Disclaimer: The characters, world and premise of Harry Potter belong to JKR. Also, the characters and premise of the Chronicles of Narnia are the property of CS Lewis. My interpretations are my own.

A/N: In the universe of Elijah's Cup, falling sometime after Interred With Their Bones. Didn't rightly know what category to put this in, since it's set in the Forest but deals mainly with the Narnia characters. May switch it around from time to time.

FENRISBANE

"Does the sun ever shine in here?"

"I don't think so." Peter bit back a grin at Ed's grumbling, and scrambled over a huge root. They were in the deeper reaches of the Forest now, farther west than they had ever ventured. And we stayed out for good reason, until now.

"Lovely," his brother griped. Edmund pushed away a brittle branch clawing for his face, ignoring the ominous crack of dry wood. "No sun, no rain, filled with nasty magical things with a taste for human flesh -"

"It's not all bad." He circumvented a pit of unidentifiable ooze, untangled a particularly determined strand of pricker-bush, and listened to the stunned silence in amusement. Sometimes Edmund's view of his optimism was entirely too easy to take advantage of. And too much to resist. Safe in the knowledge that his brother couldn't see his expression without forging through thorns that made a hippogriff's claws look like butter knives, Peter let the grin out.

"You've been talking with Hagrid, haven't you," Edmund accused, when he could finally find something to say.

The ground around the tiny pothole looked slippery; a jump would be chancy on a path this worn. But a solid rock stood just within reach. One boot planted firmly on the stone, the other swung clear over. And if it held me, it'll hold Ed.

Who was still talking. "- only reason for such stupid -"

Better stop him before he gets going. "Careful of the -"

Splat.

Glop.

"Eeuuugh!"

Peter winced. I guess it was deeper than it looked.

The resulting snarl dripped disgust. "Voldemort spent at least three years, and probably more, hiding here. What does that tell you?"

"That those who live here aren't picky," the older mumbled under his breath. Too easy.

Off-guard and shaking thick slime from his shoes, Edmund choked, torn between laughter and shouting.

More seriously, "To never go unarmed." One hand rested on the pommel of the weapon strapped to his hip. "Which is why we're here."

He risked a glance back, but Edmund was studying the trees, colored in bruised shadows of blue and black. The light that managed to filter down through bony branches and withered leaves gave birth to poisonous undergrowth. The Forbidden Forest was rife with potions ingredients, made all the more potent for Dark magic by virtue of the power pervading the very soil. And the sooner we get what we've come for, the sooner we can laugh about all this back at Hogwarts.

"Come on, Ed. Let's go."

The Forest had its own traps and perils; not least of which were those who found refuge from the world behind the screen of trunks swallowing hundreds of acres of magical Britain. Navigating them was. . . challenging. Better than dealing with that Macready, Peter found himself thinking sourly.

"I don't expect," Edmund suddenly remarked, "that Susan remembers how to shoot."

Trying to buy some time to think, Peter scanned the winding track ahead. A deer-path, though he sincerely doubted any deer had made or ever used it. Acromantulae, a warning in Lucy's voice whispered. But still he couldn't disagree. "I don't expect so."

"And I doubt that she'll ever want to come in here."

Recalling their childhood, and Susan's madcap journey through the forest one stormy eve, Peter's face darkened. "Halloween," he said shortly.

Their feet took them past an empty grove trailing fat ropes of web. Some were as thick as his arm. Lucy was right. I don't want to meet that spider, no matter what Hagrid says about Aragog!

Edmund sighed. "You're right."

Some things had changed during the twenty years in which their family had been torn asunder. Susan's stubbornness, independence, and determination to follow her own path had not been any of them. Which was ample explanation for her brothers' search within the Forbidden Forest.

"We have Aegis Sanguinis in the magical world, but I'd rather trust to her skill with the bow. She may not recall all she learned of archery in Narnia, but that can be taught." And I'll have less to fear once she knows how to protect herself . . .

Brown eyes, both tender and piercing, held his. "Do you think she'll want to learn?"

So much hope, there. I can't crush it. But if truth be told, Peter knew as little as Edmund. He thought he knew how his sister would react, and then half the time he found he didn't. So he spoke his heart, and prayed that the future wouldn't crush it. "I hope so, Ed."

It was a thread of sound. "Me too."

A creaking in the branches above them plunged the brothers into silence; one filled with heartbeats and held breaths, with fingers clenched on the hilts of swords and eyes straining past tattered bark in all directions.

But the Forest went on, heedless of the two strangers amidst dripping shadows and dying leaves. And the clacking of multiple, multi-jointed legs filtered into the distance. Farther away, in the opposite direction, came a sound like nothing so much as a car horn; but after a few moments, the blaring faded as well.

He wanted Edmund out of here. Now. Try as they might, Peter knew that the noise of their feet among shifting leaves carried word of their presence far before them. Something flashed in the prickly undergrowth; and ears waiting for movement heard it.

Not an Acromantula; the small ones don't venture so far from the main nest. And it hasn't attacked us yet. He marked his brother, moving close enough that he almost stepped on Edmund's heels, and when the glare he got for his efforts faded into a frown, he knew his concern was written all over him.

Peter grimaced. "There's little spider-sign here. I think we only skirted the edges of Aragog's territory."

"That was more than enough for me." His brother sighed, reaching out to brush an insect from his arm. Edmund took the lead again, leaving him to guard against a known threat at the rear. "Did we have to come so far in?"

Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes, because his brother sounded truly worried. And they had yet to come across any yew trees large or healthy enough to donate the wood needed for a bow. "Yes."

"The trees on the outer edges are warped. Beech, sycamore, oak, and pine – but barely recognizable. What makes you think the yew will be any better when we find it?"

"I talked with Sirius." And that had been an enlightening conversation. "He said that the Forest gets stronger as you go deeper; the trees have learned to thrive in the Darkness."

"I'll say." Edmund eased past the pricker bush; the path cut straight through a shadowed glen. As well-versed in woodcraft as Oreius could make them, the younger man paused on the edge. "And they're lively with it, too, if that Whomping Willow is any indication. Transplanted from near the center of the Forest, Pomona said, and there's definitely something strange . . . "

It was the gradual absence of forest sounds that snagged his attention. From the tensing of the lean form beside him, Edmund had noticed as well. Exposed and without cover in the middle of the clearing, at least they would be able to see anyone coming at them.

But he didn't see the figure until it stepped, naked and hulking, from deepening shadow. The man's eyes glinted strangely in the half-light; his voice carried the stench of dead meat. "Welcome to my Forest."

He could smell them.

Mortal and Muggle and flesh and blood. Seasoned with age, yet still flavored with the lingering tenderness of youth. A heady mix, indeed. His mouth watered. It has been so long since I have tasted fresh meat. . .

Grayback had caught whiffs of these scents before; knew that there were two more, tinted with the indescribable fragrance of female and the heavy hand of ancient powers. Tempting, but the guarding wariness of Light magic was puissant enough to deter even a complete deadnose.

And these two had it as well. But wizards? The magic is on them, not in. Subtle distinctions; but to a wolf, the world was scents. He sniffed again.

The magic still left those it held close with the means to protect themselves. And there were other powers, other beings, with the right to challenge the Light. And the pack is hungry.

Only the ignorant or the foolish entered his Forest. Some wizards thought to brave the perils of the wood, but they were few and far between. He could still recall the taste of the most recent one's fear, with all the detail of a connoisseur and vibrancy of a starving man. He trembled and shook, a large and muscular man made a rabbit, frozen with fear. Just at the sight of us.

Crouched behind concealing leaves, Fenrir sneered. That meal had been the last of its kind for over a year. Until these ones had come. Prey. Mine. As pack-leader, the decision to move was his.

But the others were just as ravenous as he, to have the promise of prey waiting almost within reach. Hungry eyes glowed at him from around the clearing, demanding that he move. There were only seven of them, but if they should turn on him – They will all die.

Fenrir bared sharp teeth, a silent warning none dared ignore.

Deimos slunk toward him. Bold enough to come forward, this one – the smallest and youngest of the pack. Yet clawed fingers and a slender form hid a savagery unmatched by any save Grayback himself. Of all his get, this was the only one truly worthy of the distinction. The moon had shone full and palest orange, the night the wolf had been born in Deimos.

Yet favored though he was, he dared leave his post, in the midst of a hunt –

A snarl rumbled out, from deep in Fenrir's chest.

Deimos rolled over in the dirt, exposing a throat, soft underbelly, vulnerable genitals. And waited.

Rip. . . tear, rend flesh from bone and feast deep – the urge was there, hot and delicious in his blood. Grayback let it shine in his gaze, let razored claws prick the skin covering delicate organs, drawing the barest taste of blood to scent the air. And growled, deep in this throat. "What?"

"They come, pack-leader." Deimos thirsted with bloodlust; yet the pup controlled it well. Dark eyes gleamed, and he lifted claws to let the pup taste its own blood. That would control the yearning. For a little while.

It was a fever in the blood, which nothing could assuage for long. But they would not have to wait long at all.

A rustling around the clearing told Grayback that, despite the ever-present darkness beneath the eaves and bowers of the Forest, this sign of favor had not gone unseen. Good. As ever, his actions had twofold purpose; if he can fend off the pack now . . . Defeat their jealousy, and Deimos might truly be worthy of his name.

The hot tongue swiped eagerly, sucking the last remnants of coppery tang; Deimos rolled once more, to hands and knees. The pup's neck bent. "Two males, from the east. Healthy, and strong."

From the east . . . most likely, from the castle. Fenrir knew Hogwarts of old – but he had never been a wizard. Never had the learning, the training. And I desire neither. To be corralled in, among prey, and denied the right to run free under the moon? Never.

"Wait for my signal to attack. Any among them who think to taste before me will be alive when I feast on their entrails."

With a last whimpering nuzzle to his knee, the pup disappeared within the underbrush, carrying his message to the pack. One way or another, the wait was almost over now.

The first voices trickled into the clearing. Male. And exasperated. " – have to come so far in?"

"Yes."

Grayback's hackles rose at the sound of that voice. This one is much too calm. Much too confident. Anticipation and anger tingled in his blood. That one's fear would be intoxicating, and well worth the effort it would take to crack open that assurance. As difficult to obtain as precious marrow, and sweeter.

"The trees on the outer edges are warped," the first man pointed out. "Beech, sycamore, oak, and pine – but barely recognizable. What makes you think the yew will be any better when we find it?"

They were in sight now. Muggles, certainly. His curiosity pricked up ears; but they were Muggles, and so would not last as long as wizards, in the pack's play. But perhaps long enough for a few questions . . .

"I talked with Sirius." The second man came in sight, voice grim. "He said that the Forest gets stronger as you go deeper; the trees have learned to thrive in the Darkness."

"I'll say," the first one said once more. "And they're lively with it, too, if that Whomping Willow is any indication. Transplanted from near the center of the Forest, Pomona said, and there's definitely something strange . . ." The voice slipped into a listening silence.

Fenrir's eyes narrowed. For all his flippancy, this one too was wary. And like the other, there was no smell of fear on him. It would reek in the clearing, drawing the ravenous from far off – Thestrals, Acromantulae, Trolls.

No. There was no fear on these. But he could scent assurance. Awareness. A certain lack that confirmed what his unreliable eyes had already said. These two were no wizards. But they were kin, with certain undeniable similarities of scent. And something deeper . . .

Werewolf.

It was not-pack, but Fenrir knew that scent. It resonated, below layers of tangibility into the realms of other senses. Magical creatures left magical scents; marks not easily washed away, branding prey or pack or territory.

These two had had close contact with a werewolf, recently, and for a long time before that. It was the smell of wet fur, the taste of musk, and a tingle of magic shivering through his gut.

This scent – it was almost his own. The wolf was one of his get; one who had denied the call of the moon.

The little wizard-boy, who had gone to Hogwarts; whose father had thought to fight against the Dark Lord, so long ago.

Nostrils flared, sorting, seeking the certainty of that particular odor. Found it, remembered and rediscovered.

The wolf growled.

The first male, hair the color of a moonless night, jumped. "What was that?"

Fenrir found his feet, then, reluctantly letting go of the wolf and bringing his weak, human tendencies to the fore. He found, with a spark of malicious glee, that he was much taller than either of the prey that had so willingly wandered into his territory.

The pack needed to eat. And while the refuge of night was hours distant, the moon was several days off yet.

He stepped from shadow, and took in their startled readiness with slavering eagerness. "Welcome to my Forest."

"Peter?"

"Not a vampire," his brother hissed.

The man was darkened with dirt, but not pale enough by far to be one of the undead. And the teeth, savagely bared, were threatening – but not the needle-sharpness necessary to pierce skin and drink deep.

The creature laughed, rich and deep, at the two men before him.

"There are werewolves in there," Draco murmured. The teenage form huddled in on itself. "My father knows their pack-leader." The boy had been reluctant to speak much more of it. All Edmund had gotten was a name, and the impression of a child's terror.

Fenrir Grayback. Head of the werewolves who followed the Dark Lord in the times before his fall.

The man was larger by far than either of the brothers. But pure bulk could not conceal the outline of ribs, or the blatant uneasiness of two-legged movement. "Werewolf, Peter."

A quick nod of blond hair; but the man was moving, a predator's lithe stalk.

It was a signal.

Out of the cover of the forest floor, more shapes appeared; five men, and two women. All were smeared thickly with dirt in place of clothing, and all were eerily intent on them. Edmund's eyes raced round the clearing. Surrounded, was his first thought. And almost distantly, a second came to him. They look hungry.

From what little Remus had let slip, Grayback was a monster, worthy of the fear of adults and children alike. His human half was beyond brutal, and the wolf within him had tasted human blood. Both sought more, however they could get it.

A full head and shoulders taller than Edmund, Grayback – Who else could it be? – halted, a sword's length away. The werewolf's mouth opened, pulling in a wet breath. Syllables, guttural and earthy, snarled from between curled lips. "You smell of one of mine."

Glad he'd badgered until Peter had thrown up his hands and agreed to let him come, Edmund stepped forward. He thought he knew, but he also had to start somewhere. "Who?"

"Pack rules," Remus said wryly. "It's the way of the wolf. When we transform, we become wolves; there's only a few ways to tell a werewolf from the real thing. For one, the fur's much thicker. And another – a werewolf will be a hair larger, a shade smarter, than a true wolf."

"Smart enough to avoid traps?" Edmund glanced over; Lucy had been complaining that the available literature was mostly inadequate, prejudiced propaganda.

Remus' eyes went flat. "Much smarter than that."

"Pack rules?"

"Alpha male is dominant," Remus told them quietly. The professor's hands were tightly linked; Sirius threw him a compassionate glance, and passed his friend a mug of tea. "It's . . . complicated."

Edmund was beginning to wish he'd pushed for details.

"The Lupin brat," Grayback snapped. Remus was only a child when he – Teeth clicked shut, far too close for comfort. "But you knew that."

Strange. Remus is both the man and the wolf. But this one isn't, somehow. He saw only a creature, and nothing of humanity despite the limbs and stance. But he plays at being human. And that was a game Edmund could beat him at, easily.

Rules and caveats of negotiation, submerged under years of giving therapy rather than mandates, flowed back. Never yield the advantage. Keep your opponent off-balance. Use every edge you have. Edmund kept his face to Grayback as the wolf-man circled, Peter a warm, steady presence at his back. Time to rock'n'roll. "And you, Fenrir Grayback? What do you want with us?"

The wolf-man let out a chuff, lifting and placing each bare foot with a coarse grace. "What does any hunter want, little kings?"

The strange swooping sensation of being outmaneuvered, and thrown off his guard, snatched at thought. Edmund reached for it, mind dizzy with the implications. How does he -

"Can smell it on you," growled one of the pack. Skinny and underfed, he seemed more human than the rest, though he was by far the smallest. "Plain as the nose -" a finger, adorned with a filthy, ragged-edged nail, lifted to tap the protuberance in question. "On your face."

The strange chuffing sound came again.

Edmund had to deliberately unclench his fists. He's laughing at us!

Against his back, shoulders tensed; but there was no ring of steel into the clearing. Just the slow, steady scratching of the advancing pack. Peter will wait, Edmund knew. Wait for me to try to talk us out of here. So I'd better say something brilliant, shouldn't I? Dammit.

"We are not monsters, little kings," Grayback crooned. The circle drew ever tighter as he loped around the brothers. "We are people, as much as those wizards in Hogwarts. The castle on the hill, where they train humans to hate those cursed with the wolf."

He could smell them – a nearly overpowering stench of sweat and dirt, with more than a trace of other things, much less wholesome. "Dumbledore does not hate your people," Edmund countered evenly.

"Ah, but even he does not tolerate us." Mournful, Grayback affected the pleading sincerity of a retriever's head resting on his knee, begging for scraps. The impression was ruined by the pack, leering and panting, barely at bay. "It is an affliction. Would you hate the blind, or the deaf? We cannot help what we are."

It was a dangerous leap. He forced the caustic word to be brash, casual, and prayed it wouldn't tip the scales irrevocably against them. "Murderers?"

The wolf-man stilled. Each breath was charged with tense expectation; the pack was eerily silent, now. Edmund spared an eye for them. Closing in. Aslan, don't let me have killed us both –

Claws slashed the air before his throat.

Edmund didn't know much about wolves, but he did know something about dogs. There were subtle clues in the tilt of a tail, the height of the ears, that spoke of submission to the alpha. No tail, and good luck with the ears. So he slammed the pack-leader's glowering bloodlust with the most regal stare he could manage. Not backing down. No way.

"We are innocent of the charges laid at our doors!" But behind the outrage Grayback was grinning, toothy and feral, as he loomed over Edmund.

Smoothing his expression to blankness, he knew Peter was doing the same. A cold thought trickled to the forefront, wanting to be loosed on the waiting ears. "You lie. You would smile, and savor our deaths."

Laughter barked from the pack's throats at that.

"We will, little king. That, I promise you."

"No."

And the single word was enough to reduce the gloating, ragged mutts to a confused halt. They looked like nothing so much as sorry strays, patched in colors of skin and dirt, milling about the clearing. Peter?

The pack-leader roared. "What?!"

"I challenge," Peter said quietly.

Grayback's head flew back; a howl of laughter rocked Edmund back on his heels. "You challenge me?"

Blue ice narrowed. "You would have us think you pitiful outcasts, eschewed by the Wizarding community for what you are. But I know of you, Fenrir Grayback – and I know of your pack, murderers all." He's angry. Edmund kept his eyes on the pack as they started to rouse, with anger of their own. But the formal phrases rolled easily from the High King's lips; it was the ruler of Narnia who proclaimed thus, not a simple man. Edmund pushed away a shiver of awe, and hoped the pack was as intimidated. "You chose to come to these woods and prey on those you could, because otherwise you would be hunted down like dogs for the atrocities you revel in. Yes, Fenrir Grayback – I challenge."

Amusement vanished, leaving the pack-leader terrifyingly still. "For what, little king?"

"For the right to travel the Forest. My kin and I go where and when we will, should I win."

"For that, I want your life, little king." Grayback didn't even seem to notice what he'd said; but a shudder ran through his pack.

A gleam in the eyes of the woman closest to him told him why. They're . . . excited. They want it. They want Peter's blood on their tongues. Edmund gulped, dangerously close to being ill.

"And I will have your word that during our fight, none of your people will harm my brother."

The younger man started. Peter, you idiot – don't worry about me; worry about yourself! But he knew that the surest way to guard Peter's back in this was to guard himself. His brother could do no other than protect his family; against that, even the High King's life meant nothing. Edmund felt his heart constrict.

Grayback hunched to let wild, animal eyes probe Peter's intent. "You would trust the word of a werewolf?"

"I know of you, Fenrir Grayback. You hold to your word, werewolf or no."

Unable to believe his ears, Edmund blinked.

He wanted the bigger prey.

The little one challenged pack-leader, and it was only just this side of smaller, but it didn't smell afraid. The other, now, oozed fear. Deimos didn't care if the prey labeled such as fear for itself or the other, the scent was thick in his nostrils. And he was hungry.

There was other food in the forest, when pack couldn't find enough meat. Leaves and berries, roots, tubers. But many of the greenlings had minds of their own – and sometimes starving was the better alternative to trying to eat them. His ears had bled for hours after accidentally pawing free a mandrake from a hill covered in delicious, fleshy bulbs.

Meat.

It was rare enough that he would do as he almost never did, and savage any of pack that came close enough to threaten his claim. Grayback's female, Siv, was gazing at his prey from under lank, tangled locks. A pink tongue darted across wet lips. She wanted to play.

Deimos showed teeth, a warning rumble of mine emerging from his throat. He would not risk pack-leader's ire; but the bitch had no claim. Smaller he might be, but stronger than any other save Grayback. And they all knew it.

His prey had a paw curled round the weapon at its hip. An amused chuff escaped him; the flavors of magic around this one were confusing, but it was no wizard, that was clear. It didn't stand a chance, but he wasn't about to let it know that. Deimos had eaten yesterday, and longed for a bit of sport, for the sip of fear-stained blood.

Siv advanced too close; he swiped at her, but she leapt out of reach. The fight might have started then, but pack-leader spoke. "We fight without weapons."

Pack barked agreement; Deimos added his voice to theirs.

"No."

No? He dares speak against pack-leader?

"I'm not a fool," the sun-furred prey said dryly. "You have the strength of the wolf, and I am only human. Such a match would be dishonorably unfair."

"You accuse me -"

"I accuse no one," the prey asserted, interrupting Grayback. Deimos chuffed, remembering the last one foolish enough to presume that far. There had been another female in the pack once, another in Siv's place. Her screams had not been shrill, but full-throated and delicious to hear over the crackling of flames.

"I have no weapon such as yours." Deimos's ears perked at the tone; pack-leader had a plan. "Steel against claws is as unmatched as the wolf against the rabbit. Give me the weapon your kin carries."

Deimos drank in the reek of intensified fear. "Peter," hissed his prey. For the first time in years, a sound that was almost human came close to escaping. He wanted to laugh.

But the urge dissipated; Jon was circling closer to his prey. Red hazed his vision – and then slicked his claws. A snarl snapped him back to the Forest, to find that he had chased Jon to the farthest edge of the clearing, and the other three males were approaching his claim.

"Don't worry, Edmund." Breathed low, to werewolf ears it was obvious as a shout. But it is worried, little meat. And we can all smell it. Mouth open to moisten the scent, Deimos advanced on the taller prey. It had a paw wrapped white around the weapon on its side, feet planted against dead ground.

You have no silver, little meat. Metal thorns will not stop me. And its claws and teeth were blunted with the conventions of Wizard-kind, not sharpened as his were by the necessities of life in the Forest. Deimos had been like that too once, limited and tiny and human. But that had been before Uncle Igor's trial and betrayal. And Deimos owed his freedom from the limitations of Wizard-kind to the being that had seized revenge on the former Death-Eater, regardless of Ivanna Karkaroff-Paraskos's estrangement from her brother.

Mother had been horrified by what he became, before she died.

Deimos hadn't cared.

"I'm not going to give him my weapon, Peter."

"You won't have to," was the low hiss. Deimos wondered if they thought they were being unobtrusive. I can hear the blood quickening in your veins. I know everything you do, little meat. You are mine.

The smaller prey raised its voice again. "My kin's weapon would be unsuited to you, Grayback – as an Acromantula with a rock. But I would not have you unevenly matched against me."

Filip and Murdo chuffed, and Deimos agreed. Another step put him almost within swiping distance of his claim. No matter the weapons this prey could bring to bear, Grayback would always outmatch any challenger. This play, hollow words catering to honor and magic, was simply to prolong the hunt. Honor and magic are of humans. Not wolf-kind.

"The Forest is your home," the prey continued. Glittering eyes narrowed; Deimos did not like the confidence in this piece of food, and wanted the challenge to begin in earnest. "She will provide you, if you ask."

"I ask for nothing, prey." Pack-leader reached an arm, wrenching from a tree a limb the size of Deimos' haunch. One swing would splatter the prey's brains across the clearing. "We fight. Now."

The beam swung, and Deimos' claim jumped, back. Close enough to touch, now. He couldn't resist. "Frightened, little meat?"

Claws were slapped away, the prey's back against a tree as it stared him down. It dares!

"Not of you," his prey snarled.

Murdo padded closer, and Jon was slinking back now. Something – skin of pack or something else entirely - flashed through the underbrush. Coming closer.

A faint yell turned Deimos' head; but pack-leader's fight was a distant thing to this feisty piece of meat with its tantalizing odor of terror and anger. He didn't loose his claim from his gaze, for all he could see the sun-furred prey dodging Grayback's strikes.

Pack-leader chuffed, loudly, and the pack joined him in a crescendo of barks and howls that shivered the prey's spines. You will quake with it, before we even set our teeth to you, he silently promised the angry-eyed prey before him. And still it did not draw its weapon. Perhaps it knew how futile such would be.

A strange thunk roused him from the memory-taste of warm entrails sliding down his throat. A glance showed the prey had deflected Grayback's club with its metal thorn, gouging deep into the oaken haunch. The metal thorn did not break, and Deimos felt the excitement coiling in each limb, waiting for the first spill of blood. The pack recognized his claim on the bigger one, and for now, the challenge titillated his senses.

The sun-furred prey had agility, and Deimos recognized the cunning for what it was. Smaller had to be faster, or be trampled by the strong. It fluttered from place to place, only just faster than the slamming blows cudgeled through the air.

But pack-leader had stopped playing now; the cant of Grayback's body toward preferred, four-legged stance, was obvious to Deimos. The rest of the pack probably could not see it; but he was the only direct get of pack-leader among them all. The rest were only get of Grayback's get, weak and little more than mouths to be ruled.

Pack-leader's anger growled over brown earth and the skins of the pack.

Minutes of fighting left each marked, nicks left by biting thorn or hungry claws, spicing each breath with the aroma of crimson battle.

Steel glanced off wood as another swing almost didn't miss; chips of oak went flying.

"Is that the best you can do?" Panting, but the prey was talking.

He wanted this prey's fear. It would be warmth sluicing through every part of his senses, the best of matings. Rich, deep, and full. . . The fear of a creature to whom fear was as unnatural as two feet to wolf-kind. He wanted it, carnal and hot and ravaging.

Sly and tricksome, instinct was given rule of his body.

Now.

A howl ripped from his chest, and he sprang towards his claim. Outstretched claws met keen steel, and ruby droplets arced to dead grass. Pain, Deimos knew, but his sight was crimson now and he would not be stopped.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the sun-furred meat turn from its fight with Grayback, and knew the distraction was well-timed. His claim was backing up, now, and the scents were so marvelous they penetrated even the blood-soaked haze clouding his senses. The fear was on every breath, now, a golden ecstasy –

A death-cry roared through his bones.

Deimos dropped from his leap, a graceless impact with rocks and twigs. Wh – what?! Twisting, he saw it then.

Pack-leader's body, and a red-painted metal thorn spiking from his back. But Grayback was moving –

No.

The sun-furred prey, trapped underneath, was moving – pushing the limp pack-leader from his suffocating sprawl over the piece of meat. Crawling out from under, now, drenched in wolf heartblood and the scent of victory.

Grayback was not moving.

A tearing noise filled the clearing, as flesh and bone ripped in the wake of the treacherous metal thorn that had sliced pack-leader from life. Those of the Forest knew death, in every incarnation.

Treachery! His snarl was the first, but soon the clearing sang with grunts and growls and the advancing feet of a pack that would not be denied their ounce of flesh. To come here, with weapons that kill without the warning tang of silver in the air. . .

Grayback was dead.

Eyes found him, now, as strongest – and he wanted their taste, for killing his sire. Deimos shattered the stillness with a cry of his own, and abandoned two feet for four.

Pack dissolved into chaos.

The ghost of a shadow was tucked far under the pricker-bush.

The world was open, now, in sounds – though they were in panting, tearing, the dripping of blood – and scents. Far too many of those, though the little white fox had no trouble sorting and cataloguing knowledge the boy sitting inside had never dreamed existed.

Something screamed in pain.

The little fox shivered, and ducked deeper into shadow.

The Forest is not safe for two-leggers.

Much as the boy might want to run, in this, the fox was smarter. Braver. And these flashes of lucidity, of almost-thought that tread on the heels of being human, made the last traces of the boy within the fox wonder exactly what the side effects of some of the shortcuts he had made with this potion might be. The bleed-over between boy and fox was not completely one-sided, although it seemed to be constrained.

But those were human worries. And in this moment, the fox knew only that predators were about, taking their turn at being prey.

He had followed Edmund from the castle, worried about the questions the man had asked. Questions, sparking the fox's sly wit as well.

Man-wolves. Werewolves.

The fox knew what it was to be both hunter and hunted. It didn't want to leave the safe, thorny arms enveloping ghostly fur.

But the whimpers and moans were softer, now, the sounds of metal slicing flesh more distant.

The fox crept closer, and looked out on a massacre.

Coppery tang swirled about its nose, slipping across the grass. Not yet close enough to stain white paws, but almost. For all the slick redness, there were only two bodies. Big, burly male-wolf, and a she-wolf nearby. The rest were cowed; a new leader standing at the forefront already.

The fox whimpered.

The sound, heart-poundingly loud to pricked white ears, went unnoticed.

The two-leggers were the only ones unharmed, steel gleaming wetly in the faint light. Quick eyes found them standing two against the mangled pack, though the battle had stilled. Mouths were moving; the boy inside needed to know what was being said.

White paws whispered over crackling, dead grass to another bush. Closer.

" – the right to pass through the Forest."

The pack-leader found humanity long enough to growl, "Your challenge bound Grayback. Not us."

"It bound you while he was your leader," the dark-haired two-legger snapped. Edmund, the boy whispered. "It binds you still."

The pack-leader snarled.

Silent as death, the fox skittered back. Smaller than the rest, the one out in front was colder, viciousness a gleam in his eye and rumbling in his voice.

"You challenged," the two-legger Edmund said. "And you lost. We walk this Forest freely, and we had that right long before you were whelped. Today we bought that right again with your blood. You will not deny us."

The fox shrank at the power there. Many might see the younger brother as the lesser; but there was no greater or lesser here. Only two fellow kings, who concealed their power and glory among two-leggers, but could not hide it here. The Forest stripped such niceties, the masks that humans wore, away. It was written in their scent.

And if the fox could read it, the man-wolves could too.

"This is the pack of Deimos Paraskos, not Fenrir Grayback!"

"This is the pack that lost challenge to Peter Fenrisbane," corrected Edmund. "And you will trouble us no more."

Breathless silence rang through the clearing in the wake of that command; royal power, with a force of magic like none other on Earth, pushed against the listeners, and would not be denied.

Madness glittered in slitted eyes. Deimos Paraskos, pack-leader of the wolf-men, made a promise. "Your blood on my claws, little meat."

The fox cringed.

Edmund shifted to the side, dark eyes never leaving the pack-leader. "Peter?"

And the other two-legger stepped forward, an effortless power to him. A power that had not been seen, among mortals and Wizard-kind, for a time almost out of mind.

"In Aslan's name."

The word, sharp and unfamiliar, cracked through the clearing.

Magic? The fox had been in the Forest enough to know what that was, and the boy had wandered under shadowed branches enough to know why the Forest was Forbidden. But neither one had ever encountered something like this.

And the pack clearly had not either.

Paraskos's teeth gleamed in the half-light. Claws slicked, struck –

And sparked off nothing, unable to move. The fox watched muscles bulge, tendons and sinews strain – and came not even a centimeter closer to slashing that throat.

The King spoke again. "You lost the challenge. Begone."

The fox was hidden under spiny thorns and puissant plants; and the power of that decree reached even him. That magic, relentless and ineffable, passed over ghostly fur with nary a chill.

asked the fox.

No hostile intent, the boy thought back. Paused, a moment, tilting their head to consider. I think.

The pack dispersed, fading into the surrounding shades of night. The two-leggers were left alone in the Forest, but for a little fox crouched on the edge of the bloody clearing. Picking a path through the thorns was easy, and the fox listened.

"Ed. Are you alright?"

"Am I alright?" Incredulity, relief. "I'm fine. He didn't touch me. But Peter -" a hand lifted, fingers tracing small wounds. "You're hurt."

Anxious hands were gently shrugged off. "Not badly. No more than nicks. It'll be fine."

"He was a werewolf, Peter."

"But he's dead." The fox approved of the predator's bluntness; the boy didn't know what to feel, and let the fox do so for both. "And we didn't have silver or wolfsbane. Aslan's love is strong, Edmund. Far stronger than this. You know that."

A sigh. "Of course I do, Peter. But I still -"

"Worry. I know. Ready to go?" Sunlight broke over the other's face; a smile reached out to reassure.

A look was shot askance at steel, dirty with gore. "There's nothing to clean our blades with here."

"Better luck further in, then."

There was no further mention of the pack as the two-leggers turned toward sun-down. Their forms were soon blocked by trees, leaving only scent and muffled sound to track by. It would be enough, if they did not get too far ahead.

Now what?

Danger was here, in the crimson-painted clearing, stalking the two-leggers through the Forest. But he had come this far; and the boy didn't know how to get back. Thorns combing white fur, the fox followed. There was no two-legger speech now to cover the rustling of four small paws in undergrowth. The fox trailed the sounds of footsteps and the occasional word of caution, deeper and deeper into the enchanted Forest.

Dark in here, the boy murmured. The fox agreed. What are they looking for?

The younger was the one who spotted it, large and healthy in a Dark land of tainted power and despoiled earth. Everything that grew here lived not in spite of that sullied magic, but because of it. He stopped to stare, sending the unaware fox scurrying for cover and pulling its brush in tight, fully out of sight.

"Edmund?"

It was a tree. Red berries, scaly bark, and lanceolate leaves the fox would not touch. The boy's mind whispered words like taxus baccata, evergreen, and poison.

"This is it."

"Thank you, Edmund. Thank you, Peter."

I wonder where they got the wood.

Susan was staring at the bow with deep memory in her eyes and a smile tracing the curve of full lips. Familiarity shimmered there, and Lucy couldn't bring herself to ask just yet; though she knew the story had something to do with the small bandages hidden under Peter's shirt, and the faint ring of power in Edmund's tone. Once summoned from their sleep, the monarchs of Narnia were ever reluctant to return – especially in the Wizarding world.

With Peter, it was always so close to the surface. In their adventures, he had been the one least changed – because the gap between who he was and who he could be was barely a ditch. But Edmund – it must have been something serious, to stir the Just within him.

And nothing good, by the grim set of his mouth.

"It's beautiful," Lucy noted the gentle carvings etched into the graceful curve of wood. It was a longbow; more powerful than the weapon gifted to Susan the Gentle by Father Christmas. A heavier draw, in addition, but Lucy knew her brothers to be fair judges of weaponry and wielders. If they think Susan can handle such a bow, she can.

Why would they think she would need to?

She intended to find that out, too, though the answer could be as clear as the Dark Mark in the August night sky. Voldemort might be invulnerable to spells, but wizards were generally blind to purely physical threats.

Reason enough to want to see us able to protect ourselves, when the ancient magics do that well enough on their own? Voldemort was reborn, and as powerful as he had been before his fall, if Edmund's sources were anything to go by, but was he that strong? Strong enough to unmake magics old and powerful enough to make Dumbledore look a mere child? Voldemort had dropped into Dark and deep powers. No one except he knew how strong he really was. He might be.

More importantly, Peter and Ed are worried that he might be. Worried about Susan. The place her mind led her was very nearly paralyzing.

"I don't remember much." The faraway tone nonetheless brought a smile to everyone's face.

"We'll teach you," Edmund promised. There it is again. Lucy frowned; it wasn't quite the tone of Narnia. Or rather she should say, it wasn't only. The Wizarding world had more rules, and though none of them came close to describing the Pevensies, there was one that applied to them.

Aegis Sanguinis. Could it be?

It very well might. Teeth caught a lip, chewed thoughtfully. She'd read, but the texts on this particular magic were fusty, old, and just this side of legible. And it was a reflection of the time.

Especially in what she viewed to be the biased nature of the application of the rules. Chivalry. What a way to set egalitarianism back on its heels. But she couldn't complain, knowing how the protection she received reassured her brothers. I only wish they received the same.

They were talking of where she could practice, and when, and there were more gifts – a beautiful quiver that looked so like the one she'd had in Narnia that Queen Susan the Gentle was even more evident than before. It was filled with arrows, strong and straight and fletched with feathers from Lucy's flock of hippogriffs. She'd gathered them, all unknowing, at Edmund's strange request a week ago. I knew they were up to something!

"Lu?"

"Just thinking," she smiled.

"Don't hurt yourself," Edmund teased gently. He ducked her playful fist, laughing with her. Susan giggled. Peter snorted.

"Hey!"

The bow was cast aside; a mere minute later all four Pevensies were tussling across the rug of their Tower's common room. "Ooof!"

"Yikes, Susan!" Ed yelped, dodging a particularly fat pillow.

Laughter had her balled up on the floor from tickling fingers. Her sister came to her rescue, looming up behind her tormentor. "Look out!"

"Give up, Peter?"

"Ah! I yield! I yield!"

"Hah!" Susan stood up, leaving the oldest Pevensie grunting on the floor, rubbing a sore stomach. She frowned down at him. "I'm not that heavy, Peter."

One blue eye winked up at her. "Are you sure?"

Susan stuck out her tongue, drawing another burst of giggles from the youngest Pevensie. Ed grinned, making a few noises about food and house-elves before disappearing out the portrait.

Lucy offered her remaining brother a hand and a question. "Honestly, Peter, where did you get the wood?"

Honest, wry blue assessed her stubbornness. "The Forbidden Forest."

A hundred dreadful thoughts rushed through her brain, and two hands landed on her shoulders, steady and strong. "Lucy, calm down. It's all right."

At least he didn't try to lie, and say nothing happened. Peter would never lie to her about something like that. Peter wouldn't lie, period.

"Are you ever going to let me know the whole of it?" Lu wasn't quite sure she wanted to know the whole of it. But I think I could be brave enough.

Peter smiled, and leant forward to brush his lips against her brow. "No."

"Just tell me," she implored warm blue eyes. "Is it – is it Aegis Sanguinis?"

"Yes."

And she knew then, that it was a fight. She didn't know with whom, but her brothers were fine, so she knew the outcome. Aegis Sanguinis – the Blood Protection. And it protected those of certain blood – as well as demanding the same. For her, for Susan, the protection was all-encompassing, based on the chivalry of long-dead ages where women were honored no matter their station. But the men are deemed able to protect themselves in some matters – so the magic stretches just far enough to enforce honor and pride. It was left to her brothers to keep a guard on their own hearts.

Aegis Sanguinis. The Blood Protection. Shielding some, and feeding on others. Brutally blunt, as were many aspects of this strange, magical side of life.

"Fine then," Lucy groused, managing a smile for him. She truly hated some parts of the Wizarding World.

But on seeing the light in summer-sky eyes as they settled on the longbow, and knowing that even the distastefulness of this magic was part of something that had drawn Susan back to them, Lucy couldn't regret it. You can't parse out the good from the bad sometimes. Just have to take it as a whole, and hope you're strong enough, can love hard enough, to come through unscarred.

Peter's wink to her was a sign that they all had; a sign made stronger by Susan's glowing smile. Whatever happens, we are together again. Thank Aslan.

At that moment, Edmund returned with a platter heaped high with dinner, and they settled around the low coffee table with murmurs of delight. She could push dark thoughts away, secure in the knowledge that all was right with her family, and their lives. That the Darkness was counterbalanced by the Light, and they were strong enough, and loved enough, that it would remain that way.

For now.

Fin