Summary: In the Forest of Dean, Hermione found herself. In the foyer of Malfoy Manor, she broke. Post-War, she's fighting for sanity. It doesn't help either that a certain werewolf Snatcher decides to turn her world upside down. A retelling of Hermione's experiences during the Seventh Book. Contains word play/embellished language, departures from canon, and a bit of Ron bashing. Rated M for sexual content and disturbing themes.

Warnings: Over the top story telling, dark themes, torture, reference to rape (but no non-con), mental illness, and animalistic behaviour.

Author's Note: I wrote this to entertain myself and challenge myself with a bit of existential concepts and word play. Kind of jumps around and has a jarring structure. This first chapter is a mammoth (just over 6,000 words), but the subsequent chapters will be a more reasonable size (approx 2,000 - 3,500 words). Let me know what you think – if it's worth reading, I'll keep writing.

Chapter 1: Catch Me If You Can

As she rested her head against the aging English Oak, Hermione reflected the days past. Since they had gone on the run, an incredible change had occurred between Harry and Ron. She acknowledged that it was only to be expected. Ever since she had met him, Hermione knew Ron was a bully. From his nasty words cutting to her core and his little jealous spats with Harry, Ron had not done himself a world of favours in her eyes.

At first, Hermione had been heartbroken but as the years passed she had come to fancy the argumentative boy – the same way she realised some girls liked the 'bad boys'. It had taken her a while but when she finally realised Ron wasn't going to suddenly change into a person that would treat her any better, the sudden switch from 'childhood crush' to 'disgusting twat' was astonishingly fast.

Hermione and Harry loved one another as the siblings they never had; Ron somehow lived in their group as a mate, a person that Harry used as a sounding board for his ridiculous plans and inside jokes and boy's talk in the night. But without the buffer of the boys from the dormitory out here in the wilderness, it quickly became evident that Ron and Harry had little in common besides being in the same place at the same time.

In a way she never knew possible, she had become closer with Harry. It was a blessing in disguise when Ron's jealous fury came to a spectacular head on that miserable day in the forest. When Harry finally told her why Ron had left, jealousy once again, Hermione felt a deep gorge erupt in her heart. Ron was jealous of her and Harry. The thought of Ron being jealous of their relationship was disgusting. Ron treating Harry that way – the way she had treated Harry back in fourth year – stabbed a spear in her heart. She felt like she was the one that had come between them, despite knowing that Ron's attitude wasn't her fault. And yet it made her feel infinitesimally smaller.

From her earliest memories, Hermione felt uncomfortable with herself in ways inexpiable, always having to speak and demand and lecture until everyone was gone and realising that she had been the one to drive them away. Even when reading in the muffling silence of a library, a dialogue echoed in her head, connecting logic and knowledge almost faster than her neurons could fire. Silence held a stronghold in her heart, causing fear in every pause of conversation.

And yet… In the strange stillness of a forest when even the birds and insects had gone quiet, sensing the magical storm brewing in England, she found herself. Slowly the feeling of almost suffocating self-hate began to abate. Hermione came to terms with the fact that Ron's behaviour wasn't her fault, that he belonged only to himself and it was time the wretched boy took responsibility for his actions.

After stumbling upon this epiphany, a huge breath of air filled Hermione's lungs, as if resurfacing from years of ignorantly keeping her head under water. She was shaken by the freedom of fate, the loss of control, the ability to just be. The shocking revelation felt like a star exploding in the universe of her conscious, suddenly aware of the nebula of life expanding around her. She became aware, painfully so, of everything around her and she had been so completely unaware of its breathtaking simplicity until she was willing to see it for herself. What is, what was, no matter how hard you tried to change it. And it was beautiful.

Within this odd comfort, Hermione and Harry had found companionship in the loneliness. Alone but together. In control of nothing. They turned off the radio Ron insisted on listening to day in and day out, slowly growing accustomed to not having to speak to feel the presence of the other. Despite the constant silence she had once feared, Harry liked her (stayed with her) anyway.

Camping had always been something of a novelty for Hermione. Now, against all her expectations of a future researching indoors, she found herself living in peace in the way she instinctively felt humans were meant to. Breathing in the smell of rain in the morning, a freezing bath in lake water and the thrill of a hunt, tracking for food and clutching to survival. Falling asleep to the smell of charred smoke on her clothes and the good company of a friend – a brother – who would watch her back day in and day out.

And it was fun in a bizarre, darkly humorous sort of way. Harry would laugh as Hermione would gasp painfully as she washed in the bitterly cold lakes of the forest, facing away to preserve her privacy yet remaining close enough to protect her dignity. She was always sure to return the favour, even throwing a playful dunking charm at his head when his guard was down and would laugh endlessly as his spluttered oaths.

When they collected wood for their fires, Harry would find a twig resembling a wand and would 'cast' jinxes at her; she reciprocated by pretending the spells worked and falling to the ground as if her legs were turned to jelly. Their laughter would ring and echo in the forest, as light and joyful as church bells.

There was nothing romantic about it, even though the situation would seem deeply intimate on the outside. They had even spent a few evenings discussing late into the night about the very topic and eventually admitting to one another that they loved each other, but it was an intricately simple love. Love that siblings share and though neither knew what that meant having grown up without brothers or sisters, their heart beat the same.

Childish, she mused, would be the word – but without the negative connotation. Innocent may be more appropriate. Like two runaways from a storybook. She smiled, recalling the tales she used to read endlessly of The Boxcar Children and their adventures of an adult-free childhood. Or the beautiful simplicity of Neverland and The Lost Boys (and lost girl, if Hermione was feeling grammatically correct).

It was easy to forget the horror of the outside world in this black-and-white simplicity.

Her thoughts came to a crashing halt as she felt a strange disturbance in the force, although she allowed a small smile at the muggle reference as it churned in her mind. Her smile quickly turned into a frown as her protection wards reverberated in the back of her mind warningly, like a fly struggling in a spider web.

Silent as a doe, she rose to her feet and carefully crept through the forest. The months she and Harry had spent tracking deer and small animals in the dense trees taught her how to avoid the crackling of twigs and to keep her presence to a minimum. She allowed the odd feeling of 'this way' in her mind to guide her to the source of the magical interference, allowing her feet to deftly move over the forest floor like a ghost.

Hermione pursed her lips irritably as she found herself standing in a small clearing, cut away by a wee bubbling brook feeding the ancient, unmoving willows. Her privacy ward lay two feet before her, keeping in any sound, smell and sight from unwanted outsiders. Normally, Hermione wouldn't venture so far from the camp and leaving Harry exposed to attack left a bitter taste in her mouth. Upon seeing nothing worth concern, she turned on the balls of her feet, intent to return to the camp when she stopped spinning abruptly and she let out a strangled gasp.

A man stood directly before her, peering into the darkness. Similar to how she assumed a seventeenth century pirate would appear, this man towered above her with thickly kohled eyes, tan, sun beaten skin and heavy black clothing – the only colour being a splash of a distinctive red band wrapped around his triceps and well-worn plaid stitches.

Snatcher, Hermione thought with abrupt horror. What is he doing all the way out here?!

The man turned and Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a strangled cry, desperate to not give herself away despite her iron-strong wards. The man scanned the horizon and, horrifyingly, his electric blue eyes locked with Hermione's terrified gaze. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, smelling a scent on the wind. A smirk quirked his otherwise blank expression. Her perfume.

Hermione knew in that instant that he could see her. Distress tingled deep inside her mind – the wards aren't down! Her mind quickly supplied. And yet could see through them, like Mrs. Norris could see through Harry's invisibility cloak on occasion. Blown animalistic pupils piercing her with a single-minded fixation, razor sharp cheekbones and a roughish handsomeness gave him away. Elf, veela, vampire? No – werewolf, she thought frantically, her mind sifting through escape tactics at record speed. If a magical being other than a human got close enough to the wards, they would be able to see through them – this normally wouldn't matter, of course, as long as Hermione and Harry kept out of sight of the boundary of the wards.

Think, think, think dammit! She screamed internally as her mind drew a blank on escape routes. Her mouth fell slack and she felt her body beg to obey an animalistic need to run!

Hermione could feel a blood curdling scream crawling up her throat while pinned under his hooded gaze, but she supressed it with sheer determination. Her scrambled mind suddenly calmed. Hermione remembered, distantly, I'm between him and Harry – and he doesn't know Harry's here. Just me. And I can lead him away. She lowered her trembling hand from her pale face and defiantly raised an eyebrow at the monster in a silent challenge (and, admittedly, her best impression of a Malfoy glare).

Come and get me, asshole.

The man's lips curled upwards, incredibly sharp canines bared in an alarmingly confident grin. Hermione felt herself pale even further and balked as the man winked at her suggestively, raising his own eyebrow in response to her rather weak challenge. She felt her nostrils flare at the act and drew her wand at record speed just as a voice broke the deafening silence.

"Scabior, whatcha hell ya doin'?! Move on, yea!"

Hermione felt her eyes instinctively jump without her permission to the other Snatchers stumbling into the clearing and a flash of movement in her peripheral vision stunned her like a deer in the headlights. A larger body tackled into her, making her drop her drawn wand onto the leafy forest floor in shock. An explosion of agony rocked her mind as the wards warped, bounced, and shattered like a popped soap bubble under the werewolf's attack, forcing her to arch her back painfully and cry out.

Hermione's eyes stopped sparkling with stars of pain and the grey canopy of the forest came into view. She forced the confusion from her mind and realised arms were wrapped tight around her waist, a face pushing roughly against her neck. She tried to reclaim her lost breath, wriggling weakly, arms trapped between her body and his, desperately trying to push away the body holding her down as panic overrode her senses.

"'Ello, beautiful," a deep, husky voice whispered hotly into her bitterly cold ear, accompanied with a painful nip of sharp teeth, causing Hermione gasp and shudder painfully. "Whatsa lovely itty bitty t'ing like you doin' in the big bad woods?"

"Fuck," she gasped, gouging her chipped nails down his chest, "you!"

An enormous reverberating growl shook her frame as the man's chest pressed impossibly harder into her. Hermione cried out as large hands grabbed her wrists, pinning them easily with one hand over her head and the other arm wrapping firmly around her waist. Play dead for the werewolf or you'll be eaten, you idiot! Ignoring her screaming instincts, she bucked and tossed uselessly against the hard body pressing her hard into the forest floor. Immediately the growl stopped and a hot chuckle breathed against her ear.

"Mm, not yet sweetheart," he crooned into Hermione's neck, uncomfortably exposed to the man's sharp teeth. "Bet ya think you're clever, don'cha? But not clever enough to not be caught," the man teased further, his scruffy check and soft nose nuzzling a mockery of tenderness against the side of her face. Hermione felt herself let out a low whine as she squeezed her eyes shut and thrashed furiously, not even budging the slight yet built frame of the man above her. The headache of the ward destruction still reverberated like a church choir in her skull, making her whine in furious pain.

"Aye Scaibs, whatcha caught 'ere?!"

"Yah yah yah! Share, eh?!"

"Seems like we caught ourselves a pre-dinner snack, lads," laughed the man holding her, his deep voice vibrating through her even as he lifted his head away from her exposed neck to address to his comrades.

An ecstatic war cry echoed through the forest as the men howled, the call of a Snatcher who had captured its prey. Hermione heard herself let out an embarrassingly loud keen of fear and blushed helplessly, followed by an amused chuckle by her captor as he returned to nuzzle her neck once more.

Hermione then felt another magical presence, one she knew all too well – a presence she had come to sense as a second shadow over the past year. Harry! She squirmed harder. She had to tell him to run! Run, Harry, run! She silently begged, knowing the boy all too well to believe for a second he'd leave her struggling on the forest floor, surrounded by Snatchers. She bucked fiercer than before, thrashing with every ounce of her energy.

"Woah there, sweetheart," crooned the man as he easily moulded himself against her to absorb each jolt and nuzzling his face even deeper into the crook of her neck, "No need wearin' yourself out just yet." Cruel cheers met his words, the intention behind them clear.

Hermione's eyes flew open and she stared into the canopy, the silhouettes of the yattering men blocking her view. She heard a choked sob and yet barely registered it had come from her, a sudden calm eclipsing her fear and forcing her to view the situation as if outside of her own body.

Harry. She had to protect him; she loved him like a brother – no, he is her brother. She couldn't in good conscience let him interfere, lest she drag him down with her own stupidity. She knew he was strong enough, powerful enough, great enough, chaotic enough to cause Voldemort's destruction on his own.

"I love you!" She screamed out, her voice sharp enough in the silence to cause the few remaining birds in the trees to startle and fly off.

The body above her tensed and the cackling men silenced, surprised by her outburst.

"I know can do this and don't you dare stop because of me! I know you can do it – just trust yourself!" She wailed out, loathing that these private admissions had to be heard by the men around her. "I love you and if you love me, go! Please just go – now!" She screamed even harder, hearing her voice crack under the strain of the situation and the weight of the man above her.

The man leapt up so quickly, so immediately, that Hermione barely had a moment to register the movement. She had been banking on him realising what she was doing, that she was talking to someone, even if his band of Snatchers were too stupid to recognise the meaning behind her words. As he jerked her up by the hold on her wrists, she quickly yanked one hand free and socked the man with the same strength, vindictiveness and conviction she had punched Malfoy with in third year. As hoped, her violent punch surprised her captor so greatly that he was pushed back on his rear to the forest floor, letting her slip through his fingertips.

Hermione landed on the ground with a painful thump and, using every ounce of her dwindling energy, she scrabbled across the ground quickly, barely registering the stones and twigs cutting her skin as she reached out to grab the base of her wand. Just as her fingers made contact with the enchanted wood, she flung her arm in the direction she knew Harry was hiding, casting a silent charm with all her strength and praying to every deity it wouldn't hit Harry's skin.

The mere seconds it took for this to occur passed like molasses in Hermione's eyes. She watched sluggishly as the turquoise spell left her wand and exploded on the exposed tip of Harry's shoe peaking behind a mossy tree, temporarily spelling his sneaker into a one-way portkey. Instantly, he was transported away to their hidden safe camp – hundreds of kilometres away. Leaves and dirt swirled in a furious hurricane where he once stood, indicating his disappearance.

She relaxed against the ground at the sight, breathing in gulps of air as she surrendered and let her armed hand drop. Her peace lasted a nanosecond before she was dragged roughly back by her foot along the forest floor, an angrily growling beast of a man crawling over her threateningly. Everything was forgotten and her vision tunnelled to the singular presence of her captor – the heavy presence of the forest, the roars of the other Snatchers, the sound of stomping feet, all fading away to nothing.

Hermione's eyes adjusted to the sudden shadow of the man's frame as he hovered over her on his hands and knees, trembling with rage. Hermione channelled every bit of defiance in the face of adversity Harry had unknowingly taught her over the years and began laughing hysterically at her furious predator, knowing this would infuriate him further but not caring. She had won.

Hermione gleefully locked gazes with the enraged man in smug satisfaction as a large hand enclosed on her neck, choking her breath and sealing her throat. Instinctively, her hands flew to clasp his to try to alleviate the pressure of his grasp to no avail. She never stopped grinning victoriously despite her struggle, holding his hooded gaze as the world closed in and faded into darkness.

Scabior hates being defied.

That's it, simply. Defiance. It's another thing for another Alpha to get on his nerves – they have the experience, the knowledge, the power to get away with it. They've earned it. They to be respected and they've fought for that right. He's an Alpha and knows he gets on most other Alphas' nerves with his cheek, but goddammit he's earned their respect. Respect is earned, not given.

But… But this tiny little bint had dared defy him. Lost in the woods, in the jaws of the big bad wolf and still defiant. He knew she had recognised what he was, filling him with endless fury when she wasn't afraid. She lay there, surrendered yet not submissive, laughing in the face of adversity (literally laughing) when she should have been cowering with unadulterated fear.

He hates it. This unfiltered defiance had filled him with such rage that he had choked the little thing, almost allowing his fury to control him, almost strangling her even after she had lost consciousness.

But Scabior doesn't kill harmless little girls who get in his way. If a piece of trash got in his way no matter their gender (say, totally-bent Bellatrix Lestrange or vicious-to-the-bone Nettia Crabbe or that demon woman Morgana Blaise) he has no qualms about putting them down like the rabid dog they are. But little girls and children? There's a firm line he keeps lest he become one of the beasts he detests. Being a werewolf is uncontrollable, but he's determined to only turn into a monster a maximum of once a month. Let the others kill the defenseless for fun; Scabior won't stop them but he sure as hell won't join 'em.

He had noticed her presence the moment he smelled rosewater and mint, a wafting scent so out of place in the forest that it filled his senses, making his mouth water immediately. When he felt compelled to keep going and leave, he stood his ground. He knew it would work for most muggles and wizards, but he had lived to challenge authority his entire life and the compulsion charm was easy to ignore once recognised.

Her scent had grown stronger and soon he was able to pinpoint her through the wards as he walked past dense shrubbery and into the forest clearing, knowing once he recognised her presence the wards would allow a magical creature to see her. A vital mistake most wizarding kind forget to consider when warding against others, only remembering to protect themselves from the monsters of their own kind.

To his surprise, directly before him in an unassuming background of forest gloom, a gorgeous girl literally materialised. He had expected an older, more experienced witch to have cast such sophisticated wards. She stood facing away from him, her wand no-where in sight (a mistake so disgustingly innocent he rolled his eyes) and searching for danger. She seemed satisfied and made to leave before spinning and suddenly coming face-to-face with Scabior. He pretended not to see her, a game he likes to play with his food, looking around suspiciously before inhaling her intoxicating scent and locking gaze with the startled brown eyed girl. Wide-eyed, pale as parchment, smaller than a bite and close to having a nervous break-down.

He loves the chase, especially when his pretty prey knows it's being hunted.

It was only luck that his men had called out to him, distracting his girl for just long enough to tackle her. He nearly felt bad for how hard she hit the ground but quickly lost any regret as she struggled violently against him, even daring whisper fuck you in that sweet little voice, scratching his chest in defiance.

That had been unexpected – but Scabior likes the unexpected.

What he didn't like, however, was her sudden change in demeanor, arching and thrashing violently in that self-destructive way that nearly had him knocking her out for her own safety. He had enough of her struggles as it only made his men more excited and had threatened her sweetly with that rather innocent innuendo that seemed to strike her to her core; he had been shocked when she began to scream I love you. It was so tenderly spoken, so heart-breakingly honest that it shook him with confusion. And then he realised there's another catch here she's trying to send away but the smart little witch had expected his movements and then punched the living daylight out of him.

That ballerina-statured little-itty-bit actually right-hooked him. And it was a mean right-hook, at that.

She suddenly had her wand then but she didn't try to curse him or his men to his unending surprise. She had flung a charm at a random tree and he had recognised the shift of the space as a portkey immediately. Their other catch was gone in an instant.

Defiance. The taste was like bile on his tongue. Even his men looked warily at him, fearful of the backlash of such disrespect yet this little girl laughed and laughed and laughed.

Scabior likes his women with spit-fire and passion; he demands obedience from his pack but the need to fight and win always aches in his blood. Most of his female pack could shred any male werewolf with both hands tied behind their back. Yet he knows there is no challenge with this girl – she simply does not fear him because she does not fear death. Anger boils in his veins, wanting to show this innocent piece of wizarding disgrace that death is the last thing she should fear in the face of a werewolf.

It was only after she had passed out from his furious strange-hold that he realised it was shock. Normally his catches cry, beg, plead, or bargain (often with things that makes even his own hardened hide crawl) – they never laughed as freely as this little childe. But he acknowledges everyone reacts to shock in their own way. Her pale frame shook as if freezing in its unconscious state, lips going an alarming blue and skin dropping to a dangerous temperature in his grasp. Shock, definitely.

He lowers himself down on her once more, inhaling deeply against her limp neck in her unconscious state. Past her delicately sweet smell of perfume he recognises a scent that reminds him of flowers in the spring, of the ground after a long-awaited rain, of fresh green moss on a tree, of lime and pineapple and pounding blood and untouched flesh and yet so intricately her – virginal, his mind supplies in that soft moment of peaceful bliss.

Eyes snap open at the revelation. He lifts his head and grins at his men, enjoying their eruption of howls of victory as the heavy tension lifts, despite the black eye even now beginning to swell on their Alpha.

Scabior may hate defiance, but he loves a virgin even more.

Hermione awoke with the mother of all headaches.

She gasped at the pain and then grimaced when that little action doubles the ache. Grabbing her head tightly in a desperate attempt to ease the pain, she began to rock back and forth to distract herself.

"God mother effing dammit," she uncharacteristically swore as the rocking made her nauseous. To her surprise, her wrists felt heavy and exhaustion over took her, causing her arms to drop back down onto the worn mattress below her.

Mattress? She thought, startled. Slowly, her poorly lit surroundings came into view as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Unlike her tent with Harry, this tent didn't appear to be magically expanded to fit more than one person – it was rather tight for even one person. A pitched ceiling hovered above and dim lighting illuminated a tiny kitchenette composed of a sink, a stove and a small kitchen island. A small flap fluttered gently next to the kitchen in what Hermione assumed was the entrance to a bathroom stall. It reminded her of a small, dingy, outrageously expensive studio apartment that she had considered renting in London before the chase for the horcruxes began, which seemed like such a lifetime ago.

She lay on a thin queen size cot and she recognised her wand laying innocently beside her. Cautiously, she reached for it and her vision was quickly drawn to something glinting on her wrist. A heavy bracelet of opalescent substance was tightly locked on her wrist and upon checking the other, she realised both her wrists had been shackled by a strange form of jewellery. Panic griped her heart.

Magical restraints: Iron ore and pure ivory bonded treated with Cirrumella potion and smoked with Woven Goddess sage for potency, her mind supplied clinically – an answer that only heightened her anxiety.

Her headache was caused by magical deficiency, Hermione realised with horror. And her captors had placed her wand next to her to tease her, to show her she wasn't a threat even with her wand. Hermione felt her lungs restrict rapidly, her breath quickening in the beginning stages of a full-blown panic attack.

Facts imploded in her mind, each thought more terrifying than the next. Overexposure to restraints could damage a magical core. Hell, even the use of them against a wizard or witch is considered extreme violation of most Dark Magic restriction regulations for the part they played in sucking magic out of "mudbloods" in the past blood wars. Especially by vindictive purebloods who considered said mudbloods unworthy of having magic, as a blight on humanity.

Hermione didn't know what happened to someone whose magic was sucked out of them (did they become a squib? Die a horrific death?). The topic had been too awful to bear even during her studies so she had stopped her research and shelved the topic for a later date.

In her panic, Hermione watched the restraints flare a light mint green before returning to their dull glow as they absorbed her instinctive need to cast magic. Think, Hermione, think! What do you know of smoked sage – no! Woven Goddess sage, a magical alternative used for binding magic rather than repelling like muggle sage… Think… Iron ore acts as a natural repellent against magic and ivory acts as the perfect conduit. Woven Goddess sage smoke binds two competing forces and instead of creating a nulling effect, it enhances both without allowing them to obstruct the other! Hermione's eyes widened at the implications. Cirrumbella potion allows two competing forces to act as one and thus is an agent for chaos in most cases, except for very specific treatments…

Hermione's headache was forgotten as she lurched up with a sudden epiphany. The forces combine to scramble my magic and destroying it in the act – repelling and conducting at the same time, sucking magic and consuming it. The smallest interference of its magic would bring it to its knees – but the interference would have to be built in to avoid exploding and destroying its host.

Hermione carefully examined the bracelets, knowing that any maker of such an instrument worth their salt would etch in a release rune for emergencies. Well, hopefully. If these bracelets were made for truly dark intentions, they wouldn't have a magical release and she would be trapped in them until her wrists were sliced off unless her captor commanded release.

The runes etched on the ivory were a fascinating story in itself – a masterpiece of contradictions which would normally destroy a magical artifact in most cases, yet inscribed to match their intended purpose and delicately activated at exactly the moment they began being smoked with sage.

Hermione almost felt bad about having to destroy such a beautiful piece of wizarding creating – almost being the key word. She decided its purpose outweighed its craftsmanship; destroying it would be a service to wizardkind.

To her relief, she located the key hidden carefully within a spectacularly embellished Venetian rune – a little flower no bigger than a grain of sand yet the trigger to bring the construction magic to its knees. A blooming bud of mistletoe, an ancient Druidic reference to a peace place where warring factions could meet in times of conflict. Kryptonite, she thought maliciously, knowing that comparing such intricate magic to muggle pop culture would make the most respected pureblood spin in their graves. God, she hoped it would work.

Hermione removed a stray bobby pin from her wild, matted hair and carefully positioned the smallest, sharpest end of the worn bobby pin over the flower rune. To calm her shaking hands, she quietly recited, "Sage is for binding, Cirrumbella is for uniting, iron is for destroying, ivory is for conducting. Sage is for binding, Cirrumbella is for uniting, iron…"

Patiently, gently, she pressed the bobby pin against the release, hoping desperately that the entire configuration would collapse and not blow up her left hand like most temperamental Dark Artifacts were known for doing. In a strange moment of sheer pressure, the moment reminded her of that time she had to reset her mum's digital watch by pressing a little paperclip in the back of the face. She smiled ruefully, taking her mind off the thought of being destroyed by the ancient artifact.

To her amazement, a loud thunk echoed through the small cabin space and her left hand was suddenly free, the heavy restraint falling to the mattress and shriveling into a tiny mockery of itself as the magic holding it together imploded spectacularly. A gush of magic and power rushed through Hermione, sharpening her vision and filling her lungs with a taste of freedom.

Carefully, she mimicked the same action for the restraint on her right wrist, going even slower as her left hand was unused to specialist work that her right hand had come accustomed to over the years. With the precision of a surgeon, Hermione pressed the little rune and, in a heartbeat, she was free.

The sudden urge to childishly whoop for joy overcame her, but she crushed it when she heard voices approaching the tent flaps. Grabbing her wand, she inhaled deeply and welled up her remaining dwindling magical reserves in preparation for apparition.

The flap opened and Hermione gripped her wand tightly as she met the strangely hooded gaze of that man from the forest.

"'Ello Sleeping Beauty," he murmured, eyes heated and intense. "Enjoy your nap?"

Before he could put another foot into the tent, Hermione clenched her eyes closed and with a crackling pop was gone into the night.

Hermione had never been so glad to see Harry in her entire life –including all the past times he had returned from a spectacularly dangerous rescue mission that his Gryffindor sensibilities demanded of him.

She had landed with a thump in the safety camp (thankfully, amazingly not splinched). It was a barely habitable island in the middle of a small lake Hermione had warded with the Fidelius Charm after Ron left, knowing they would need a place to hide when they both required rest and recovery.

Harry had swept her up in such a warm, strong hug that Hermione refused to let go and he had to awkwardly shuffle them into the tent and onto Hermione's back-up cot. They lay in each other's arms as she sobbed. The fears she had held back in the last few hours of her capture, her anxiety and fear and overall feeling of complete helplessness came out in a long crying session of babbled apologies and tears. Harry had cried a few tears of relief as well (though she knew he would never speak of it) and together they slowly drifted into slumber, safely cocooned in their safety net, away from the world once again.

Scabior was, to put it bluntly, furious.

That little girl – no, woman, his mind corrected in betrayal – had been right where he wanted her twice and both times she managed to squirm her way out of his hands. Granted, he had caught her the first time. But escaping and getting away on the second try? Completely and utterly embarrassing.

Truth be told, he had absolutely no fucking idea how she had managed to escape her magical restraints. He rarely used them, knowing their potency was best saved for more dangerous snatches, but he wanted to make a point, goddammit.

And now he had no catch, no magical restraints – how she had destroyed them so thoroughly he had no idea – and absolutely no hint of where to start looking for her. So technically he had lost a potentially very valuable catch and extremely out of pocket now that he had to purchase new magical restraints (an item that doesn't exactly grow on trees).

To wrap up a rather amazingly shitty day, one of his men had approached him with trembling fingers and handed him a MOST WANTED – UNDESIRABLE NUMBER THREE flyer.

When Scabior saw the moving photo of his escaped catch on the poster, he destroyed half the campsite in his rage. Admittedly, it was a shitty photo and he knew immediately why he didn't recognise her. That horrible, bucktoothed ugly little girl in the photo had transformed into a willowy Aphrodite-like goddess that was all gentle curves and flawless bone structure. And was quite possibly the most wanted mudblood in British history. Hermione Granger – aged 17.

Scabior felt a migraine of mammoth proportions brewing in the distance. He sat down around the camp fire after his tantrum and let the slowly swelling conversation of his pack wash over time as he nursed a firewhisky.

Clearly, this girl was his new target. She had probably rescued Harry Potter in the woods earlier, the Dark Lord's most hated enemy (and wasn't that a laugh?); finding her would lead to the boy. He had planned on a slow hunt, cumulating in keeping her for himself (how could he say no to that deliciously fiery unbroken spirit?), but this was way beyond his meagre Snatcher station. News of keeping someone as hotly contested and detested as Hermione fucking Granger in his tent for his wicked Snatcher ways would spread like wildfire through the ranks. Though perhaps breaking her spirit before handing her over would win him some kudos with the big boss man.

Scabior snorted at the thought. If the Dark Lord enjoyed anything more than killing mudbloods, it was breaking mudbloods.

He turned in for the night as the flame of the fire turned to deep glowing embers, returning to his tent and laying down on the thin bed. He inhaled deeply against the fabric, enjoying the purely womanly smell still clinging to the mattress. A cynical smile overtook his dark expression, a decision made with consequences to be damned.

Hermione Granger was his catch.

It had taken him a few weeks to catch her scent again, but when he did it was pure victory. And, in an interesting turn of events, it seemed like she wants to be caught. That or she's trying to throw him off the trail. Either way he's on her mind and he wants to keep it that way.

Her lovely pink scarf lay knotted around the base of an English Oak, her scent wafting in the breeze.

She's stopped using that perfume he noticed the first time, but he only prefers it this way as her natural smell comes through even stronger. He wrapped the scarf around his neck, breathing in the scent of her innocence with pupils blown wide. Scabior's reaction left even his own pack feeling uneasy as he gazed into the distance with a distinctively malicious grin, planning his next move.

Nothing could have prepared Scabior nor his pack for the storm brewing in the horizon.