Wavered

From the moment Romilda learned that magic existed, and that she, in fact, was a witch, she felt immeasurably lucky and blessed. Her parents were normal as could be—the most bland, down-to-earth pair of real estate agents that had ever walked the Earth, in her opinion. Her older brother was no better.

But she was special. She could move things with a wave of her wand, and fix things that would have been thrown away otherwise. And from the moment McGonagall called her name out and she got sorted as a Gryffindor, she knew that finding a place in this wonderful, scary new world would be fun and challenging.

Romilda loved a challenge.

Her first year at Hogwarts was more stressful than she'd have liked (at least she hadn't started the year before—apparently there had been an honest-to-god monster on the loose). There was a madman on the run, and apparently he was gunning for someone at Hogwarts. She wasn't quite sure who, but everyone seemed to think it had to do with Harry Potter.

Harry Potter. Oh, he was a subject all on his own.

About a year before she was born, Harry—only a year old—had defeated the nastiest, most dangerous, most evil wizard that had ever existed. And no one knew how or why. His parents were both dead when he was found, and Voldemort was never heard from again. He'd been celebrated and praised for years and years afterwards.

Romilda was quite intimidated by the very idea of him; obviously he was a powerful wizard, and he was a celebrity. When she was young, she had plastered the faces of teen superstars on her walls like a madwoman. Looking at Harry made her feel sort of lightheaded and bubbly, so she tried to avoid him as much as possible.

And then, in her second year, the most exciting thing happened—the Triwizard Tournament. And Harry had been called for it! Her House had never been this excited, and she loved joining in the celebrations. She hadn't even considered that he would be in danger, never imagined that anyone could die from being involved in the Tournament.

But he'd come very close, and Cedric Diggory had been caught in the crossfire. And then Harry claimed that the most evil Wizard of all time had returned and was going to try and kill them all, and Romilda had been absolutely terrified. It didn't even occur to her at first that he could've been lying, but then summer had come, and the Dailey Prophet and all of her friends were telling her that there was no possible way Voldemort could come back to life—that kind of magic never had been possible, it never would be.

Romilda couldn't believe how fast she turned against him, just because so many others had. Mob mentality, some called it. That year was the worst of her life; Umbridge was an awful, mean teacher—the nastiest she'd ever had (which was saying something, considering Professor Snape was still teaching potions). She was cruel, and found every way she could to make the lives of her students miserable.

It wasn't until the end of the year that Harry proved them all wrong, while simultaneously throwing Umbridge out of the school. Romilda was insanely grateful, and over the summer her mind spun with ideals of the Boy-Who-Lived. It didn't help that he'd officially proven that Voldemort was back, and they were all in danger. The Ministry was trying to get a hold of him and wrangle up the escaped Death Eaters, but their efforts failed miserably.

As her fourth year began, Romilda was desperate to escape the dark, gloomy nature of the era. She grasped at her crush on Harry and clung tightly to it—she needed to feel something positive, and holding on to something from her younger years helped her get over the fact that her innocence had been snatched away right before her eyes.

And then… and then her fifth year came.

Fifth year always meant O.W.L.'s; staying up all night with your head buried in a book and sleep in your eyes. Romilda had been strangely looking forward to it. Normalcy was a rarity these days, and consuming her life with studies seemed to be the only thing for her to do.

And then, towards the end of the summer, the Ministry fell, and suddenly Muggleborns were to be feared. She was the cause of disgust and hatred, fear and anger. She wanted nothing more than to stay at home and curl up with her parents, but then a letter had come demanding that she show up, and Romilda knew her family would be in danger if she didn't. In the end, she was a Gryffindor at heart, and there was no way she'd put her loved ones in danger.

So she packed her bags and headed to the train station with shaking shoulders, much too terrified to have told her parents anything that had been going on the past year. She'd insisted that she was fine, and then waved her family goodbye. She refused to contemplate that this would be the last time she saw them—absolutely refused.

The train ride started out normally enough (although everyone was much too quiet and solemn-faced). The Muggleborn Registration Committee quickly put an end to that. She was asked to prove her ancestry, and when she couldn't they had taken her away.

Romilda had always lived a charmed life. She was given nice things, and had good food; her life was cushy by anyone's standards.

So there was nothing—nothing—that could have prepared her for the torture of the Dementors. Being near one felt like her happiness had evaporated, and all she could think of was every embarrassing moment of her life, every time she'd been rejected, and imaging her family and friends' painful deaths. She knew their demises were happening; knew that it wasn't possible every one she loved could survive this war.

The life was sucked out of her. She didn't care about looking pretty or being clean or eating or breathing. She waited for her trial for so very long, and when it finally came she was so desperate, so very full of misery, that Romilda couldn't think of a single thing to say to defend herself. She'd just sat huddled in the little chair, muttering for them to take the Dementors away.

And then Umbridge stared down at her and sentenced her to Azkaban.

Romilda had never screamed so loud or shrilly in her entire life. As the guards approached her, she struggled to break free of the chair's confinements, throwing her entire body to one side dramatically. The chair wobbled on its side and she hit the floor, hard. She did her best to wiggle further away from the daunting Dementors, but then she could feel their clammy hands grab hold of her arms and knew she was done.

Her entire body sagged as they led her away from the courtroom.

Romilda had been in Azkaban for two months.

She didn't care about much anymore. She ate when food was pushed at her, because she didn't know when her next meal would come by, and she went to the bathroom in one little corner of her cell, because she couldn't bear the idea of actually sleeping in her own excrement, but besides that she didn't bother to take care of herself. She couldn't remember the last time she'd stood on two legs was—she usually just crawled from one corner to the other.

Her energy was drained completely. Sometimes her chest felt like it was caving in, and she was sure that this was how she would die—in a tiny cell in Azkaban, surrounded by Dementors. She hadn't seen an actual person in over a month, and she was so close to going mad. She'd already started screaming sometimes.

She didn't realize she was doing it, either. When the cold days turned into frigid nights, a low howl would begin to churn within the walls of the prison, and as the many cellmates joined in to call out their misery, Romilda would usually press her fingers in her ears and shiver away the nightmares. But not the past few nights; no, she had opened her mouth and joined the cacophony of moans. When Romilda had focused enough to remember what she was doing, she had carefully her disengaged her fingers from pulling at her hair and curled one tight around her middle, and then stuffed her fist in her mouth. Her teeth had bit down so hard she had drawn blood, but that wasn't unusual.

When a Dementor got too close and the feeling of emptiness embodied her, Romilda would frequently bite down on random parts of her body, too stubborn to beg and screech for forgiveness. Sometimes she would think about what she could've been doing at school at this time. It must've been around the beginning of November, meaning Halloween had just passed. Romilda had always loved Halloween.

Most of all, Romilda missed other people. She wanted to remember that pain wasn't all-consuming, that life was more than curling into a ball and wishing to die. She needed to know that Hogwarts really existed, and she hadn't made it all up to escape the continuous torture that was her real life. She would take anybody—anybody.

So when she heard there was visitor, Romilda had pressed her entire body against the bars of her cell, whimpering and pleading for release well before the person had even shown up. The Dementors were nowhere near her, and until she suspected they were getting closer she would stay right where she was. Romilda didn't know how much time had passed when she heard the telltale sound of feet against the cold cement flooring.

She slid a shaky hand through the bars of her cell and grasped towards the person, sobbing and pleading for him to take her. Her eyes were squeezed closed—she couldn't bear the thought of watching an actual human being walk away from her misery and suffering—but they popped open when a rough, calloused hand touched the tips of her fingers.

Romilda gasped when she saw the hairy, mean face in front of her. She recognized him from the many Wanted posters of the past as some kind of Death Eater, and then realized that maybe she shouldn't be so eager to be near him. He was evil, surely… but she could feel the flush of blood beneath his fingertips, and his eyes were alive with malice.

"Please," she rasped, pressing her face against the bars frantically. He cackled in delight, and the sound was so sharp and shocking in the gloomy atmosphere that Romilda winced and shrunk down in an attempt to make herself as little as possible.

"I want this one," he smirked, and then reached out to caress her face, carefully tipping her chin back so he could get a good look at her eyes. "Look at all of your bones, sticking right out of your chest. Such a pretty little thing," he purred, grinning maniacally. It was then that Romilda noticed his teeth. They were all long and sharp, dangerously glinting when there was no light at all.

Her stomach lurched as his name came back to her—this was Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf. And he'd just chosen her. She felt like she was going to be sick, but the thought of getting out of this prison seemed better than any other alternative. She didn't care if she was killed or turned into a werewolf at this point. She just wanted to escape the Dementors. She'd do anything, anything to get out of Azkaban.

"Please," she beseeched, thrusting her hips towards him. He raised an eyebrow at her, grinned, and then turned to the Dementor.

"Alright, then—the pretty thing asked for it. Knock her out," he demanded. Romilda felt a sudden grip of fear and hopelessness overtake her and when she opened her mouth to scream nothing but a high-pitched whimper escaped. She glanced up at the man over her, wondering if this was when he would kill her (and hoping that he would).

It was then that darkness finally encased her fully, and she lost consciousness.

"Wake up, now, pretty thing," a rough voice snarled, jarring Romilda out of a sleep that was blessedly nightmare free. She snapped to attention, and then looked around her in confusion—she hadn't experienced a restful sleep in months, since before her trial. The Dementors had been sure of that.

That, and the fact that she wasn't in her cell, completely disoriented her. She felt exposed in this open space—it looked like she might have been outside. That should have comforted her, but she felt slightly afraid instead. She strained to see in the darkness, not used to having to see much at all, much less squint in the dark. Finally, she made out the form of a large, domineering man.

It took her a while to see him completely, but when Fenrir Greyback's image came into focus, Romilda couldn't help but scoot forward. Her mind was reeling, her breath caught in her lungs. She wanted nothing more than to feel him, see that his heartbeat was real, and she wasn't just making this all up. He smirked at her reaction and crouched closer, petting at her face experimentally. He seemed confused when she purred and melted into the touch, nuzzling against his dirty, calloused fingers.

"You're a strange one," he muttered, licking his lips as Romilda slowly rocked back and forth. Her eyes had misted over, but she was staring at him like he was her savior. It made his stomach twist in an unusual way that Fenrir wasn't completely sure he liked.

"Please," she suddenly murmured, sliding her hands down his strong forearms and gripping his elbows tightly. She lurched forward and buried herself in his chest, drunkenly consuming his earthy scent. She had always craved touch, and after going so long without it she was desperate. Azkaban had driven her insane—she knew that, because no matter how crazy she was, she would never be stupid—and Fenrir looked so good to her now. She needed this, and if he didn't want it… well, he could kill her. She would be glad for either occurrence.

Fenrir was taken aback by her displays. He'd always been rejected, shoved away, called ugly. Having someone willingly touch him was strange, but a part of him… was okay with it. "What's your name?" he finally growled. He had never cared before, but she was different—crazy, his mind supplied.

"Romilda," she gasped, nails digging into his arms as he continued to remain stiff against her advances. "Please, Fenrir, please," she begged again, nearly crying. She'd taken rejection repeatedly, sat in a tiny, dirty cell and relived every horrible moment of her life. She didn't even know if her family was dead or alive. If she couldn't have this, just a slip of his attention, for even a moment, she would combust.

Fenrir's eyes darkened dangerously when she threshed against him, mewing for his approval. He had never had this much power, especially over one person, and here she was, offering it up for him wholeheartedly…

He grinned hugely and tugged her tightly to his side, burying his face in her neck to sniff at her pulse point. Maybe, just maybe, he'd keep this one around for a little longer…

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

This was written for the FanFiction School of Imagination and Creativity, Business Studies Assessment 3.

I'm pretty nervous about this one! ^_^ Please, I would appreciate if you would leave a review with your thoughts! They all help me improve!