AUTHOR'S NOTE: Alpha love shout-out to astrangefan for help with this chapter!
Warm air pushed through the Forbidden Forest, the trees greeting the day with a chorus of rustling leaves. Hardly any sun shone through the canopy, leaving Hermione's tent cast in cold shadows. A shiver ran down her spine as she disembarked that morning, clumsily stumbling over roots as she headed for Hogsmeade, a freshly drawn map of the Forbidden Forest — this one charmed to be wrinkle-resistant and smudge-proof — clutched in her grasp.
Hermione had stayed up all night, too paranoid to get even a minute's rest — or perhaps being unconscious from a stunner for over eighteen hours had disrupted her circadian rhythm. She had hardly noticed the hours pass, too busy cleaning up the mess that had been made in her tent and reconstructing her destroyed census materials.
First and foremost she had reconstructed her map, which was becoming more of a trail guide as she added notes in painstaking detail. The map wasn't perfect, but she had managed to reconstruct the basic layout of the wood as well as outline the important landmarks before spending far too long coming up with a legend and adorning the parchment with a variety of symbols, some related to the census, others the centaurs, and others, even more importantly, about the wolf.
That is if it really were a wolf at all. She had once contemplated that the wolf might be an animal, perhaps a familiar merely flanking behind their counterpart, but if that was the case then why hadn't she seen the one to which the wolf was tied? How did the wolf always seem to be found next to human impressions on the Earth with no other being present?
A feeling deep in Hermione's gut told her that the beast was certainly not the animal it portrayed, but the implications of that notion were something that made her palms clammy and her stomach turn.
Who would be patrolling the woods as a wolf… and why?
A night without sleep, followed by a half-hearted breakfast made up of a cranberry orange muffin and an entire pot of tea left her feeling jittery and unsated. She had spent her night scheming, having come up with the skeletal outline of a half-formed plan. Hermione felt scared, driven to find a solution to what, or more appropriately whom, was plaguing the woods, but to do so she would need supplies.
It had always been her niche, really; solving problems that nobody else could, coming up with elaborate schemes to meet her aims, and throwing herself at issues that had little, but sometimes everything, to do with her. It was in her character to toe the line between interest and obsession and Hermione found herself standing at the edge of the proverbial abyss once more, preparing to dive in.
The depth of her obsession was increasing, her mind burrowing deeper and deeper into the thoughts until she felt dizzy with the possibilities. Nothing was clear, she had too many questions that needed answers.
Part of her wanted to charge the wolf's den, slinging curses and taking no prisoners, but her rational side had stopped her from laying siege on the beast. He had already bested her in an altercation, been inside her camp… no, the creature now knew far too much about Hermione and her objectives in the Forest. Before she encountered him again, she would need to be prepared.
Prepared for what exactly? Hermione couldn't be sure.
At the very least she had to restock her missing, stolen, items. She had no food, her grumbling stomach reminded her as she descended a rolling hill that joined Hogsmeade Lane. The intruder had also wiped her out of healing supplies and other necessities, leaving her with barely any potions left, as well as a host of things she had no hope of replacing in Hogsmeade or anywhere else in the world, for that matter. Among them were the silver knife from Marian and her mother's pearls. Her heart clutched painfully, lamenting her loss, and cursing herself for having been so foolish, so naive.
After all, how many times had she been warned of the dangers of the forest? Every single person who she'd told of her work assignment met her enthusiasm with apprehension and concern. And now she had fallen victim to one of those dangers. She had been stolen from, had her unconscious body moved through the woods. She shivered, not willing to delve into what had happened to her while she was knocked out.
Overall, she felt completely shaken by the experience but also incredibly lucky that she seemed to have come out unharmed. Had the wolf been a Death Eater hiding in the woods, Hermione was sure he would have killed her.
The riddle itself was becoming clearer, but Hermione found herself no closer to unraveling it. If anything she found herself feeling more lost, confused, and scared than ever.
Being yourself can sometimes be the strangest feeling. Though it would make sense if you hadn't been yourself in quite some time. Reverting back to your true form after an extended period of being somebody — or something — else was like all the pieces clicking precisely into place, but getting no satisfaction from the image they formed.
For Draco, it was a storm of emotion assaulting him, but it felt surprisingly weatherable at the moment. That was the key: at this moment he was weathering the storm, but he had no influence on nature and wasn't sure he'd be able to withstand how potentially bad it could get. Fear of his past, fear of himself, had kept him locked away as the wolf for years. Being Draco again felt like coming home, but not in the most comforting of ways.
Rather, it was a bit like coming home after a disaster and surveying whatever wreckage remained.
His head and his stomach were taking the brunt of the damage, unaccustomed to his human stature and senses, but becoming more settled now that he had transformed a few times since the other night- and of course, the healing potions had helped.
At the thought, his eyes darted toward the pile of items he'd taken from Granger, a small smirk pulling at his lips; a dragon pleased with his treasures. His spoils were pretty much everything she had on her person and everything he had been able to stuff into a sleeping bag and haul back from her camp. Food, potions, a sneakoscope, a silver blade, some linen, a lovely string of pearls that reminded him of his mother. Also, a few personal care items that looked suspiciously muggle, but smelled absolutely lovely so, damn it, he took them too.
Of everything he'd acquired, it was the food he was most excited about. Growing up with a full staff of house elves, and then moving to Hogwarts with their elaborate feasts, had always allowed him to pick and choose his every meal, filling up on whatever whim fancied him that day. A good meal was one thing he had longed for the most at the beginning, when he hadn't quite adjusted to the largely carnivorous diet the Forest afforded him.
After so many years with so much that had happened, one might have assumed that Draco would have long forgotten about his gluttonous desires. But as he eyed the stash before him now, his eyes honing in on a delectable-looking pastry that was drizzled with icing, he couldn't help fantasizing about eating anything and everything in sight.
Gods, how long had it been since he had real, prepared food? Fruits and vegetables could be found near the Centaurs, but the beasts certainly weren't making anything as delectable as a cream cheese danish. He picked an apple tentatively, knowing he should start small, and brought the smooth red skin to his lips, his eyes all the while roaming over the stash he had acquired.
He knew he shouldn't do it- he knew that overindulgence would have him heaving his stomach rather than filling it, but the call of the pastry was just too strong and the smell of it even sweeter. Draco found himself falling to his knees and crawling to the food pile, mouth salivating and stomach shouting for what he had long desired.
He practically dove for the danish, not bothering to pick it up with his hands, too fixated on his instinctual desire to eat for human mannerisms. The first bite was like nirvana, the sweet confection mashing together as he chewed it reverently, eyes falling shut as he savored the flavors. The first swallow felt a little uneasy, but he didn't wait for it to settle before diving in for another bite.
The danish, a piece of chocolate, and a bag of crisps were all he managed before Draco's stomach churned in protest. He shifted to the wolf with a blink of his eyes before he fled the den, spilling out onto the soft green grass below the grand oak tree.
He crawled to the edge of the cliff, his gluttony meeting the rocks below in quick succession. The wolf laid there for many minutes, his breath synchronizing with the rhythmic ebb and flow of the morning air, the growing light of day warming his side. When his stomach had settled, he simply stared up at the twisting, barren branches of the mighty oak, remembering the shade they once provided him.
It was a time of healing for the Dark Wood, where creatures abounded and he could run free under the safety of her leaves. It reminded him of a time when witches and wizards were too scared to enter the woods or simply preoccupied with rebuilding after the war. A time of safety and promise for a new life.
But it didn't last, as is the cyclical way of nature. The misguided actions of a single woman rebalanced the scales, bringing back the pain and darkness that the Forest had worked so hard to heal after Voldemort's final stand. The leaves had been falling from the tree ever since until not a single one remained.
With the limbs of the oak barren, it allowed the sun to shine through, creating a rare patch of light in the normally dark forest. It was his favorite sun-bathing spot, an instinctual habit he most enjoyed, but it was hard to enjoy it at the present moment with the churning of his stomach and the possibility that Hermione Granger herself could sneak up on him at any moment.
Pity to not enjoy the sun while he could, for there's rarely any sun in Azkaban, the exact place he would be going when Granger exposed him. This, he knew, was only a matter of time. He would have to be especially careful, even more so now that she knew where he lived… been in his den.
The thought of the witch had the wolf finally stirring, though his stomach still roiled in protest. His ears swiveled as he assessed his surroundings. The surface didn't feel safe anymore, not even in his canine form.
Every rustle of the leaves was her coming through the forest, finding him as he drank from the stream. Every jobberknoll flying between trees was a spell coming from her wand. The place that he had never felt quite safe, but very much at home – ironic, that the feeling of not safe and at home could coincide at the same moment, but then again he did spend many of his teenage years with the manor filled with Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself – was no longer the welcoming trees, hills, and trails he had come to know. Now, every unturned corner could hold a vengeful lioness who would surely kill him if she got the chance.
For as long as she remained under the leaves of the Dark Wood, Draco would spend every minute thinking about her lurking, worrying about her finding him, knowing that the whole plan was unraveling before his eyes… and there was nothing he could do about it. He would obsess over it until living in fear ultimately killed him or worse, he was captured by her… caught, exposed. It felt like an inevitability, only a matter of time.
It wasn't fair. He had kept to himself these last few years, done minimal damage, and now his home was being threatened by the Gryffindor Princess.
But what could he do? Leave the Forest? The prospect terrified him, a distant memory of a dying man's warning to never leave the shadow of the Dark Wood reverberated in his psyche. No, this was his home and he would be damned if he were run out now by the likes of Hermione Granger.
Something had to be done, Granger had to be stopped.
But how?
Hogsmeade was mercifully quiet when Hermione arrived. Retail stores were setting up for a day of business, enchanted brooms sweeping the steps while workers bustled about setting up window displays and turning their signs to 'open'. Of all the places she needed to visit, Madame Marian's Magical Menagerie was first on the list. It was an easy building to locate based on smell alone, but it also stood out as one of the less well-kept shops in the village with a loose 'M' dangling precariously from the wooden sign swaying above the stoop.
The bell tinkled overhead as Hermione entered the shop, feeling suddenly awake again thanks to the pungent odor of beast dung. The old shopkeeper appeared from behind a beaded curtain and, upon spotting Hermione, lit up with excitement.
"Ah, the girl with the Ministry. You came back! And so soon, too!"
Hermione approached the counter, a sad smile pulling at her lips. It was nice to have some amount of anonymity with the shopkeeper – especially after years of receiving gushing adoration from hordes of witches and wizards at every public outing she made – but to be referred to as just a girl with the Ministry was a blow to her pride. It was a peculiar feeling, one that she wasn't expecting… After all, wasn't it she who vied to climb the ladder at the Ministry? She should be thrilled to be recognized as a government representative, a true embodiment of her work… So why did being acknowledged as such make her mouth feel as though it were full of sand?
Which was more important, becoming a beast expert or being known as Hermione Granger, for all her talents and interests?
But it wasn't in her manners to reproach the woman, who wasn't responsible for her internal turmoil, so instead, she gave a polite nod, addressing the clerk. "Madame Marian, hello. I've come for a refill on supplies. Do you happen to have my previous order itemized in your ledger? I, uh, seem to have misplaced my original list."
"My dear, my dear," she tutted, bringing a wrinkled hand to grasp Hermione's chin gently, tilting her head to each side as she appraised her, "what has happened to you? You look terrible!"
Hermione pulled away with a small step back, smoothing her freely-flowing curls with the palms of her hands. You know that you look really bad when an old woman – beautiful in her own right, but wrinkled by the test of time – says, politely, that you look like shit.
She chanced a glance at a mirror that hung on a far wall, almost wincing at her reflection and the exhaustion she personified. Her gaze returned to the shopkeeper, who waited patiently for an answer with an expectant look on her face.
"Couldn't sleep last night," Hermione started, choosing to omit her late-night worries of predators in the woods, "too much noise in the forest."
"It is the beginning of the mating season for most beasts, only natural for them to get a little restless when they are looking for a mate." The menagerie owner reminded her with a reassuring smile.
"Remind me of your name again, dearie." The shopkeeper instructed, adding, "so hard to keep track of all my patrons."
"Hermione Granger, ma'am." Hermione smiled awkwardly, hiding a wince as the Madame's face lit up with intrigue at the sudden realization of who she was.
"The Hermione Granger?" Madame Marian inquired, her old hands grasping for Hermione's hands and gripping them tightly.
"I've never met another," Hermione confirmed, hoping to blow over the usual guffawing she received. So much for anonymity with the shopkeep.
"Oh what a special occasion!" the shopkeeper crowed, allowing Hermione to slip from her grasp. She then brought her hands together under her chin, where she clutched them together and gave Hermione a delighted expression. "Come now, you must have a cup of tea with me… or perhaps something to eat, hm? You look almost green, my dear."
Hermione's stomach grumbled at the offer of food, which seemed to please the shopkeeper as Madame Marian began, quite literally, shoving Hermione toward a set of worn armchairs in the back corner of the shop. One was cream, the other a deep emerald, and both were covered in animal fur. The woman shooed a pair of cuddling kneazles away from the green-velvet chair that she gestured for Hermione to fill before taking her own seat opposite of her. A puff of dust greeted Hermione as she sat in what must have been the lesser used of the seating accommodations.
The older witch conjured a tea set and croissants, which Hermione eyed ravenously. The clinking of glass jars from a room behind the shop counter brought forth jam and honey to complete their spread. Hermione could hardly contain herself, tucking in furiously when she was invited to eat her fill. She probably looked a bit like Ron in the Great Hall, the thought of which caused her to slow her breakfast eating to a socially acceptable speed.
"Miss Hermione Granger, you've made quite a name for yourself for having lived for only a short time." Madame Marian stated as she sipped her tea.
This was the part that she hated when strangers would fawn over her accomplishments of war. It felt ingenuine to take credit for bringing down Voldemort when it was really Harry and other Order members – hell, even civilians – that had made the ultimate sacrifice to the cause. Hermione had only been doing what she needed to survive; the same as what anyone else would have done in her situation. No, she wasn't special. Just another girl helping a friend and fighting for what's right.
Hermione swallowed a bite of her pastry, washing it down with a small sip of tea before she responded as she always did in these types of situations: to change the subject. "Yes, I suppose I have. Tell me, Madame, were you at the memorial services this year?"
"No, no," the shopkeeper tutted, "far too busy with the shop and the kneazles; far too busy, my dear."
Hermione imagined that Hogsmeade had been quite busy the last few days as mourners came from near and far to the memorial at the castle that loomed over the village. At such a thought, Hermione noticed the bags under the old woman's eyes, ones that mirrored her own exhaustion.
A cursory glance around the shop revealed several signs of negligent shopkeeping, like cobwebs forming in the corners and stacks of papers placed haphazardly on the shelves behind the sales counter. The familiars in the shop seemed to be well cared for, but the rest of the space needed some tidying and maintenance.
"Do you have anyone who helps you run the shop? An employee or a family member that comes by to assist with the business?"
"Assist with the business?" The shopkeeper chuckled, setting her tea down with slightly too much force, causing a loud clang. "My dear, my dear. There is nobody but me for this work."
"Do your husband or children ever-,"
The shopkeeper began laughing deeply, which ended with her in a deep coughing fit. Hermione conjured a glass of water, handing it to the woman who took a greedy sip. Hermione's brow furrowed; had she said something funny?
Madame Marian sat back after a moment of gaining her composure, dabbing at the corner of her eyes with a handkerchief. "Oh, you humor me, young one. But sadly my beloved is dearly departed. And children were never a part of this life's plan for me."
Hermione's cheeks tinged with her embarrassment, hoping she hadn't overstepped and offended the shopkeeper. "I'm so sorry," she offered weakly.
"Oh," the shopkeeper waved her hands between them, dismissing Hermione's sympathy, "do not pity me. I may have lost, but I have also loved. Save your pity for those who have not loved at all."
Hermione stared into the teacup she clutched on her lap, gazing at her own reflection in the amber liquid. Lovely... another two of her most avoided subjects: marriage and children. For Hermione wasn't certain if she wanted either.
In fact, she wasn't sure if she even knew what it felt to have true love at all. She thought she had loved Ron – she did love him, but nothing more than as a friend (at least she hoped that one day they could be friends again) – and she knew that she loved her friends and her parents, but it wasn't quite the same kind of love that Madame Marian was referring to.
Her silence lasted longer than she meant to and she found a wrinkled hand upon her arm, forcing her to gently set down her tea. The kind eyes of the shopkeeper bore into her as if reading into her soul. "Do not worry, my dear. You are still so young! There is plenty of time for you to find that special person."
Hermione's eyes shone with unshed tears of pain, longing, and loneliness that she had kept tucked away for years. How was it that this perfect stranger was able to talk directly to her heart?
"How will I know?" She asked in but a whisper, eliciting a warm smile from the woman that Hermione thought was quite motherly.
"That special person will come when you least expect it in my experience. Perhaps even someone that you already know. My William, we were childhood friends and were able to get to know each other again when he returned from the world war. Although I hid my magic from him and he felt terribly betrayed upon the discovery, he was able to open his heart up for forgiveness, and more importantly, he wanted to understand me… all my sides."
The Madame grabbed a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes, before concluding. "When you find someone willing to see all your flaws and still love you? That person is worth moving the heavens and Earth for. That person means more than all else." She got a distant look in her eye, "To start a family with that person, to bring their children to this place, I have heard that it is the greatest blessing and joy."
There was a pregnant pause during which both women forgot about their tea, the air too heavy with topics not suited for small talk between strangers. Hermione stared at cracks in the floorboards beside her chair, reflecting deeply on Madame Marian's words. When she finally looked up, the shopkeeper was waving a wand at a book next to the register, which gave a little shake as the pages turned. Objects from around the shop began assembling at the counter, tucking themselves neatly into a paper bag. The assembled order floated over to the pair in the corner of the shop, settling down unceremoniously at Hermione's feet.
The elderly woman leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice sounded like gravel under an automobile tire. "Now tell me, Miss Granger, have you found any evidence of the creature terrorizing our village?"
Ah, that. She had said she would look into that for the shopkeeper, didn't she? With the census, the centaurs, the memorial, and the wolf all commanding attention she had completely forgotten about yet another mystery being thrust upon her.
"I have some leads," Hermione lied, as she hadn't put much thought into the issue as of yet. She licked her lips while trying to cover up her fib. "But I was actually hoping that you might let me read the letters you sent to the Ministry? You see, my superior wasn't keen on releasing the archival set when I'm so far from the home office and, well with fieldwork being such a messy business we prefer to keep paperwork in-house as much as possible." Hermione leaned forward, glancing around for a second before trailing off with something to the effect of.. 'it helps with the smell.'
It was a terrible lie — and rather a rude comment to make in a shop that reeked of animal dung — but it produced the desired results, though the shopkeepers' demeanor had become suddenly icy.
Marian snapped her fingers and the shoebox of hand-written appeared on the table before them. "Take them with you, keep them for as long as you need. I'll be eagerly awaiting the results of your investigation. Until then, I better get back to work," she pursed her lips slightly at Hermione, "there's much cleaning to be done."
Hermione snatched the box quickly, which made the shopkeeper flinch in surprise. She shrunk the box with a wave of her wand and tucked it into her leather bag along with the items she purchased from the Magical Menagerie. Afterward, she stood and paid Marian for her items whilst thanking her for the hospitality.
Before Hermione made it out the door, Marian called out to her: a warning.
"Young lady? Do be safe out there… The full moon comes closely after the day for mothers. Keep that dagger close to you then, hm? You never know what types of things could be lurking out there."
After some shopping, Hermione's stomach was still rumbling, her snack with the shopkeeper having done nothing to stave off her hunger. The wooden sign for the Hog's Head creaked with a gentle push of the wind, inviting her inside. It was cold inside the stone dwelling so she found a seat close to the fire, ordering a pint of butterbeer and a shepherd's pie.
Madame Marian was right, Hermione didn't know what could be lurking in the Forbidden Forest. There was certainly something strange living in the wood, but it was ridiculous to presume that Hermione knew what… or who.
Anyone had the right to seek refuge there outside the Centaur's territory. There was nothing preventing someone from camping in the Forest, but with the inhospitable conditions, Hermione was having a hard time imagining who would want to establish permanent residency there.
Hermione pictured an orphaned student, coming to visit their mother in the forest, being guided by a loyal familiar. The notion was considered but dismissed quickly given that it was an unlikely theory. All orphaned students had been given year-round boarding at Hogwarts, though many families had offered to take them in. A student wouldn't need the shelter of the forest, not with a warm bed and cooked meals at the castle that was so close by.
Next, she wondered if perhaps the wolf were an animagus from Hogsmeade, liking to escape the hustle and bustle of the village for the solace of the woods. It was a valid theory, one that would require further investigation into the Animagus Registry; she made a note to write a letter to Padma with the request. She expanded on the thought: she shouldn't restrict her query to animagi in Hogsmeade for the wolf could be a traveling nomad, taking an interest in the Forest for the summer, just as she was. She'd have to ask Padma to search all the records; hopefully, they were able to be filtered by animal form.
Thinking of her coworkers brought her to perhaps the most ridiculous theory of all: that this was all just one elaborate Ministry prank, set forth by her coworkers to humiliate her and thwart her efforts of performing the census. Well, she'd be damned if she were going to make a fool out of herself in front of the entire department. No, she wouldn't start crying wolf until she had better information and more definitive proof.
Besides, she wasn't sure what she would do with the knowledge of the wolf anyhow. Nor was she entirely sure if it were her business at all — she personally wouldn't take kindly to someone poking around her business that she wished to keep private.
She contemplated the possible identities of the wolf. The message left in her camp felt personal like it was written by someone who knew her. It was the strangest feeling, unsettling to the point that she had to remind herself to eat her shepherd's pie before it got too cold (food charmed warm never tasted the same). Of course, she was well-known as a famous war heroine, but would someone who hadn't met her actually recognize her from photographs alone?
What if it was a 'fallen' Order member, cursed with a human transfiguration spell, only able to break it long enough to steal bacon off a frying skillet or wash their hand in the cool waters of the brook? Again, Hermione dismissed that theory quickly. If it was someone in need of help, why tell her to stay away? Why stay in the woods at all, with Hogwarts, a place that would help anyone who asked for it, so close by?
That was the unsettling part. Of all the places to go, of all the places to hide… why the Forbidden Forest? It was dangerous, filled with creatures known to harm wizards and unknown mysteries known only to the wood. Surely there were better, safer alternatives. Nobody would live in the Forest by choice. No, the motive for staying here had to be similar to hers: necessity… desperation.
Who would want to live in the wood? Who was so desperate that they would hide in such plain sight?
The word echoed in her mind of its own volition: fugitive.
There could be no other explanation: whoever it was hiding from someone or something. They must be a criminal or at least a deeply misunderstood person that felt the need to hide out in the one place no one would ever come looking, a place most witches and wizards feared.
If it were someone who felt comfortable enough to live in a place as dangerous as the Forbidden Forest, Hermione wondered morbidly how dangerous that person was. But she had conflicting feelings about their level of danger, for they had ample opportunity to bring her harm mere days ago — and surely many times before that — but they hadn't.
It felt like a piece of the puzzle was missing as something wasn't adding up.
Hermione imagined the recognition she would get if she were to capture the fugitive and bring them to justice. Would that speak to her skills as a beast expert, to identify when what appeared to be a beast was actually not? Would that earn her a promotion? The fantasies of such carried her all the way back to her tent at the Moon-Gazer Clearing where, after adding several extra layers of protective wards, she took a much-needed rest and woke up ready to find answers, feeling more determined than ever.