviour at all."

"No, Severus," Kings replied. "It is not typical werewolf behaviour."

"What is… typical werewolf behaviour?"

"Painful transformation, lots of screaming, throwing yourself at the bars to try and tear me to pieces, and hrm— not a lot of sleeping," Kingsley answered.

I couldn't remember diddly. It must have shown on my face because Kingsley just shook his head.

"I think your situation may help us to help you," Kings said. "I'm not among the higher-ups, but the word on the grapevine is that if you are willing— you may be the key to a great many interesting things. Paid, of course. Plenty of secrets, mysteries, a dash of espionage, and all-you-can-eat beef on moon nights. Oh, and fully paid education, a pretty impressive stipend, and a wonderfully smashing handler."

"Are you trying to recruit me, Kingsley?" I asked.

"Interested, are you?" he replied.

I had been born to a dirt-poor family in Cokeworth. He might as well have been offering me a solid gold statue of my father— created from my drunken lout of a father. "Is there any bacon involved?"

'Every morning with steak and eggs, brother, if you so choose," Kingsley smiled.

It was strange, really. I felt closer to Kingsley in the last month of getting to know him than anyone I had known in— ever. He was open and genuine, yet he was not deluded or naive. He was skilled, but he was also quite humble about it. He was not like Lucius, who would frequently take pleasure in flaunting his family's wealth and greatness just to remind me of my place at the very bottom of the heap. Avery and Mulciber were friends in the way that hungry crocodiles tolerate each other as they wait for a plump wildebeest to trip into their part of the river. Kingsley also had this uncanny ability to fit into any crowd and simply disappear. I had seen him in Muggle clothes one day, and I hadn't even recognised him. Most Wizarding folk fails at Muggle fashion. Even when they try and dress Muggle, they end up looking decades behind. Kings was remarkably observant and adaptable. He would have been the poster child for Slytherin had he come from a "respectable" Pure-blood family.

Kingsley held out his hand.

"Trust a werewolf?" I asked.

"I trust you, Severus," Kingsley said. "You could have torn me to pieces, but you didn't. I trust that. I trust you."

I put my hand in his and clasped it. "You have a deal."

Ugh, Kingsley. I would have to report to him as soon as I figured out where in blazes I was. It wasn't that I minded, but, I was pretty sure I was going to die on that last mission, and we all had known it. I hadn't served as a spy for one Dark Lord, an ailing manipulative old coot of a Headmaster, and the Ministry morons for Merlin knew how long to not know how to read the signs. It had taken every bit of Slytherin guile I had to get Kingsley to let me do it too. He'd been my best friend and handler for over a decade, almost two. Seeing him care about me had made it easier to do what I needed to do, strangely enough. Knowing there was someone out there who really gave a crap had made a lot of what I did possible— that and the death of Lily.

Despite all of our trying, we couldn't find the Potters to relocate them. Dumbledore had put his faith in the Potters to decide who to make their secret keeper. Lily and James had grown very close after he had been drugged by his best mate. He had turned a new leaf and won her hand trying to make up for all the shite he had done. She never did forgive me. It was probably the worst thing I had ever done— calling her a Mudblood in front of God knows and whoever— but that event had gotten me in with the "right" people for my assignment. I had planned to make it all right after the first war. Kings had the memory vials waiting, but that had never come to pass. What really hurt was that she was willing to forgive Potter but not me. I had been faking it. Potter had not.

For whatever reason they had trusted Wormtail of all people— if you can even call him a person— to keep their secret. Rumour had it they originally wanted Marlene McKinnon to be, as they had become very close, but she was murdered shortly before they intended to approach her. Sirius had apparently straightened up his act enough to tell the Potters he wasn't the right sort to keep a secret for them, and maybe they should have Dumbledore keep it. Albus, however, had denied them, saying he was too high profile. In desperation, perhaps, they relied on Peter Pettigrew. Their fate had been sealed by a chain of epically bad decisions. They should have trusted Frank and Alice Longbottom. They had offered. They had kept their secrets until they had been damaged beyond what even magic could repair. Part of me wondered if Lily would have regretted anything, had she only known.

Kings had said I had just had to stop blaming myself for Lily's choices. She could have forgiven me as I sat outside the Gryffindor Common Room, begging her to forgive my outburst, but she hadn't. While I knew he was right, Kings had given my wolf a entire side of beef that following full moon. My wolf, apparently, used food to placate his feelings— well, my remnant feelings. Who needs ice cream or chocolate? Admittedly, chocolate and ice-cream were more portable and easier to come by without raised eyebrows.

I shifted my thoughts back to the present mystery of "Where in blazes am I, and why can't I remember anything?" It felt worse than when waking up after a Death Eater party with Bellatrix poised above me, just about to pour something nasty over my bits. Forget the Dark Lord. Bellatrix was damn scary. She was scary because you never really knew what she wanted. It changed on whim. The Dark Lord had goals: immortality and the death of Harry Potter, which came back to preserving his immortality. Hell, my last memory was him having Nagini take me out so he could master the Elder Wand. The man had goals. They weren't nice goals, but he had them.

So, why wasn't I very, very dead?

My chances of surviving a large snake and a slicing hex were pretty damned abysmal. I'd gone through some rather exacting tests of my hearing, sense of smell, taste, and even what foods I preferred on a given day. I healed very fast—ridiculously fast, but not that fast. Magical wounds had a rather annoying habit of taking longer to heal without medical magic to assist. There was some irony there, but I was too tired to bother with figuring it out.

My nose was working. I smelled something really good coming from nearby. Bacon, eggs, and toast, if my nose was not hallucinating. There was a old blue and white porcelain water pitcher and basin by the bedside table with a few towels rolled neatly beside. My arms were wrapped in places with bandages, but when I brought my hands to me neck, where I expected the most damage, there was nothing. I fussed with the bandages, checking under them for damage. Raw, but pink, healing skin lay underneath. I smelled the liniment, and my eyebrows raised. It was one of my potions I had once thrown out into the class in a challenge to finish it to avoid doing three feet of parchment about the uses of comfrey in potions. Only two people had succeeded at it: Draco, whom I had taught the recipe and drilled it into his head until he knew it forwards and backwards in my attempt to keep the boy alive to reach his fifteenth birthday and one Hermione Granger— resident know-it-all and determined knowledge-monger. To be fair, she wasn't dealing in the trade and sale of knowledge as much as she was one to acquire it by any means possible. It just so happened that her house-mates were all too eager to cash in to her knowledge so they didn't have to put forth any real effort. That had been the real reason I had so often punished her and made her look the idiot in class. I had tried to make her look a bit less tempting in the help department, but unfortunately, she went and helped them anyway. Bloody Gryffindors.

One thing was for sure, this was not the mansion of the Malfoys, not that anyone would want to go back there after Voldemort had deigned to make it his primary base of operations. If my instincts were reliable, Lucius and Narcissa would probably raze the place to the ground or sell it off piece by piece before purchasing themselves a nice "small" cottage in France. Lucius had finally realised the truth I had been trying to tell him since I'd fallen into the Death Eaters. Like a true Slytherin, one did not just tell Lucius what he needed to know, you had to make it seem like it was all his idea. Slowly, he had come to the realisation that the Dark Lord didn't give a flying fig about any of his minions. The Pure-blood agenda had been a mere ruse to get his shot at immortality and to build his army. He had used everyone. The mighty Pure-bloods had been duped by a half-blood into doing his dirty work for him. By the time any of them realised the truth, if they could bring themselves to admit it at all, it was far too late to repent. There was always those like Bellatrix that would have taken great pleasure in gutting you for the further glory of her lord. She would probably lick her bloody fingers afterwards too. That thought was not comforting at all. I really hoped she hadn't survived the war. Hell, I really hoped the war was over. I'd given Potter the memories as Albus had wanted, and I'd given my life as Tom Riddle had wanted. Now, if I could just get my mouth around that mouthwatering bacon and eggs, I would get what I really wanted.

I was a simple man with simple pleasures. Ever since I'd turned, my pleasures had centered around my stomach. Strange that the hunger was so strong on this particular morning. The full moon wasn't for another few weeks. Hiding my lunar activities has been somewhat of an interesting dance. The Aurors had arranged for me to be detained officially each month to cover for me, and it has worked well. No one, not even Umbridge or Fudge knew the section of the Ministry I worked in. Kingsley, officially, was just an Auror. I was, officially, a hated professor of Hogwarts. Go me.

I used the towels to wash up, sensing nothing out of place in the water. My wand— my poor, abused, gloriously loyal wand, lay by the wash basin. By some miracle it was still in one piece. My robes, which I noted with some embarrassment were not on my person, were neatly folded and cleaned by the bedside. Someone had apparently mended them, as they looked pristine, and washed them. I could smell the light scent of the Persil laundry detergent. No, this was definitely not any place the Malfoys would be.

Someone was thorough. A few sets of underthings were folded neatly, smelling of the same clean scent. There was even another set of robes nearby, and a set of cassual Muggle clothes. Perhaps they had no idea what I preferred, or perhaps they simply wished me to have options. Kings had always teased me that I wouldn't know what to do with a pair of Muggle jeans. I had a tendency to approach anything of colour with the same wary attitude given to a large saltwater crocodile.

I decided to throw all sanity into the wind and put on the Muggle clothes. There was a deep purple shirt that was almost black, and the trousers were black, so it wasn't a far stretch from my normal attire. I just wouldn't have to worry about someone calling me a bat as I walked past.

I tucked my wand away and realised someone had kindly altered them to house a wand up the sleeve. Considerate.

There was a knock on the door, light enough that had I been sleeping, it wouldn't have woken me.

"Breakfast, Professor Snape," I heard. "It's waiting out in the kitchen."

Professor? Hrm.

Curiosity, the bane of my entire life, reared its ugly head. Hunger, too, demanded my immediate attention. There was also the matter of—

"The washroom is to the right as you step out."

Well, then. I suppose I had no excuse now but to open the door and figure out just what had happened to me.

"Ms Granger?" I felt the name lodge in my throat as my gaze went from her to no other but Kingsley, who was wearing a weary yet relieved expression on his face.

"Hermione, please," the witch said, gesturing to the massive plate she had fixed for me. Eggs, bacon, and rare steak waited for me. I was drooling without even intending to.

Kingsley was there, so I knew the food wasn't poisoned, but a part of me wondered if Granger had contemplated doing so, considering our past interactions had never been particularly amicable, to put it mildly. My stomach told me that I was being overly suspicious, and my hands dutifully shoved the forkfuls of food in before I realised I had done so. Part of me was somewhat embarrassed. Kings was used to this, but Granger— well, I'm pretty sure that she was convinced I survived on bitterness and spite alone. Damn, if I wasn't really, really hungry.

"Healing makes him hungry," Kingsley informed Granger, and I shot a quick glance at him. Who died and made him all loose lipped? He was never one to—

That's when I saw it: a pattern of "freckles" just under the hairline, placed so very subtly on her skin. She was an agent— just like me— and if the pattern freckles was any indicator, she had been recruited much as I had been. Her normally voluminous mane of bushy hair would have covered it quite extensively, but for once, it seemed curly, yet not overly so. Her eyes were filled with weariness, the sort of look I knew well from my other peers after they debriefed from their missions. It was the sort of expression that came only from seeing the worst things that the world could throw at you and having had to face that reality. I knew she had seen death and survived. I knew, without even looking at her, that her body would be covered with scars. She would most likely know about a hundred or more ways to field dress a wound, how to make emergency potions from wild herbs and a common drinking vessel, and she could probably quickly disappear into a crowd, never to be seen again. I knew that her bones had been broken numerous times and had to be mended. She had probably had her shoulder dislocated and her knee shattered. I knew all this because I had. All the training that had led to my getting my own set of "freckles" set just under my hair had done much the same to me. The hand-waving know-it-all was now but a distant memory. I wondered… if the annoyingly eager-to-please little swot I remembered was ever really there to begin with.

How long, I wondered, had she been working, just as he had, fighting with all she had to keep Harry Potter alive?

"Five years," Hermione said, answering me without fanfare. She took a cloth and cleaned away the makeup that he knew she wore specifically in that area to fade her "freckles." As she did so, I saw the full designation.

She was elite unit, like me. She outranked quite a few people who were considerably older than she was. She was also certified to enter the Department of Mysteries to Danger Level Five. I wondered where she would be by the time she reached my age. I saw the spots indicating that she was a Occlumens and Legilimens as well. All of us had our ranks magically marked upon us so we could never lose our identification. Thing is, they weren't precisely magical, save for how they were placed there. To anyone outside our organisation, they were natural, and unless you were in the organisation, you couldn't read the marks. Even if you were the Minister for Magic— you wouldn't know one agent from another.

There were actually a number of divisions, each in charge of different tasks and areas of the Wizarding world. The Unspeakables, for example, were exclusive to the Department of Mysteries. Others were deeply embedded into Muggle affairs. Others, like myself, were involved in espionage and protection of high-profile targets. "High-profile" included people and events that could change the world for the worse, such as Harry Potter. The death of the Minister or even the Queen was considered annoying but not quite as life-altering as if, say, the entire world were to come under the thumb of a psychotic magic-wielding deviant.

"Why do I get the feeling that you were only five years on paper?" I asked, feeling like there was far too many credentials on a witch who had been serving for five years.

"Time turner," Hermione said with a weary smile. "I think I'm in my late twenties if I were to count up all the time I spent turning for my studies at the Ministry and the time I spent taking multiple classes at Hogwarts."

"You were turning classes as well?" I couldn't help but be a little boggled by that. Merlin, when had the girl ever slept?

"I had a very tight schedule. I timed my turns at Hogwarts very specifically, keeping a log in my head. Then at night, when all my studies was done, I turned again, coming back to train at the office, and then once more sleep in the sleep and recovery room before going back to Hogwarts."

It was all quite impressive, I had to admit. I had first begun my training shortly after Lupin had sunk his teeth into me. It had been much the same, since I had two more years of school to take on before I was able graduate. She had, apparently, been recruited rather earlier than myself, perhaps due to her becoming close to Potter starting part-way through her first year at Hogwarts. Like most things, everything was buried in layers of "need-to-know". Once the mission had been completed, we tended to share the tales of our exploits with each other. We called them debriefing detox parties. Amongst our own, we could speak freely, provided we weren't on a assignment. I believe I had the record for the longest assignment in progress. If Granger's presence here with Kingsley was any indicator, then we had both fulfilled our objectives.

"Unless Kingsley is far more talented than even he wants us to believe," I said, "something must have happened to your handler."

Granger's face abruptly went grim. "Moody. I debriefed with Kings."

"I'm sorry," I found myself saying. Moody and I had quite a rocky relationship. While he trusted Kingsley, he had never trusted me. He had me tagged as a Death Eater long before I'd taken the Mark to keep my cover. I suppose I would never know the real reason why. Moody had taken his distrust and bias to the grave. Kings had remarked that I played my role far too well. When your cover depends on everything thinking you are a bigoted and loyal Death Eater, well, I couldn't exactly be much nicer to him. We had never once met back at the Ministry. There would have been no way he could have met up with me because he was training and being Granger's handler. I had still been knee-deep in man-eating venomous tentaculus. My epiphany must have shown clearly on my face.

"Yes, I knew Professor Moody wasn't the real Alastor," the witch said with soft sigh. "I had to pretend everything was just fine. I was completely entrenched. There was nothing else I could do. I informed the backups with the standard missing-person protocols, but I couldn't break cover."

Cover was everything. We had found the real Alastor Moody locked in a cell inside a cleverly-disguised chest in Barty's quarters. Fortunately, he had to keep the Auror alive in order to keeping impersonating him via polyjuice. That had been a particularly dreadful year— the year the Dark Lord had returned and an innocent Cedric Diggory had died to Wormtail's killing curse.

It had not been the Light's finest hour.

I understood having to preserve cover well enough. When things got really crazy between Albus and Tom, my check-ins with Kingsley were kept very few and far between. I would leave him updates by owl drop in cypher. Our cypher looked like tasty recipes from around the world. If anyone intercepted it, they got a great recipe for fondue. The Unspeakables apparently did much the same only with gardening tips. We all had our things.

"Thank you," I said at last, finally gaining my speech again. I tugged on my sleeve that hid my wand and gestured to the food— well, what had been food before I licked the plate clean. Stunning manners, Severus, really. Granger cracked a small smile and nodded.

"How are you feeling, Severus?" Kings asked. He was wearing his more colourful African robes that day, making me think hummingbirds were going to swarm in and try to stick their beaks into him. Yet another reason to favour black—

"Like I was caught in a stampeding herd of angry hippogriffs," I admitted. I caught the scent of citrus and sandalwood with just a hint of nightshade. It was distracting in how wonderfully those scents seemed to fit together.

"You've survived to the end of the war, my friend," Kingsley said with a small sigh of relief. "Though for you, it is the second time." He handed me a paper that declared the end of the second Wizarding War.

Potter was all over the front page, as was to be expected. A disturbing picture of my own stern countenance stared back at me.

Snape Cleared by Hero Harry Potter!

Well, that was rather unexpected.

Heroine Hermione Granger Requests Privacy in Aftermath of War

Well, I didn't blame her there. I'd like to have some of my own after the last twenty years.

Fenrir Greyback Eludes Authorities After Attacking Orphanage During Victory Celebration.

Fenrir was still Fenrir. He was also a bloody cockroach that needed to be stomped on and burned with his ashes scattered to the four corners of Creation. What? I'm thorough.

Trollop Hermione Granger Denies Fellow Hero Ronald Weasley Marriage

I didn't think it was possible, but it seemed that Skeeter loved to hate Granger more than myself.

"One might get the impression that Skeeter has a grudge against you, Ms Granger," I said.

Granger eyed the paper with a slight roll of her eyes. "It's Hermione, please Professor Snape."

"It seems rather strange for you to call me Professor Snape and you to insist on your given name," I replied, arching a brow. "It's Severus, if you can find it within yourself to forgive our rather poor history."

Hermione arched a brow, showing a sort of familiar detachment that I recognised all too well. "Can you forgive a hand waving, book reciting, know-it-all swot?"

I mirrored her eyebrow raise. "I suppose we shall both have to reacquaint to know the person behind the mask— Hermione."

Hermione's expression seemed to relax. "Severus," she said, tilting her head in a small bow of respect.

This Granger— Hermione— was calm and pragmatic. I had the feeling that it would be strange for a while, trying to balance our histories against the real person underneath. My mask had been decades in the making with only Kingsley as my main contact while out on assignment. There were times I knew that my mask had become the man. It was far too easy to slip into its familiar embrace. Gran— Hermione— had been trained and molded by Alastor Moody. Only the gods knew how much that had shaped her youth. It was amazing she even wanted to sit in the same room as me without wanting to hex me into the flames of the Afterlife out of sheer principle.

I had the sneaky suspicion that she had absorbed every little bit of knowledge Alastor had to give. The man had been unnervingly talented in tracking down Dark wizards and witches, even if he did have a serious grudge against me for some reason.

I extended my hand to her in a peace gesture. She was a fellow agent. Chances are we would end up working together, and I wasn't the socially inept heathen most thought I was. The moment I took her hand and brought it to my lips in the more formal and respectable greeting, I realised this is where that delectable scent of citrus, sandalwood, and nightshade was coming from. As a werewolf, scents were something that made or broke your opinion of someone. You might find that odd if you happen to recall that a lot of canines go around sniffing each other's rear ends and rolling in shite, but for the record, no, I do not find steaming piles of shite attractive.

I had a discombobulated moment when my mind kind of went off to lunch without me. I wanted to rub my face against her hand and bask in that mixture of heavenly scent— the perfect blend of sandalwood and citrus with just a hint of nightshade flower. It took everything I had to pull up and not make the gesture extremely awkward.

What the hell was wrong with me? Decades of control seemed like a lie as my traitorous body wanted to make like Minerva in a sunbeam and roll over Granger like bed of wolf-mint. I could almost feel my wolf ears sticking up from my hair and my tail beating like a propeller. The hell? Not once— not even once since I had been mauled by Lupin had I had the sense of my wolf being interested in someone. Hell, I hadn't be interested in someone in all that time. One whiff of Lily's body care products had sent my nose into overdrive and put the kibosh on any semblance of physical desire I might have harboured for her. That was saying something. I was a typical teenager, after all. I wasn't immune to the wiles of my hormone-infested body. Lily wasn't the worst, either. Many of her peers wore perfumes and other such heavily-scented monstrosities. They might as well have dipped themselves in toxic waste to my inner wolf.

It dawned on me that Hermione had said she had already debriefed with Kingsley, so for however long I had been out for the count, she was probably not hiding her scent with the scent neutralising soap and specialised charms we used out in the field. We were both in the espionage division. We weren't all Alastor Moody, but we did not a lot of habitual things to keep from being tracked easily. It was not surprise, now that I thought about it, that I had never noticed the scent on her before. It was probably a good thing, if this was going to be my instinctive response every time I caught a whiff of her very intoxicating scent.

Hermione was trembling, her eyes wide with confusion. Her teeth chattered audibly as she sweat. At first I thought she was having an odd reaction to me, but then I realised something was wrong. She shot a look to Kingsley, and hurried to stand up, looking as though she were going to find a place to hurl post-haste. But, as she stood, her legs gave out on her, and she pitched forward.

Suddenly, I was holding her, cradling her to my body as she shivered uncontrollably. Her body was hot— as hot as mine thanks to my pseudo-wolf metabolism, only it seemed hers was even more so. Even as she shivered against me, I could tell she was suppressing her instinctive desire to make sound.

A good little soldier.

"It's okay," I managed to say. "You're safe. Don't waste energy trying to be brave." We were trained to be strong— to survive, but if I had woken up here, then it was safe house, and that meant she was safe here. I really hoped I wasn't lying.

She made soft whimpering sounds as her body jerked and twitched. I felt an overwhelming need to keep her close, pressing my body to hers so she could feel some sort of friendly presence, ignoring the part of my brain that was asking me why the hell she mattered when she had never mattered before.

There was a sound like the buzzing of bees in my head.

"Severus!" I heard Kingsley say.

I snapped out of my distraction, my lips curling back from my teeth, flashing them at Kings, but Kings took it in stride. "Her bed is that way," Kings directed, pointing down the far hall.

It took a moment for me to process what he was saying before I realised what he wanted me to do. I pulled Hermione to me and carried her to her room, hoping there was some indicator of what room was hers.

I needn't have worried. The room was much like my chambers at Hogwarts. One part library, one part bedroom, and small laboratory near the window for the best ventilation— a luxury I never had at Hogwarts while living in the dungeon. The house was Muggle, but I had never been here before. It did not have the typical wards of a safe house, but the house had wonderful, lived-in feel to it. It was odd for a house that didn't contain a family,

I pulled the duvet back and lay her down on the bed, pulling it back over her. She was chilled, radiating heat, but shedding it almost immediately. The blankets were soaked with her perspiration within minutes, and they weren't providing sufficient warmth at all. Her scent. Gods, her scent. I wanted to do some very primitive things— such as spraying my urine in the corners of the house to mark my territory, moving on to hunt down the biggest buck I could find, and coughing up the best pieces to impress—what the hell was wrong with me?

I cast a warming charm as I dried out the soaked bed linens. I pressed her shivering body close to me, hoping that my own body heat would help her where the blankets could not. Her teeth instantly stopped chattering as she instinctively clung to my body, her hands fisting in my shirt as she tried to meld into me. Chalk one up for lycanthrope blast furnace body heat. She stopped shivering violently, and the soft whimpers she was making calmed into gentle sighs of absolute contentment.

I cast Kingsley a rather frantic look. This had to look decidedly awkward. I was quite a bit older than she was— well, perhaps not as much had she not time-turned her way through her education. Still. I had still taught her when she was eleven, and I hadn't exactly come to grips with her being both an agent and my peer. She was clinging to me as though I were her personal life preserver, and my inner, furrier self, was very, very happy about it.

Kingsley, unflappable as always, simply nodded to me. He knew something. Something had happened after I was mauled by a magical snake, and he knew what it was. I'd ask him— demand even— if I didn't have this almost uncontrollable urge to nuzzle this witch in my arms and curl my body around her, dig her a nice deep den in the cool earth and guard— damn it all!

I dug my nails into my palms even as I held her. Part of me refused to let her go, especially as when I tried, Hermione whimpered as her body started to shiver uncontrollably all over again. The more distressed she was, the stronger her scent, and the stronger her scent became, the more irrational I became.

I may not be the person she thought I was. She may not have been the annoying student I thought she was, but I was not going to have to explain why I was trying to rub myself over her body when she woke up! I also had no idea why I was trying to rub myself all over her either, so that conversation was definitely going to be a bust.

I had been around countless people, agents and not. I had been around a great many werewolves, no thanks to Fenrir, and none of them had been even remotely attractive to me. My inner wolf turned up his nose like Lucius Malfoy to the common rabble and disdainfully looked the other way. I had found Fenrir to be utterly detestable, and his people either utterly broken or insanely fanatical. Neither were qualities I had ever found attractive. The few times I had visited the secret werewolf colonies, none of the werewolves there had ever caught my eye, not as a human and not my inner wolf. I had taught Granger for upwards of six years and never once felt this deep, compelling drive to hover over her like some sort of overprotective guardian beast.

Kingsley and I had a very set rapport of trust. I trusted him, and apparently my wolf trusted him too. Because of that, Kings could get away with things that no one else could. He could, for example, sit around me during my moon-nights, and only suffer getting slobbered on and having to listen to my lupine song of the evening or sulky complaints about the unpleasant taste of the cell's iron bars.

Eventually they had made me a nice little habitat to spend my moon nights, but it usually ended up with Kingsley flat on his back and me pinning him down with my overly large wolf head. I was apparently insufferably sociable as a wolf— to Kings at least. I ignored other werewolves, showing a strange disdain for most of them that mirrored my opinion of most of my fellow students at Hogwarts.

They had tried to introduce me, once, to other werewolves when Kingsley was around, and they had immediately tried to attack him through the bars. I had torn them apart. Sending them packing to the back of the enclosure with their tails submissively between their legs. According to Kings, I had set my butt up against the bars so I could feel him there, as he was every moon night, and he scratched that special spot that made my back leg beat a tattoo on the ground. I didn't let any other werewolf anywhere near him. Kingsley had an unshakable trust in me and my wolf because of that. I may not have been my usual potion master self stuck in a wolf's body, but my wolf was obviously capable of much higher functioning thought than the violent beasts who shared my moon nights. And, because Kingsley fed me very well every night and day, my strength only grew, while the smaller, bickering werewolves tore each other apart over mere scraps.

Kingsley had let me see his Pensieve memories a few times. I truly did not act like a typical werewolf. Other werewolves would eventually, after I tore them apart, come crawling back as devoted supplicants, even willing to tolerate Kingsley if that was what I wanted, but I drove them away, apparently not satisfied with their post-mauling regrets. Perhaps my wolf did not trust them to keep Kingsley safe from themselves, let alone any other potential threats. I have no idea. My wolf apparently valued Kingsley as one of his own, as pack, and that afforded him my utmost protection. Eventually my size became massive, towering over the typical werewolves like a fully grown bull mastodon over a modern baby elephant. Kingsley often joked that I was big enough to ride. My changes came easily in my sleep, quickly and painlessly. Sometimes I would wake up covered in dried mud, bits of grass, and other such debris, but it was nothing a nice shower couldn't fix. I would apparently wait quite patiently for my designated haunch of beef, wait for Kingsley to set it down and step away, and then I would promptly tear into it like I hadn't eaten in months. Meanwhile, in other enclosures, where the other agent-werewolves were contained, they had to carefully levitate the food in to avoid someone getting hurt… or worse.

Kingsley often mused that I was far too alpha to be burdened with mindless violence. Everything I did was for a purpose and reason, and he said my wolf was very much like me as a human: precise and methodical. While he often had conversations with me, and apparently I listened, he never had an impression that my wolf understood as much as he enjoyed the company. Kingsley had provided me with both a cover and a purpose. More importantly, he had kept Dumbledore off my back about being a werewolf. Rumour had it Albus was trying to groom a werewolf to be his liaison into Fenrir's pack— hopefully turn the weakest wolves over to the Light side, but Kings had protected me from that by scheduling me for "a special Ministry program for abused, victimised, and underprivileged magical children."

All of this came back to my not having the slightest clue as to why one Agent Hermione Granger was provoking this very out-of-character intense protectiveness. I was protective over Kings, but I had never wanted to snuggle him and hurl up food for him.

He and I are probably both thankful for that.

"Something is wrong with me, Kings," I told him, even as I cradled the feverish young witch against my body.

Kingsley gave me a rather resigned smile. "No, my old friend," he replied gently. "I think it is finally going right."

I narrowed my eyes at him, but I also knew that Kingsley saw things most other people missed. That was his particular talent. He wasn't a seer as much as he saw truth, and in my book that meant more than some dotty prophecy. "Kings, tell me exactly what happened."

Our relationship had always been truthful. Unlike other handlers, who often told their charges just enough to get the job done, I could always rely on Kings to tell me the whole unvarnished truth. He didn't just stop halfway through the summary and shove me off to come back later. I think that is why our relationship worked. No one, until Kings, had ever been so reliable to me. If anyone had the power to be my true "master" it had been Kingsley— not Dumbledore and certainly not the Dark Lord.

"Shortly after you met with Voldemort and he set the serpent on you, Potter, Weasley, and Hermione came upon you. If you recall, you gave your memories to Harry so he could complete his ultimate mission."

I nodded. "I remember up to that point," I said, confirming. I never got angry with Kings for confirming what I knew and didn't. It was better than being left scratching my head later wondering if I had somehow missed something.

"Misters Potter and Weasley left to continue the quest, but Hermione remained behind to tend to you. That was when she saw your "freckles" for the first time," Kingsley explained. "She knew she had to do everything in her power to save you, and so she did. Nagini's venom, however, complicated things. She poured a slew of things down your throat, performed Muggle CPR, then pounded a bezoar into powder with a rock, mixed it with purified water, and then siphoned it down your throat with her own mouth. You healed, outwardly, but the venom— whatever magic that snake had been imbued with— had taken root inside you." Kingsley trailed off, staring out the window to watch the birds eagerly nibbling seeds off the feeder.

"You transformed, Severus," Kingsley explained after a while. "She thought you were having a seizure and fought to keep you from smashing your head against the floorboards. She placed a strap in your mouth so you wouldn't bite your tongue. She had no idea whatsoever that you were shifting. It wasn't a full moon, besides, even if she had known."

"Kings—" I trailed off and looked at him hard. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"She tried so hard to hold you down, Severus," Kingsley finally said, "and then you turned right there in her arms."

There was more to it, I knew. Kingsley's face was grave. I knew I had to wait. That was the thing about Kingsley. If I was patient, he would tell all. I just had to be.

Kingsley sat in the chair beside the bed, slowly reached over to Hermione's blouse and gently pulled the collar down to expose her collarbone.

Perfect scars in the form of wolf teeth were pink and healing on her shoulder.

I had bitten her. The fever— her body was succumbing to the change.

The wolf who had managed not to bite anyone in all my years as a werewolf, had bitten a witch trying to save my life.

Utter despair filled me. I could never be trusted again. I couldn't trust myself again.

How was this even possible? Full moon wasn't even for another few weeks yet!

"The venom, Severus," Kingsley said. "Something having to do with what Voldemort did to his familiar— his Horcrux—induced a non-lunar change. Hermione said that after it happened, and you had fully shifted, the wolf was clearly apologetic. You were not violent. You did not attack her. In fact, when the Death Eaters came to deal with your body, you defended her ferociously. You tore the bastards apart and then lay your head down calmly in her lap. You let her Apparate you here, to this house. You followed her around all night, and it was only when you finally slept and changed back that she tended your wounds and sent her Patronus to me."

Kingsley smiled. "She had no idea I was your handler. She called me to debrief for herself. She doesn't blame you at all, Severus. Your change was completely involuntary. Neither you nor the wolf was in control."

Kings looked at Hermione with a tender expression. "She is an exceptionally strong witch. Only now did she finally succumb to the bite. Now, only after she was satisfied you were safe, did she finally let her guard down."

I had to stare a little. This petite witch had obviously harboured a great deal of strength beneath her facade of being merely Harry Potter's faithful bookworm friend. "You healed her bite?" I asked.

Kings shook his head. "No, Severus. You licked it clean and it instantly healed." He paused, rubbing his chin. "She said you doted on her all night long, following her around. You polished off half the contents of her fridge, by the way."

"This is… her home?"

"Her parents' home," Kings corrected. "We moved them out when we discovered that the Death Eaters were preparing to attack. They are currently living in a new place in Australia under the names of Wendell and Monica Wilkins. They gave this place to her, hoping that she 'gets married and puts all of this war nonsense behind her, preferably giving them a few grandbabies down the line'," Kings recited.

I couldn't help but snort.

"She plans to make this place a safe house," Kings said. "Once things settle down and all. All that fame and rigamarole, as she put it."

"Will she be able to keep it?" I asked, concerned. "If she should end up in one of the werewolf communities—"

"That will depend on her first change," Kingsley said with a sigh. "Much as it did with you."

I winced. I had been the only werewolf they knew of that didn't mindlessly attack humans after their change— there was something about humans that triggered something in the werewolf. That is, it triggered it any werewolf other than myself. Her chances were very small. The werewolf communities were not a death sentence. The majority of weres there were happy. Hell, Lupin had even found himself a mate and now had a daughter named Cynthia, at least that was what I had heard last. The grapevine said she was quite the handful. He owled me every Christmas, sending me chocolate as an apology for that fateful night his wolf had tried his best to murder me. Thing is, it was not exactly safe to go it alone as a werewolf. She very well could do it, seeing as she was still an agent as I was, but most werewolves preferred the company of their own kind. It drove them to do stupid things like join Fenrir Greyback rather than be alone. Fenrir, of course, relied on that to be the self-appointed alpha of his werewolf pack.

One of my unofficial jobs as the werewolf that wasn't quite like the rest, was beating the everliving daylights out of captured Greyback werewolves that refused to cooperate. They did nothing to the human, save incarceration, until the moon night. Then, they would place them in my habitat. By the time they pulled the werewolf out the next morning, they would sing like a lark in springtime and try to lick my boots, almost quite literally.

I asked Kings what I did to them, and his reply was always, "they never fail to take the first shot, but you, my friend, always finish the fight."

Most of Fenrir's wolves were one of two main types: the ultra submissive, broken spirits and those who willingly, nay, enthusiastically embraced the madness and violence. The submissives easily begged the Aurors to help them, relocate them, and keep them away from Fenrir. The violent ones, or the ones we called the lieutenants, required more graphic reminders of how things truly worked in Fenrir's twisted werewolf society.

Thing is, once you got the wolf to submit, the human was easy. They were so fused to their wolf, that once the wolf gave in, the human always followed suit. Fenrir had programmed them that way, nay, had brutally beaten it into them. He really had no one to blame but himself when a larger, stronger wolf beating the living crap out of them caused them to promptly throw in the proverbial towel. Ironically, Fenrir had never found out about my wolf. It was almost as if my wolf was perfectly camouflaged by my already intimidating human half.

I never fought my wolf. We seemed to always be perfect agreement on what we wanted, who to protect, and who to tear to pieces. I rarely ever remembered who I tore to pieces, but I usually agreed when Kings told me later that it was a good call on the wolf's part. I was the only werewolf they allowed out with my handler for that same reason. Until Hermione, my wolf had never shown a desire to follow anyone around but Kingsley.

What did that mean?

Had good old Albus truly known about my partnership with Kingsley, he may have had second thoughts about some of his decisions, or perhaps he would have continued with his courting of Remus Lupin to persuade him to lure the other werewolves to the Light. To this day, even now that Albus lying long cold in his tomb, I along with many others still have no idea what he was really planning for his much-vaunted "greater good."

He had me murder him for that same greater good. Part of me wondered if it was for truly for his cause or if he was simply afraid of suffering through the deadly curse he had taken upon himself. It had taken a solid month to get the proper channels to approve the "murder" of Albus Dumbledore and get all of the pertinent memories sorted and sealed away in vials before it happened. Apparently, Harry Potter had decided I was a hero, so all my purported sins were forgiven even without presenting the evidence, but had we not been prepared, who knows where I would be now— Azkaban, most likely.

My doubt rose up again. "She couldn't possibly be okay—"

"Severus," Kingsley said, his tone changing into the same sort of rumble that made my wolf slump, knowing he had done something uncalled for like marking his favourite rug or chewing up his favourite quill. "She really is okay with it. I doubt she woke up in the morning saying 'Wow, today would be a great day to be infected with lycanthropy,' but she is fine with what happened. She was far more worried that you would be okay."

Hermione was finally asleep, and it took every bit of my willpower to tuck her in and remove her clinging embrace from my person. Even if I did feel like I had just ripped off my own leg and left it in the bed. My wolf was definitely not happy with me at all. This was our first serious disagreement. I could feel him pacing inside my head. There was a deep-seated need in the wolf to stay close by her side. I prayed that she wouldn't stir and make that noise that would have me come undone all over again.

It wasn't that my wolf wanted to rut with her, per se. Hell, it wasn't that I did. We wanted to rub our body against hers and let her know we were there and she was safe. We wanted to share our warmth, groom her face, nip her gently with our teeth— ARGH!

I stood up, forcing control over my body.

Kingsley and I walked back out to the living room, with me digging my nails even deeper into my palms to keep myself from bounding back to Hermione and wrapping myself around her like a furry octopus. Merlin, Severus. This is worse than when you were a teenager and could blame your raging hormones.

"Kerfuffle," Kingsley called out.

Pop.

A young house-elf appeared dressed in what I believe was the first full set of proper house-elf clothing. "Yes, Master Kingshlee?"

Kingsley arched a brow. "Tea please, for myself and Severus."

"Kerfuffle is honoured to serve," the young elf said, disappearing. She appeared a minute later with a tray of tea, biscuits, sugar, and cream.

"Thank you, Kerfuffle," Kings said, taking the tray. The house-elf smiled broadly and disappeared with another pop.

My confusion must have been showing because Kings grinned at me. "They are all paid in cloth and sewing supplies and they make their own clothing as payment for their work. They are allowed to pick two days to be their time off, and they get to decide if they wish to work on holidays. There are many that work here, but they often refuse to take days off even though the appreciate being offered the option. This house became a sort of halfway house for house-elves who had lost their homes and families, thanks to the war. They were so grateful to have someplace to call home, Hermione didn't have the heart to say no to them all."

"Is that why this place feels so lived in?" I asked.

Kings nodded. "They tend everything, usually when Hermione is away so she doesn't feel guilty that they are always working. Each has found a niche they like— garden, attic, cellar, or whatever. Hermione gave them permission to decorate and make the attic theirs, and from what I've heard, if you stick your head up there it's like Christmas all year round. I think their favourite game is how much they can clean with Hermione around and have her not notice."

I felt the corner of my mouth turn upward. Despite my knowing the real Hermione was something I really didn't know, the entire situation with the house-elves seemed very Hermione to me. Insisting on fair treatment and having house-elf holidays was just, well, Hermione. I did know, even from such a short time together, that Hermione was probably the most pragmatic and forgiving individual out there. If what Kingsley said was true, and the man was not a liar nor a blind twit, Hermione had already forgiven me for biting her and had accepted all of what that entailed. She also had a history of forgiving that witless red-headed menace far too many times to count, but I was still on the fence as to whether that was purely for show or her sincere compassion showing through. Knowing Kingsley, he had probably already outlined, in great detail, all of what being a werewolf would mean for her, just as he had to me so very long ago. He was an old hand out it now.

"How many house-elves are here anyway?" I dared to ask.

"Hrm," Kingsley said, thinking. "There are at least twelve elves who are always here, as in they refuse to leave Hermione ever. The only thing that will make them leave is if Hermione moves. Three are in love with this house and promise to stay with it no matter who is here. The rest are either refugees or staying until they find a new home and family to serve. There are maybe ten or twelve here right now. They banished themselves to the cellar and garden. If you look out back, you'll see magnificent gardens the likes of which Muggle royalty could only dream of. I think they put one hell of an undetectable extension charm on the land. I walked for a good hour out there and never hit the fence."

"Impressive," I admitted. I had no idea house-elves could do that. Rooms, yes, but gardens? I suppose it was logical. Diagon Alley managed to fit in an alley after all.

"I discussed this with Hermione while you were sleeping," Kingsley said. "Now that Fudge has resigned, Scrimgeour is dead, and Pius Thicknesse in Mungo's with permanent Imperius-induced brain damage, my caretaker Ministry position has been upgraded to that of the actual Minister for Magic."

"My condolences," I quipped with some amusement.

Kingsley gave me that look that plainly told me to stuff it. "Since I believe you will probably not want to break in another handler, I was thinking of having you and Hermione join me as the co-heads of my new Ministry Guard. You will use the same skill set, rate a substantial pay increase, and you will help me gut the Ministry and root out the last of the Death Eaters and sympathisers still lurking in the place. I will need your help in creating some tests or perhaps questions for under Veritaserum or whatever you two can devise that might be even better— but the main goal is to clean out the Ministry of Voldemort's old followers and sympathisers."

Rooting out conspiracy? I think my wolf ears were showing.

"You will answer to me alone," Kings said. "We will all stand before whatever test you craft and submit it into the memory files. Then, it will be up to you to decide how you want it to be distributed."

I felt a rather evil smile slowly spreading across my face. "You always knew just how to sweet talk me, Kings," I said.

Kingsley grinned. "Excellent."

Our tea finished, Kings excused himself to prepare dinner, having discovered the joys of cooking with the house-elves and having found it to be utterly fascinating, or so he told me. I, however, decided that a quick shower was definitely in order. Hermione's scent was all over me, and I didn't trust myself to wear it and end up having my wolf suddenly decide to take things into his own paws. It had never happened before, but I could still feel the insistent tug in my mind— the drive to return to her side.

Yes, a shower was definitely in order.

The Dark Lord had ordered his people to leave Rita Skeeter alone, and while I was not one of his human Death Eaters, the rule had applied to me and my pack. For the longest time, I wondered why, and I finally realised the reason. Rita Skeeter could find people and dig up all the things no one wanted her to know. She was warp and twist it into something even worse than what it was, leaving her victims defamed and untrusted, while she remained the voice of the uncensored "truth." She was also a bulldog, which was somewhat of an admirable trait for a human. Better yet, she had a grudge against the Granger chit, and that meant she was going to track her down.

I licked my lips as Skeeter found the the house the girl had been hiding in. I wanted her, that petite little girl— she wasn't as young as she was when I had first seen her, but she hadn't grown much. I could still imagine her much younger, and I planned to deflower her, break her mind and her body until it served only me. Thus it should be. She would know her place. She would have a purpose, and she would beg me for it.

I revelled in the thought that the brainy little hero of the war would be reduced to carrying my pups and licking my feet. I didn't need her brains. All she needed was to know when to spread those pretty little legs exactly when I wanted them. I would be sure to want them, often. I would take her in front of the rest of the pack until they heaving with want, and then I would beat them bloody for eyeing what was mine.

Speaking of beating someone bloody. Snape was in that house. I saw the two-faced traitor from afar. He always had the stench of those horrid herbs he brewed upon him. I could almost smell it through the walls. This Rita Skeeter sure knew how to find people. I'll give her that. Pity she was an Animagus. The wolf would probably ignore her. Oh, I knew her dirty little secret, but the Dark Lord had insisted we leave her be. She was better off free to cause havoc on her own.

Thanks to Harry Potter, Hero of the Wizarding War, I knew exactly what Snape really was. He really was a traitor— just like the rest of the backstabbing Death Eaters. Oh, he pretended to be uninterested in the pleasures of the flesh, but maybe— maybe I could break him by taking away his play toys too. I'd take the girl right out from under her little guards. Maybe I would take here there under their noses. Pathetic humans. I wished I could just transform and let the pain drive me into a frenzy. Oh how I relished it. I knew, once it was done, that I would do wondrous things for the pack.

I would rut with the girl, infect her as I had my way with her. I would savour her fear and despair. The wolf would let me remember that, and it would be good. Damn the cycle of the moon. We should be gods amongst men. The moon should be no restriction to my kind.

The Rita wench was sneaking around the house to the other side, and I let her do all the sneaky work for me. I followed her to the back of the house before she disappeared, and I wondered if she had found a way in I wasn't seeing. There was a small gap in the window screen, but the screen was still in. She didn't go in that way… but maybe I could.

As I examined the damaged screen, I noticed that there was a window half open further around. There was only a screen between me and the inside of the house. A house-elf was busy repairing the window, too enraptured with painting the outer frame to pay attention to me. All the better. I crushed his little neck between my fingers, choking the life out of him, enjoying watching his eyes bulge as his pathetic magic failed him. I cast him aside, no longer enjoying it. The elf choked, grasping his neck, before disappearing with a hasty pop. Meh. I had hoped I had killed him. No matter.

I would grab the girl and be gone.

The house smelled sickeningly clean. Even the smell of the damp earth from outside smelled fresh, not like my own den that hung with the wonderful smells of mingled sex, sweat, animal musk, piss, and blood. It was the scent of life, after all. This place smelled like a human's unnaturally pristine den.

It was insufferable and nauseating. The stench of such cleanliness was utterly disgusting. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and dragged my unclean hand across the pale pastel wall, leaving a long streak of oil and dirt in its wake. Better, but not all that much better.

No matter. Once I had the girl, I would make sure to mark her up properly. I wouldn't need magic and some dark tattoo. All I would need was the strength in my arms and a good rut. That's all any young thing needed to know her place.

I slipped into the girl's room easily enough.

The sound of water running and steam from the shower was coming from down the hall. It made enough noise to cloak my entry. I could hear Shacklebolt toiling away somewhere else in the house. That was fine. They were far enough away from me.

Ugh, the room smelled of citrus and some sort of sickly sweet incense mixed with flowers. It had an earthy, disgustingly natural scent to it. Clean. Not even a chaser of fear to help wash it down. I rubbed my burning nose. Best to get this done quickly and get the girl back home before showing her that she belonged to me now.

This room was full of useless books. The stench of parchment and dried plants permeated the air as much as the strange mixture of citrus. It made me want to smash things, tear the books from the bindings, and crush the bottles of ingredients. Females had no need for such useless drivel. I wiped my muddy feet on the clean carpet, putting some nature on the unnaturally clean dwelling.

There she was. The little mudblood bitch. She had been such a thorn in everyone's side. The Dark lord should have let me have her from the start. It would have saved so much time and wasted effort. Harry Potter would have rolled over and exposed his neck like a proper sacrifice. But no, they never did listen to me. Now that the Dark Lord was gone, I was going to mark up quite a few babies over at Hogwarts. They would all be mine— mine as they should have been from the start. Mine as the Dark lord had promised me.

I would have them, one way or another.

I stormed toward the bed, slamming my hand over her mouth so hard she probably tasted the dirt and dried blood of the last idiot that had gotten in my way. Her eyes opened, and she struggled, but I could tell she was weak and feverish. "Struggle all you want, missy," I purred menacingly. "I really like it when they struggle."

I used the blankets to bind her tightly, since it had already been partially done for me. I could smell the stench of Snape's potion and herb-laden scent all over them. Oh ho! Perhaps he wanted a piece of the little girl too. Even better that I take her away and make her mine. I shook her to get her to stop squirming so I could carry her out, but even sick, the girl was struggling like a bloody hellcat on fire. There was the rich, heady scent of fear in the air. It smelled wonderful, but there was something else— anger and something else.

What was it?

She was thrashing in my arms, and I clamped my arms around her like a vise, squeezing the air out from her lungs. Her bones made that delightful cracking sound that meant they were breaking. It really excited me. And then I felt a sudden sharp sting on my hand. Scarlet rivulets of blood dripped from my hand to the floor. The little bitch had bitten me!

I couldn't let that stand. I dropped her back on the bed and backhanded her. Once, twice— until I heard the pop of her jaw going out of alignment. It made a satisfying crunching and grinding noise as her jaw worked to pop back in place. I sucked the blood off my bitten hand. She had balls, this little bitch. Her teeth were also bloody sharp for a human. I would take my time breaking her. I would enjoy every single moment of it, too.

I picked her up again, moving to sling her over my shoulder, but her body began to jerk and twist again. The cloth of the quilt was ripping and tearing. I couldn't have her escaping me. Perhaps it was time to pound a few of the lessons into her.

I wrapped my hand around her, choking her. My other hand shot out to grab the scurrying bug on the outside of my vision. "Listen, little girl," I hissed. "Stop struggling, or I will crush you like this insect."

Her body was slick with sweat, eyes wild with terror. She was literally foaming at the mouth. She continued to struggle. I smashed my insect-holding hand on the wall with a crack—

She screamed. No, it wasn't the bite-y little bitch.

I had just enough time to register that the nosy reporter wench was lying crumpled on the floor, whimpering and broken. The insect had been her? They said she was an Animagus. Most of us figured she was a raccoon or a magpie, considering what a notorious busybody she was well-known to be. I hadn't actually intended to damage the reporter, but I was somewhat glad to have finally broken at least something satisfactorily.

I had a moment to dwell on that as a blur of fathomless black slammed into me with the force of the Hogwarts Express. I saw a flash of ivory just before intense pain spread from my shoulder down my spine until every nerve was one fire. There was a roar in my ears, and I realised it was the hot breath of a very enraged beast. The beast shook me back and forth like a rag doll, and from the size, I thought Kingsley had finally managed to get his hands on a cerberus— how I not smelled something as obvious as a huge three-headed dog, I had no idea. All I saw was black. All I felt was pain. It wasn't the kind of pain I was used to, and I had a high tolerance for what humans called pain. Typically, I enjoyed pain. It preceded the surge of pleasure that came after. This pain, though was not a teaser into pleasure. It was fire that never ended.

I found myself slammed into a wall, flung there like a cast-away piece of trash, and my eyes focused on long enough to realise it was no cerberus that was tearing into me. It was a giant, monstrous wolf. Black, black, eyes as dark as the moonless night met mine. They smoldered in pure hatred. I knew it well. I beat my pack into hate, and then I beat it out of them until they answered only to me, focusing their hate on humans. This hate, however, was different. This hatred was personal.

The giant animal leapt on me, jaws snapping inches from my face. It was obviously not done with me, perhaps wanting to get a better grip to shake the life out of me. I wasn't going to go down without a fight. I was superior to some brainless animal. My pulse was pounding in my ears. My hand, where the little bitch had bitten me, was swelling and engorged with blood, turning a rather angry red and purple. My breathing was difficult, but I willed myself into action, shoving my fist down the wolf's throat to choke it.

At first, I thought it had worked, and I had taken the beast off guard enough to get the upper hand, but as we tumbled across the floor, smashing into furniture and destroying any semblance of the unnatural tidiness, I realised my actions had just shoved the wolf's stiletto fangs deep into my swollen hand and arm. Curdled blood dripped off my hand— unnaturally thick and clotted. I smelled rotting flesh, and it was me. What had Kingsley done to this beast? Coated it's teeth in venom?

Oh, no. If I was going to die to some jacked up trained wolf, I was going to take out Kingsley's toy with me. I jerked the wolf's head, attempting to snap its neck. The wolf yelped in pain, but my movement had been off. Instead of dislocating its spine, I just slammed its head into the floor. I used my arm, which was trapped in its jaws to slam it back into the floor over and over again.

Just when I thought I had it finally where I wanted it, another something slammed into me, the roar of a growl ringing in my ears. Sharp pain traveled from my groin upward with a gush of hot blood. I kicked out instinctively, hearing a yelp, but the damage was done.

I started, almost uncomprehendingly at the blood mass of flesh between a second wolf's jaws. The golden brown wolf snarled, shaking its head back and forth violent as the bits of flesh slammed into the wall and slid down it with a sickening splat.

The first wolf had pulled away, shaking its head as the fouling blood seemed to give him displeasure. He rubbed his head against the carpet, rubbing it off his jaws before bounding in front of the golden brown wolf. It— he, and there was no doubt now— stood in front of the slightly smaller brown wolf and snarled at me, hatred oozing off of every hair of his body.

I loathed to do it, as I always preferred to handle my problems head on, but pulled out my wand and Disapparated.

Only nothing happened.

Pain was starting to get to me from all parts of my body. Dawning realisation told me what the brown wolf had thrown against the wall as a puddle of my own blood oozed under me. The blood had a stench about it and a thick and unnatural texture that looked like coffee grounds. I was sweating hard, but it was a cold, sickly sort of sweat. My vision was going double, and it was getting very hard to breathe. My lungs simply refused to expand.

NO!

I refused to let some foul, overgrown creature to get the best of me! I was Fenrir Greyback, alpha of all the werewolves of Britain and beyond! No bloody animal was going to get the better of me.

Something in the back of my mind was screaming a warning that I needed to pay more attention to the signs, but vengeance was the only thing I could truly think about. I was the alpha werewolf— I would tear this beast apart!

I met the black wolf's gaze, challenging him, daring him to come at me. I whispered the incantation to turn my wand into a blade— my artificial fang.

Come at me!

Come on!

Do it!

The black wolf's lips pulled back from his teeth, and that is when I realised this was no ordinary wolf. Ivory fangs glistened with a pale iridescent shimmer of magic-laced venom. While part of the mouth was like any wolf, behind the row of lupine teeth was another row or two of parallel, backwards-pointing teeth. As the beast snarled, the row seemed to unfold in a way I vaguely remembered seeing before.

Then, it hit me. I had seen those teeth before— in Voldemort's pet, Nagini, his venomous, magically-enhanced, homicidal snake.

The beast looked like he was going to take my invitation.

"Stop," Kingsley voice said, low and level.

The black wolf creature looked from me to Kingsley with a conflict between unreasoning hatred and appeasement.

"Come on you, big beast!" I snarled. "Come at me!" I readied my cursed knife-wand. So help me, I would take him out with me.

The creature's head snapped back, lips curling back from his freakish beastly teeth. The brown one looked at me with no less hatred; in fact, it seemed the brown one wanted its pound of flesh as well. The black one used his body to keep the brown from coming at me, but both looked fit like all it would take would be a little push to land right on my waiting knife.

My vision was rapidly getting worse— Shacklebolt would surely want to take me to Mungo's to get patched up so he could put me in front of the Wizengamot. My hand was bursting out from the skin, the skin breaking with a foul smelling rot. My shoulder wasn't much better. It was burning, reeking, and oozing curdled blood. What the hell kind of animal did Shacklebolt have?

"Against Dark magic are you really, Shacklebolt?" I snarled. "I see what a two-faced excuse for a human you are! These beasts you have. Sacrifice any virgins to get them? Form them out of the chopped up bodies of infants? Pity that Skeeter bitch isn't awake to witness the ugly truth, eh? Don't worry, Shacklebolt. I'll be sure to tell everyone."

I staggered as I tried to get up, but everything went upside down. I couldn't focus, and I couldn't see anything but double— nay, triple. My window of opportunity was quickly closing. I decided to make like killdeer and lure him in. If I couldn't provoke his beasts, I could sink my blade into him. Magical people always looked so surprised when I would sink my hands into their bodies and scramble their organs. They never expect me to get my hands dirty like that. It was a world of wands and magic. Psh.

I grunted, crumpling in a heap, deliberately making myself look weak and pathetic. I clenched and shook my injured arm, clawing at the floor as I struggled to get up.

Come closer, human. That's a good, gullible little human.

I moaned pitifully against the floorboards, feigning weakness.

Looming shadows were moving slowly in front of me.

That's it, sucker. Come a little bit closer.

I felt a different, sharper pain as something sharp struck me on the leg. I couldn't take it anymore. I lunged forward, stabbing my cursed knife out. Stab, slice, or a wound of any kind was fine for me. As long as it got him, I was okay with it.

My knife sank in satisfyingly deep, all the way into bone. I felt the flesh move and the satisfying clink of metal against bone.

A high, feminine scream of agony rang like broken glass in my sensitive ears.

Shacklebolt was a woman?

I wanted to laugh, but it hurt too much to breathe, let alone laugh or talk. I could barely move, my limbs feeling like they were a thousand times heavier than they actually were, like they were encased in Muggle cement. Had Shacklebolt somehow drugged me? My body was sweating heavily and my nerves felt like they were on fire. Angry snarling rang in my ears.

"Easy, easy," Kingsley's voice was saying soothingly.

Okay, so maybe he only screamed like a woman.

No, the screaming was still going on. Maybe he had two heads attached to an impressive set of lungs?

"Easy now," Shacklebolt's voice soothed. "Severus, back up please. Back. Let me take Skeeter out. Easy now."

The traitorous bastard Snape was here? I tried to focus, but my eyes stared blankly into the soft grey carpet fuzz.

So the screamer was Skeeter. Why was she here? Didn't I follow her here? Why couldn't I bloody focus?

"Yes, thank you, Severus," his voice continued. "My face is quite clean enough now, thank you, Hermione. Move back, please. That's it, stay back now."

Soft whining and snuffling noises were all I could make out now. My vision was complete rubbish, like staring out into heavy fog.

Crack. Crack-crack. Crack. CRACK.

Multiple Apparitions sounded out nearby. It was the last thing I remember before the fog swallowed me up.

"Savage, Potter," I snapped. "Handle Ms Skeeter. Don't touch her leg, the wound is from a cursed or poisoned blade. Don't touch the knife either. Get her to Mungo's right now! Proudfoot, Weasley, do not come through this door. Actually, Proudfoot, you are probably okay. Weasley, you stay out in the hall. Wait for me to bind him up. Be ready to Apparate him to Mungo's. Proudfoot, code AW."

Proudfoot nodded sharply. "Understood. Weasley, wait out here."

"But, sir?" Weasley protested.

Proudfoot shot Weasley the warning look that I swear Alastor Moody imprinted on every last one of his trainees. It was the look that said 'Shut up and listen, rookie'. John Savage and Randall Proudfoot had shared the dubious honour of being among Moody's last batch of trainees. Hermione, too, had been one of his, so their history went way back. I was counting on that. And Severus always recognised people he knew. It didn't mean he let them inside his enclosure or let them touch him when he was changed, but he did recognise them.

Merlin, please let that be the same with Hermione.

In the heat of the situation, my mind didn't even stop to consider the fact that Hermione had made her full shift in broad daylight— right along with Severus. I treated her exactly as I did him. Low soothing voice, no quick moves. Calm and assertive demeanor. No looking them directly in the eyes. Severus had always been just enough wolf to be stable, but he always hung on to just enough human to be eerily sentient. He wasn't brewing potions as a wolf, but the typical werewolf response to most people was all about attack first and not bothering to ask questions later.

Severus had never been like that, and I had a feeling of certainty in my gut that Hermione would be much the same. I couldn't explain why. I just knew. They were so very alike when the masks were set aside.

Rita was dealt with quickly. A stretcher was conjured, Skeeter levitated onto it and taken back out into the hall. Savage and Potter each grabbed a side of Skeeter's stretcher and disappeared with a sharp crack. One crisis dealt with, check.

Proudfoot came in and immediately dropped to his knees, averting his eyes carefully. "Hey there, Hermione," he addressed her. "Remember me?"

The brown she-wolf whuffed happily, bounding up, practically bowling over Severus in her eager enthusiasm. She licked Proudfoot assiduously in greeting, knocking his spectacles right off his grinning face. Her tail was wagging wildly. She made a soft growling, whining noise that sounded like she was trying to somehow speak with lupine vocal chords. She gnawed on his hat, shaking it like a rabbit, and whined, pawing at his robes, and shoving her very large wolf head against his chest, ploughing into him like a steamroller.

Severus was watching very, very closely. His ears were perked forward, and the same suspicious look his human face had often seemed to make it to his wolfen muzzle.

To be honest, I wasn't worried about Severus. I had been worried about Hermione's response to someone so soon after her transformation, but there was that tiny voice in the back of my mind that hadn't been worried at all. Faith— somehow I still had it— even after the second war that had almost turned the world upside down.

"Easy now," I directed the two furry agents. "Let us deal with Greyback here."

Both wolves growled as I tried to approach the rather sick-looking werewolf.

I cast them both a look. I pulled out my wand and in rapid succession cast a stunner, Petrificus Totalus, Incarcerous, Langlock, and a jelly-leg jinx, just to be thorough. I eyed the two werewolves with an arched eyebrow. They whined anxiously at me, but they lay down beside Proudfoot, setting their rumps against his legs and squeezing him between them.

"There now, he's fully secured while we wait for Savage and Potter to return," I said, opening my hands to the two watching werewolves. I knelt slowly, and Severus lowered his head and approached me, tail wagging. He snuffled under my chin and licked.

Hermione watched him closely, looking to him and to me. Her tail wagged slowly, seemingly deciding that I was still okay and should be forgiven for approaching Greyback, despite their warnings and against all common sense.

Crack. Crack.

Savage and Potter had returned.

"Code AW, Savage," I called. "Leave Potter down the hall with Weasley."

"You got it, boss," Savage said. "Stay here, Harry."

"Yes, sir," Potter replied. I had to admit, the boy had really grown up. The war had made him a responsible sort. He was genuine, but he had stopped running head first into danger like a— how did Severus put it— flaming witless dunderhead?

Severus always did have such a way with words.

John Savage dropped to his knees next to Randall, averting his eyes. We had developed this code for greeting Severus specifically, and he had always responded well. It was a relief that it was finally being proven out in the world, even if it was so… impromptu. Dangerous even, but— my gut said it would be fine. My gut had never been wrong before. Thank Merlin that had not changed today.

Hermione snuffled Savage, sniffed him all over, bowled him over, gave him a slurp, and then stole his hat, shaking it mercilessly. The drool-soaked hat smacked into the wall and slid down, landing next to— Sweet merciful Merlin!

I had to resist reaching down and checking to make sure all of my working parts were still with me. Savage and Proudfoot seemed less inclined to restrain themselves, and I caught them checking themselves discreetly. They both looked very green.

Gods… Severus was a tame bunny rabbit compared to Hermione's first instincts. We'd have to give trainees cups to protect themselves. Good thing Potter and Weasley were safely down the hall. It was true that both Severus and Hermione knew them, but they did not know them as peers and equals. They had not trained as agents. They were training as Aurors, but it wasn't quite the same. Savage, Proudfoot, Severus, Hermione, and myself were all agents pretending to be Aurors. There was a very big difference.

Proudfoot finished his safe greeting of the wolves and helped me move Greyback out. He looked like hell warmed over and then flash frozen. He smelled like putrid rotting flesh. I'd seen some pretty bad wounds in some of my people, but I had to admit this one was particularly nasty. It looked like Arthur after being mauled by Nagini only much, much worse— combined with the later stages of gangrene. And the ugly, blackened flesh was spreading rapidly.

I blinked.

Savage and Proudfoot secured Greyback to a conjured stretcher, making soft gagging noises at the horrid smell. They nodded to me, each grabbing one side of the rail and Disapparated straight to Mungo's.

I looked at the mangled, blackened remains of Greyback's bits. They were not going to do any miracles with that. I didn't need to be a healer to know a hopeless cause when I saw one. If the smell of the rot was any indicator, he would be lucky to survive, bollocks or no bollocks.

I did a scan of the room, extracting the pertinent memories into a vial, sealing it, and placing a shatterproof charm on it. I tucked it away for later.

Pop. Pop.

House elves were already hard at work, industriously making the room tidy again. Damn, were they ever efficient. How did they know I had already collected memory evidence? Hell, they were even bagging the bits for me.

Suddenly, it dawned on me and I facepalmed. Of course. These were Hermione's elves. They would know exactly how to process a crime scene for evidence.

It only took them a few minutes to put things into order, clean the blood, resort the fallen jars of ingredients, and make the bed. Meanwhile, the two werewolves were busy snuffling each other over, nuzzling, whining, rubbing up against each other, and licking each other's muzzles clean.

Then, suddenly, the looked over at me. I could almost see the curved devil horns sprout up from their heads.

FWOMP!

I had over four hundred kilos of massive, overgrown dire werewolf pinning me down as they licked my face energetically.

Resistance was futile.

"Guh!" I managed. "Hermione! Ack! I need my face. Gods, not you too, Severus."

I squirmed, but it was pretty much useless. They were bloody huge. I felt like a misbehaving pup being sat upon by the parent wolves. I think that Severus had actually grown since the Nagini incident, and he had passed that tendency on to Hermione. He'd always been a very large werewolf, but I could have used him to pull a carriage. Wouldn't that be a sight to see?

Hermione held my wrist lightly between her jaws and was pretending like she was going to gnaw on it. I could feel the touch of her teeth. But she beat her tail on the ground and dropped my arm, choosing to rub her head against my chest and my arm and my— everything.

Kingsley-nip. Coming to a wolf supply store near you.

Severus had done much the same the first night I'd risked joining him in the enclosure. My "boss" at the time had called me a bleeding idiot, thinking he'd have one more werewolf to lock up. But, after all the time I'd been pounced on, nipped, rolled over, slurped, bathed, and accidentally scratched, I'd never turned. I'd never tried it with a normal werewolf, mind you, but I truly believed Severus was an altogether different sort of beast— something rather more evolved.

Only now, he was truly evolved. Nagini's bite had certainly seen to that.

Our researchers had speculated that Severus might have had some sort of creature inheritance that had been latent in his blood. Whether it was from the Prince side or the Snape side, they had no idea. Lupin's bite had triggered some sort of mutation in the wild card gene that he had inherited and that literally transformed him into something quite different. He was an entirely new species of werewolf— dire werewolf at that. Then, completely through no fault of his own, he had been bitten by a giant, magically-altered snake that also happened to be one of Voldemort's Horcruxes… and he had mutated yet again. Only now, for the first time, Severus wasn't alone. Hermione was with him.

The events in question were utterly random. They were truly a perfect storm. These two were going to drive the healers back at the office insane. They were learning new things every full moon, and now they had even more to learn.

"Hermione!" I laughed as she bathed my face again, snapping up my hat. I frowned, instantly mourning my favourite hat.

Hermione lay her head over my chest, placing my hat on my sternum. She beat her tail on the ground, releasing her hostage.

"Thank you," I told the werewolf.

She made sounds like she was trying to talk to me.

I gently rubbed her ears, and she whuffed at me.

I flopped back on the freshly cleaned carpet with a sigh. "You're both hired. We'll discuss benefits and vacation days when you're no longer drooling."

Twin tails beat against the floor as two cold noses were shoved into my ears.

"Agh! Hermione! Severus! GAH!"

"Ron, you git, will you just stop?" I growled and smacked Ron over the head with a rolled up report parchment. "We're not spying on Order meetings and trying to catch whispers about Voldemort anymore."

"Come on, Harry," Ron whinged, setting my teeth on edge yet again with his utter childishness. "We've been in training for bloody months now. Why haven't we ever heard of 'code AW'?"

I rolled my eyes. There were a hell of a lot of things we hadn't learned yet. Our superiors obviously knew what the code meant, and our orders had been crystal clear. I had learned long ago, after my hell-bent insistence on raiding the Ministry to save my godfather that rushing in half-cocked without listening to reason only got the people I loved killed. I was well and truly done with not listening to my superiors. Later on, when I was a full Auror, I could be the boss of myself, but for now, I was in training, and a good trainee did what they were told, period.

Had I just listened to Professor Snape back in the day, I would have learned Occlumency just as I should have and would not have had the vision to begin with. There were a lot of things I should have done. If I had listened to Dumbledore, I would have trusted Professor Snape. If I'd listened to Hermione— yeah, I was so done with not listening to the people I should have trusted.

Ron was fiddling with something after our superiors left with Greyback. I was just relieved that Greyback had finally been taken care of. The amount of grief that one man, if you could even call him a man, was beyond staggering. So, too, was the amount of grief that Skeeter had caused in an entirely different way. How Skeeter had found Hermione's home was pretty troubling, but Hermione had been Muggleborn. Looking up the address in a Muggle directory would have been all it took. It was just most magical people didn't know the first thing to do about Muggle things. Rita was apparently one who didn't care what she had to do or where she had to go if it meant getting a juicy story.

Hermione had sort of dropped off the face of the earth after the end of the war. Mind you, the end of the war was still going on, but after she had given me probably the longest hug I'd ever received, she said she needed to lay low for a while and collect herself. I kind of wished I could too, to be honest, so I really understood. She didn't want the publicity, the eyes, the questions— Hell, neither did I.

I'd questioned her wanting to stay behind and help Snape, at least, I had until I watched the memories. I realised, again, that there were a lot of things I should have paid more attention to. Professor Snape had, despite not wanting anyone to know, tried to save me from my own stupidity on multiple occasions. So, too, had Hermione. Hermione had her knowledge seeking moments, such as encouraging me to do research in restricted section without authorisation, but she never said "Hey, let's go break into that room and see what's behind the— Oh sweet Merlin, RUN!"

Professor Snape may not have been a very likeable man, but he had done some pretty brave things. In the end he hadn't been found out… until I had stupidly revealed his true allegiance to the Dark Lord himself. In my defence, I'd honestly thought he was dead. You can't murder someone who is already dead, after all. I had a niggling feeling, however, that he was not dead. I knew it from what Hermione wasn't saying. People said she couldn't lie to save her soul, but what if that was actually a lie?

It wasn't that I believed Hermione wasn't trustworthy. In fact, I would have trusted her with my life— had in many ways already. There were just times when I felt she had grown up three times over, and I and Ron, well, we had been forced to grow up, but it wasn't quite the same.

Induction as an Auror trainee had been a logical step for me. I never wanted any other person to have to go through what I did. I wanted to get started right after the end of the war, really. I wanted to put some faith back into the system because I knew what it had been like to think I couldn't trust anyone. I had been paired with a kind, no-nonsense younger man who reminded me a lot of Bill Weasley. John Savage was the kind of man who you could just trust to watch your back and still go out for a beer at night with him. He treated me like a person, nothing more or less, and that meant so more to me than being treated like a hero, survivor, or boy-who-became-a-man-sending-Voldemort-back-to-hell.

Neville, on the other hand, was taking some much needed time to visit his parents at Mungo's before starting up with Auror training, but he, too, planned to do so. I didn't blame him. Rumour had it, he had quite a fanbase after finding out he'd single-handedly slain Nagini with the famed Sword of Godric Gryffindor. He and Luna were planning to help clean up the rubble and help with the rebuilding of Hogwarts before they sought out their own version of normality. Honestly, I was more than happy for them.

I wasn't even near ready to settle down and start a family. Ginny, as much as she and I had been through, had realised that the war was basically what drew us together. Take that away, and we just sort of… stared at each other awkwardly. Perhaps that would change in the future, but part of me knew we needed some time apart to figure out what we really wanted, in life as well as in a relationship. Molly was pressuring us to make it all official, and she had done the the same to Ron, thinking, however erroneously, that they had surely consummated a relationship while living in a tent in the wilds. I'm not sure what gave her any idea about how that could have happened, but Ron had been talking about settling down having a family. Whether that was Ron talking or his mum, I truly had no idea.

Ron pulled something out of his trainee robes, and I recognised them immediately: a set of extendable ears.

"What the hell are you doing, Ron?" I hissed.

"Randall said stay here, but he didn't say I couldn't listen," Ron said, twisting the orders to his benefit. For a man who had grown up hating Slytherin tactics, he was sure fond of using them.

"You're going to get us into trouble," I said. "That's Kingsley in there, and our orders were to stay here."

"We fought with him in the war, Harry," Ron scoffed. "He knows we can handle ourselves."

"Blind, stupid luck with a little skill thrown in the mix does not make us experienced Aurors, Ron," I replied, scowling. I'd had enough being the one who survived because of fate, luck, random acts of the gods, and because other people threw themselves into danger for my sake.

Hedwig— I should have treated her much better. There were so many others, both living and dead, that I should have treated a lot better. I should have listened to Hermione. Sirius might still be alive. There was a world of difference between thinking first and just flying right in there like a hotheaded idiot itching for a fight. They were still pulling bodies out from the rubble of Hogwarts. Professor Lupin was taken to Mungo's— my last connection to my parents. I could only hope the man somehow managed to survive. There had been so many other deaths and injuries. No word had come back as to his status. Perhaps, no news really was good news.

A house elf popped in next to me with a small tray of sandwiches, biscuits, and tea. Damn. House elves? In Hermione's parents' home? I couldn't wait to hear the story on that one. Last I heard, Hermione's parents had been sent to Australia— as Mr and Mrs Wendell and Monica Wilkins. Hermione had been understandably anxious and sombre. The house was absolutely pristine, looking just like the few times I'd seen it when I'd visited. Hermione had smuggled me out of the Dursley's place in a manner I, to this day, had no idea how she did it. Somehow, my aunt, uncle, and cousin hadn't even noticed I left. Unlike when Ron and his brothers had broken me out of my barred room. She must have used magic— but how she had without being in trouble without the trace—

Hermione. She had far more skill than most people thought. Sometimes, I had cashed into her studiousness to "help" with my own homework instead of doing it myself— preferring to romp around with Ron and have fun. I think that, perhaps, Hermione thought I was making up for not being able to have fun and play when I was a younger child. Maybe she dismissed it as justified. Whatever the reason, she always helped me get my homework done, but that didn't mean she didn't chew my head off for doing it. By the time I started to realise— or admit— my failings, it was far too late. The war had come knocking on our door, and we had to flee with only what we knew and a whole lot of desperation. I wasn't a complete failure, mind you, but I could have been much better, had I only listened to Hermione and tried a little harder.

Ron had thrown the extendable ear down the hall and it stuck to the wall with a splat. George had been playing with the ears, making them a little more useful in different ways: sticking to things, levitating, familiar avoidance and the like. Some of it was succeeding, and some not so much. Ron had apparently gotten his hands on the sticky kind.

"Ron!" I hissed.

"I'm not going into the room," he huffed. "I'm listening."

"You're not listening at all," I replied, narrowing my eyes. This was not the same as when we desperately hungered for the truth of what was going on while the adults whispered and argued with each other at Grimmauld Place. Kingsley would call for us if he needed us. Until then, I was content to enjoy this excellent tea and the tastiest butter biscuits I had ever eaten. Maybe, I was starving, but they tasted like Christmas to my tastebuds.

Ron simply pushed the house elf away rudely, causing the tea to spill over the tray and over the elf. The elf gasped as the hot tea spilt on her, scandalized by Ron's appalling behaviour..

Pop.

And then she was gone, tea tray and all.

If Hermione found out, Ron was going to have his arse chewed off and then served up to him for dinner by his own mum.

Hermione had pleaded with me to be nicer to Kreacher, despite his horrible manners and despite what Sirius told me about him. A gradual changed had turned the bitter elf into something I could barely fathom. I had no idea that Kreacher could be kind. He'd even started to make food that didn't nearly kill me just from the horrible taste alone. Watching Ron listening through his extendable ear and rudely pushing the elf away set off the little voice of Hermione in my head that had implored me to treat the old house elf better. She couldn't do it herself. As much as she tried, Kreacher's bond was to me— only I could to set the example.

The little elf that had brought the tea and biscuits had been dressed in more than just a pillowcase. It had looked like she was wearing miniature robes— light and gauze-like for the summer months. She had to be one of Hermione's elves. She'd so often lamented how much house elves wore pillowcases, tea towels and other such things instead of proper clothes. Still, Hermione having a house elf? That really threw me for a loop. I wondered if Hermione had insisted on paid time off and holiday time.

"Snape is alive?" Ron gasped. "No way, how did he survive that?"

"Stop it, Ron," I hissed. "What if Kingsley is keeping that under wraps for a reason?"

"Snape?" Ron said, glaring at me. "That greasy git doesn't deser—"

"Do not finish that sentence, Ron," I warned in a low growl. I had seen many stunning truths in Professor Snape's memories, and he definitely deserved far more respect than anyone had given him. "Even Dumbledore told us repeatedly that we could trust him. He was a brave—"

"He treated us like total shite, Harry," Ron replied, glaring back at me. "Bloody Slytherin. You can't trust any of them!"

Thinking about it, while Draco Malfoy had been a particularly bad example of reasons to like Slytherin— at least to me, anyway— but the whole house wasn't a bunch of Pureblood bigots any more than all Gryffindors were all noble and courageous examples of our own house.

Just looking at the memories of my father in his peak of greatness had proven that Gryffindor might be the house of bravery, daring, nerve, and chivalry, but very few seemed to display those qualities. True, real potential may have been there, but like most things in life— potential didn't always come to fruition. We, the students, had to climb the rest of the stairs to greatness all on our own. My father had been an absolute swine. That had been the harshest truth I'd had to swallow. Peter Pettigrew had been a black-hearted betrayer who had far outdone Draco in despicable deeds with horrific consequences. Sirius Black— my godfather— had actually tried to murder someone before he'd even reached seventeen. They may have grown up due to the war, but it didn't erase their multitude of sins. Professor Lupin had tried to tell me that proof was in the deeds, not the stories. But I had foolishly believed the stories and ignored the deeds.

I turned my head away, refusing to rise to Ron's childish baiting. It was very clear that we weren't going to meet eye-to-eye in this conversation, and bickering in the hallway of our best female mate's house was not going to endear us to Hermione when she inevitably found out about it.

If Professor Snape was here too, it meant that both Hermione knew about it, and she'd probably taken him here directly instead of Mungo's for a reason only she knew. That Kingsley was in there talking to him meant that he knew already and was okay with it. If Kingsley didn't have a problem with it, then neither did I. Hell, if Hermione herself was fine with it, I was fine with it too. I owed her that. I owed her so much more than that. Many times, I had failed to put my faith in Hermione's judgement, and every time I had paid for it. I was done being the guy that couldn't trust anyone but Dumbledore. As much respect as I had for Headmaster Dumbledore, I realised that I should have put a lot more faith in many others, too. Maybe I should have put a bit less faith in a few as well— my godfather, for example.

"She's been hiding out here all along!" Ron gasped. "Not so much as an owl back to me!"

"She asked us to please give her some space, Ron," I reminded him. "Kindly give her some, ya?"

Hermione had asked us for space, and I trusted she would tell me when things were good because we had Apparated to her house on Auror business did not give us the right to barge right in, wands out, to confront Hermione for doing exactly what she said she was going to do. I wasn't moving from my spot in the hall. In fact, an house elf had brought me a very comfy chair, and I wasn't going to leave it unless the house was bloody well on fire— or my boss told me to. Whichever came first.

"This is Hermione!" Ron protested.

"And if it was anyone else?"

Ron looked at me strangely.

"If it was Amelia Bones' house and Kingsley was talking to her, would you just go barging in there?"

"Well, no, but this is 'Mione!"

"Just give her some time to process what happened to us, Ron," I said with a sigh. "She was with us every single day, trapped in a tent with nowhere to go or be with but us. She was tortured. Tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange! And she never had any time to process that. We expected her to be our rock the entire time we were out there. Hell, I showed even Dobby more compassion and respect than I did her. Give. Her. Space."

Ron seemed to chew on that, but it was plainly obvious that he didn't see things the way I did.

"Agh! Hermione! Severus! GAH!" Kingsley's voice boomed out from the room down the hall. Then there was a resounding thump directly afterwards.

Before I could even say a single word, Ron was up and running. "Mione! You okay?"

Kingsley hadn't sounded like he was in distress at all. Had he been, there were about a hundred other things he could have said that would have alerted us and a list of codes he could have yelled. For all I knew, Kingsley could have just lost a card game.

Ron, however, was already sprinting at top speed down the hall, wand out, calling for Hermione.

I waited to hear Hermione's voice screech at Ron in the same tone she had used when he had come back to the tent in the Forest of Dean after abandoning us. It would be that or the tone of murder that she had shortly after that. I was pretty sure, if I hadn't had her wand, Ron would have been strung up on a tree somewhere with a flock of canaries attempting to peck out his eyes with extreme prejudice.

"Merlin! Kings!" Ron yelled.

"Weasley, NO!"

"Stupefy! Incarcerous! Stupefy!" Ron's voice rang out.

"Potter, tackle him!" Kingsley yelled.

I was on my feet and running. Ron was standing at the door, shooting off spells frantically. Kingsley had said tackle. I tucked my wand away, trusting that Kingsley knew perfectly well what he was doing. I flung myself on top of Ron in a flying tackle that would have done a professional rugby team proud. Ron went flying, and I landed squarely on top of him, knocking Ron's breath out of him in a hard grunt.

Kingsley was blocking the door with his body now. "Easy now," he crooned softly. "He's gone. No weapons." Kingsley was kneeling, his head averted to look at me as he spoke back into the room. "No harm done. See? Look. My hat is far more interesting, ya?"

I had no idea what Kingsley was talking about, but if he was talking to either Snape or Hermione, I was completely confused.

Suddenly, a large brown wolf head poked out from under Kingsley's arm, a pair of ears popping out almost comically as they pointed forward and swiveled towards me with apparent curiosity. Nostrils flared, and the wolf looked almost— annoyed?

The wolf whined as it pushed Kingsley back into the hall like a snowplow, using its head as a wedge. It snatched up Kingsley's hat and shook it violently like a hound with a caught rabbit, steadily moving past him.

My eyes widened as I realised just how large the wolf really was. The bared teeth were almost the size of daggers. The paws, good gods, were the size of a Quaffle. The floor was rumbling, and I realised it was because of the wolf. Its low growl was practically shaking the walls. For a moment, I thought Kingsley had been conversing with Fenrisúlfr the Norse World Wolf— the wolf who would devour the mighty Odin. Kingsley placed a hand on the wolf's raised hackles. "Easy now, back, back now."

Kingsley gently used his arm to push the wolf backwards. I knew it was a token gesture. Had the wolf wanted to, it could have bowled him over like nothing. The wolf backed up, teeth still exposed, but it seemed to trust Kingsley's judgement. Its nose was working furiously, sniffing the air. Then, just as I was convinced there couldn't possibly be a wolf bigger than that one, a large black shadow of a beast stepped out from Kingsley's other side. Every inch of its coat was black. Its huge eyes were solid black too.

He. The second wolf was most definitely a he.

His lips pulled back in a snarl, exposing sharp ivory teeth. Bits of foam flecked about his jaws as a strange, iridescent drool dripped from his teeth— and that was when I saw them: a second line of dagger-like teeth unfolding from behind the typical canine teeth.

They were surprisingly like Nagini's fangs. I had seen them all too up close and personal to ever mistake them for anything else.

The black wolf growled lowly, and the walls seemed to vibrate again. He pressed his huge head into the brown wolf and then into Kingsley's hand.

Kingsley pressed his hand firmly on each wolf's head. "Easy now. See? No wand. No weapons. I'm fine. You're fine. Let's go out to the garden." Slowly, Kingsley was using his hands to lean on the wolves to guide the backwards. Both of the gargantuan beasts stared at me with an eerie intelligence mixed with a clear feral distrust.

The brown wolf whined, licking Kingsley under the chin.

"Get off me, Harry!" Ron hissed.

The brown wolf's head snapped around, ears laid back menacingly and lips curling back from its very large teeth. I saw the second row of teeth unfold behind the first. Merciful Merlin! Its hackles were raised, each hair standing on end.

"Hermione," Kingsley said softly. His voice was firm, yet gentle.

The brown wolf's ears raised up, its hackles lowering slightly.

"Come now," Kingsley coaxed. "You're probably starving. Let's get you some food."

"Trust me," Kingsley said gently. "Let's go." He waved his drool-covered hat enticingly.

The brown wolf snatched it between its jaws and tail wagged, eagerly looking up at him for guidance. The black wolf was staring at me with a narrow dagger-like gaze.

Kingsley guided them back down the hall and back towards the sliding door that led out into the garden. I heard the sound of the door sliding open, claws scrambling across tile, and the door closing. A few tense minutes later, the door opened and closed again, and Kingsley stood at the end of the hallway.

"Potter, let Weasley up, please," Kingsley said darkly. "And Weasley, you can now tell me why I shouldn't Obliviate you and fire you on the spot for disobeying direct orders."

"You're lucky you aren't dead right now, Weasley," I said as I watched Randall and John out in the garden watching Severus and Hermione play tug-of-war with a very large haunch of beef. They had stripped it down to the bone, leaving the bones and tendons just enough so they could play tug of war with it. Every so often Hermione would bound up to either John or Randall and bowl them over, groom their hair into an impressive cowlick, and then enthusiastically chase Severus around the garden. Then, Severus would chase her around the garden. Thankfully, with the threat nullified, the two werewolves were seemingly happy to "play" with the two other agents nearby.

"What the bloody hell is going on here?" Ron sputtered in outrage. "Did someone curse my 'Mione into a beast?

"For someone who shows absolutely no respect for his superiors, cannot follow orders, and seems to think that need-to-know doesn't apply to him, you are asking a hell of a lot of questions, Weasley," I bit out. I was angry. I was more than angry, but I had to get a grip on it quickly. If I went out there in the garden smelling of anger, whether suppressed or otherwise, there was no telling what Hermione and Severus might do.

"Why are there giant beasts in Hermione's house?" demanded Ron.

"Ron," Harry said as he was pinching his nose. "Shut it, will you? You're just digging yourself in deeper."

"That black one is Snape, isn't it?" Ron blurted. "He did something to 'Mione!"

"Weasley," I snapped with considerable exasperation. "If I cannot trust you to follow orders, how am I supposed to trust you with confidential information?" Potter, to his credit, sat in the arm chair and watched the wolves romping outside, staying quiet.

"Big, dangerous animals?" Ron protested. "That's information we should have known before coming in! If that is Hermione, then we definitely should've known!"

Pop.

"Daisy asks Master Kingsley if Mistress Hermione and Master Severus be needing another dinner?" the house elf looked up at me with her big green eyes.

"Yes, please, Daisy," I replied. "I'm sure they would greatly appreciate it.

The house elf nodded her head. "Daisy happy to serve," she answered with a smile. She disappeared with a pop.

All of Hermione's elves knew where the food stores were kept at the Ministry, and that included our rather substantial meat cooler. I was never so glad that Hermione had taken the time to teach all of her elves, hers and the refugees, which places were greenlit and which were off limits. We'd never had problems with Hermione's elves. I only wished others were so considerate. Pulling trapped elves out of the high-suction airflows and magically warded port-in-but-not-out areas was a weekly occurrence.

I watched in amusement, my mood lightening, as Hermione tried to feed poor Savage. Much like a cat owner who had just been given a dead, decapitated bunny rabbit as a gift, John was trying to look properly grateful without insulting the giant dire wolf's very generous gift. Finally, he seemed to come to a compromise, spearing the meat onto a transfigured kabob stick, and using his wand to cook it. Hermione watched him like a hawk, making sure he ate every bite, then wagged her tail and promptly did the same for Randall. Poor Proudfoot. He was a vegetarian.

Both Severus and Hermione stared pointedly at Proudfoot. Proudfoot looked quite green in the face. Savage made a gesture with his hands. Randall seemed to get the message. He took the stick, speared the meat, transfigured it into a vegetable kabob, roasted it with his wand, and ate it, trying to look as grateful as possible.

The two dire wolves looked somewhat suspiciously at him.

Having fed the two "helpless hunters," the wolves went back to eating the rest of their second dinner. I could hear the crunching through the door glass. Good thing Hermione had warded the garden for noise. Having the police show up because one's neighbours had called in a possible murder in progress in the Granger backyard could prove a bit troublesome.

"Weasley," I began again, "why do you want to be an Auror?"

Ron's face twisted a little. "I have to do my part to make sure what happened to Fred doesn't happen to anyone else."

I sighed. "Fred died fighting in a war, Ronald. Why do you want to be an Auror? Bad things are going to happen to people. Sometimes, we arrive too late. Sometimes we have to enforce laws on our friends and family."

"Aurors stop Dark wizards," Ron answered darkly. "People need to be saved from Dark Wizards." He glared out the window, looking out to where the wolves were cavorting in the garden.

"And how do you suppose we find Dark wizards?" I asked.

"Some of 'em are obvious, ya?" Ron answered.

"What makes them obvious?" I asked wearily, fearing I already knew his answer.

"Well, if they're Slytherin," Ron stated confidently, "that's a pretty good start."

I sighed. "If your first instinct is to blame a house in Hogwarts over a true evaluation, you are going to miss the people like Peter Pettigrew, that not only was responsible for the death of his supposed closest friends, but also was a loyal Death Eater. Peter was Gryffindor. You cannot judge people solely by what house they were sorted into, Weasley. What if you are trying to evaluate someone who was educated at Durmstrang?"

"Psh, well all of their lot are Dark wizards and witches," Ron scoffed. "That's easy."

"So dismissive of your beloved Quidditch hero, Viktor Krum?" I asked.

Ron flushed. "That's different."

"How?"

Ron was looking quite flustered.

"Look, Ronald," I said. "If you wish to continue being an Auror, you are going to have to answer quite a few hard questions. You're going to have to learn to make judgement calls on people and be totally impartial. If you get a call to go to the Malfoy residence, you're going to have to go. You cannot refuse because Draco was in Slytherin and you cannot accuse or arrest him without just cause. I do not feel comfortable allowing you out in the field until I can be sure you will be able to do this, for that reason, what you learned here today cannot and will not leave here."

"It's not like anyone would ever believe me anyway," Ron muttered under his breath.

I pulled out the small token from my robes and tossed it to Weasley. He caught it instinctively. There was a bright flash and Weasley slumped, passing out cold into the chair.

Harry looked at me with some concern.

"Under Code Seven of Policy Twenty-Two-Fifty-Six-Alpha, I hereby execute an Obliviate for the protection of critical Ministry secrets. Subject: Ronald Bilius Weasley, Auror trainee," I said sombrely. I pointed my wand at Weasley and wiped everything he had experienced up to the time Skeeter and Greyback had been dealt with. I was not an expert Obliviator, and later, the official ones would come in and do the full deed as well as insert the appropriate memories to fill in the blanks. There was a chance that Weasley might make full Auror one day, but not as he was now. He was far too biased— he was too emotional and had an alarming lack of objectivity. I had, mistakenly, put him out in the field much too soon due to how many casualties the Auror corps had suffered during the war. It was a mistake I did not plan to repeat. No one would get a free pass into the Aurors without having passed their exams and proven they were capable of treating all people with respect. Harbour your bias, if you must— Alastor, may you rest in peace— but be able to set it aside to do your job.

"Harry," I said wearily, using his given name. "Can I trust you with what happened here today? Will this be an issue?"

Harry stared at Ron and then back out the window. "No, sir. You can trust me. I swear it on my magic."

I nodded grimly. Potter was a good young man. He was dedicated, and he had followed every rule. One day, he would be fine Auror teaching the newest batch of greenies the robes.

"Take Weasley to Mungo's," I said. "Check him in at the Auror Admissions desk. I'll take care of the rest. Then go home, get some sleep, and report back to Savage and Proudfoot in the morning."

"Yes, sir," Potter answered, nodding his head firmly. He looked out into the garden. "Sir?"

"Hrm?"

"Is Hermione going to be okay?"

I watched Hermione flop on her back with her paws in the air, letting Proudfoot rub her belly. "Yes, Harry. She's going to be fine."

Harry smiled. "Then that's all I need to know." He grabbed a handful of Weasley's robes and Disapparated.

Rita Skeeter Severely Injured In Attack By Fugitive Death Eater Fenrir Greyback

Reporter Rita Skeeter, whether you love her or hate her, has brought many controversial articles to the Prophet throughout her time as one of our reporters, but it seems her career has finally come to an end thanks to a run-in with the notorious werewolf and Death Eater, Fenrir Greyback.

Ms Skeeter suffered multiple severe injuries when Fenrir Greyback attacked her during his invasion of the family home of noted war heroine, Hermione Granger. Rita Skeeter was crushed as a result of the werewolf's merciless attack, leaving her spine broken and her body paralysed. While her bones have been reset and aligned, Healers say that the nerve damage was too extensive to fix. Ms Skeeter will most likely be crippled for life. While there is some hope that she may regain partial feeling and movement in her upper body at some point, the healers seem to think Skeeter could still find herself totally paralysed for the rest of her life.

As for why Ms Skeeter was at the Granger residence in the first place, especially after Ms Granger's request to be left in peace after the war, is anyone's guess.

Fenrir Greyback, known fugitive, murderer, werewolf, Death Eater, and serial child molester, met his end on the operating tables of St Mungo's after being brought in to treat his injuries after what has been described as 'a battle to the death', Greyback was apparently determined to not be taken alive. His crimes, which have managed to accrue him more than ten separate rewards for his capture, dead or alive, in both Wizarding and Muggle Britain, have insured that Hermione Granger and Hogwarts' Potions Master, Professor Severus Snape, who were primarily responsible for Greyback's capture, which was witnessed by our new Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, will receive more than enough compensation to insure a very early and well-deserved retirement. Suffice to say, neither need work another day of their lives, unless they truly wish to do so.

Both Ms Granger and Professor Snape are donating a significant part of their reward monies to the rebuilding of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which have been gratefully accepted by the newly-appointed headmistress of Hogwarts, Professor Minerva McGonagall. The pair have also donated funds to overhaul of the equipment, offices, and other facilities at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which had been shockingly ransacked and pillaged under our last Minister for Magic, Pius Thicknesse, who had been under a very strong Imperius Curse to sabotage everything that might be used to hinder the late Dark Lord Voldemort's reign of terror.

After so much has been taken from us during the war, I believe that I am not alone in being truly thankful that strong, courageous people such as Hermione Granger and Severus Snape are willing to not only step up to defend us from those who would tear our world apart, but also prove themselves as very generous, contributing members of our society.

We here at the Daily Prophet salute you and thank you for serving Wizarding Britain so faithfully.

Daycare Ripper's Reign of Terror on Children Finally Ends

After almost twenty years, the monster who was known only as the Daycare Ripper, has at last been apprehended.

Thanks to an elite team, whose members have not been revealed in respect for privacy, Fen Russell Grey chose to die rather than be apprehended. Cornered in a private residence in Hampstead, he went down fighting, attempting to stab and slash multiple people during the fight. True to his M.O., Mr Grey did not use guns, preferring to use the closer and more personal knives.

After more than a hundred abductions, attacks, and murders of adult and child alike, many were starting to think he would never be caught.

When a few victims' families pleaded to see the body so they could put their nightmares to rest, the medical examiner could only say that due to an astonishing and unprecedented amount of putrefaction, most of the Ripper's body reportedly liquefied in a matter of hours.

"Rest assured, he was very, very dead," Dr Saunders said. "He was our guy. We did have the teeth to perform DNA testing. Oddly, the teeth had obviously been filed into points, which explains the horrific state of the child victims' remains. The bite pattern also perfectly matched those found on dozens of alleged Ripper victims for the last twenty years."

"I'm so relieved," Mrs Nichols cried as she hugged her remaining family members. "Finally, my baby girl will be able to rest in peace."

A/N: Fenrir Greyback was a horrible excuse for a human being and the very worst of the werewolves. I feel no guilt regarding his fate.