Chapter Seven

In Draco's and Fenrir's absence—which felt abrupt, and somehow gave her a sudden sense that her flat was unreasonably large and quiet without them in it—she returned to her bedroom. Frigga looked up at her from within the cradle. Those enormous dark-blue eyes were unhappy as they met Hermione's.

The witch sighed, forcing a watery grin. "I am going to assume from your look and what your father explained to me that you heard all that just now." She reached for the child, lifting Frigga into her arms without any fuss or protest from the tiny werewolf.

Unsure what to do with herself and cognizant that it was more than Frigga overhearing anything—she was also picking up on the emotions still hanging heavy in the air—Hermione opted for an activity which she knew always calmed her, hopeful that a change in her own attitude would return Frigga to her typically bright spirits. Selecting one of the board-books she'd bought for the baby the other night, she held it up for Frigga's approval.

The infant responded by reaching her chubby little fingers toward the mostly-green cover, with its cheery nighttime window on the left and the warmth of a lit fireplace on the right.

Hermione smiled. "Good choice." Of course, Goodnight Moon didn't seem like much of a hard-sell when dealing with a werewolf.

Carrying her back to the living room, Hermione sat on the sofa. Tucking herself into a cushy corner, she settled Frigga in her lap. Cradling the baby's back in the crook of one arm, she managed the book with her free hand—the uninjured one—as she flipped open the thick, sturdy pages. "In the great green room, there was a telephone, and a red balloon, and a picture of . . ." she began, her tone low and gentle as she launched into the recitation.

In the back of her mind, she went over everything that had happened that morning. And the previous night. And the last three days. But mostly just that morning.

How was it barely even noon? She was already exhausted.

Perhaps it was getting wrenched from sleep by Fenrir pounding on her front door like a madman. Or the toll of Frigga unexpectedly shifting and then biting her. All the revelations about herself and the infant in her care loosed on her in less than 24 hours? The emotional toil of getting Draco to see her actions through her eyes, only to have that effort fail? The sudden—albeit not wholly unexpected, if she were being brutally honest with herself—strain her 'guests' had put on their relationship? Or maybe it was even the two meltdowns she'd had no more than an hour apart?

Worse, out of all of it, she couldn't really fault Draco for his reaction. She didn't know what this was like for him, but she did know—in that the timing of him storming out made his motivation obvious—that it had, definitely, to do with seeing her with Fenrir and Frigga. As upset as she was over his departure, she could not say she blamed him for feeling overwhelmed.

She'd really handled this entire situation like an idiot. What would she feel like had she seen Draco being fatherly and nurturing to another woman's child when they had barely even discussed a future with children yet?

"Goodnight stars, goodnight air. Goodnight noises everywhere," she finished, feeling her eyelids drooping. All that put into perspective, she supposed it was no wonder she was so drained, even with the bright, late-morning sun streaming through the windows. Perhaps the wonder was that she wasn't more exhausted.

Clearing her throat, she gave her body a little shake, attempting to rouse a bit of energy. That coffee she'd had only a little while earlier was proving utterly useless.

"Well?" she asked, her tone soft as when she'd read. "Do you think we should go get another . . . ?" Her voice trailed off as she found Frigga dozing quietly against her.

For a few heartbeats, Hermione pretended—very valiantly—to struggle with what to do. Was she to put the baby back into her cradle to nap so that she might do something productive with the rest of her morning until one, or both, of the males returned? Perhaps go put on a fresh pot of coffee?

Almost startled at the sensation of Goodnight Moon beginning to slip from her fingers, she sighed. "All right, little poot. You win." Letting the book drop softly to the floor, she lay back with the baby held gently, yet securely, in her arms and allowed her eyelids to drift down.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

Fenrir stood in the open doorway of the witch's flat, staring at the sleeping she-wolves on the sofa. He was truly, sincerely, trying not to get attached to this . . . this notion of Hermione Granger becoming a permanent part of their lives, but it wasn't easy, and she was making it even less so simply by being her. Just as he'd told Malfoy, that was simply how his kind worked, but he also intended to let the woman make her own choices, otherwise the three of them would be far away from here, already, tucked away in the forest, hidden from the Ministry and squirrelly, fair-haired wizards, alike.

He sighed quietly, his shoulders drooping. "You two are a right mess," he said under his breath.

Shaking his head—that angle Hermione was in looked like it was going to create one hell of an ache in her neck when she awoke—he crossed the floor, moving on cautious, silent footfalls. Ridiculous. His infant daughter and a sleeping young woman and he was approaching them as though they were fierce predators he wanted to avoid startling.

He questioned just how facetious the thought was when he wondered if the fierce predators might not be the less dangerous option.

Lowering to one knee, he slid his arms beneath the sleeping witch in a delicate movement. He curved her upward, cradling her against his chest without disturbing Frigga, still snoozing in her embrace. Fenrir rose to his full height just as carefully and quietly.

As he turned in the direction of Hermione's bedroom down that little corridor, the sense that someone stood inside the open living room door—dammit all, he knew he'd forgotten something and of course it would be to close the bloody door—caught him off-guard. His attention had been focused so completely on Hermione and Frigga that he'd not even noticed the person's approach.

Pivoting to face the front door, he saw Malfoy there.

His grey eyes were wide and then, as they moved over the image of the werewolf holding his sleeping girlfriend in his arms, with the werewolf's slumbering infant in hers they narrowed to lethal slits. No matter how sensible their little chat earlier had been, rage pooled in his gut. Draco knew this bitterness he was feeling was jealousy, plain and simple. Yet also instinctive and visceral. Not just of Hermione's strange, and rather sudden, closeness with these creatures, but also . . . . Greyback really was massive.

Unfairly so.

He stood there, perfectly still, holding a grown woman and an infant together as though they weighed nothing at all. No tremor in his arms from the tension of holding them steady, no flicker of strain in his features.

Draco knew, with his naturally lean stature and his height that wasn't quite as tall as he'd like, he could not do what Fenrir Greyback was standing there doing with literally zero effort. He tried not to be the sort of person who was threatened by such things, and he knew Granger's heart wouldn't be stolen by simple shows of brute strength.

And yet, he did feel threatened. Every part of him felt deeply, instinctively, viscerally in danger from the very presence of Fenrir Greyback.

Greyback's nostril's flared, detecting the scents given off by unpleasant emotions winding out across the room from the wizard. He recognized the tell-tale twinge of envy, the sour edging of fear, the mildly stinging bite of anger.

He barely refrained from letting his head fall back a bit as he rolled his eyes. He spoke in a hissing whisper, the words slipping out from between clenched teeth as he said, "All I'm doing is putting them to bed—I've no plan on joining them, if that's your worry. When I came in, they were asleep on the sofa and I don't want her to get a crick in her neck. That enough explanation to stop all that rot crawling about in your gut?"

Draco flinched, backpedaling a step. Of course, he should've known he couldn't hide all the negative things he was feeling from a bloody werewolf.

Shaking his head, however, he said in an equally low voice, "I nearly turned around and walked right back out, but then I decided . . . ." Stepping inside the flat, at last, he blindly reached backward and pulled the living room door shut behind him. "I am not letting you win her. You were right about her. If she makes a decision, she makes a decision, no matter what anyone else thinks, says, or does. If I walked away under any other circumstances, she might try to stop me, or make me rethink things, but now, with this situation? She won't come after me. Not if I turn my back on her need to be with that child. I have to respect her decision. It's nothing to do with you."

Fenrir smirked at that, a quiet chuckle rumbling out of him.

Draco drew himself up to his full height, which was not very impressive at all when faced with Greyback, he admitted grudgingly in his own head. He did not like the thought that the werewolf was laughing at him

"What?" The whispered question positively dripped acid.

"You know humans smell off when they lie, right?" Fenrir didn't wait for a response. Instead, he redirected himself toward the tiny corridor that led to Hermione's bedroom.

Starting across the living room floor, he was not at all surprised to find Draco at his heels within seconds. "For the last bloody time," he started in a weary tone, "I'm not going to do anything."

Draco uttered a scoffing sound. "Like I believe that."

"Tell you what, go make a pot of that . . . coffee-stuff."

The wizard nearly stumbled over his own two feet, halting as Fenrir reached the threshold of the bedroom. "What?"

Emitting a short, quiet growl, Fenrir glanced back at him. "You and me? We are going to sit down and have ourselves a little chat. Sort things out a bit more before your wounded ego causes any actual trouble."

"My wounded ego?" Draco's lip curled up in that trademark Malfoy sneer. There it went, that resemblance between him and his father. "You think you'd feel differently in my place?"

Fenrir groaned quietly, his imposing frame sagging back against the doorjamb. "Listen you little twit, I'm saying I wouldn't, and that's why we are going to talk. This rivalry you imagine we have—"

"Because we do." Oh, Draco had been terrified when he'd found himself face-to-face with Greyback so unexpectedly just a short while earlier that morning, but now it was different somehow. Now he felt on more even footing with the werewolf, for some reason. Probably because he was aware the 'monster' was more legend than fact, now . . . and they both wanted the same thing.

"That would imply we're in competition and I'm not trying to compete with anyone, Malfoy," Greyback answered, his tone so flat and serious that Draco's head tipped to one side as he stared back at him, realizing there was no deception in those words. "You said it yourself, this woman makes her own decisions. Us fighting like common dogs over her would only have her taking my daughter and running from both of us."

Grey eyes narrowing, Draco scowled hard. "I really don't like it when you're right."

"Go. Coffee. Now."

Draco didn't budge.

One of Fenrir's brows flicked upward as he offered, "Most I'm going to do is pull the blanket up over them. Maybe change Frigga's diaper and put her in the cradle. If I'm not in the kitchen by the time the coffee is done, by all means, come in here and dump the whole pot on me. While it's hot."

Draco drummed his fingers against his chin in thought. Though he wasn't wholly sure he believed Greyback despite all indication that he was being truthful, Draco did indeed relish the chance to pour burning liquid on him.

"Done."