Chapter 2: All Hail the Firelight

Ron's return had been something of a bittersweet ending to Harry and Hermione's newly restored peace. Thankfully, Ron had been there to save Harry when he needed it most, stabbing the cursed locket with the Sword of Gryffindor.

But the heroics didn't stop Hermione tasting bile every time she looked at the lanky boy. Harry and Ron fell back into companionship with ease and Hermione almost resented the simplicity of their friendship. Hermione couldn't forgive and forget so easily. Especially after Ron's mumbled apology, fuelled only by Harry's insistence.

Hermione didn't need Harry's help with Ron and his childish moods. The thought made her scowl.

Perhaps her irritation was based on jealously; of having to share Harry again. Initially, she recoiled from the idea but as she considered it further… It made sense. Hermione never had time to get as close to Harry as she had in the past six months; Ron's return basically destroyed months of their progress and Harry returned to his brooding, withdrawn self.

The tension in their group seemed so petty and worthless when Hermione saw the hopelessness, the desperation in Mr. Lovegood's eyes. Not Luna, she had thought desperately. Not sweet, innocent, defenseless Luna. The boys were shocked, but Hermione could empathise with Mr. Lovegood's heart-stopping terror. She had felt that fear when caught by the Snatchers. Luna's a pretty girl, surrounded by real evil in the world. Mr. Lovegood had looked at her with true fear and she, in that instant, felt an Arctic breeze pass through her heart. She understood and it broke her heart. The boys didn't seem to realise the implications; it wasn't a fear that they were used to facing. To them, it was too evil, too perverted to even consider. And it was because of this blissfully naïve ignorance that Hermione didn't bother bringing it up. They just wouldn't understand.

Hermione glanced briefly at Mr Lovegood in the chaos of the attack and nodded at him before being sucked deep into swirling space and spat back out again into the dense Forest of Dean.

Ron and Harry immediately broke out into squabbles, debating over Mr. Lovegood's treachery. Their fight turned into white noise as Hermione felt the world quieten around her, the sound of birds and insects absent and, in their absence, the silence was deafening.

She spun on her heel, fearing the worst.

"Mm, 'ello beautiful," murmured that man, stepping forward to crowd her space so suddenly.

Her breath died in her lungs when he reached forward to capture of lock of her hair, twirling it between his fingers as he brought it to his nose and inhaling deeply. She couldn't look away from his kohl rimmed electric blue eyes, trapped like a hypnotised mouse staring into the gaze of a striking cobra. It was too intimate, too sudden after speaking to Mr. Lovegood about the fate of little Luna. Her raw heart leapt into her throat, making her inhale a shuddering breath and push away from the man.

The movement seemed to jolt the frozen boys into motion and suddenly they were running, running, running from the man.

Jeers erupted from the surrounding woods and Hermione caught he man's call "Well? Snatch 'em!", her feet somehow pounding the forest floor even faster and harder.

Despite Ron and Harry training month in and month out for Quidditch, Hermione found herself flying past them at breakneck speed. Her heaving breath burned her lungs, legs aching and vision blurry with adrenaline, yet she forged on, leaping over tree stumps and logs as if training for this chase her entire life.

Snatch them!

The order echoed loud and clear in her ears, forcing her body to strain even harder. Ron had fallen behind but Harry somehow kept just behind her, shadowing her as snatchers seemed to come out of the woodwork.

Hermione managed to leap over an especially large log and used the nanosecond in the air to pull her wand out of her sweater pocket.

"Bombarda!" She screamed as she flicked her wand behind her, careful to avoid the direction of Harry's loud panting.

An explosion of noise and wood chips erupted behind her, accompanied the sound of screaming. Hermione felt a bubble of satisfaction burst in her chest at the sound. As they pushed harder and harder, Hermione cast every hex, jinx, and curse she could remember from Dumbledore's Army behind her. Trees flashed by as she kept her dangerous pace, barely registering the sounds of wailing men and exploding shrubbery in the distance.

She could almost feel him behind her, imagining him reaching out to touch the tips of her hair and nip at her heels playfully. Her heart pounded even harder at the thought.

And then suddenly everything fell to pieces as she heard a jolting oomph to her left.

Glancing behind her, she saw Harry flying in the air and tumbling helplessly to the forest floor.

"Harry!" She gasped, trying to stop and tripping harshly in the process, head over heels.

She scrambled over the rough forest floor to him, thinking so quickly her mind began to skitter and jolt uncomprehendingly. The snatchers were almost on top of them and terror gripped her normally fast instincts. She grabbed onto the first idea her mind threw up and she cast a powerful stinging hex at her friend's face, repeating "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'msosorry" over and over as his face swelled painfully.

Hermione hovered protectively over the helpless boy as the snatchers caught up and encircled the two. She snarled menacingly, brandishing her wand at any who dared to get too close.

Slow clapping had her attention snapping to the man in black and plaid; he approached alongside none other than Fenrir Greyback griping the squirming shape of Ron; Hermione felt herself bristle even further.

"What a fast little doe you are," the man quipped as he approached her, not even out of breath, his swagger casual and unassuming. Hermione didn't buy it for a second.

"And so protective, too! Looks like we caught ourselves wee lioness, eh?" His Scottish accent lilted smugly, clearly unimpressed with her attempts to protect her friend. The men cheered at this jibe in response, making Hermione crouch even more aggressively over Harry's writhing frame.

Like a snake striking, his hand suddenly lashed out and then she was off the ground and pressed into his chest. Strong arms wrapped around her waist, one hand cradling her head to him as he leaned into her neck and inhaled. Hermione tried to yank out of his hold, thrashing violently against the man.

"Protectin' yer wee boyfrien', is tha' it?" He murmured dangerously into her ear, accent suddenly thick and vicious.

Hermione struggled even harder, gasping out in appalled fury "He's not my-"

She was thrown from his hold violently, thrust against a tree and spluttering as her breath was knocked out of her lungs. He quickly followed her, pressing her back into the rough bark as he moulded against her frame, sliding a strong hand under her thigh to lift her leg and wrap around his hip suggestively, pinning her to the tree to support her weight and holding her waist still with his own. Hermione tried to calm her breath to no avail, hating how her chest heaved against his.

A flash of pink caught her eye and she felt herself freeze in his hold. Small, bloodied hands raised and grasped the fabric wrapped around the snatcher's neck with abrupt pause. The seriousness of the situation dissolved into the background as her frazzled mind focused singularly on the soft, worn fabric carding through her fingertips. Mum gave this to me, she thought dazedly.

The snatcher observed her, hooded eyes watching she was distracted by her commandeered scarf. Hazel eyes flickered upwards, meeting his cobalt blue ones with curious intensity.

"Let her go!" A furious voice broke through their trance, causing the snatcher to break the moment by tossing his head back and laughing.

"Tha' ginger o'er there seems a bit jealous, eh? Is she your girlfrien' too?" He barked out cruelly to the sound of the other snatcher's jeers. "I won' be lettin' this one go again, now will I?"

She watched him with adrenaline fuelled clarity, suddenly seeing him for the first time without the haze of panic or fury. Matted black hair was drawn back into a leather band in a mockery of the pureblood style, a red streak woven through the locks. His weather worn face was disastrously handsome, his aura exuding a 'devil-may-care' attitude she had seen weaken one too many girl's knees. Lean muscles corded through his neck, a strong jawbone peppered with a shadow of a beard. He certainly considered himself a decent catch. The thought amused her enough to stop fighting and watch him curiously.

The madness and chaos of the situation seemed to have driven her crazy. It must have. Stress had finally made her snap and now she found herself almost relaxed in the arms of this psychotic snatcher. The man turned his burning attention back to Hermione, who had broken from her trance under his shocking blue eyes and felt the weight of the situation drop like an anvil on her shoulders.

She kept as still as possible, pushing her aching head harder against the tree trunk as the man thoughtfully ran a ring-clad finger along the line of her jawbone, down her neck and stopping at the swell of her breast. She was terrified he could read her thoughts, would see her mind's sudden break from sanity in her wild eyes, so she bowed her head and tried to ignore the feeling of tears burning the back of her eyes.

He tipped her head up to face him with a strong finger guiding her chin and he smiled roguishly. A dirty thumb swiped her bottom lip roughly and he murmured, "I see why Fenrir likes you so much… I think you're going to be my favourite."

Hermione felt her heart stop in her chest in terror, salty tears finally breaking and dripping freely down her face.

"Tsk, tsk," he tutted softly. "Don't you cry darlin'. I ain't gonna hurt you," he whispered, leaning closer to bury his head in the crook of her neck and using a heavily jewelled hand to lift her leg higher on his hip to accommodate his closeness. "Much," he added as an afterthought.

Hermione gritted her teeth in understanding. Little Luna, echoed in her head. She wasn't a little Luna, she was a saviour of little Lunas. There is nothing wrong with being a little Luna – but she can't accept, couldn't let go. She has to protect them; even Harry and Ron fit in that category. So completely and utterly unaware of the true evil of the world. Black and white simplicity. The world whole world is grey, and Hermione can see it. Can feel it echoing in the marrow of her bones and electrocuting the tips of her toes all the way to the top of her head.

Hermione decides then.

She relaxed suddenly, letting her disarmed hands raise and tangle in the scarf – her mother's scarf – around the snatcher's neck and she smiles teasingly at him, leaning back in his hold to survey the man before her critically.

She's learned this, over the years. The way Malfoy looks at her (Senior and Junior, her mind shudders), the way McCullen looks at her, the way Krum looked at her and Ron does now. They hate her, because she's beautiful and smart and so very mudblooded. Pureblood boys, no matter their 'cause', grow up believing they need to marry good little pureblood girls. Even those "Blood Traitors" like the Weasleys – they still married pure, no matter what – which was the most painful hypocrisy of it all. But they love mudblood girls. She's even seen the way the muggle men at the opera and ballet look at her appraisingly, the way her father shields her from peering eyes.

Hermione isn't stupid. She's not completely unaware of herself.

She pulls on the ends of the scarf to draw him closer, letting it tighten around his neck unthreateningly and she bites her lower lip, using her raised leg to draw him even impossibly closer. She's not sure if she's going overboard, until the Snatcher suddenly seems enchanted. His eyes focus on her, truly on just her since the entire ordeal began, and she gives him a secret smile.

Hermione leans forward suddenly, letting her nose touch the Snatcher's ever-so-lightly. "I didn't think you were clever enough to snatch me again – what's your name?" She's asking imperiously, as if he's suddenly caught her attention. Those acting classes during the summers are a sudden blessing.

"Scabior," the man breathes, looking more and more drawn in as she moves her nose along his, bringing his lips impossibly closer.

Hermione whispers her lips over his cheek and ends at his ear, still keeping a firm hold on her stolen scarf and leg wrapped over his hip. "Scabior," she whispers softly, accented. The reaction she gets from his lean frame is not unexpected and yet still surprising. Hips dig into hers and she parts her lips to gasp softly, pushing her modest chest into his frame and smiling softly, pleased at the manner his eyes flicker to her mouth with reverent distraction and then further down with searing heat.

"Hermione!" Screams the all-too predictable voice of Ron and the moment is shattered, broken in the sound of jealously and rage.

Hermione uses the distraction to bow her back harshly against the bark of the tree she's pinned against and launches the man off her by lifting both legs off the ground, using her hold on the scarf as leverage and bucking violently. The man makes a pained choking sound as he goes down and she's holding the scarf like a leash as she pulls him down to his knees, wavering lightly as he lets out a choked cry and grasps her hips to steady himself, a strong face burying into her abdomen. Hermione flings a binding spell between Harry's swollen jowls and Ron's howling face, noting with a wince as they launch together in a painful sounding crunch.

"Go!" She barks crisply, the sound surprisingly quiet and yet clear as crystal in the shocked reverie of the meadow.

Hermione knows Harry would never leave, but Ron would. In an instant, Ron apparates himself and tows Harry along with him, into a world so far away from her own.

Hermione uses the stunned moment of incomprehension to cast a spell she's never wanted to try on herself in a real battle situation – the Cervidae Occulum. Doe Eyes, as it's not-so-affectionately known (her mind constantly provides; supplying and providing endlessly to an audience of one). Named after the effects it has on the spell user's eyes, enchanting and expanding to give the user the wide vision and mental powers of a deer in flight.

Highly illegal for the single-minded madness it causes the user – often, the castor goes insane in fear and runs off a building rooftop, fleeing in terror from unseen predators.

But it's a logical spell in the right situations, first developed and used by the Navajo as a desperate means to escape desperate measures. Hermione would apparate, but she's exhausted herself of doing something so magically draining by apparating Ron and Harry alongside her to visit and leave Mr. Lovegood's abode.

Hermione has taught herself how to cast this spell wandlessly on herself over the past few months; she knew she would need it. Sometimes the best way to outrun the predator is to think like the prey.

And she's off like the wind, escaping from large hands gripping her waist with expert extraction.

In the future retellings of this story, Hermione would never be able to explain exactly how she dodged through more than fifteen men's claws, especially that man – Scabior – who had hovered so closely to her frame even after her assault, head so worryingly close to her hips that she shuffled the thought away immediately. She had ducked, dodged, swung and spun effortlessly as if anticipating their every move; as if knowing their movements half a second before they did themselves.

Hermione ran as fast as she could, blown irises and pupils taking in a whole world of strange two dimensional, 180 degree forest before her. She jumped instinctively over trunks and roots and weaved effortlessly through the brambles of the overgrown forest, tasting predators on the wind and running faster for it.

Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine as something – someone – neared her, catching up in the chase. She didn't know what was worse – Fenrir Greyback or Scabior on her heels. She pressed harder, fiercer, more aggressively than she ever had in her life. Every ounce of strength fuelled her legs, every fear of Death Eaters torturing Harry, torturing her until she admitted her parent's location. Fear for little Luna, for the dark terror in Mr. Lovegood's haunted eyes, for the sadness of failure in Albus' face during their last discussion before his death. She fought for the desperate loneliness in Harry when Sirius passed through the veil and the dawning horror on Harry's face as they realised what his scar really was.

Hermione was so tired, so bone deep tired of all the prejudice and terror inflicted on their world. And in her exhaustion, she found a strange well of boundless energy spring to the surface; a power untapped and unknown until she had reached her furthest depths of exhaustion and desperation.

Hermione knew that this is the last chance she has and knows Harry won't make it without her, despite Ron's newly pledged allegiance, so she fights harder and harder until the stomping feet and smashing of branches starts to fade behind her. She dodges faster, ducks more confidently, runs wilder – and the noise begins to disappear.

She finally crashes through a line of trees and finds herself running full-pelt at a cliff face. It's beautiful – an enormous edge and beyond, a gorgeous stretch of yellow and red autumn trees burning bright as far as the eye can see.

Panic grips her suddenly, realising she's about to launch herself over the edge and she wants to dig her heels in, to miraculously stop on the spot just before the cliff edge, little stones crumbling below her toes and down into the deep ravine, but she can't and then she's launching herself off the edge into the endless forest below –

Then a hard, hot body smashes into her during her freefall and all she knows is darkness.