EDITING NOTE: In the process of rereading this fic to prep for updating, I noticed a lot of typos/editing errors over the course of the current 23 chapters, and while they might seem minor to someone else, as the writer (and an annoying perfectionist), they're glaring in an "omg, how did this escape my notice before posting?" way. Also, the system sometimes hiccups when writers replace chapters, so in order to avoid any confusion, it's more sensible to make everyone aware that the current chapters are being pulled for fixing & then reposted (as I did with The Golden Mage's Captive) and then continue on with the story. Reposts will be daily until the last of the current chapters is back up.

1) This is a canon-divergent AU.

2) Chapter lengths will vary, updates will be sporadic.

3) As the subtitle (The Werewolf Rebellion Chronicles) implies, this is the first in a series.

REVIEWS, REVIEWS, REVIEWS!

Reviews are not necessary, but they do make writers feel loved and supported in their efforts to continue creating & sharing, so if you've the time, please consider leaving one :) (and if you're worried about your comment being annoying or not knowing what to say, then let me tell you, you could literally leave 'thank you' or 'good work' on every chapter I've ever written and I would not get annoyed at you [I have a reader who does this, and every time I see their name on a review, I light up because I know what to expect, I also have readers who just leave smiley faces and I love it because it makes me think my writing brought a smile to their actual faces]).

* Orias Mulciber (who appears in a number of my other DE fics) is my take on the canon character of Mulciber.

FANCAST:

Brock O'Hurn as *Orias Mulciber; Jason Momoa as Fenrir Greyback

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit from this story.

Chapter One

No one expected the way the Second Wizarding War ended. When Voldemort fell in combat against Harry Potter, the last thing anyone had thought would happen was the werewolves rising up to take over the Dark. Though, if anyone had thought to consult Hermione Granger on the matter, she'd have told them the so-called army Fenrir Greyback was said to be building for the Dark Lord should've been considered a much more serious threat than it was.

After all, the werewolves had been witches and wizards, first. Magic combined with their sheer brute strength and ferocity should've put them at the top of the Wizarding world's proverbial food chain long ago. Their own small and hunted numbers leading up to recent times was the most likely culprit of such a circumstance never occurring before.

Fenrir had offered the Death Eaters only two options. Yield and be ruled by him, or die. The Dark wizards and witches who'd supported the Death Eaters and their Lord had scattered, running from the wolves, or reluctantly surrendering to the Light to join forces.

The last thing Hermione, herself, expected as Fenrir Greyback had announced his intentions—a blond mountain of a wizard crumbled at his feet and writhing from the agony of a fresh werewolf bite—and started to withdraw from the battlefield, his new numbers following his command, was the way his gaze swept past the chaos and ruin to lock on hers.

There had been a few times during the battle when she'd nearly crossed paths with him. When she'd glimpsed him in passing and it seemed like he was trying to get to her. Each time, he'd made the point to catch her eyes with his own. Just as with those previous times, as he stared at her now, she felt as though he was trying convey some message she could not quite grasp.

There was a definite sense rippling through her, as he pulled his gaze from hers, that she did not grasp it because his message was something that thrilled her as much as it terrified her. And she did not want to feel thrilled by Fenrir Greyback.

As she snapped back to her senses, she knew Harry wanted to pursue—the spell he shot at Greyback, just missing him, but preventing him from retrieving the soon-to-be werewolf collapsed in front of him told her as much—but they had their own wounded to tend and dead to bury. They could not spare the manpower right now to chase the combined army of werewolves and surviving Death Eaters.

"Harry, don't," she said, clutching his wand arm and forcing it back to his side.

When he turned an angry, disbelieving look on her, she shook her head. "No, it's not the time. You chase them now, you won't make it back. Besides . . . ." With a jutting of her chin, she directed his attention to the one who'd been left behind. "He wants the surviving Death Eaters in his ranks? Then we've got something he just might want to come back for."

Harry drew in a deep breath and let it out slow before taking a moment to examine the thrashing wizard with his gaze. Giving a head shake of his own as they made their way toward the man, he said in a hissing whisper, "Hermione, he's massive! You really want to bring something like that into our side's stronghold?"

She spared a moment to pick up the bite victim's dropped wand. Pocketing it—she was aware from experience that one never could tell when a spare wand might come in handy—she turned toward their prisoner.

"We'll patch him up and stick him in the dungeons." Hermione frowned, looking down into the face of the mountainous blond. Piercing blue eyes stared up at her, his anger with them just for being on the other side of the War palpable even as he winced and cringed, baring his teeth at the pain. "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on him myself, if need be."

Hermione was quite displeased to be awoken by Harry in the wee hours of the morning a week later. The survivors on the side of the Light and their new, only partially-willing recruits who'd defected from the Dark following Fenrir's coup, had been on constant watch, and she was still just catching up on sleep from pulling more patrols than anyone thought she ought to—but then, even Harry knew better than to tell the witch there was something she couldn't do.

He hated that it seemed like she felt responsible to pull double-duty ever since Ron's death. It wasn't her fault, but try telling her that.

In the towers and dungeons, and below the kitchens, the surviving students who were still able to fight had transported their beds from their dorm rooms, turning the respective common areas of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff into makeshift barracks. They all knew that in reality, they did not want anyone who'd perhaps lost all their dorm-mates to have to sleep alone, but neither did any of them want the true upheaval of all survivors living in the Great Hall all the time. Some semblance of normalcy was important, especially for the younger students.

The teachers tried to make due splitting their time between fortifying the castle's defenses and providing continuing—proper—lessons for any students who needed the distraction of attending. Planning defensive strategies and contingency plans for when the werewolves might return had been left to those who made the most sense based on their war records. New headmistress Professor Minerva McGonagall, newly-appointed Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt—who split his time, as well, between Hogwarts and rooting out left over dissidents from the ranks of a nearly-destroyed Ministry—Harry, Hermione, and Neville. If the elder witch and wizard felt odd sharing the proverbial war room floor with former students, neither made such concerns known.

Rubbing the heels of her palms against her eyes, she groused in a whisper, careful not to wake the others, "What is it, Harry?"

"Your little friend? He's awake and bellowing."

Hermione snickered shaking her head as she grabbed her wand and climbed out of bed. "I'll see what he wants. How's his memory of before he passed out? Does he realize—?"

"That he's a werewolf?" Frowning, Harry shook his head. "He hasn't said one way or another. Just hollering for his 'jailor'. I can only assume he means you."

"Which would seem to indicate he does remember being bitten." She sighed and nodded, starting her way out of the tower. He didn't seem especially the warm and fuzzy type when they'd lugged him into the hospital wing, she doubted he was much friendlier now as a prisoner of war and a soon-to-be werewolf.

She should've known to brace for the day the magically-induced coma—the one Madam Pomfrey had cast, set to wear off only when he was fully healed—dispelled itself. Fighting back a yawn, she stretched and made mental note to ask Winky for some of that particularly strong coffee the elf seemed to specialize in after she saw to her prisoner.

Upon entering the dungeons, she heard it. An almost impossibly deep voice echoing from the cells. What he was saying, she couldn't quiet get as she crossed the common room floor, but then this would probably be an ideal time to cast a silencing charm on the door. It was only by sheer dumb luck that they'd decided the Hufflepuff common room a more soothing space for the students and his bellyaching was not keeping any of them awake.

Stationed outside the door to the cells, Neville was hanging his head. "Oy, shut it!"

Hermione's brows shot up, but then Neville had been much braver in the days that followed his slaying of Nagini. In fact, he barely seemed able to hold his tongue at all, anymore.

"Come in here and say that to my face!"

As Neville rolled his eyes, he spotted Hermione coming toward him. "There you are. Watch it with that one in there," he said, nodding toward the cells. "Got a mouth on him that would make the Devil jealous."

"Has he said anything useful?"

Shaking his head, a thoughtful expression graced Neville's features for a moment. "Unless you count threatening to feed me my own bits, no."

Clearing her throat around a surprised laugh, Hermione nodded. "That is . . . colorful. All right, noted. Thank you, Neville."

The wizard pulled open the door for her, again rolling his eyes as the action invited another hollered threat from the prisoner.

Schooling her features, she entered, approaching his cell on careful footfalls. Hermione kept her distance from the bars, but still felt taken aback to see the man on his feet. Bloody hell! He was a clear two meters tall! She'd known he was massive when they'd dragged him into the castle, but she didn't think she'd been expecting this.

Though he probably could give Hagrid a run for his money, he wasn't proportioned like one with giant blood.

"So, you're her? The one who thought to stick me in here, hmm?"

Her brows shot up as she held his gaze. The way he lounged against the bars, his muscled arms hanging through as he glared at her with those impossibly sharp blue eyes. He probably thought himself so intimidating, even unarmed.

"So, you're him? The one who can't stop bellowing like some wounded little beast?"

He mirrored her expression, a smirk plucking one corner of his mouth upward. "Oh! You're an interesting one."

Folding her arms under her breasts, she shook her head. "Who are you?"

"Orias Mulciber."

"D'you remember what happened?"

Orias shrugged his massive shoulders. He still hadn't taken his eyes from hers. "It's a bit fuzzy. I remember the Dark Lord falling. Pain, lots of it. Really ungodly agony, actually . . . and your eyes."

Hermione tried not to feel startled by his last words. He probably said that deliberately to see if he could get some response out of her. "Then you don't recall Fenrir declaring a coup?"

The wizard barked out a laugh at that. "You're serious?"

"Quite. Used the army he amassed to strong-arm the Death Eaters into following him."

Orias breathed out a low, surprised whistle. "Did not see that coming. Still not entirely sure how I ended up in here, little witch."

"Oh, he tried to take you with him, but we stopped him." She pretended she didn't feel a little ripple of joy at the shock in his face. Hermione didn't exactly like what she thought this war might be turning her into.

"He tried to . . . ." Orias shook his head. Fenrir hardly seemed one for merciful acts. If he'd been wounded in the battle, why would Fenrir have tried to take him? "Why?"

"That ungodly agony you remember? Look at your left side."

A wary look flashing across his face, he ducked his head. Pulling aside his robes, he examined the crescent-shaped scar running along the side of his abdomen. "That bastard," he roared, baring his teeth.

"We figure he might come back for you. You're probably exactly the sort of thing he hopes to unleash on anyone who won't bend knee to him."

Ignoring any further show of how much the revelation bothered him, he smirked. "You have an interesting way of phrasing things, you know that?"

"I'll pretend I don't know why you'd think that, as I'm sure I have no interest in how your mind works, Orias Mulciber."

Again, he lounged against the bars, staring at her. "Pity, as I believe you'd actually like the way I think."

"Not likely." She refrained from a sudden bizarre need to force a gulp down her throat. She had to assess his needs and be on her way. "Are you hungry?"

"Depends on what you want to feed me."

Sighing, she shook her head. "I'll have the elves prepare you some food," she said, turning on her heel and starting for the door. "You actually need something, just holler. You're good at that."

"At least tell me your name, little witch."

With a second sigh, she halted and glanced at him over her shoulder. "Hermione Granger. Also known as The Girl who helped Harry Potter kick your Dark Lord's arse."

"Hermione . . . ." An obvious spark of recognition flickered through those painfully blue eyes. "I've heard of you."

"I'm not surprised. Most of your ilk have by now."

"No, no." He frowned, but it was a thoughtful, calculating look. "He talked about you. Greyback."

Sooner than she could stop herself, Hermione turned and stomped back toward the cell. "What? What do you mean?"

Orias nodded, scraping his teeth against his lower lip as he watched her face for a moment. This was interesting. "I don't really know, something about how you'd slipped through his fingers, but now—and by now, of course, I mean that last battle—he was going to set things to rights."

Her brow furrowed and she swallowed hard as she tried to calm her nerves. Those times they'd been stopped just short of crossing paths. When his gaze had sought hers amid the chaos . . . .

She'd known he wanted to bite her that day at Malfoy Manor, but she'd considered it a kill of opportunity at the time. That he'd held onto that desire . . . .

"What's the matter? That upset you, little witch?"

Anger pinching her features, she forced herself to meet Orias Mulciber's gaze, once more. "I think I'll leave you alone, now. Let you bat those pretty blue eyes at someone else for a few minutes."

He smirked, leaning his forehead against the bars. "Oh, so you think I'm pretty?"

Snickering, she took a half-step closer, only near enough to get a better look at his face as she answered in a hushed voice, "Make no mistake, Mulciber, one can think something pretty and still hate it."

That smirk of his widened into an oddly wicked grin as he gave her a once-over. "I do believe you're correct on that."

Rolling her eyes, she turned on her heel and finally exited the cells. As she continued through the basement to make her way to the stairs by the Hufflepuff common room and up to the kitchens, she tried not to think about what Orias had said.

She tried not to consider that Fenrir actually had plans about her.

Tried and failed, as all she seemed able to think about was the way the werewolf had held her gaze before vanishing with his army.