Disclaimer: I don't own the wonderful HP world.
"Be wild; if we want to allow our wilderness its freedom, we have to allow our ideational lives to be let loose, to stream, letting anything come, initially censoring nothing. That is creative life."
― Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run With The Wolves
A hooded figure was huddled up on the ground, almost completely covered by a thorny bush that , coming summer, will probably be full of blackberries.
At the moment, however, it was lightly covered by a sheet of frost, looking at the same time pitiful and perfect in its bareness.
The figure sat perfectly still, not a movement visible under layers of ragged wool. The only sign of life was its breath, a quiet fog coming from its nostrils.
Few meters away a soft, furry hare was cautiously hopping in the snow-covered ground, no doubt searching for something to eat in this despicable, frigid winter.
The problem was that the figure was in need of food too.
The hare sniffed the air, its small dark nose twitching anxiously.
Just a little on the left, thought the figure, resisting the impulse to just grab the animal and be done with it. But it knew that the probability of success would be, in that case, close to zero.
The hare continued hopping around with no precise pattern, and the figure silently exhaled a breath through its mouth, allowing itself to close the eyes just a momen-
The sharp sound of a metal clamp closing on soft fur echoed in the silence, almost overlapping the keen cry of pain coming from the hare.
Every time, the figure wished that this was it, but the animal's pitiful sounds never seemed to die quickly. It never seemed to die quickly .
The figure steeled itself, and tried to block out the hare's cries, tried to think about anything else, something nice and peaceful, for a change.
Nothing came to mind.
Tense minutes passed.
And finally – finally- the woods were silent once more.
After a long, weary sigh the figure unfolded itself and stood straight.
It was a person.
Well, more precisely, a girl.
With cautious steps, she proceeded through the snow covered ground.
Her toes stopped where the pool of blood began.
Hunting was an extremely charged-up activity, and her wild side loved it.
But the cleaning – well.
She didn't know if she hated this part or the dying sounds more.
But this was surely most gruesome.
She lowered her hood, revealing a winter hat that resembled more a turban than anything else, long dark brown bushy air that was sensibly swept up in a practical bun, a plain face, and weary brown eyes.
Untucking a butcher knife from her belt she began the gruesome task of cleaning the hare.
Her expression hard, she crouched down low in the pool of blood – still warm – , opened the rusty clamp with small difficulty and tried to make a more or less clean incision along the animal stomach: more blood, bodily liquids and intestines came out with a wet pop sound.
She pushed her right – bare - hand in the hole trying to extract what remained, while keeping the skin unfurled with the knife in her left one.
When she was done, she waited the blood flow to finish; then she made a small hole in the snow around the pool of liquid and covered it with more snow, effectively hiding any trace of the gruesome deed.
She decided to do not skin the hare yet, but to do it later, outside the tent.
She was sure she was gone for a long time - waiting out preys was no funny business- and Harry needed her.
She only hoped that a nice roasted hare would raise a little his spirits and most of all, his health.
The girl cleaned as she could the clamp in the snow, tucked it with the butcher's knife in her belt and threw the dead animal over her shoulder, beginning the long trek home.
They were currently located between two branches of the Perryhay Ditch, a small creek originating from Blackpool Brook, almost in the geometrical center of the Forest of Dean.
It was winter, and it was fucking cold.
Hermione was sure that her clothes didn't resemble clothes at all anymore. She just threw on every rag she could find to protect herself from the frost and – yes- even some of the woolen jumpers that Ronald left behind.
Like he left them – as they were no more that old, extra-clothing that he could ask mummy to knit again.
She gritted her teeth.
Vengeful thoughts were probably not good for her health, but neither were random mushrooms and leftover game meat that she cooked half-assedly over little more than a lighter's fire.
Harry's meat was cooked properly though - she remained a mother hen, and proud to be one.
Hermione's eyes travelled from the book currently in her lap – The Tales of Beedle the Bard? Really, Dumbledore? – to her sick friend, tossing and turning in his troubled sleep.
He had a high fever after being bitten by Nagini, probably caused by the infection originated from the wound inflicted by the blasted Locket on his pale torso.
Obviously, she couldn't find some tabs. Or a Pepper-Up potion.
So, obviously, she fretted, trying to occupy her brain with tasks that required her full attention (like reading or hunting for food or searching water or hunting for food).
Amidst the hell that normally were her days now, however, Hermione felt that something inside her shifted.
Like a growl originating from the depth of her being.
Staying outside a lot, hunting, exploring, being in charge, watching over her friend, were all things that lighted her fire.
Of course, she still loved books, studying, and learning but this wild life – it was simply different.
Electrifying.
It was adrenaline-filled, but never she felt that she was really applying her intelligence like this: she had to be adaptable, aware of her surroundings – how can I use that? How can I take advantage of this? Would that be adequate for…?- , constantly learning from nature, experience, other creatures, always prepared for every and any chance that fate decided to throw her way.
In particular she loved hunting: she learned the art of waiting out events, of planning traps, of using everything – every branch, every bush, every slope- to her advantage.
All this in order to catch her prey.
A Cheshire-cat like smile spread on her cracked lips.
If she should apply this knowledge on boys….
Her reverie was cut off by a loud groan of pain escaping Harry's lips.
Hermione stored away her book, stepped quickly through the tent and perched on the cot edge.
She put her larger-than-girls-average hand on her friend's forehead, only to find it predictably burning; despite that she tried to maintain an –almost- serene mental disposition and, probably picking from Luna's repertoire she began to hum a little tune, hoping to soothe him.
It worked.
A few moments later Harry was deeply asleep, a painful open and vulnerable expression digging between his lips and his askew glasses.
Hermione gently removed the spectacles from his face and put them on the small table that was available in the tent.
She sat quietly for a long, inspecting her friend's features, focusing on every little blemish, scar and crease.
Something primal howled inside her.
He was her brother, her first and best friend, and she would be there for him, always.
But right now, more than anything, he was her responsibility.
Hermione got up from the cot and steeled herself.
She will go hunting, again.
In the dim light of the candles her eyes flashed a dangerous amber.
She was letal.
A/N: Hello everyone! This is my first (published) fanfiction. As you can see I'm a non-native English speaker and I'm currently without a beta. Anyone who wishes to apply for the position is welcome to PM me.
At the moment this is a one-shot, but I will be glad to continue if you send me a positive feedback. My outline of the story wil be (I think) a HG/SS ship, centered around the months after the visit to Godric's Hollow until the end of the war. Let me know what you think about this, and thanks for reading!