Chapter 1
The Room of Requirement should have been safe.
Hermione paced the candlelit space, her fingers gripping the edges of a heavy, timeworn book. The scent of ancient parchment filled the air, mixing with the faint tang of melted wax. She had spent weeks deciphering these texts, poring over pages long forgotten even by Hogwarts’ most meticulous scholars. She wasn’t even supposed to have this book—the restricted texts in the library barely scratched the surface of what she was looking for.
But war left little room for hesitation.
This ritual, buried deep within a tome titled Magia Primordialis: The Lost Arts, promised something dangerous. Something old. And if the footnotes were correct, something powerful enough to shift the tide of battle.
She chewed her lip, her pulse steady but eager. This wasn’t just about knowledge.
Harry needs every advantage he can get. I need every advantage I can get.
The Death Eaters weren’t fighting with restraint anymore. With Dumbledore gone, the Order barely holding itself together, and Voldemort’s forces growing bolder by the day, Hermione knew she couldn’t afford to play it safe.
She had found the reference buried in a passage about primal magic, the kind untouched by wands, untamed by modern spells. A magic of bonds and blood, of moonlight and instinct.
Hermione adjusted the book on the pedestal before her. The Room of Requirement had shaped itself into something fitting—a stone chamber, its walls covered in ancient runes, a wide space cleared for the ritual. The summoning circle was traced in silver ink, the sigils painstakingly drawn to perfection. The instructions had been vague at best:
“Awaken the bond, find the strength within.”
That was all it had said.
Hermione exhaled, steadying herself. She had prepared meticulously, studied every possible translation, examined every etching in the text. Whatever this magic was, it had been used before—long before the Ministry ever regulated spellwork, before wands had become the norm.
What could it hurt?
She pressed her palm to the cold stone floor, whispering the first incantation. The silver markings pulsed faintly in response.
Good.
She continued, her voice steady, weaving the words of magic into the air like a thread being pulled taut. The runes brightened, the silver deepening into something richer, almost molten. A wind kicked up around her, unnatural in the enclosed space, carrying the scent of damp earth and something wild.
Her breath hitched.
The book hadn’t mentioned anything about a summoning, but something was responding.
She forced herself to continue.
The final words left her lips—
A rush of force slammed into her chest.
Hermione gasped, stumbling back as a searing pull wrenched through her, deeper than pain, deeper than anything she’d ever felt. It wasn’t physical—it was magic, unraveling and re-forming, binding and twisting.
She clutched at her chest, heart hammering, as the walls of the Room of Requirement blurred. The torches flickered violently before winking out entirely.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
And then—
The scent of earth. Of pine and damp leaves. Of something metallic, thick in the air.
She wasn’t in the castle anymore.
Hermione’s breath came in sharp, uneven pulls as she forced herself to stand. Her boots pressed into soft soil instead of stone. The air was cold, too cold for the castle’s insulation, and the distant rustling of trees told her she was outside.
A forest.
Where am I?
A deep growl rumbled from the shadows.
Every muscle in her body locked.
The sound was low, vibrating through the air like the warning snarl of something predatory.
Slowly, Hermione turned.
She saw him immediately—massive, towering, half-hidden by the shadows of the trees. A man, but not just a man. He stood on two feet, but his stance was more beast than human.
Golden eyes gleamed at her through the darkness.
Fenrir Greyback.
Hermione’s blood went cold.
She had read about him, had seen his face in the Prophet, had fought his kind during skirmishes with the Order. But none of that had prepared her for standing before him, for the sheer size of him, the presence he carried—so much more imposing in the flesh.
His lips pulled back into a grin, sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight.
“Well, well.” His voice was rough, almost amused. “What do we have here?”
Hermione forced herself not to step back.
“I—” Her throat was dry. “I don’t know how I got here.”
Fenrir tilted his head, sniffing the air. His expression shifted, something flickering in his golden eyes, something sharpening.
His gaze locked onto hers, and in that moment, she felt it.
A pull. A connection deeper than recognition, deeper than sight.
Something ancient. Something final.
His grin widened.
“Oh,” he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. “I do.”