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Savage Seduction	By : mad4moony Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Fenrir Views: 30148 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I do not make money from this. :(

Chapter List
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Savage Seduction

7

Well I wanted you

I wanted no one else

I thought it through

I got you to myself

You got off

Every time you got on to me

I got caught up

In favorable slavery

****

Fenrir sat outside with his knees out in front of him; he had adorned his coat on the way downstairs because it was a cold, misty evening. He bayed every minute or so, between thoughts. Bloody women. Bloody fucking emotional women. If he had of known kidnapping that little wench would be so hard he wouldn’t have bothered. But then he remembered why he had kidnapped her, because he had to have her. She was perfect, in his eyes, if a little stubborn. But he could handle that, or at least he thought he could.

Damn it! That little vixen was harder to break than he thought. He knew she was coming round - she could stomach him at least. The wench had even been compliant tonight, hell, she made the first move! He gave a long howl in frustration.

Then why, Why was she crying?! Fenrir snarled thinking about it. Damn these women, and damn their emotions. He tried to think back to the last female he had been with that had actually been interested in him - he couldn’t think of any. The werewolf sighed, truthfully he hadn’t had sex with anybody in a long time, but even before that, hadn’t it all been without consent?

He’d only ever kidnapped one person like this before, and what had happened to her? He scratched his beard absent-mindedly. Oh yeah, he fucking killed her for whining too much. That was the pitfall, he couldn’t stand her constant crying, day in and day out, it was making his ears hurt. He had no other option of silencing her – it just wasn’t meant to be. The werewolf frowned. Kidnapping was never a good idea, he knew that. No one wanted to be with him. Usually he would just kill his playmates or let them go when he was done with them; he didn’t have any lovers, or friends for that matter.

It had always been that way, he didn’t trust anyone. In the first war, word reached him that Lord Voldemort sought him out for his army. The werewolf snorted at the thought, Voldemort was a slimy git in Fenrir’s eyes, and he had no desire to join his forces at all. Originally Death Eaters had come to recruit him by order of the man himself, Fenrir was always wary of strangers. He had killed one and severely mauled another before they would take the hint and tell their master that he would not be joining them. Lord Voldemort had then made the journey himself to meet with Greyback, much to the latter’s amusement. Voldemort was smart; he knew Greyback would need to be lured into the ranks. He offered him the appeal of fresh blood and victims but Fenrir scoffed, he could get those whenever he wanted. The werewolf did not fear him like others did, but he was not stupid either. Working alongside the Dark Lord would have its benefits after the war, but he would only consider if it came with profit. That’s when Voldemort had offered to pay him; Fenrir had to stifle a laugh. The dark lord pay him for work? It was evident that Voldemort needed him, for reasons unknown to Fenrir; else he would have tried to kill him for the refusal. But now he was actually offering to pay for his service? Fenrir had no real need for money, but he was greedy and corrupt. And if doing Voldemorts dirty work would make him rich then he would do it, and be the best bounty hunter of all.

But it hadn’t been easy. Initiation into the Death Eaters didn’t go smoothly. The werewolf refused point blank to join, he knew deep down Voldemort’s policy was a lost cause. He must have been the only wizard to refuse and live in a long time. Voldemort had needed him on his side; he couldn’t risk killing such a powerful weapon. But the Dark Lord had known Greyback’s power lay in brute force not brains, he did not see him as an adversary, after all he was only a ‘half-breed,’ he needn’t worry too much that Greyback would revolt against him. Therefore Fenrir had been granted an accomplice to Lord Voldemort but not a Death eater, still the initiation into the Death Eater’s knitting circle (As Fenrir liked to call it) was still rough. They treated him like a lackey, not a friend or equal. Not that he would call them friends either. But he remembered one occasion with a grin on his face.

The werewolf had been in a tavern somewhere deep in the backstreets of London. He had invited himself along with the band of Death Eaters to celebrate the day’s work, and although they included him, they still treated him like a common dog. At first he bided his time, but on that particular occasion a Death Eater by the name of Mulciber had said something about the werewolf’s heritage and Fenrir snapped. He had lunged across the table at the poor excuse for a wizard and wrung his hands around his neck and bit him in the shoulder. It took the remaining seven Death eaters to pull the beast off the wizard. He lived though, and since then the Death eaters had treated Fenrir with a little more respect. That’s why he didn’t have friends, and that’s why he had no patience for women.

Then this little witch came along, and tried to mess him about. He had his reasons for wanting her, he searched for her for so long, and he had to take what was rightfully his that night. It was his to claim. Of course she hadn’t taken it to well; he was smart enough to foresee this. But she had started to come round; he could see the way the witch looked at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. She would have to get used to him eventually – he wasn’t going to let her go anytime soon.

Fenrir bayed again; long and drawn out. His inky blue eyes stared up at the misty night sky, he loved the cold crisp air that whipped at his face and stung his eyes. He looked down between his knees at the damp grass. The werewolf thought of the incident in the library that morning, and frowned. The things he had felt...She made him feel so different all of a sudden, it sickened him to think he was letting his guard down for her. He couldn’t understand kissing. Not until today anyway. But today, was just...

He bayed again, spreading his arms wide, and pushing his chest out, until he was kneeling on the damp grass, the wetness soaking through the knees of his trousers. His howl was long and loud, and clear.

“That sounds happier,” said a voice from behind him. Fenrir’s lips curled into a sneer as the witch approached. He sat back down on the grass and rested his arms on his knees. Hermione walked forward wrapping her cloak around her and sat down beside him. He kept his gaze ahead of him, she was poisoning him.

Hermione sighed, it had taken her a lot of courage to come out here, and she thought at least he would strike up a snide conversation or something. Now they were in blatant silence together. She dragged her finger in circles on the damp grass making patterns; he would have to speak sometime. The witch understood that he didn’t fare well with emotional tension; on the other hand she was perfectly happy to sit here all night and wait. It wasn’t as if she had anything else to do.

Fenrir watched her intently as she idly drew on the grass, he felt full of rage and couldn’t figure out why he was angry at her, but he knew he was. She was trying his patience, and Merlin he knew he didn’t have a lot of that. She frustrated him to no end.

It didn’t bother him before when witches had cried at his touch, he kind of liked that. But it was different with her. He struggled to name the way he felt when he was around her. She was a nuisance, but sometimes she would make a knot tighten in his chest and he would wonder what it meant. Sometimes he wanted to hit her out of aggravation; she was just so annoying and unstable. One minute she would be laughing, the next crying. And today, was just one big chaotic mess.

Then there was the kiss, which he had thought about a great deal. When their lips met he had wanted to grab hold of her and not let her get away. She wouldn’t ever be able to escape from him. His body ached for her, but not in the usual way. He didn’t really know what he wanted, but he knew he didn’t want her to go.

Then that evening, they shared a moment he wished would last longer than it did. It was easier for him to understand than the kiss. He felt like he wanted to guard her from harm, and stay nuzzled into her hair which smelt like strawberries. He didn’t like the feeling it gave him. He didn’t want to have to tie himself down; he liked being a free man.

He remembered again the reasons why he had sought her out. Originally it had been lust that brought him to her, she was young and vivacious. And her smell was mouth-watering; he had wanted her right there in Malfoy Mansion. But usually a craving goes away, but this one didn’t. The werewolf didn’t just want the witch because he had been promised her; that was only his excuse. Her smell was forever on his mind, and her fiery, passionate nature. It reminded him of a time when he was a teenager, and he had smelt a rare potion.

“Have you ever smelt Amortentia?” he spoke clearly, not looking at Hermione. The werewolf did not know what possessed him to ask her, but it broke the silence. Hermione jumped at the sound of his voice, she had long since given up on him ever talking tonight.

“Yes.” She had once smelt the love potion in Potions class in her 6th year. “It smelt like toothpaste, fresh mown grass and parchment,” the last word lingered on her lips. She smiled shyly thinking back to the class and looked up at the werewolf, “The potion is dangerous though, it’s not real love.” Her know-it-all side was showing through. “What does it smell like to you?”

Fenrir didn’t answer; he stared into the overgrown garden. Hermione was just about to give up when he spoke, it sounded as if he choked a little as if he didn’t want to say it. His voice was gruff and quiet, “It smells like strawberries, and flowers,” he paused, “and peppermints and,” he cleared his throat, “fresh cut grass.” He glanced at her and looked away again. She smiled weakly once he had looked away. Hadn’t he said she smelt like flowers and peppermints?

The witch broke out into another smile; he was almost cute when he got embarrassed. She swiveled around and laid back, one hand behind her head, so that she was facing him, and she saw his cold blue eyes glistening in the darkness. He looked at her lying down on the damp grass and grimaced faintly, wouldn’t she just leave him alone?

He threw back his head and howled, and the witch covered her ears. When he had finished he yawned and stretched out a leg. He was perfectly aware the witch had been watching him again. He wondered why she did it, since she had been so scared of him earlier. It irked him, that one minute she seemed comfortable around him and one minute she didn’t.

“What age are you?” Hermione said, her voice cutting through the silence, she blushed and the cold air stung her cheeks. But she felt compelled to know, although his hair was greying and his face bore lines of age or stress, she could not tell what age he really was. Fenrir’s lip curled in a snarl, and he growled at her but said nothing. She reached up and hugged her knees; she was close to his face. She smiled as her hazel eyes washed over his features. He didn’t look old, not to her. And he didn’t sound old, in fact she often thought of him as a very young man, driven by lust and boyish brutality. But she knew he was old enough to be her dad, that didn’t scare her as much as it should of. She sighed; he was trying to ignore her as much as possible. She got up shaking her head and headed for the door, brushing her hand lightly against his shoulder on the way past; he flinched. Oh how the tables had turned.

****

Over the next few days she saw little of the werewolf. She was already aware that he left early most mornings, and sauntered in during the day but lately she began to think he had been avoiding her. It was very boring being trapped in the house for so long. She had taken up cleaning to keep her occupied, but there was only so much she could do.

That morning the witch had risen early in the attempt to catch Fenrir before he disappeared, but he had already gone. The werewolf had taken to sleeping in the sitting room, she supposed since the blanket in the corner had moved slightly. She shrugged it off, if he was that hateful of her now he would surely let her go soon.

Hermione groaned slightly as she looked out the kitchen window. She had spent the last few hours making the kitchen look spotless, and now, finally, she could see Fenrir stomping his way up the long overgrown garden caked in mud.

He threw the door open with a growl and sat down at the table. Well it’s a start, thought Hermione. He was actually acknowledging her again. Previously when he entered a room she was in he would walk back out again. The witch had just been pouring herself a bowl of Bran Flakes, and had struck up a conversation about the dire situation of groceries and how they were down to a few bowls of the cereal she was holding, when he grimaced audibly and asked what the hell was in the bowl.

“They’re Bran Flakes,” she said sardonically, “Here try some, they’re good for you.” The witch pushed the bowl of cereal in front of the werewolf and threw him a spoon. She could see his lip turn into a snarl but he lifted the spoon and tried the cereal anyway. The witch could hardly smother a laugh; this was his most ridiculous facial expression ever. He was grimacing awkwardly, his mouth hanging open whilst chewing very slowly, as if he didn’t know how to eat.

Between what looked like excruciating chews he rasped, “What-is-this-shit?” After he had gulped down the first and only spoonful, he shivered a little, trying to rid the taste from his tongue. He growled, “Its rabbit food.”

Hermione gave a chirpy laugh, determined that he would not spoil her mood, and pulled the bowl across to where she was now sitting, “Well what do you actually eat?”

“Meat,” he said in a sharp tone.

Hermione looked wistfully at the paper stuffed in his pocket, her spoon was halfway to her mouth when she retorted, “Well if you brought some meat home then I could cook it for us.”

“Cook it?” he frowned. “Why would you do that? I like it raw.” The witch grimaced at him, and he barked a laugh and threw the newspaper onto the table. “For you M’lady,” he said with a grin, as he got up from the table and headed for the door.

Hermione glanced at the paper before standing up and throwing her hand out towards him, but he had already walked away. “I just cleaned that floor!!” The witch yelled after him, watching him leave muddy footprints everywhere.

She sighed and looked back at the paper, disgruntled. Nothing special, but at least it was news.

****

She thought today would be different, because of how their morning started off, but he did not speak to her for the rest of the night, and she retired to the Library once she had cleaned up again. Indulging in a book was her favourite pastime, and she read well into the night not realising the time. Hermione had failed to light the fire by hand, and could only manage a weak Incendio spell without her wand. When the last dim flicker went out, she decided to go to bed.

The next morning she awoke later than usual. She caught a glance in the mirror and grimaced at the state of herself, and decided to grab a quick shower – but the water ran cold halfway through and it left her feeling irritated. The witch had dressed herself again in her burnt orange cloak and jeans and felt no cleaner than she did before the shower.

Hermione heard movement downstairs; he mustn’t have been out this morning. The witch walked down the stairs, which was now tidy and free of debris, and down the hallway towards the noise. Then she shrieked and threw her hands up to her mouth. “Fenrir Greyback!” She yelled- there was only one culprit for this. He appeared in seconds at the backdoor and looked at her innocently and then to the dead cow lying on the kitchen table.

Hermione gasped looking at the severely wounded cow, and screamed at the werewolf, but her voice was so full of anger it went hoarse, “What is the meaning of this?”

The werewolf retorted angrily, obviously upset his little gift had not worked as planned, “You asked for meat.”

“YES!” Hermione screeched throwing her hands out in front of her in wild gestures. “Yes, like pork chops or some sausages not A DEAD COW.” She was heaving slightly. “Get it out of here now!” She shivered, turned on her heels and stomped out of sight.

Fenrir growled and had the sudden urge to bite her, but he shook it off and rolled the cow off the table. He grabbed its back legs and started to drag the cow outside with ease, muttering furiously between growls and heaves, “Stupid wench...can’t...appreciate...It’s....just...food.” He threw the cow on the ground and bent over it, “5 miles...5 miles I carried it.”

****

Hermione had stormed upstairs into the bedroom, and threw herself on the bed. That man, she thought. She shuddered at the image of the dead cow now burnt into her brain. What a sick perverted joke! When the witch had fumed enough she approached the window, thinking the werewolf would have dragged the cow off somewhere. Hopefully back to the farm it came from, with a note attached saying sorry, but she knew that that was doubtful.

She grimaced slightly when she saw Fenrir bent down over the cow in the back garden. On closer inspection she could see him holding a wand. The witch gasped, she knew she could remember him holding a wand at Malfoy Manor! So he did have one. He dragged the wand across the cow’s body and Hermione gagged a little as she saw the cow’s belly split open at the wand’s touch. She watched for awhile, not sure of his intentions. He began to skin the cow, and Hermione felt faint and turned away from the window.

For the rest of the day she sat reading a book she had brought in from the library, she had closed the curtains of the window; not wanting to see him despoil the poor animal. She grew bored though, and wished she had a TV to watch or the radio. Hermione was not a great fan of TV but she missed the world around her, she didn’t cope well to be cooped up for so long. Setting the book aside she gave a long audible sigh, and stared up into the hangings of the four-poster bed.

After what seemed like forever of just ‘thinking,’ her hand had absent-mindedly trailed down her stomach and down between her legs and across her thighs. The witch lay back on the bed, and delved in under her jeans. She gasped as her own body marveled at her touch. She wasn’t used to doing this, it felt strange.

After a few minutes, she grew frustrated. Her jeans were too tight for her to explore herself fully. The witch hopped off the bed and approached the door; there was a small waist height bookcase to one side. It was heavy but she managed to push it in front of the door so the werewolf would not disturb her. Then she pulled off her jeans and threw off her traveling cloak and jumped on the bed. The witch couldn’t help feel a little impish lying naked, one hand caressing her breast the other snaked between her legs.

She moaned softly, stroking her nipples and tracing circles around her clit with her other hand. How come she never did this back home? It was a great stress reliever. She felt exhilarated but after awhile it wasn’t enough, she needed something bigger to fulfill her. Literally. Glancing around the room the witch looked for something suitable...

She spotted a tall vase on the bedside table beside her and bit her lip. She felt guilty being so wayward but her body was prickling with desire. She longed to feel what she felt the other night, as her body had reached orgasm. The witch twiddled her thumbs and hoped the tingling sensation would go away, but it wouldn’t. She bit her lip again and reached forward to grab the bottle shaped vase. The things people do on impulse.

She shivered as she slid it in, it was freezing cold. She felt strange, delirious at the thought of what she was doing, but once she got it moving it brought out a moan. Her breathing became faster, as she plunged the object into her. It was good, but not as good as the real thing.

****

Downstairs Fenrir had finished carving up the cow, and was now deciding what he would do with the witch. He certainly wasn’t going to go up there and apologize; he wasn’t in the wrong here. He had done what the witch had asked in the hopes that she would appreciate the offering. The werewolf growled and climbed the stairs slowly; he thought he had better light the fire in the bedroom anyway. It was a stormy night, and was bound to get colder.

As he approached the door he could hear the witch moaning. He grimaced and supposed she was crying again. God what was wrong with her? Always crying! He turned the handle but the door would not budge. He frowned, and tried again, something was blocking the door. He snarled and threw his weight against the door and it burst open but only enough for him to get in.

****

A/N: :o Hope you liked it, it was pretty funny. Never approach a woman scorned Fenrir don’t you know that?! Oh and just a heads-up: they prefer chocolates to dead cows.

*Lyrics - Fight for all the wrong reason, Nickelback
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Savage Seduction