Light spilled from the window of the but 'n' ben, casting a yellow-orange glow on the small area of cleared ground around the remote cottage.

Fenrir slunk closer, moving as readily on four limbs in his human form as he did on two, his filthy coat blending into the shadows of the rough straggly grass that was all the peaty soil would support. The girl had chosen her hiding place well. Few of the old two-roomed cottages survived. For a while they'd been weekend retreats for city folk, but few Muggles, now, would tolerate even a weekend without electricity. For a witch, though... A young, soft-skinned, sweetly scented witch. One that had screamed in pain as he'd ploughed her dry cunt, making her blood mix with his spunk.

So sweet.

And so unsatisfying.

Bellatrix, the mad bitch, had insisted that he couldn't mark her before he had the Dark Lord's permission, had said they didn't have enough kennels.

He could take her, his teeth at her neck. He could smell her humiliation oozing from her pores as he pressed her face into the desk and ripped off her frilly knickers. He had shown the frigid little bitch what a real man could do to her, and she'd tried to catch the eyes of each of her captors in turn, as if she thought one of them would stop them: Lucius, who'd grown hard watching, who might have taken a turn himself if he hadn't been afraid of contaminating his precious cock with her filthy blood. Draco, who'd vacillated between fascination and repulsion, one second staring at his shoes, the next drawn to where his bloody cock had pounded into that tight little cunt. Narcissa, who had turned her back, staring out across those pathetic lawns with their pretentious peacocks, pretending that it was a dinner party going on behind her back rather than luscious rape and torture. But he hadn't tasted her.

Now he'd come back to finish the job. Now he would have her in every way. How delightful it would be to sink his teeth into those pert milky breasts, to know that she would be forever his thereafter, that she would always bear his legacy. He wouldn't scar her face, he'd decided. No, he liked a pretty face, especially when those brave, silent tears rolled down it, but he'd mark her breasts so that no other man would ever want her. She'd be his bitch. Her every day forged by the cravings he gave her. If he didn't kill her.

And that was when she crossed in front of the window. Her hair had grown even longer in the months since the final battle, tumbling to the middle of her back. She was carrying something, but when she reached the scrubbed pine table, instead of setting her burden aside, she turned bouncing it gently in her arms.

Fenrir's smile widened. A babe. No wonder Little Miss Perfect had been so keen to disappear as soon as the Dark Lord was defeated. And scarce a year since he'd ripped her. The mad bitch had insisted on checking. Gloating over how the girl had saved herself for her Prince Charming. Singing about how kind they were to make sure she wouldn't die a virgin. Of course, there was a chance she'd turned to the Potter brat or his sidekick for comfort, but he'd torn her up pretty good. She probably wouldn't have wanted a tampon up there for a good few weeks, never mind another dick. And that babe was no newborn.

A low rumble sounded from his chest, primeval and instinctive.

He'd have her. Her and the child. He'd take her tonight, just as he'd planned, but he'd be back when the moon was full.

He crept closer, needing to watch, to listen. Once she knew he was there, she'd refuse to talk. The window would be like a mirror from inside, with all those lights on. He could be right outside and she would never know.

She rocked the baby as she paced, and as he crossed the garden he could make out her whispers. "I know, I know. You were all ready to go to sleep and I got you up." The girl looked considerably curvier than she had a year ago, and it suited her. "I'm sorry, Solomon."

Fenrir grimaced. Solomon. What sort of name was that? Well, they'd give the boy a new name when he was turned, and turned he would be as soon as he was old enough to withstand the change.

"Not long, my darling. Not long. How about some music, hmm?" Shifting to support the baby in one arm, she drew her wand from her sleeve and pointed it at a hand-wound gramophone. It came to life playing some hoity-toity classical music.

Well, there'd be none of that when she was underground.

"What about Bamma? Do you want to play with Bamma?" A stuffed toy, cream coloured and fluffy with a long neck flew across the room and landed on the table where the baby stared at it, his fretful whimpers exchanged for a smile. Short arms reached out for the deformed sheep and it flew to the babe, who promptly took its ear into his mouth.

So his boy already knew what to do with those weaker than him. All to the good.

The woman laughed softly. "You can't be hungry again. You were fed just before I put you down." She crossed to a sofa and settled herself.

As she opened her blouse, Fenrir loosened the fastenings of his trousers. After all, he didn't want things to be over too quickly when he reminded her who she belonged to. He wanted those sweet tears to last longer this time. He wouldn't be so rushed, and there was a different pleasure to this, not the satisfaction of forcing her to submit, but that of violating her without her even knowing, of taking her act of nurturing and defiling it.

He stroked and fondled until he was fully aroused, picturing the mother of his child sucking at his cock the way his son sucked at her teat.

When death came, it was as a whisper. The Sectumsempra sliced his manhood from him and opened the femoral artery. Blood spewed onto the rose beds and splattered the cottage's whitewashed walls.

"Snape," the werewolf growled, one dying word filled with hatred and disdain.

"So stupid, Greyback. Even if she had been alone, she would have been able to remain hidden from you. Unfortunately for you, she is not alone. She has friends. She has family. Not only those she was born to, but those who love her and her son. Family who will do whatever it takes to protect them both from you. We knew you would try to find her. We knew as soon as you escaped that it was a matter of time. And so we waited and we set silent wards. You should have stayed in Azkaban. You would have been safe there. When you broke out, we knew this time the solution had to be final."

The werewolf stared at him with unseeing eyes until Severus raised his wand again, Transfiguring the corpse into a stone. Just one more like the many that made the cottage walls or divided the surrounding fields. He hefted it in his hand and threw it as high and as far as he could, blasting it into a thousand fragments at the zenith of its trajectory.

Then he turned on his heel and went back to his family.