The past month had been one of reflection for Samantha Banks. Her argument with Askold had put her on the defensive, wanting nothing more than to defend herself, her beliefs, her choices. How dare he question the strategy she'd put careful thought into: keeping herself secret so that the Cotswolds would never hurt for money, so that they could fund their activists, their healers, their teachers, so that they could have comfortable tents and the hope of building proper houses someday instead of freezing on the streets?

And it hurt that much more because Askold was the first non-werewolf she'd been so open with, so trusting of. She'd gotten the impression that he was so passionate that she felt she had nothing to fear--and it was that very passion that upset him so much when she'd made the suggestion that perhaps he should've brought Emil to someone else first. To Dexter, to Teddy, to someone who could help him more and give her time to introduce the Cotswolds to him before she introduced herself. And he'd called her selfish for it.

The words had been echoing in her mind all month, even as there were things to do. Even as she kept an eye on the news from the Ministry, knowing that Teddy had sent them information about the Trossachs' location, yet she heard nothing. Even as she brought Emil to the camp, getting him set up with the basics. Even as she knew Hogwarts was about to let out for the summer, fearing that more incidents might happen.

Despite everything, though, since she'd met Emil already, she'd invited him back to the cottage for the full moon. That was something she could do for him, and having been troubled by Askold's accusations, she'd felt obligated to do something herself. And that, today, would be teaching him the right way to restrain himself before transforming, and to keep him company so the pain wouldn't drive him as insane as it could. Nobody deserved that, not even Greyback, who Samantha wished pain on more than anything.

After a dinner in which she barely succeeded in getting the new werewolf to eat anything at all--though she wasn't sure she could blame him--she patted the heads of her dogs and led Emil out to the shed near her cottage. It was when she was making her way across the yard that the shadow of a figure out in the meadow caught her eye, and she stopped in her tracks, hand going to the wand in her pocket.


@seanokeeffe

A deep chill ran down Samantha's spine at the man's words. I know what you are. How? Where was the security leak? Because she didn't recognize him, had never seen him before in her life, if memory served, and the implication hung in the air like an impending storm. She didn't want to think it was Askold who had told anyone, but the thought of one of her own pack members having said too much somewhere seemed equally as terrifying. Of Teddy having let something slip during his interrogation, perhaps--none of the options were anything short of disastrous.

Reaching a hand up to Emil's shoulder, she pushed him back gently, making him stand behind her. "If anything at all, you go right into the shed," she muttered under her breath, gesturing at the small stone building to their left. There was no way to know what this man wanted with them--only that he knew Emil, and that he, somehow, knew too much. If they waited too long, if the moon rose before they could solve the problem, he could murder them with a flick of his wand, and walk free.

And even if she could have called in the police--or the Aurors--so far out in the countryside, it wasn't as if they would be on the side of two werewolves.

With right hand gripping her wand, slipping it out of her pocket, she shifted her feet into a more stable stance. "This is my house. My land. Explain why you're here, first."


@seanokeeffe

I am not a monster.

It was what Samantha had been telling herself for years. For twenty-five, nearly twenty-six years, that no matter what, an unfortunate disease wouldn't turn her into a mindless killing machine, unfit to live in society. And hadn't she proved it, in many ways? She had gone all those years without a single incident. She was polite, spoke well, dressed well; she was intelligent enough to grow her money in the stock market. She helped others--even if Askold's voice in her head was saying selfish, selfish again. The illness had affected her body, not her mind. She was not a monster.

And yet the flood of words was telling her the opposite, was speaking for everyone who'd ever been hurt by one of them, by the likes of Greyback and his pack, and she wanted desperately to say something, to justify herself, to justify the Cotswolds. But her tongue was heavy, as if it wouldn't move at all, no matter how much she wanted it to, and she steeled her limbs for a physical fight as the man moved closer.

No, as the werewolf moved closer, because she hadn't missed the phrasing even in his rambling speech, and there was not enough time to know how to react, to think through the options. To wonder if there was a chance to change things, to convince him not to do this, to stop viewing himself as the devil. There wasn't time. There was a glint of silver, a hand wrapped around her neck, panic rising, and then the spell holding down her tongue released just in time for her to react. "Flipendo!" The man was thrown back, landing heavily on the ground a few feet away, and Samantha's breathing came harshly and raggedly. "I can't let you do that," she breathed. "I can't--I have to protect them." Is this protecting? Is this what I have to do?

And as the man seemed to be getting up, coming for her yet again, the wild desire for revenge almost glowing in his eyes, the panic bubbled up again, the fear and the thought that she could not die and she could not let him go free, not with what he knew. Never in her life had she had the instinct to use an Unforgivable Curse, but there was the shine of the knife and the echoing feeling of the fingers that had been wrapped tightly around her throat, and before she could think too hard on what she was doing, a blast of green shot out of her wand. "Avada Kedavra!"

The man crumpled to the ground, and Samantha looked down at the wand in her hand, startled, feeling as if the limb was somehow not part of her body, as if her real self had stepped two feet to the side and she was simply looking at another Samantha with another wand. I do not kill. I am not a monster. And here she was, the boy with her nearly forgotten, the dead man in front of her too painful to look at. Stumbling to the side, dizzy and horrified, she knelt on the ground, feeling as if she would vomit at any moment.


@seanokeeffe