It was for this reason that Mary had found herself spending her Saturday evening sat in a booth at a local muggle pub, sipping on a glass of vodka and orange juice as everyone around her chattered and joked, sharing stories of their pasts and generally making Mary feel a lot more glad that she had bothered to show up to begin with. Where at first she had walked into the pub and honestly considered simply walking back out again before she could be noticed, after sitting with the group for ten minutes or so Mary decidedly never wanted to leave, finding herself to be far too at ease in the company of people who - for the most part - she hadn’t really held a proper conversation with before. For Mary, being a part of the Order had always been something she viewed more to be a chore than anything else, and as a result she had always struggled to form relations with those members of the Order she hadn’t already been friends with. But sat in the pub, surrounded by people who she would normally voluntarily shy away from, Mary couldn’t help but wonder why she hadn’t made the effort sooner, when being included made her feel so ridiculously good.

As it became time for them to leave and return to their own homes, Mary almost wanted to make her fellow Order members stay, though being too shy to do so she had simply kept quiet, instead just following the others out of the pub, always a few steps behind as they walked down the path and began to go their separate ways. 

What Mary certainly hadn’t expected, was for someone behind her to grab her roughly by the arm, preventing her from being able to continue on with the rest of the group, staring her in such a way that - quite frankly - Mary found herself to be intimidated into a state of submission, too shocked, and fearful to actually ask the substantially elder man what he was doing, or to even call for the others to help.

And then, it all became too late, and before Mary could even gather he thoughts enough to take control over the situation, the other male had apparated away with his hand still wrapped around her arm, and Mary froze up. Losing control over her limbs for a moment, the dizziness that came with apparition, plus the added bonus of being shoved the moment her feet touched the ground, Mary soon found herself sprawled across the ground, entire body holding the faintest of trembles as she stared up at her captor, her fear undeniably clear as for a moment, she found herself to be entirely lost for words.

“M-Mary. I’m M-Mary M-Macdonald.” The thought of offering up a fake name, or to return his question before even thinking to give her own name, never really occurred to the young girl. Fear was all she knew now, and if answering his questions as honestly and as helpfully as possible would keep her alive, then she would do it. 

“Mary Macdonald,” he growled, taking several steps forward toward her before drawing up short. “Who are you?” It was a heavy question, implicitly meaning, who are you and what are you worth to me? Fenrir knelt down, his arms bent and resting atop his knees, wrists cocked and hands brushing between them. He tilted his head. She looked so afraid. So afraid. Part of him was pleased for this- there was no power without fear. One side required it. There was always an inkling of fear in those that were the weaker beings. In any relationship there was a dominant presence and a lesser one. An alpha and a beta, so to speak. The wolf exuded such power at all times that he did not have to worry about fear. Even in the presence of Lord Voldemort he was not afraid. Their relationship was nothing more than a business transaction. A free pass, one would say, to run off leash through the streets of London without fear of consequence. This girl was like the others. She would not harm him- could not. However, just in case-- “Expelliarmus!” he said, the command breathy and low, the tone of it conveying his intrigue with his captive. The wood of her wand hit the palm of his open hand and his smile curled ever more at the corners.

She was pretty, for as young as she was. Wide, round eyes, a pointed chin and shapely jaw. Full lips- the hair, well, that was a shame. The wolf reached out slowly, a single digit extending until he caught the underside of her chin, tilting her face upward to better meet his gaze. He could feel her trembling, and it was exhilarating, knowing that that was for him. That he was the ultimate cause of that fear, wholly and truly.

Arthur had taken Percy out into Diagon Alley for the market and to pick up a few little bits for potion stocking. With a list from Molly, both gingers walked hand-in-hand down the promenade in order to gather said materials. Art lead his son around a mixture of stalls and onwards into Florish and Blotts. The morning had been a success by the time it reached 11am, meaning that they could have a wander before it reached too late for useless meandering.

The two enjoyed the shop, Perce was interested in the parchment-scented walls and Arthur on the content that they carried. Flicking through a few of the latest marvels, he peaked into the children’s section to show Percy some of the more simpler stories that the wizarding world hed. Despite his efforts and brief attention, the two year old soon lost interest and was pulling upon Arthur’s sleeve, and so they left.

pair left the shop and had turned onto Knockturn Alley to find some rarer potion ingredients, Arthur spun around to pull Percy onto his shoulders only to then walk straight into a hulking figure. To his surprise, there was little movement shared between them and Art stepped back fast, securing Perce by his head. He grabbed his son with one hand and the other was down at his side, ready to reach for his wand. Tensions were running high in every participant of the war, cringing as he backed off, Arthur offered an apology rather quickly.

Caught in a daydream of his own- or perhaps memories of the heist staged just weeks prior- the wolf hardly acknowledged the pair of gingers he’d followed down into the darkness. He hadn’t meant to follow them, not really. Contrary to popular belief, Fenrir Greyback had much better things to do than go out and stalk innocents. Even if they were Muggle supporters. That being said, the alpha knew very little of their enemy. He didn’t make it a point to memorise each and every one as though they were targets like some did. He had a pack to run, the war itself was rather secondary. So long as it didn’t interfere with his primary objectives, he was fine. And in the meantime, Fenrir waited like a loaded pistol, glinting maliciously in silence, until Voldemort aimed him at someone and pulled the trigger.

He’d been thinking, actually, that perhaps the Dark Lord was more well informed than he’d initially thought. The papers knew next to nothing, and from what he’d heard at their meetings it didn’t seem that anyone knew of the wolves’ involvement in the incident at Gringotts. All rumor, smoke and cinder. Rumor wasn’t much of a currency these days, but then again, it’s value ebbed and flowed like the tides (also, coincidentally, influenced by the moon above). The slightest well-placed whisper in an ear could shift things out of his favour, if they ever really had been there in the first place. This concerned him. Not because he was fully sorry for what he’d done, but because he’d accepted an offer from the Dark Lord. The alpha was fully aware that the agreement was not two-sided. He would not be able to back out of it. In the end there would be one clear winner and one clear loser. Fenrir had chosen the side that promised to benefit him most. His stature was long and lean and thin corded muscle; when the man had collided with him he had not moved, simply because he was the alpha, and alphas did not back down.

The man sputtered an apology or what seemed to be one- Fenrir didn’t really listen, but the tone of his voice and the way his jaw wobbled when he spoke seemed to indicate all manner of submissiveness. He couldn’t help the way his lips curled back into a snarl, it was instinctual.

Rabastan had not felt so simultaneously overpowered and aroused in such an inappropriate moment in quite some time.

He immediately attempted to stamp down the near instinctive motion to arch up into the werewolf threatening his life, appearing to wiggle futilely for a moment instead. The rough treatment, so achingly familiar and missing with his brother gone, had yet to be replaced by someone else and it had just been so long since someone had put hands to him. Fabian was busy and if he wasn’t busy then they got into other shenanigans or were with Dorcas and Rabbit couldn’t get his fix, that little secret one that nobody knew he needed. It was just his luck that it would be the bloody werewolf to remind him of his unfortunate ailment. It was only when the older man eased up on his grip that Rabastan registered any sort of unpleasant pain, particularly on the arm that had just been let go, the drug-induced hum floating in his blood allowing for such a lapse in perception when his life force seemed to be making its way south against his will.

The forceful touch on his hand removing his dying marijuana brought a soft gasp from his mouth, fearful but most likely not in the way that Fenrir would assume. Here his life was casually being thrown in his face like nothing and all the stoned Lestrange son could try to focus on was not showing how fucking turned on he was. It was going to be the literal death of him at any moment. Forget his brother coming after him; Bella and Cissa were going to castrate him for this total buffoonery.

“Well, to be technical, Fenrir,” Rabastan murmured huskily, speaking softly as to not appear completely undermining of the Alpha’s control over his forest, “we have mutual allies that will not be happy to find my body parts strewn all over your forest after I do not show up home tomorrow alive and well.” His sister-in-law knew he was out here, made fun of him and his actual attempts of study now that they were out of school, but had left him to his devices with the secure promise that he would be home in time for breakfast together. A broken promise to Bellatrix would normally mean death but if she were to suspect foul play, Fenrir and his pack would have made an enemy of the wrong witch. That being said, the Dark Lord had begun to trust Rabastan on the promise that he would be just as effective as his older brother. The Lestranges were too high on the Death Eater chain of command for any one of them to not be missed and Rabastan did not want to contemplate what their Lord would do to set an example. Granted, he doubted this, knew that Fenrir barely attention during meetings anyway, but it was still all a possibility and for that, a bad political move on his part.

Rabastan’s voice was soft in his ear, thick like the smoke he’d so blatantly spewed from his lips only moments before and the way it curled and trickled through the darkness to reach him, Fenrir couldn’t help but imagine the boy’s words as anything but. He chuckled, the first indication that he wasn’t entirely serious about his prior threat. Or he was, and he was simply enjoying thinking about it. The truth was that Rabastan’s suggestion was ridiculous. “Y’ think I’d tear y’ ta shreds an’ leave y’ in pieces all throughou’ this forest? An’ ruin th’ beauty of such a pristine place?” A snort emanated from his throat that was halfway between a short growl and a cough. “Ye’re pretty, boy, but y’ ain’t that pretty.” The comedy was not in the backhanded insult but in the way that the wolf thought the environment pretty. His hunting grounds could be the streets and back alleys of London for all he cared. The forest simply provided more cover, plus there was a certain degree of magick still left winding it’s way through the ancient trunks and rocks. Enough to keep people out, enough to lure people in. He liked that degree of randomness, in a sense. The alpha cared not for surprises, but he figured that the magic that surround this particular strand of forest served more in a way of natural selection than anything else.

He bared his teeth, lips twitching in a snarl that seemed ever present. He was halfway caught between genuine irritation and something else- the animalistic part of him wasn’t able to ignore the flush of the boy’s skin beneath his thumb pad, the apparent thrum of his heart against the thin skin at his throat beneath the curve of his jaw. The fact that the Death Eater whelp was right about their mutual allies was a moot point. At least in his eyes. He would not be brutally murdering Rabastan and leaving his body to drain of its fluids atop the loamy forest floor. Fenrir sniffed, inhaling a rush of heady body odour. His grip on the male’s throat lessened somewhat, after a moment’s deliberation he retracted it altogether, allowing the edge of a thumbnail to drag a line across Rabastan’s Adam’s apple. The skin wasn’t broken, of course he had all manner of control, but an angry red line appeared seconds after he’d drawn away.

“Don’t want t’ control their use of drugs. Don’t want ‘em usin’ at all.” Fenrir had a good amount of height on Rabastan but was all wiry muscle, tendon and bone. “People ain’t themselves when they’re on ‘em. Can’t rightly be in control of a mass that cares more ‘bout feelin’ good an’ getting their next fix.”

He tilted his head back, still extremely close- a boot planted between the boy’s legs and the other firm and steady at Rabastan’s outer thigh. That and the heel of his hand against his hip had effectively locked the Death Eater in place. Although, he wasn’t completely immobile. His wand was easily accessible and if he truly wanted out of the predicament, why, he could ask. “The thing ‘bout drug users, I’ve found,” the wolf continued slowly, his voice a low and gravelly hum. He found his amber-eyed gaze tracing the line of the boy’s jaw. “They’re unpredictable.”

Bellatrix did her best to wear simple clothes. They were high quality, yes, but the illustrious witch deliberately avoided the delicate yet ornate design favored by other witches of her stature. She was a Death Eater, not a trophy - not like so many other woman in the upper echelons of pureblooded society. And yet, her ghostly skin and darkly lined eyes tended to garner unnecessary attention anyway, even amongst the cold blooded creatures like her that were drawn towards the Dark Lord like moths to a bright, distant flame. Frowning at the younger members, who sat preening as though by being present in these meetings they’d managed to become his confidants, the Lestrange crossed one leg over the other, ebony silk spilling over her boot laced feet. 

They could never be that, not as long as she sat closest to his cold presence, pale wrist resting against the mahogany table, fingers curved like talons. As usual, Bella was… restless. Across from her, as close she was to her lord, sat the disgusting mongrel she only barely tolerated for the Dark Lord. His forearm was not marked with the conviction the others had, and despite her irritation towards the younger members, at least they respected their brilliant leader by marking themselves appropriately. Greyback didn’t. 

The meeting ended as it always did - a reminder to be patient, that their time was coming, that soon the world would be cleansed of the filthy mudblood taint. She nodded, smiled in a way more reminiscent of a feral baring of fangs, and stood after he did, robes settling around her angular figure. As she left the room, werewolf close behind her as he often did in some sort of mockery of chivalry, Bellatrix could feel that restless energy buzzing beneath her skin; the raven haired woman had always had a sense of her magic this way, constantly humming in her veins. In a low hiss, so low only one with heightened senses like Greyback would hear, she reminded him of their usual appointment. 

“Our usual place.” 

With that, Bellatrix strode forward, and soon as she had passed the wards binding the location of the Death Eater meeting, apparated mid step into a clearing in the West Woods. Surrounded by the deceptive calm of beech trees, a faint whisper of leaves carrying through the air, the witch felt far more at ease - here she could be the wild, passionate warrior she was meant to be. Her fingers twitched, calming when they touched the cool metal of her dagger, secreted in the holster of her forearm, along with her wand. She removed it from its sheath, appreciating the beauty of the metallic form when she became aware of the sudden silence. Bellatrix turned to face her companion, twirling the dagger lazily in her hand.

She couldn’t keep from moving, much like himself, and the corners of his mouth twitched. The least she could do was be a bit more subtle about it. When the meeting was officially concluded, the wolf all but sprang out of his chair, all angles and joints and already forgetting his prior criticism of the warrior woman. There was something the alpha loved about having control over a being so unpredictable and powerful, the shoulder of Orion, Voldemort’s right hand. It was exhilarating, knowing that he had the ability to unravel her with the slightest, well-placed tug. He followed her as they moved from the room, his presence meant to be both daunting and taunting with his hands clasped behind his back. He kept his chin tilted upward, as if he needed any more height on the dark-headed woman. Her words were quiet but not missed and his mouth twitched again, though he made no other indication that he’d heard her.

He would wait several more moments before he followed, instead subjecting himself to boring drivel of those he wanted nothing to do with. When the Dark Lord finally retreated into his more private quarters, the alpha considered himself dismissed and he strode through the front door, eager to shed the wards that kept him confined at the expense of keeping their leader safe and as secretive as ever. Fenrir, of course, understood the necessity of such security, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. The same protocol was not employed by the werewolves, who relied on the display of sheer force to intimidate and beat their foes into submission. A huffing breath accompanied his swift apparition and he found himself in the aforementioned meeting spot, a strand of beech trees in the midst of a lush forest. His eyes lit first on the dagger in her hands, drawn by the glint of metal before meeting her eyes, just as bloodthirsty as the edge of the weapon she twirled so haphazardly.

Bellatrix preferred her pretty knives and pointy things, but Fenrir would always lean toward brute strength. He looked down at his fingers, folded inward toward his palm and ran the pad of his thumb across his pointed nails. The wolf continued forward, drawing up just short of a few steps from the witch, his teeth bared in something akin to a smile.

Daisy’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Eww. I hope you disinfected them at least.” She had no idea if the stranger was serious or if he was just trying to scare her or get a reaction, but either way she didn’t have time for it. It was getting late, stores would be closing soon, and she wasn’t trekking all the way back home shoeless like some hobo. Street grime had already covered the soles of her feet. Her parents owed her a pedicure for this. She dodged a speeding cabbie, cursing colorfully at him for failing to yield to the pedestrians like he should have, but otherwise made it to the opposite side of the street without incident.  

She glanced over her shoulder, checking to make sure he was still following before continuing up the sidewalk to the shoe store. Daisy rolled her eyes as he insisted he was busy; clearly not that busy because he hadn’t left. Merlin’s tits, was he going to complain the whole time? It’s not like she was asking him to give her a kidney, it was just a pair of shoes. 

“I’m fif–sixteen. I can’t go in there and get them myself because they won’t let me in without shoes. See the dilemma?” she asked slowly, as if she were explaining to a child. Technically, her birthday wasn’t until the next day, but that hardly mattered. Sixteen sounded better and it wasn’t even a lie. Not really. What was one day? 

Daisy peered through the plate glass window of the shop until she found a pair of shoes on the display that were suitable. Camel brown ankle boots. They didn’t give her outfit the character her ruined heels had, but they were cute and serviceable. Plus, they’d go with a lot of her clothes and, according to the display sign, they were on sale. Perfect. The fact that the man still hadn’t left, despite his insistence that he was “plenty fucking busy” was a clear indication that he had no problem lending her a hand. 

Remus felt the burning of venom before he registered the pain of the bite. Tears pooled and mixed with the blood from the scrapes on his cheeks while something new and strange began to churn through his veins. Limbs twitched unbidden, lips moved to form words in his native tongue though his throat was dry and mind a wreck so no intelligible words could be discerned. Anger filled every inch of the small body, a rage the likes of which someone so young should not have been able to comprehend.

Gasping for air Remus finally let loose the scream he’d previously failed to free from his empty lungs. Inch by inch, his small body was consumed with excruciating pain. In every cell seemed to be a simultaneous occurrence of genocide and genesis as the very structure of his DNA was split apart and rebuilt.

“Mama!” Remus cried out, his lips finally able to form words as the pain spread out from the bite on his thigh. “Mama!” his voice was softer this time. The venom oozed through his veins, towards his toes, burning him up from the inside out. Remus continued to shout the single word over and over while he reached up with his free hand. The single small, brown fist continued to deliver blows to whatever bit of the furry mass he could hit.

A snarl escaped his maw that all but drowned out the boy’s pathetic cries, but he was silenced by an even deeper growl and pointed look from his alpha. Glinting canines were bared and saliva dripped from Thom’s lips and Fenrir knew better than to disobey. He hadn’t got this far without having a sense of self-preservation, after all. It’s what made him such a great beta. A fist caught him between the ribs and the wolf coughed out a sound that sounded somewhere between a growl and a yip, but he covered it by shaking his head. The alpha’s directive was clear. 

Time to go. 

In the distance he could smell the other two, the fresh metallic scent of blood that was decidedly not human dancing toward them on the wind. Fenrir had to forcibly turn himself away from the prey that lay prone on the ground, willing every part of him to leave it be because his canine side had kicked into overdrive the moment that little thing cried out in pain. Weakness was like a drug to the wolf’s mind, as if the light of the moon was not devastating enough. He let out a shuddering sigh and followed when the alpha wolf slipped away, becoming one with the shadows once more.

The years of observation were what gave Rab the easy of interaction that he was practicing. No, Fenrir and himself were unfortunately hardly bosom buddies but you learn your place and how to present due respect without losing face when you see a guy tear into someone’s neck for a slight you didn’t even realize happened. Fascination, and just a bit of awe, tinted Rabastan’s oddly favorable opinion of the werewolf alpha stepping towards him with such purpose. The wizard was still forced to look up at him - it wasn’t as if Fenrir wasn’t already taller than him but the uneven ground worked in the other’s favor as well - and Rabbit could only keep his head cocked as he noticed the other’s gaze still flickering to his bared skin. He could not relax just yet, even though he was hardly under duress despite what he knew what was coming.

‘Business? Rumors? You don’t say,’ Rabastan thought bitchily, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he kept himself from smiling as hard as he wanted to. Fenrir would have left him alone to wander if it hadn’t been for his little experiments with his pack and Rabastan knew it. As a wizard, he had actually always been rather careful of how he entered the forest and made sure to never harvest more specimens than he needed and was always respectful of the environment he found himself in. Many others may have forgotten but he’d dug into the depths of his manor’s library, had found the diaries of his ancestors that danced during the solstices and praised the gods of old. Fenrir’s business and rumors had nothing to do with mistreatment of anything and everything to do with his ice ribbons.

‘Cut the shite,’ indeed.

Rabastan straightened his posture just a bit, ready to appear docile if he offended but knowing he had to own up to the accusations at the moment. He pressed his lips together before licking them - curse the dry mouth that plagued him - and then giving a noncommittal nod, bringing up his hand to flick it a couple of times in a motion that suggested Fenrir being half-right. Fabian was such a bad influence with his plebian motions but they were just so useful. “I am actually here tonight just for plant research, to be honest,” Rabastan revealed, grinning almost sheepishly even as he stepped forward. “And I only sold to two of your men because they were dicks. The rest of them, I just gave to when they asked.” Probably not the best thing to admit in such a nonchalant way but it wasn’t as if he was hiding it anymore. He hadn’t even been hiding it in the first place, just waiting to be confronted with it. Rabastan took note of Fenrir’s tense stance though, that clenched fist was no small thing to hide, and he found himself backtracking on the attitude just a bit.

The way the boy bared his teeth and exposed his neck was the quintessential posture of submissiveness, but that did nothing to damper the mood the alpha was in. 

There wasn’t much space left between them, but Fenrir closed the distance in what seemed like three steps, silent atop the thick layers of decay that carpeted the forest floor. His hand was at the Death Eater’s throat in an instant, arm bent and tensed as he pressed Rabastan’s back into the nearest tree. He could feel a surge of viciousness in his bloodstream, starting at the base of his brainstem and radiating outward to his fingertips. The result of the nearing full moon. She wanted him to have this, to take this one. But it was not yet time. Lips parted and curled, revealing ivory incisors that were just a touch too sharp to be entirely human. A sound that resembled a growl emanated from his throat as he pressed nearer, looming and entirely too close for comfort. His mouth had opened over the boy’s jugular, the points of his teeth dragging long the thin skin of his throat. 

How greatly he wanted to tear into Rabastan’s flesh; to cut through it so easily and taste the metallic fluid on his tongue, thick and sticky and warm, coating his own chin and neck-- it was rare that he had urges this strong outside of the full moon. Fenrir paused, letting out a slow breath and he realized that his thumb was pressing hard against Rabastan’s inner bicep and would likely leave a bruise. The alpha pulled back, though the fingers of his left hand were still curled around the Death Eater’s throat, keeping him flush against the tree trunk. 

“Do not,” he snarled. “Do not make th’ assumption that I have nothin’ less than th’ utmost control over my men.”

The hand on Rabastan’s bicep began to travel, moving until he was able to wrest the finely wrapped, sharp-smelling cigarette from his prey’s hand, allowing it to fall to the forest floor where it was ground to harmless ash by the toe of the wolf’s boot. “Your presence has become a problem, Lestrange, an’ yet y’ saunter through my forest like y’ can’t be concerned ‘bout anythin’ in the world.” He lifted his chin, lips still twisted into a snarl.