𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐍 | 𝐇.𝐏. | 𝟏𝟖+

𝟎𝟏𝟐 - 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞

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***
She'd never thought that the werewolf's eyes would've been identical to Voldemort's, as scarlet as blood-red rubies.
But neither did she think that she ever would have to make that comparison.

Yet here she stands with Declan pressed against her back, wondering if it's normal that the human brain thinks of ridiculous matters before death.

She should be wondering if it'll be fast. If it'll hurt. But she can only think of those red eyes tinged with malice— so similar to the ones of her Lord.

The wolf creeps closer and Declan trembles. She wants to turn around— embrace his shaking body, whisper sweet words filled with empty-handed promises in his ear but she can't because she's frozen to the spot. A coward. So instead she squeezes his hand in silent apology.

She has never seen a transformed werewolf before. Has only heard of them through Draco's horrible stories about how Greyback is the vilest of their kind— eager to kill and infect everyone that stumbles across his path.

But Draco had always been a bit melodramatic. Had exaggerated about things a lot of times. But not now— he has never been more right and it only really sinks in as she looks at the massive wolf in front of her— fur reeking of metal and speckled with dirt.

His teeth gleam murderously and she wants to curse herself for letting Declan suffer in this situation. But she has calculated every possible outcome. Her wand is upstairs and she can't summon it without the wolf attacking first. She can't wait for Draco and she certainly can't press that Dark Mark on her arm because she needs a wand for that and even if she had, Voldemort would have been unforgiving.
There is no escape— not for her at least.

She hopes her brother will get to safety though. Is willing to sacrifice herself to let him run because Declan is all that matters. He is the only one that deserves to get away from this. Too pure.

She runs a thumb over his small hand, savours the warmth running through his veins.

"I love you, Dec." She rasps. He swallows. She lets go of him. He squeals in panic.

She takes a few tentative steps forward, faces that wolf.

A low growl erups from his throat and despite everything inside of her screaming to get away, she steps forward.

"You're a filthy half-breed, Greyback." She says mockingly. "You're not even worth the title Death Eater and our lord knows it."

The wolf roars terrifyingly and a coldness seeps inside her skin. It's like a dementor hovers over her. But she does not stop.

"You're filth and killing me won't make a difference. I'm pure— as pure as Salazar Slytherin himself while you are nothing. I don't know if your feral brain can understand this— if I'll have to bark it in order for it to make sense to you but I'd rather die than having to be here in your reeking presence for one minute longer."

The wolf bares its teeth. A challenge. So she steps closer.

And then he's charging for her— the furniture of the manor slamming into walls and the floor shaking.