Chapter Six

True to her word, the mad little witch did not leave the prison without him. Save for one rather cautious—and, from his understanding, speedy—run to the loo, Hermione Granger stayed by his side the rest of that day and long into the evening, when the Minister of Magic had finally returned with the proper, ordered, documentation to allow her to bring him to some pure-blood manor or another that was currently without owner.

As they'd waited, the pair had lapsed into a strangely comfortable silence. He couldn't begin to guess what was running through her tangled and undoubtedly confusing mind during that time—if she was having any second thoughts on these arrangements, she never let on about it, though he certainly imagined she must be. Anybody would. He didn't know if her current state of calm and quiet was a sign of surety in her own decision, or of her stubbornness in not wanting to admit she'd made a wee booboo here.

At one point, she sank into her own thoughts so deeply, so visibly, that she began to nod off, seemingly without her own notice. She had returned to sitting across from him, her hands linked around her bent knees. He tried not to read too much into the situation that she was able to fall asleep with him in such close proximity. In his experience, one had to feel safe, had to feel comfortable, in order to doze off like that, but for all he knew maybe she'd simply had a really long day. After all, it was hardly as though a day that ended with someone arguing for the freedom of a werewolf whose very existence had once scared them senseless was a typical 24 hours for anyone.

Tipping his head, he'd watched her snoozing quietly for a time. Until the moment she began slowly leaning sideways.

Amber eyes widening, Fenrir was on his feet and across to her as quickly and silently as he could move. Settling beside her on the floor, he resumed his original position—mirroring the way she sat—just in time for her to droop against his side, her cheek falling onto his shoulder.

He turned his head, looking into her face for a few heartbeats. "You're a right little mess when left on your own, aren't you?" he asked softly, his amused voice too low to disturb her.

That was when the Minister returned. Just as earlier, Fenrir had smelled Kingsley Shacklebolt before he even reached the doors. This time, however, the werewolf did not have Hermione in his face distracting him, so he was able to act before the wizard came through the doors. He lifted a hand to his lips, pressing a finger against them in a silencing gesture so that he was already cautioning the Minister by the time he stepped into the room.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had felt his brows shoot so high up his forehead, he thought if he had hair, they'd have disappeared beneath it. He didn't know what was the stranger aspect of this image—that the witch was sleeping peacefully against the werewolf, or that the werewolf appeared so protective of her.

Worse still, that they seemed a bit . . . natural together like this.

Collecting himself, the Minister gave his head a shake. He waved a scroll in the air. "I take it you would prefer to be the one who wakes her?" he asked in a whisper, certain now more than ever that she had been right. Kingsley might not trust Fenrir Greyback as far as he could throw him, but he now suspected there was no way in hell Greyback would ever let harm come to Hermione Granger.

Nodding, Fenrir turned his attention to the sleeping witch. He moved his shoulder beneath her cheek in nudge, gentle and slight. "Skönhet?" he said softly, intentionally ignoring whatever Kingsley's reaction might be to him already having a pet name for her.

Hermione didn't want to open her eyes. She was tired—good Lord, was she tired—and was only distantly remembering that when she'd dragged herself out of her flat that afternoon, she'd not really felt rested and had only left because of this situation with Fenrir. She wished they'd just leave her be. She was comfortable, one side of her body curled against a solid and inviting warmth.

And then she'd heard the deep rumbling of his voice calling her that name and she found herself stirring, albeit reluctantly. It was a strange thought, but she'd really just rather stay like this, listening to him talk for a bit longer.

Then she opened her eyes and the sight of his face, all bruised and battered from their ordeal a few days ago, came sharply into focus. Reminded her of where they were and what he'd been through for her sake.

He mistook the reason for her deer-in-the-headlights stare. Fenrir had thought the dynamic between them might be changing; maybe he shouldn't hope for things, anymore.

"Sorry," he said, his mouth curving downward into a frown of its own volition. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't." She shook her head, precisely where it rested against his shoulder. "I just genuinely forgot for a moment how bad they hurt you."

Fenrir swallowed hard, a bizarrely visceral shock washing through him at her concern. He didn't think anyone'd ever . . . . Nope, he absolutely could not recall the last time someone had worried for him. About him? Absolutely, but that was a far different matter. No one had cared what became of him in longer than he could remember.

It hurt in a strange way. Like thorns pricking his heart.

Forcing away the sensation that was an odd mix of warm and unpleasant, he nodded toward Kingsley. "Your friend the Minister is here."

Hermione followed Fenrir's gesture, puzzled for a moment by the flicker of pain she thought she'd glimpsed in the werewolf's eyes—of course he was in pain, he was a bloody mess, almost literally. "Oh!" She moved gingerly as she climbed to her feet, the gentle slowness of her motions a response to her own tiredness as well as her desire to not give Fenrir reason to think she was getting jumpy around him again.

"Well," she said expectantly, holding out her hand for the scroll. "Thank you, Minister Shacklebolt. I very much appreciate your efforts and expediency in this matter."

Kingsley's features pinched as he placed the paperwork into her outstretched fingers. "It's never a good sign when you're so formal."

The witch arched a brow as she unrolled the document and looked it over. "Nonsense. You pulled strings for me, possibly abused power a little, the least I can do is be courteous about the whole thing, don't you think? Hmm. Shafiq House? I don't believe I'm familiar with that name."

"The Shafiq line is a Sacred Twenty-Eight family who fled at the start of the Second War." Kingsley shrugged, unsurprised by her lack of information on them. Not many people even recalled the family. "The grounds of Shafiq House have been Ministry property ever since."

"So basically the one with the least paperwork involved?"

He chuckled. "Precisely. Expediency. Now, you understand that I, and a contingent of Aurors, will be escorting the two of you to your new residence, yes?"

"I suppose that was to be expected," Fenrir said as he stood. Hermione found she had to snap her head around, forcefully dragging her attention away from him as he moved in a long, lazy stretch that accentuated his height and . . . breadth.

"Well, wards or no wards," The Minister explained as he ignored the blush his friend would probably not wish to admit had colored her cheeks for a second, there, "you will be watched as Miss Granger returns to her home to gather whatever she needs. The Aurors will, of course, double-check that the grounds are wholly secure and provide Mr. Greyback with suitable attire during this time."

Fenrir smirked, his massive form drooping a little as he followed Hermione and the Minister toward where that aforementioned contingent waited in the main corridor of the prison's ground floor. "Aww, are they going to bathe me, too?"

"Fenrir!" the witch snapped in a hissing tone.

Despite his amusement, Fenrir noticed another passing wash of pink tint her face for a few flickering heartbeats. She was blushing at the thought of him bathing? He bit his bottom lip hard, struggling to keep a response to that to himself. To think, when this had all started, she'd been horrified that she had been shown to his cell just after he'd had his scrub down. Now this?

Progress, he thought with an inward grin.

Shafiq House was huge. Not as mind-bogglingly enormous as some of the ancestral pure-blood estates Hermione had seen, but it was certainly a lot to take in all at once. Large, dusty-paned sunrooms could be seen on either side of the main house, the entire edifice was a deep green that called to mind the emblem of Slytherin House, and she thought sure her entire building could fit within the ground's confines two or three times over. Once inside the whining wrought-iron gates, she could smell the rich scents of soil and foliage. Likely the grounds had expansive gardens in the back—nestled between the estate's buildings and the lush, forested tree line she could see in the distance. She imagined, or at least hoped, a section of that had been specifically cordoned off for Fenrir's full moon transformations, just as she'd suggested.

Unless . . . . "So," she started as she hurried along beside Kingsley—tall men and their annoying long-legged strides! "For the full moon . . . ? What was decided?"

Kingsley sighed, casting a glance back over his shoulder at Fenrir. The prisoner was in the center of the Aurors. One ahead of him, one behind, one on either side . . . yet, somehow the Minister couldn't shake the feeling that if he really wanted to, Fenrir Greyback would be able to prove that even four highly trained, highly skilled Dark wizard hunters were no match for him.

He produced the keys to the house and handed them over to Hermione, speaking as she set to unlocking the door. "You will not find a cell in the basement. After a quick conference with a few Healers from Saint Mungo's to whom I was referred by your mentor, Madam Guir, it's been decided that given what happened during his last imprisonment, holding him captive in any fashion, even during a full moon, would potentially do more harm than good. So your second idea, giving him space in the woods to run about, was deemed the most suitable option. Of course, he still won't be 'free', but being in the forest will give him the illusion of it while he's under the moon's sway."

Finally getting the door open after a moment's fuss with the old lock, Hermione pivoted on her heel and looked up at the Minister.

Kingsley shrugged. "Or so I'm told. It's what the Healers said."

She nodded. "I figured as much, I just . . . . I don't know, I suppose I didn't expected them to be so forward-thinking with regard to mental health. It's as surprising as it is refreshing. No one seems to give a rat's arse about the mental health of werewolves."

Once more he sighed, clamping a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I'm aware. I also know how close you were with Remus—" No, you really don't, she thought, hiding a wince over precisely the thing which only Fenrir knew about her closeness with Remus Lupin—"and I also know his father's treatment of him could've been a detriment to him. This entire case has led to a lot of thought about our handling of those bearing the curse. If this works, if you manage to rehabilitate Greyback, out of all of his kind, it could lead to something entirely new for them."

She offered a pained smile. Too late for Remus, but she'd always believed he could not possibly the only werewolf who wasn't down-to-his-core evil. Already Fenrir was proving that even he wasn't like that all while the entirety of Wizarding Britain was so ready to believe otherwise. Hermione hadn't even considered that this step she had taken for Greyback's sake could actually help others. She was both glad for it and a little ashamed at her own shortsightedness.

"C'mon, then," Kingsley said, saving her from having to push past the lump in her throat to respond. "We will show you two about and then you'll go get your things."

She nodded, looking back at Fenrir. "While they babysit him."

Fenrir couldn't help himself, these ruddy Aurors were so stuffy and boring and ready to strike, never mind that there were four of them and he was unarmed—he supposed he should be glad his reputation proceeded him so. He clamped his hands around his mouth, causing his voice to carry, "And don't forget possibly bathing me!"

The Aurors, who'd not been privy to the early discussion, all turned aghast expressions on each other. Hermione burst out laughing nearly against her will and the Minister cursed under his breath, his eyes rolling so hard the lids fluttered.