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Legend of the Wolf	By : Dazzlious Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Fenrir Views: 31881 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from JK Rowling’s fantastic books or films, I’m just borrowing and playing with them for a little while and get no monetary reward for doing so.

Chapter List
- 1-One
- 2-Two
- 3-Three
- 4-Four
- 5-Five
- 6-Six
- 7-Seven
- 8-Eight
- 9-Nine
- 10-Ten
- 11-Epilogue
- 10
- 11
A/N: If you've made it to the epilogue then thank you for reading, I really appreciate you taking the time. I hope you've enjoyed the story. Dx

‘Come on, Lysander, it’s time for you to come in. Dinner is almost ready.’
The old woman tried to look stern as she watched the boy who was chasing chickens around the dusty yard, although she couldn’t help the smile that broke through as he lunged for one, growling with anger when it hopped carefully out of reach.
‘Not yet, Gramma, I almost caught one. Next time I will for sure,’ the boy said, turning to look at the old woman. He gave her a winsome smile in hopes that this would stay her hand.
The woman put her hands on her hips, her face and tone of voice indicating that she was not in the mood to argue. ‘The chickens will still be there tomorrow, you can try again then. You need to come in and get cleaned up before dinner, and Baba Nuna is waiting to tell you a story.’
The boy scowled fiercely. ‘Why do I have to listen to all those stupid old stories? They’re nothing but a waste of time. Henry says I should be concentrating on hunting skills, not worrying about stupid tales of the wolf mothers.’
‘Henry Blackscar would do better to keep his opinions to himself,’ the old woman replied tartly. ‘You need to learn to do more than just hunt, Lysander. The stories Baba Nuna tells you contain valuable lessons if you would just heed them.’
‘But they’re so boring,’ Lysander retorted petulantly as he watched the chickens coming closer to him again now that he had stopped chasing them. ‘And her voice drones and she’s hard to understand.’
‘That’s because she’s extremely old and from a country far away,’ the woman explained patiently, not for the first time. She pointed towards the door. ‘Now, in. The sooner you sit with her the sooner it will be over and you can have your dinner.’
Lysander kicked frustratedly at the dirt, sending up a scuff of dust but then he walked into the house. Gramma was warm-hearted but she could also be fierce when crossed and she didn’t like to be argued with.
He ran into the bathroom and turned on the tap as he dusted himself down. A moment later he put his hands under the running water, gave them a quick rub, then patted gingerly at his face. He needed to get out before Gramma made him have a proper wash using a flannel and soap.
Lysander turned off the tap, grabbed the towel from the rail, and scrubbed his face hard with it before throwing it back at the rail, then turned to leave the room as the towel slid to the floor.
His grandmother watched him as he returned to the small lounge, the amused smile back on her face. Lysander was so similar to the way his father had been at that age that they could have been twins. He looked like him, too, although his eyes and colouring were those of his mother rather than of his father. She didn’t begrudge her grandson this as the difference softened him a little, and he was a beautiful child — something rare and precious, although how rare he didn’t currently understand.
He would one day, though. Eventually, he would realise the stories he was being told served a purpose, and that one of them, in particular, was extremely important to him. It was a story he had heard many times now but she was sure he still didn’t understand that it was true.
Lysander stopped by the rocking chair near the fire. It contained an extremely old and hairy woman dressed in black clothes, with a tasselled grey lacework shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her head nodded as if she was asleep and the maroon headscarf she wore was slipping down over her face.
He gently touched her shoulder.
‘Baba Nuna,’ he said quietly, not entirely sure he wanted to wake the sleeping woman.
If he was honest, Lysander didn’t mind listening to the stories as they were generally quite interesting despite what he had told Gramma, but Baba Nuna scared him a little. She was the oldest of the wolf mothers, and although she had lived in England for over a hundred years her accent was still as thick as it had been when she had first arrived, making her hard to understand sometimes.
She smelt a bit odd, too. Part of it was old age, Lysander knew, but she also wore a strange-smelling perfume called Wolf’s Bane which made his nose tickle; and quite often after sitting with the old woman he found himself sneezing, his eyes streaming and itchy. Gramma had told him that Baba Nuna wore the perfume out of defiance, but Lysander didn’t understand what that meant. He just knew he didn’t like it very much and wished he didn’t have to spend so much time sitting with the old woman.
All the children had to listen to the stories the wolf mothers had to tell, Gramma had told him, but that didn’t make him feel any better. He was the only child or at least the only child born within the pack, and that meant he was singled out for special treatment.
The others — the ones who had been turned — got to live together in a large communal hut in the centre of the village, and the wolf mothers would take it in turns to visit and relate the old stories. But he lived with his family — well, with his Gramma — and Baba Nuna was the only one to tell him stories.
Every day she visited and sat in the old rocking chair by the fire, since before he could even remember, and he was expected to crawl up onto her lap and wait while she spoke in her heavily accented English, recounting tales of clever or stupid lycanthropes, all of which had a hidden meaning, apparently.
Lysander knew the stories she told him weren’t the same as the ones the other children were told. He had heard them talking sometimes and the stories seemed to differ in many ways. He was aware that the reason he was told the special stories was because of his parents. His father had been the leader of the pack — just like Henry’s father Draven Blackscar was currently — a true lycanthrope, not a turned werewolf like most of the village, and Gramma and Baba Nuna had told Lysander many times that he was destined to follow in his father’s footsteps.
He didn’t remember his father as he had died before Lysander was born, fighting in the wizarding war at a place called Hogwarts, which Lysander found a bit strange. He couldn’t understand why his father would even have been involved, although his mother had fought in the war, too, so he had probably been there for her.
Lysander knew even less about his mother than his father. Gramma didn’t talk about her much and Lysander got the feeling that she felt guilty about something but he could never work out what, although he sometimes wondered whether it was because she hadn’t been a lycanthrope like the rest of the family. He didn’t quite understand that bit, even if Baba Nuna did regularly tell him stories about it.
He had seen a picture of his mother. She was pretty and smiling, her brown eyes and curly brown hair the same as his. Often, when he lay in bed late at night Lysander imagined his parents were there with him, keeping watch over him and promising to keep him safe. He had never told Gramma this, though, in case she thought him moon-struck and stopped thinking of him as a future pack leader.
It wasn’t only his destiny but his duty, and one that he would make happen one way or another — and that meant listening to the tales of the wolf mother.
‘Baba Nuna,’ he repeated a little louder, this time touching the woman’s shoulder and shaking it gently.
The old woman gave a grunt as she was pulled from her doze. A small, rumbling growl escaped her lips before she realised where she was. She raised her hand to move the headscarf back to its original position as she gave a wolfish smile.
‘Lysander, my little wolfing, there you are.’ She reached out to pinch his cheek before patting her lap. ‘Come and sit down little one. We have tales to tell.’
Lysander forced himself to smile, then sat on Baba Nuna’s lap as he had done thousands of times before.
‘What story are you going to tell me tonight?’ he asked politely.
‘What would you like to hear?’ Baba Nuna responded. She was looking at the young lycanthrope carefully.
‘I’d like to hear about my parents,’ he told her quietly. He glanced over to where Gramma was stirring a pot on the stove, not sure whether she would approve of his request.
Baba Nuna smiled. ‘You like to hear that story, don’t you?’
Lysander frowned. ‘I don’t mean the story you usually tell me. I want to know the truth about them.’
Baba Nuna’s smile didn’t fade as she reached for Lysander’s hand, gripping it tightly between her own clawed ones.
‘Everything I have told you is true, little wolfling.’
Lysander shook his head still frowning. ‘But it can’t be.’
Baba Nuna looked at him curiously. ‘Why don’t you believe it’s true, little one?’
Lysander thought about it for a moment, then, frowning, said, ‘In your story, my mother isn’t a lycanthrope. She’s a witch — a human — and she and my father fall in love. But that can’t be right.’ He broke off for a moment as if trying to work out how to explain. ‘Henry is a born lycanthrope just like me, but his parents are the same. Everyone knows that humans and lycanthropes don’t mix. We turn them into werewolves, we don’t live with them as humans.
‘Henry has told me other stories about my father and they make far more sense than your story does. Henry said he was ferocious, that he hated humans and did everything he could to change them into werewolves. He remembers going to hunt with my father and I don’t believe that the lycanthrope he described would have fallen in love with a human.’
Baba Nuna gave a small growl of annoyance. ‘Henry Blackscar doesn’t know everything, Lysander, and you shouldn’t spend so much time listening to him. His father is only the leader because your father died. Believe me, once you are fully grown you will be more than a match for them both. Henry is correct that your father once lived a less forgiving lifestyle than I have described to you so far, but he changed. People do, you know, whether lycanthrope or human.’ She looked intently at Lysander. ‘There are other tales, too, but you are far too young to listen and understand.’
‘So my mother really was human?’ Lysander said, sounding disappointed.
Baba Nuna nodded. ‘She was . . . and your father loved her very much, as she did him.’ She smiled at him. ‘It is your human blood that makes you so special, little wolfling. It makes you strong, far stronger than you know. One day you will understand, but not now. Now we tell you the stories you need to hear. So, do you want me to tell you about your parents or would you prefer another tale tonight?’
Lysander thought about the picture of his mother. Did her blood really make him so special? Perhaps listening to the story again would give him a better understanding.
He nodded. ‘Tell me the tale.’
Baba Nuna wrapped her arms around him and smiled again.
‘Once upon a time, but not so long ago, there was a powerful and ferocious lycanthrope called Fenrir Greyback . . . .
- 10
- 11
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Legend of the Wolf