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Lavender gasped, a raw, strangled sound, her arms curling instinctively around her stomach as if she could hold herself together. Something inside her writhed—not hunger, no, it was beyond that now. It felt like her insides were unraveling, clawing their way out. She took another step, her left hand bracing against the heavy trunk of a tree. The forest was sauna hot, causing sweat to seep through her torn shirt. Blood stained her front, but Lavender couldn’t remember how it got there. The copper tang hung in the air, clashing with the rich, rotting perfume of leaves and fungus and something almost sweet.
She shivered once, then again, whimpering as she forced herself deeper into the forest. The fact that she couldn’t recall the past few hours was proof enough that the full moon was soon. Too soon. Her fingers dug into her scalp, trying to hold the beast back or maybe coax it forward; she wasn’t sure anymore. Her thoughts were fraying.
And then she smelled it.
It rolled in through the trees like thunder before a storm, deep, earthen, and old. It was musky, wild, threaded with power that wrapped around her bones like chains. Her breath caught. She knew that scent.
It knew that scent.
Something ancient inside her snarled and whimpered in the same breath. She wanted to run. She tried to lunge. She wanted to bare her throat and collapse into the dirt.
Because whatever it was, it wasn’t prey. It was dominant. It was home.
It made her sick to her stomach.
“You,” Lavender hissed, voice guttural, feral. Her hands shook as her nails began to lengthen, blackening at the tips, sharpening into things not meant for holding, but for rending. Her bones ached with the transformation. “Greyback.”
The name came out like poison, spat between clenched teeth.
The man—no, beast—stepped closer, pushing a few swinging tree limbs out of the way. She recognized everything. Hulking, heavy-footed steps. The too-tall, too-wide shoulders. How he was wrong in all the ways that made monsters real. Fenrir Greyback. Lavender growled, low and deep in her chest, the wolf inside her howling and whining, both a war cry and a plea for mercy.
No longer was he blood-drenched with wild eyes like he was on the battlefield, but this was worse somehow. He was older and heavier, his eyes duller, and his skin more ruined. Time had not softened him. It had honed him.
“You’re a wreck,” he said, voice rough and low like gravel ground underfoot. One scarred hand reached toward her, slow and casual.
Lavender flinched backward like she’d been struck. Her hand shot to her neck, pressing against the jagged scar that pulsed beneath her skin, the one he’d given her, the one that changed everything.
She hated him.
She hated him with every bone in her exhausted body.
“I’ll kill you!”
She wasn’t fully transformed, not yet, but she didn’t need the full moon. Rage was enough. The half-changed beast beneath her skin clawed for control, and she let it, needing the strength. Her claws tore into his arm, slicing flesh open in thick, ragged streaks. Blood spilled warm and dark across her fingers.
And then she howled.
Her spine arched as if yanked by invisible strings. Her knees buckled. Her entire body was seared with white-hot agony, like silver fire racing through her bones. Her head pounded with the sound of blood and screaming and something ancient pulling loose inside her.
She slumped forward with a strangled cry, collapsing into him. Not from weakness of will, but betrayal of flesh. Her body had limits, and she’d found them.
“I’ll… kill you,” she rasped, shaking in his grip. Her claws twitched, fingers curling. She was still fighting. Still trying.
But he didn’t strike, he didn’t laugh, and he didn’t even breathe.
Instead, Greyback caught her—not gently, but firmly, solidly, like a wall. One scarred arm circled her shoulders, holding her up.
“So, it’s true,” he muttered into her hair, voice made of gravel and storm, his tone almost reverent.
Fenrir sighed, pulling off the red plaid shirt he had tied to his waist and slipping her thin arms through it. She couldn’t fight against it, even if she wanted it. It was blood-stained, soft from age, and smelled like earth with notes of something bitter she couldn’t name.
She wanted to tear it from her body, shred it to pieces with the same claws that had failed her minutes ago. She wanted to scream that she didn’t need kindness from monsters. But all she could do was sit there, shivering in his shirt, hating that part of her was grateful.
Lavender’s eyes rolled back, and the forest spun.
“Wha…” Lavender slurred. Her body ached.
“Shh, girl.” His hand was heavy and hairy on her head. It slowly moved to cover her eyes. “Close your eyes.”
“I’ll kill you,” She whispered, eyes closing again. “For what you did to me.”
“The worst thing that I ever did is what I did to you,” he muttered into her hair.
Lavender was already asleep.
Lavender sat up, her bones not hurting like they usually did. She was warm, comfortable, and oddly clean. Even her hair felt washed, and she smelled so…not like herself.
She was wearing a plaid shirt. Red and black, dulled from age and wear. The sleeves hung far past her wrists, the cuffs nearly swallowing her hands. The fabric was soft, worn thin in places where the elbows had been patched, and the shoulders were just starting to fray. Bloodstains, old ones, had sunk deep into the weave, too faded to be fresh but visible enough to remind her this shirt had seen things. Suffered things.
It reeked of him.
She sat up straighter, the dim morning light filtering through small, dust-coated windows. The walls were log and stone, uneven and scarred with age as if the house itself had survived more than its share of battles. Animal skulls and old traps lined the shelves. Furs were draped over rough furniture; there was a low table, a fireplace ringed with soot, and a single oil lantern swaying faintly from the low ceiling. The entire house felt like a den—half-hunter’s cabin, half-prison.
This wasn’t her home. Not even close.
“So, you’re up?”
“You,” Lavender gasped, backing up slightly. “Why am I here?”
“Because I brought you here,” Greyback said, not meeting her gaze. “You looked like shit.”
Without thinking, Lavender grabbed the nearest thing behind her and hurled it at him. A pillow. It hit his chest with a dull thump and dropped to the floor. She waited as if this had all been an act to goad him into taking her out. But he didn’t. He didn’t snarl, didn’t lash out. He just stared at the pillow and then at her like he’d expected it.
Which made it worse somehow.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he huffed, dragging a chair over and sitting in it. Lavender pulled her legs close to her chest. “I mean it.”
“Why? Because you’ve already turned me into a wicked monster?”
“It’s only wicked because you can’t control it.”
“Whatever!” she shouted, raising to her knees like it would threaten him. “Why?!”
“Because we’re soulmates.”
Lavender stared.
“What?” It was more a statement than a question.
“Werewolves have mates. Soulmates. That’s us. I can’t hurt you, you can’t hurt me. That’s why everything hurt you yesterday,” he explained, his tone flat. He still didn’t meet her eyes.
“But you did hurt me,” she recalled. “During the war.”
Fenrir suddenly stood up, face unreadable, and yanked the black shirt over his head in one rough motion. The fabric hit the floor with a dull slap, but Lavender barely noticed it.
His back was ruined.
Black lines, jagged and curling like thorny vines, were etched into his skin. They pulsed faintly, not with light, but with something older, something sickly and ancient, like the hum of a curse that had never been lifted. The marks branched out across his shoulders and down his spine, sharp and deliberate, not like scars from battle or beasts. No. These were magical.
“Do you see it?” His voice was low, hollow.
“What is it?” She whispered, her own back aching at the very sight.
“Grief binding. When a werewolf harms their soulmate,” he went on slowly, “their magic marks them, not just as a warning, but as a reminder. The curse is alive. It coils inside my skin, etching itself deeper every time I remember what I did. And I always remember.”
“So you’re saying…” she trailed off, horrified.
“We say they're gifts from the moon. You have them, too.”
Lavender tumbled out of bed towards the nearest mirror, the plaid shirt falling to the floor. The same painful marks were etched into her shoulder, twisting and moving. They coiled around the scars he left on her.
"But I didn't have these before!"
"And then you attacked me," he said simply, as if Lavender didn't resent herself at that very moment.
“I didn’t want it to be you,” he said, almost a whisper. He slowly picked up the red shirt, slipping it over her shoulders as if trying to hide the marks. “But it was. And my magic won’t let me forget.”
Lavender felt her knees buckle, cursing when his large arms wrapped around her.
Hours later, Lavender was still in his comfortable bed, loathing herself for it. But where could she go? Especially after finding everything out?
“How do I get rid of it?” She asked the moment he came back inside. “This curse.”
“You can’t,” he gruffly muttered, dropping something on the counter. Lavender didn’t care what it was. Her stomach growled. “Mates are for life.”
“I don’t want this!” She resisted throwing the pillow again. He turned around, something flashing in his eyes.
“You think I want this? You think I chose you?”
“Well, who wouldn’t?” she snapped, standing up out of the bed, even though her legs shook. “I’m me. Why would I want to be anyone else? I’m amazing!”
“Such an ego, yet you can barely stand.” Greyback stepped closer.
Lavender wanted to run and hide, but she forced herself not to. She stood up, staring into his dark eyes, challenging him.
They couldn’t hurt each other, anyway.
“You’re shaking,”
“You’re…ugly,” she shot back.
Fenrir paused, looked her over again, and then laughed—laughed like he’d never laughed before. Lavender flushed.
“If that’s the worst you have, girl, you’re out of luck living here.”
“Who says I’m going to live here?” She scowled, making him laugh harder. “I’m serious!”
“Where can you even go?” He stood up straight. “Let me make you a deal.”
“No.”
“Stay through tonight. It’s the full moon. Let me teach you how to control the wolf. If you still want to leave after, you can.”
“I said no.” She crossed her arms, turned away, and got back into the bed. So what if it was his? “Go away.”
“You’re going to go crazy.”
And then Lavender remembered that this man wasn’t just some stranger with a scarred face and a tired voice. He was a monster. The monster. The one whispered about in Hogwarts halls long before the Battle of Hogwarts, the one who tore into innocence with his teeth bared and his eyes gleaming. The one who made people like her. The man who turned more children, more witches, more wizards into creatures of the moon than she could even count.
And here she was, in his clothes and in his bed and covered in his blankets.
But if she could learn how to control the beast inside her, wouldn’t it be worth it?
Lavender had never been a saint. She had no shining armor, no polished moral code, no set version of right or wrong. She was tired of pretending. Tired of being the survivor everyone pitied, the broken girl limping behind her classmates like a ghost. That’s why she left after her eighth year. She had lived through hell and clawed her way back on bloodied hands. So what if the help came from someone who reeked of violence and old blood?
So what if she let the devil steady her?
She didn’t know his other victims. She didn’t know their names or faces. All she knew was her own pain and the long, endless nights of fighting the creature inside her.
Her stomach churned anyway.
“Fine. You can help me,” she muttered into the pillow.
She knew he had heard it.
“Breathe, girl.”
“I am breathing!”
“Stop whining,” he huffed, his hand keeping her steady. “You can do this, Lavender.”
The moon was almost fully overhead. She whimpered. Her claws, already half-grown, dug desperately into the fabric of his shirt, tearing at the plaid with trembling fingers as if she could anchor herself there, as if he could keep her whole. Her body shook, not from cold, but from something much deeper—a storm unraveling inside her, bones groaning under the pressure of a curse older than her name.
“I can’t—” she gasped.
“You can,” Fenrir growled, more to the moon than to her. “You will. You’re not dying tonight, girl. Not on my watch.”
And then the transformation hit.
It came like lightning under her skin.
“You’re doing it,” he said, voice low and certain, kneeling beside her, steadying her trembling frame with hands that had once done nothing but hurt. “You’re not giving in. You’re taking it.”
How had he transformed so quickly?
A scream ripped from her throat, half-human, half-wolf. Her bones cracked again. Her skin simmered like it was being burned from the inside out. It felt endless. It felt eternal.
“There you go, girl.”
Lavender knelt in the grass, breath heaving, her body no longer her own but not entirely lost. Torn pieces of plaid fabric lay around her. She was changed, but still all there. Gold eyes wide, reflecting the moon. Paws dug into the earth. She was in a different body, but ultimately, she was still her.
Night had never tasted so sweet.
Lavender groaned, one hand flying up to shield her eyes from the cruel brightness of morning. Birds chirped far too cheerfully above. She buried her face deeper into whatever she was lying on—warm, hairy, and unsettlingly firm.
Her stomach turned. She pushed herself up quickly, blinking as the memories returned like bruises. She was clean again. Dressed. Her arms were bandaged, her hair combed through and braided in lazy, uneven sections.
She stared at the lump of dirt. The remnants of their meal must have been buried beneath. He’d handled it.
She stared at the sky, gray clouds drifting above the trees.
“Why me?” she asked the sky. “Why would fate tie you to me?”
“I don’t know,” Fenrir muttered beside her, obviously up. “I didn’t make the bond. I just…stopped fighting it.”
Lavender turned to look at him as he rose to his feet, his movements sluggish. He winced as he stretched, the cursed vines along his back twitching beneath his skin like burning thread. They were worse today. Angrier.
She scrambled up after him. “Where are you going?”
He didn’t answer. Just kept walking toward the crooked door of the little cabin, shoulders tense.
“Fenrir!” The name slipped out too easily, too familiarly, and it burned her throat as soon as she said it.
He stopped in the doorway. “You survived,” he muttered, not turning around. “That’s all that matters. Go free, like you wanted.”
“Fine!” she snapped, yanking the plaid shirt from around her and hurling it at him. It hit the side of his face and fell to the floor without a sound.
Her hands clenched. Her eyes stung.
And then she stormed off into the forest, heart thudding, limbs shaking, the taste of something too complicated to name burning in her mouth.
The further she went, the more her back ached.
She stomped through the underbrush, branches snapping underfoot, fury vibrating in her chest—fury at him, at herself, at whatever twisted magic had tethered them together. Her fists clenched at her sides. Her breath hitched.
“Fine!” she shouted, louder this time. She turned around and marched back toward the crooked little cabin, heart pounding like war drums. The door creaked as she shoved it open and stalked inside.
“Go, girl.”
He looked pitiful in that bed, his back gaining more marks with every second.
Lavender stood over him, trembling. “You’re not just going to lie there like none of this means anything.”
“I did my duty.”
“Well, I haven’t!”
She pushed him onto his back with newfound strength, grabbed his jaw, and kissed him.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate and furious and bruising, a clashing of teeth and breath and silence that had lasted too long. His hands came up, hesitated, then settled on her hips like a storm just beginning to break. It wasn’t love, not exactly. It didn’t matter.
The mark on his back pulsed like it knew. Like it approved.