Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Supernatural.
A/N: This is a companion piece to my story 'Blood Will Out', just a short piece on Hermione in England meeting the big bad wolf. Something may come of it later in the story, so watch out for that one.
Wolf.
"Take that, werewolf." Hermione kicked and punched the air, fighting her invisible foe.
Hermione was training. She had been in England for two weeks now with her mother and she was training so she could surprise her daddy when she went back to America with how good she was at this hunting stuff. Her father would see how good she was and then he'd have no choice but to let her help out on hunts.
"Little girl, what are you doing?" Hermione jumped and turned around guiltily, widening her eyes innocently at the strange man who had caught her training. She had started out in the backyard at home, but her mother had told her werewolves weren't real and she should be a little bit quieter, so Hermione had taken herself off to the local park.
"Playing." The man was about as old as her daddy with dark brown hair and brown eyes to match. He was tall too, and wearing ratty clothes that didn't look very clean. Hermione took a miniscule step back, trying to edge out of grabbing distance. Old men shouldn't approach little girls in parks; Dean said they were all perverts and she should kick them and run away. Hermione thought that might be a little harsh, especially if they hadn't done anything yet. All the same, she shifted her weight so she would be able to get a good kick in, just in case.
"What are you playing?" The man smiled a crooked tooth grin, but didn't move any closer.
"Hunter."
"What are you hunting?" The man smiled again and she resisted the shuddery feelings he was giving off.
"Werewolves." The man's eyes glinted. Hermione was getting nervous and she was beginning to rethink the whole not-kicking-strangers thing.
"Why are you hunting werewolves?" He asked as if he couldn't think of a single possible reason for anyone to ever want to hurt a kind, innocent werewolf.
"Because that's what you hunt."
"Why would you hunt a werewolf?" This question was more forceful, more pointed. Hermione took another small step back.
"Because werewolves are evil." Hermione said matter-of-factly.
"Is that so?" He asked in such a way that he thought she was stupid. Hermione bristled because she was not stupid and nobody got to think so.
"Yes, they eat people."
"I'm sure not all werewolves eat people." It was Hermione's turn to look at him like he was the stupid one and he simply shrugged.
"What's your name?"
"Hermione. What's yours?"
"Fenrir." Hermione gasped and her eyes widened before she managed to control her expression, because that was the name of a wolf in the stories that Sam told her. He was a werewolf, he had to be. Nobody could have a name like that and not be a werewolf. It must be why he was asking so many questions.
"Shouldn't you be hunting them at night, when the full moon is out?" He asked and she slowly shook her head, no way was she ever going out on the full moon; this guy would probably eat her up.
"Daddy says you have to get them with a silver bullet to the heart when they don't have teeth to turn you furry," she said, staring at the creature in defiance; no need to tell him that her daddy was all the way back in America. Hopefully he'd think he was around here somewhere, ready to shoot any beastie that tried to eat her.
The man sniffed the air blatantly, not taking his eyes from her and Hermione couldn't stop the shiver that ran through her at that.
"Is that what your daddy says?" Hermione nodded and swallowed thickly.
"Well we can't have that now can we." He smiled down at her and started stepping backwards away from her. Hermione started to let out the breath she had been holding as the werewolf retreated.
"I'll see you around, little one." Hermione sucked in a breath and shook her head defiantly.
"Not at night you won't."
"We'll see." He turned on his heel and strode out of the park. Hermione stood in her spot and shook at the close call. She was scared: she had been convinced that there were only monsters in America; now she knew that wasn't true, and her daddy wasn't here to hunt them down. She stubbornly wiped away the fears tears that had escaped; hunters didn't cry.
Hermione stayed in the park for hours, not wanting to lead the thing back to her home. When she did finally leave, she took the back way to her house, sneaking through several different gardens to throw the beast of her trail.
Hermione spent the next few weeks worrying about the werewolf coming to get her. She had called Dean and asked him about ways to protect houses from werewolves, but he hadn't known any. He'd just told her not to hunt on her own.
On the night of the full moon, she bathed thoroughly and then put on some of her mother's perfume so the beast wouldn't be able to find her by scent. Then she had snuck around the house, making sure all the windows and doors were locked after her mother went to bed. She then dragged her bedcovers to her wardrobe and sequestered herself inside with one of the knives she had stolen from the kitchen.
The first howl ripped through the night and made her jump out of the light doze she had fallen into. Hermione gripped the knife in her little hand tightly and waited with bated breath for any sound of the house being entered.
The howls had continued throughout the night, and the next morning Hermione had stumbled down to breakfast, exhausted but alive. Her mother had commented on the howls and Hermione said she had been alright, hadn't really noticed them.
Hermione had gone to check the front door to make sure that there weren't any scratches. The door was intact but there was a little bunny with bloody matted fur and wide blank eyes. Hermione had picked it up, careful of any furry infections and raced inside to her mother, wanting her to fix it, to make it all better. Her mother had shrieked at the dead thing her child was carrying around and Hermione had burst into terrified, guilty tears. Her mother had taken the bunny from her limp hands and held her while she cried for the little lost life.
It became a ritual for months after that. Every full moon and the night would be filled with howls and the morning would be complete with little bloody bodies while Hermione remained vigilante with her stolen knife.
Then Hermione left for America, and when she came back, her mother had moved into a new house with a new man and there were no more full moons filled with howls. It had made her like the new man even if her mother insisted she call him dad.
The End