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The Werewolf	By : chedevy Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 9799 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Saturday; 9 May 1998, afternoon
Grimmauld Place was just as dingy looking as ever, Hermione Granger reflected critically, her gaze taking in the threadbare carpet that led farther into the house and the wallpaper peeling from the hallway walls. In Hermione’s mind, it was ridiculous – the war was over for a week now, and still the house remained exactly the same in its neglect. Surely Harry could find some fifteen minutes to improve his own living conditions? Honestly, she thought with a shake of her bushy-haired head – men.
Her musings were interrupted by a sudden exclamation of “Hermione! There you are!” which expectedly came from no other than the householder himself. Indeed, standing in the doorframe of the drawing room was Harry Potter, his black hair unmistakable in its tousled state, and distinctive round glasses still perched on the bridge of his nose. “Come in, come in,” Harry urged Hermione cheerily. “We were waiting for you.”
At that, Hermione grinned. “Ron’s already here? I must be very late, then.”
“No, he actually came early, for a change,” Harry assured, laughing. “Said he had some interesting news to discuss, but we all know he just wanted to eat second dinner.”
“I suppose that means poor Kreacher’s working like crazy – with the amounts of food Ron absorbs...”
Just then, Ron’s voice called indignantly, “Oi! I can here you from here!”
Still snickering, Hermione, with Harry in tow, walked into the drawing room, where she instantly spotted a head of bright red hair at the table. Although Ron wasn’t eating at the moment, there was an empty plate next to the newspaper he’d been evidently browsing before her arrival. Upon closer inspection, Hermione noticed that it was the Daily Prophet.
“So, Ron, have you found any interesting news in there, yet, or are you still looking?” she asked teasingly. She took a seat on the couch beside him, while Harry sat in the armchair across from them.
“I’ll have you know it wasn’t an excuse,” Ron said with mock-resentment. “The Death Eater trials are starting today, did you know? That’s what I wanted to share! Though, I suppose, the dinner was a nice bonus.”
Hermione blinked. “Why are you so concerned about the trials? I thought you didn’t care much for the captured Death Eaters.”
“Of course I care,” Ron countered, looking disbelieving. “Those ruddy bastards are finally getting their payback. I’m rejoicing!”
Looking at Harry’s slightly downtrodden expression, Hermione could tell he’d already been through that diatribe. It wasn’t that she disagreed with Ron (because she most certainly didn’t) but listening to him rant and vent about Death Eaters getting less than they deserved wasn’t Hermione’s idea of spending a Saturday afternoon. Knowing the reason for Ron’s resentment, though, she couldn’t possibly blame him, as she wasn’t the one to have lost a brother. The war had taken its toll, robbing them all of their loved ones – Sirius, Dumbledore, Remus Lupin, Ted and Nymphadora Tonks, Fred Weasley, as well as many others. If venting was Ron’s way of coping with his loss, Hermione wasn’t about to take it away from him.
“I mean, as much as you can rejoice when dozens of them are still prowling about on the loose,” her red-headed friend was saying. “Don’t get me wrong, I know Kingsley’s doing what he can – he’s a good chap – but honestly! How hard can it be to locate a whale like Crabbe Senior? The bastard couldn’t be hiding in some hole, because he wouldn’t fit in there. Or that balding bloke, Randolph-or-something-Lestrange – can you imagine overlooking that shiny spot on his head? I suppose at least we’ve got Greyback out of our fur now... not that it’d be difficult to find him, what with that gross stench.”
“So who are they trying today?” Hermione interjected quickly, taking advantage of Ron’s momentary pause. Admittedly, she could have consulted the Prophet still sitting innocuously on the table, but she was too comfortable with her shoulder almost touching Ron’s to work out the effort to move.
Ron grimaced. “Dolohov. Bloody nasty, that one. Then again, all of them are.”
Hermione remembered Dolohov quite well, thanks to the battle in the Department of Mysteries in their fifth year – she still had a scar on her abdomen from the curse he’d thrown at her. Curiosity getting the better of her, she reached for the paper and, upon opening it, found the right article with no trouble. It was hard to miss – the entire second page was divided in three columns of small photographs, each of which including a short information on the individual Death Eater. The photographs were lined up by the trial dates, which meant Dolohov’s was right in the top left corner, and about the first dozen of pictures were separated from the rest by a thick line. These were the Death Eaters who had been in Voldemort’s Inner Circle, and who were branded with the Dark Mark – it meant they were also the first in line to face the Wizengamot. The title of the article was concise: CONFIRMED DEATH EATERS TO STAND TRIAL.
“Oh, and look who’s here,” Ron said cheerfully, his finger jabbing something on the page, his arm pressing against Hermione’s. Willing her blood not to go to her face, Hermione determinedly fixed her gaze on where the oblivious, infuriating boy beside her was pointing to, and there she saw a familiar sharp-angled face staring back at her.
It was Draco Malfoy, with his cold, grey eyes and distinctive platinum-blonde hair that appeared to be pure white in the black and white photograph. It was a direct frontal shot in which the Malfoy heir was totally still, his countenance absolutely stony, and although the photograph was a Wizarding one, meaning the depicted figure could move, Draco didn’t even blink once. Studying the picture, Hermione had to admit that among all these other photographed Death Eaters, most of whom had at some point ruthlessly killed and tortured, Malfoy didn’t look out of place at all. It was unnatural that a seventeen-year-old boy could look so cold.
The text next to the picture said, “Draco Malfoy, 17, accused of Death Eater activity including attempted murder, numerous uses of Unforgiveable Curses, and aiding Death Eaters in breaking into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Member of You-Know-Who’s Inner Circle.”
Holding back a sigh at the knowledge that the reporter still refused to use the V-word, Hermione noted there were only ten names on the list before Draco’s, his father’s being one of them. She wondered whether her schoolyard bully was being held in custody at Azkaban at the moment.
“His trial is scheduled for the 29^th,” Hermione mused absently, not fully realising she was speaking out loud.
“I say the sooner the better,” Ron scoffed, “I hope they give him a lifetime in Azkaban.”
Hermione frowned at him. “You don’t really mean that,” she said.
“Why wouldn’t I? The bastard’s been a menace to us for years, even after we bloody saved his arse in the last battle. If anyone deserves Azkaban, it’s him; ungrateful prick.”
“None of this means he deserves to go to that place, Ron. I’m certainly not a fan of Malfoy, either, but you’re just being vicious.”
For a few seconds, Ron just gaped at her. “I’m being vicious? Did you forget what he called you when he last spoke to you? Get real, Hermione! The bastard’s probably a murderer now, and if not, it’s only because he’s a coward!”
“No, it would be because he has a conscience, and that’s a very redeeming quality, Ron,” Hermione said promptly, standing up. She walked over to the armchair Harry sat in, observing them quietly, and she perched on his armrest. “I’m not saying Malfoy’s completely innocent. I just think he’d got in over his head, and then couldn’t find a way out.”
“You’re mental, Hermione,” Ron said, shaking his head slowly. “Why are you defending him, anyway? He’s called you a... you-know-what more times than I can count!”
“I’m not defending him – or his actions, for that matter,” Hermione sighed, crossing her arms. “All I’m saying is that I don’t think he deserves Azkaban. Some other punishment – definitely, but Azkaban, no.”
Still looking incredulous, Ron directed his stare at Harry, searching for support, but the other boy merely raised his hands in defence. “Oh, no – don’t involve me in this. I’m not getting into an argument over Malfoy.”
However, judging by the calm, attentive gaze he’d fixed on her earlier, Hermione knew he understood and agreed with her. It was just like Harry, this lack of vindictiveness – he was willing to let go of past grudges and boyhood enmities if it meant justice would be appropriately served. He was going to be a fine Auror one day, she thought with a rush of affection. “Harry is right,” was what she said aloud. “I won’t let Malfoy ruin this afternoon for us. Ron, do you think I could come over tomorrow?” she asked, changing the topic. “I already miss Molly’s cooking!”
Faced with Hermione’s beaming smile, Ron couldn’t quite retain his sulky demeanour for long. “Oh fine, sure, you know you can come anytime you want,” he rolled his eyes, grinning as well. “You too, mate,” he said to Harry, “You haven’t turned up for, what, four days? Mum’s been nagging me to drag you to her. Wants to make sure you’re well fed, and all that.”
“Sure,” Harry grinned. “You know how my godson’s kept me a bit occupied lately.”
“Oh, and how’s little Teddy, by the way?” Hermione wanted to know, her smile widening.
“Great,” Harry answered. “He’s brilliant, really. Changes his hair colour every time he sees me, though you’d have to look closer to see it, since he doesn’t have much hair yet, at all. But he grows like crazy, I swear. Lupin and Tonks would be so proud...”
At that, the three of them sobered somewhat, and a silence descended. Hermione reached for Harry’s hand and squeezed it. “Yes, they would be,” she said softly. “You’re a wonderful godfather, Harry.”
“Thanks,” he returned her squeeze, and then let go. “So, how would you two like a glass of Butterbeer now? Kreacher was rather generous yesterday and gifted me with a whole batch, though I’m still not sure why. He’s an odd fellow like that.”
The boys were already prepared for Hermione’s inevitable lecture on house-elves’ abuse.

***
Tuesday; 12 May 1998, late evening
At long last, the night of the full moon came. It was serene and quite warm that whole day, the weather completely at odds with Draco’s turbulent mood. For the past few days he’d been angry and depressed in turns, though in both cases the source of his varying emotions was the consuming apprehension.
At half past nine at night, Draco exited his room and headed downstairs, each step echoing hollowly throughout the quiet corridors. His mood was that of someone going to his own execution, and he dressed accordingly, all in black, as though already mourning his own death. Granted, he always wore black those days, but the sentiment remained the same. From the corner of his eye he caught something shifting in the shadows, and his step halted.
“Draco...” The voice belonged to his mother. Of course, he should have realized this sooner – regardless of the distance between them, if he concentrated hard enough, he could smell the faint flowery fragrance of her perfume. He watched as his mother slowly came into view, her thin frame clad in impeccable dark-blue robes, though her posture was stiff and her face showed clear signs of worry. She was clutching a glass of red wine in one hand, which he noted with some surprise, while her other hand danced restlessly around her white throat. Despite the encompassing darkness, Draco could see some blue veins under her skin and the details of embroidery on her clothing. For four days now he’d been aware of his night vision gradually improving, but the discovery still didn’t fail to startle him.
“Hello, Mother,” he said for the lack of a better reply. Then, he continued his descent to the Malfoy cellar, undeterred.
“Draco, wait a moment, please.” He stopped at the plea, but remained with his back turned. “I thought you might require some assistance with... tonight. If you need me for anything, just say the word, darling. Anything at all –”
“No,” Draco said, at last letting his vexation show. “I told you I’ll handle it alone.” That was true. He was humiliated enough having to lock himself underground to ensure he wouldn’t accidentally maul his own parents; he definitely didn’t want anyone to see him imprison himself, much less help him with it. “Don’t worry, Mother, I promise you’ll be safe tonight. I won’t even disturb your beauty sleep.”
He heard her strangled gasp. “Draco, you know that’s not what I –”
“It’s fine. You should probably go join Father, wherever he is. He must be getting concerned about you by now, you know – who knows what I may be capable of when it’s... yeah.” He started walking again. “See you tomorrow, Mother.”
Ignoring her beseeching calls, Draco climbed down the remainder of stairs separating him from the cellar, opened the heavy door, and slipped inside. Upon closing the door back, he was almost sure his heightened sense of hearing allowed him to identify a muffled sob from above, but he squashed the sudden pang of guilt. He knew his mother didn’t deserve to be treated so harshly, yet he was so bitter he barely cared. It wasn’t his mother who had to deal with this situation. She didn’t go into a frenzy at the mere sight and smell of raw meat, and she didn’t have to endure constant involuntary changes in her own behaviour. She didn’t have to be paranoid about people suspecting she was diagnosed with Lycanthropy. She wouldn’t turn into a slavering beast every full moon, like he was about to do in less than two hours. If anything, Draco believed himself to be the one with the right to cry here, not his mother.
Feeling suitably justified, though no less morose, Draco stepped farther into the cellar. Since he’d had the house-elves clean it thoroughly in preparation for this night, it wasn’t nearly as grimy or foul-smelling as it was during the war, however he still had rather unpleasant memories of this place. He also remembered it being absolutely pitch-black, and while that hadn’t changed, he could now see everything quite clearly – though, obviously, in very dull colours. The room was utterly empty, which was another thing he’d made sure of before the full moon. Draco had heard stories and he did some reading himself, therefore he knew what a transformed werewolf was capable of doing when trapped in a confined space, with no outlet for the raging emotions and instincts. He had no intention of unconsciously killing himself by means of a broken chair, or some such.
Cringing, he drew out his wand. He pointed it at the door, saying, “Colloportus,” and then, just to be sure, he used two more locking spells, having learned both some two weeks prior. Once that was done and he ascertained the door was indeed well and truly locked, Draco could breathe more easily. There was never a doubt in his mind that the door’s solidity was enhanced with magic, consequently making it absolutely resistant to brute force alone, so he wasn’t afraid about shattering it. However, as Draco looked around, a different kind of worry tugged at his consciousness.
It seemed the wolf in him wasn’t quite alright with his actions. The sensation of being caged, even if of his own volition, brought forth feelings of wary apprehension and disquiet. He suddenly became aware of just how low the ceiling of the cellar was, and his chest tightened in response. Before the advancing sense of claustrophobia could actually settle in his brain, however, he crushed it by taking a deep breath. Shaking his head to clear it, Draco somehow managed to convince himself that if he’d never been claustrophobic before, there was no reason to start now.
A little calmer, he waved his wand again and proceeded to cast all silencing spells he was familiar with. Doubtful as he was that his parents were going to sleep peacefully tonight, he would still have a hard time forgiving himself if his loud howls, snarls, and whines could be heard through the manor until morning. Even worse was the thought of the noise reaching other people, outside of the Malfoy grounds. Thanks to his educational reading, Draco was aware a werewolf’s howl could travel even twenty kilometres under ideal conditions, and while he wasn’t sure how far the sound would carry from underground, he wasn’t eager to check. He couldn’t risk anyone so much as suspecting his disease – he could only thank the gods that the Ministry supervision didn’t include placing any eavesdropping charms on his family home.
Draco let his arm fall to his side as he swallowed hard. All the necessary spells were in place now; only one thing remained for him to do. With deliberate slowness, he walked to the farthermost corner of the cellar, reached out, and fingered a narrow crevice between two stones. There was some empty space behind one of the stones – just enough to hide a thin, several inch long piece of wood. Feeling like he was putting away a part of himself, Draco pushed his wand into the opening, and then reluctantly stepped away. This was the point where he set aside everything that he was, his magical ancestry and pure-blood lineage, so that he could become a monster. He still didn’t fully accept it, and therefore it was possibly the hardest part of suffering from Lycanthropy for Draco. He was too proud to simply give up his heritage. Years of being taught about his own superiority over others proved difficult to ignore, even in view of such a humiliating event as being turned into a werewolf.
Taking several more steps back from the place where he’d just concealed his wand, with his jaw tightly set, Draco shed his black cloak, chucked it aside, and slumped against the nearest wall. Although he knew his clothes would be ripped to pieces upon his transformation, he refused the indignity of stripping completely. His role as a human was temporarily completed – now he would wait for the beast to emerge.
The transformation started about forty minutes later, though for Draco it felt like the whole day had passed.
His muscles suddenly seized up, and his breath stuttered. He knew immediately that this was it, that the full moon had just begun, but it did nothing to ease his terror and trepidation. A primal noise escaped his throat, a groan or a growl, he was in no state to tell, and it seemed to echo endlessly in the darkness of the cellar. His eyes were wide and wild, his heart racing madly beneath the confining ribs, and all his senses were at once dulled and impossibly sharp. His jaw was working incessantly for reasons he couldn’t understand in his current situation, and though he kept swallowing, he couldn’t deal with the unexpected excess of saliva in his mouth. Shuddering and still growling, he started clawing at his clothed chest and arms, and his head was tossing restlessly from side to side, back and forth. He’d never felt anything like this before, he knew something was coming, something that had been contained in him for a long time, something powerful and feral. He was terrified and overwhelmed at once, or maybe excited, he couldn’t remember. He only knew he wanted to do something, yearned for something he couldn’t place, longed for it, to shred, rip, bite, kill...
And then came the pain – it was the feeling of being torn apart from the inside, of being set on fire. It was the torment of every bone in his body breaking, and of his muscles being stretched until they burst. Draco tried to scream, but then he realised he already was yelling at the top of his lungs, so great and violent was the sudden onslaught of agony. There was no escape from it. He had to lessen the pain somehow, had to find its source and kill it, and to do so he started to scratch wildly all over his torso, arms, neck, and face. If Draco paid attention, he’d have noticed that his nails had turned into sharp claws, and that he was inflicting rather deep wounds on himself, however he was far above caring.
In spite of what the craze of agony was telling him, his bones were actually growing instead of breaking, though his muscles were, in fact, being stretched to what seemed like absolute limits. His skin was being pulled tightly across the expanse of his enlarging frame, clearly expanding as well, and light-coloured hair started sprouting from his neck and hands. His clothes hung about him mostly in tatters by this point, both as a result of his frenzied hand movements, and because of the occurring transformation itself, and he clawed at them all the harder, needing to be freed of any restrictions. He was snarling and whining uncontrollably now, more animal than human, only aware of the pain, and of his terror at the magnitude of it.
More and more, his skull was elongating, changing his face into a muzzle, and his body was for the most part covered in silvery grey, yellow tinted fur. The skeletal structure of the creature Draco was turning into, on the other hand, wholly resembled that of a wolf now, complete with a four-legged stance, slopping back, and a tail currently tucked between his hind legs.
The transformation wasn’t quite finished yet, his body still in the process of adjusting to the extreme alterations it’d just undergone, but Draco wasn’t exactly in his right mind, anymore. He was on the absolute brink. His last conscious feeling before losing all constraint was that of primal fear, and stirring bloodlust underneath.

***
Wednesday; 13 May 1998, 10:12 a.m.
Cellar in Malfoy Manor
He awoke to the sound of the door clicking open. His mind didn’t register much after that, as he was suddenly all too aware of his body hurting all over, though he did make out his mother’s voice saying, “Draco, are you...” Then, frantically, “oh Draco, my darling, my son, oh God...” The sound was getting closer, and in a second, he heard and felt her fall to her knees beside him, her cold hand brushing damp hair from his forehead. Although Draco didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge her in any way, he was sure his mother knew that he was conscious. She was checking his injuries now, he thought, because save for the shuddering breaths escaping her throat, she was silent, her trembling hands grazing across his face and shoulders.
There was an odour of urine mixed with blood hovering in the air, putrid and potent, and Draco didn’t want to open his eyes to face this new reality. In the long minute since he came to, he realized he was lying in a foetal position, still on the stone floor of the cellar. He wished he could fall asleep again, and never wake up.
His mother summoned Riggy, made it fetch a blanket with which he was subsequently covered, and then told the house-elf to Apparate them to Draco’s room. The three of them landed soundlessly on the carpet, his mother shaken and pale with worry, and Riggy asking incessantly what else it could do to serve the young master. Draco, by that point, wasn’t trying to feign unconsciousness any longer. Wrapped in the blanket, he simply sat on his backside, his head in his hands, and silently bemoaned his cursed fate.
“I was so, so worried about you all night, darling,” his mother whispered, holding onto his arms. “I know this all must be difficult for you, overwhelming even, but... How are you feeling, Draco? You’re injured all over, some of these wounds are still bleeding, and the other –”
“I’m okay, Mother,” Draco muttered, voice rough from overuse. Dropping his hands, he clasped his forearms instead. “They’re just scratches. It looks worse than it is. I –” He cut off when her hand touched the side of his neck.
“While that may be true, this one here seems like it may be infected. You were so close to... Perhaps we should call Healer MacDougal, I’m sure we could make some excuse for the Ministry –”
“No!” Draco rasped, his eyes shooting up to meet hers. “Nobody can know. The Healer’d recognize the scar on my shoulder.”
“I don’t care about that, Draco! I don’t care if they find out that you’re a were–”
“I care!” Draco cried, hoarsely. There was a pregnant pause. “That’s my future on the line here.”
After another beat, his mother said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just wish...”
“I know. I’d like to get some sleep now, Mother.”
“Of course, darling,” she acquiesced, though reluctantly. “Riggy should be able to take care of some of your wounds... Are you sure –”
“Yes. I’ll see you later, Mother.”

***
Over the course of the next couple of days, Draco gave up on his denial, and accepted the fact that his life would never be the same as before. He was a werewolf – after the full moon, he could no longer pretend there was still hope for a miracle.
Despite his guarded reluctance to do so, he found himself trying to adapt to his newfound animal tendencies and steadily sharpening senses. He reasoned with himself there wasn’t really a choice in the matter – either he accepted those changes, or attempted to further disregard them, the latter of which hadn’t been working, anyway. While Draco was a remarkably strong-minded young man, exceptionally skilled at compartmentalising his thoughts and emotions, he had no illusions; he quickly found that his basest instincts worked on a wholly different level, and trying to categorise them was another thing entirely. He knew that he couldn’t keep trying to refuse himself forever. It was simply a matter of time before he caved in, and started to actually familiarise himself with the wolf within him.
And indeed, after his first transformation, denying the wolf seemed virtually impossible. It was as if a dam in his brain had suddenly crumbled, opening door to a whole range of new possibilities. His head swam with thoughts of how he could conveniently utilise his enhancing senses, be it at work or in social situations, and even though he was still disgruntled about it, Draco’s Slytherin mind kept him in conviction that to relinquish this advantage would be a foolishly naive thing to do. Not to mention, he was dead tired of keeping up the pretence of defiantly resisting his various animal urges. He knew it was useless, especially as they actually seemed to get stronger following his first full moon.
And that was another matter. Despite not being of sound mind while in the werewolf form, he remembered that night well. He could clearly recall the fear, the desperation, the disorientation, and the consuming hunger, but most of all he recalled the desire to kill. It’d been overpowering. At the time, it was all he could think about.
He’d been absolutely overcome by the need to hunt – to find, chase, and catch his prey, and to finally feel the blood pulsing in the overflowing veins just before he sunk his teeth into the flesh. He’d imagined how he would close his jaws around the succulent neck and forcefully clamp to break it, while holding his quarry down with clawed paws. His prey would be struggling against him, panicked and desperate to escape, but he wouldn’t let it, only further encouraged by its pained keens, thriving on its terror. Utterly savage, he would dig his teeth deeper and deeper, as deep as he could, pulling, yanking, and jerking his head from side to side until he heard an unmistakable snap.
Then, unequivocally triumphant, he would growl, long and loud, as a heady feeling of power thrummed through his own veins, his quarry supple in his hold. He’d imagined how, no longer restricted by anything, he would set about consuming the meat, devouring the juicy flesh, as well as the bones with their soft marrow, satiating his irresistible hunger and bloodlust, whilst still being able to feel the blood coursing freely through the lifeless vessels.
And then, finally contented, dictated by the need to announce his success to his companions, he would proudly raise his head to howl, and howl, and howl, until the night became a day again.
Recalling all of that afterwards, Draco had to remind himself yet again that he wasn’t human, anymore. Although the benefit of possessing improved senses was on many levels mind-altering, the major drawback of it was that he also had to learn to rein in those senses, and to adapt to them. While one door in his mind had been conveniently opened, another, it seemed, was obstructed by something, preventing him from being fully in control of that particular area. It appeared that this area was his instincts.
Draco resented that, as he was tremendously averse to loosening his grip on self-restraint, but he understood some things were just out of his control now. He wasn’t quite able to curb his craving for raw meat, just as he couldn’t help but long for the adrenaline of hunting, of being a predator chasing its prey. It was all in his blood.

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Missus_G; Thank youu! I'm really glad you like it :)
Thistle; I'm really happy my story has managed to pique your interest then! :D I'm quite a fan of vampire motives myself lately, but as an avid lupine aficionado, it's the werewolf stories just take the cake. Thank you for the lovely review, hope you keep reading!
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The Werewolf