Chapter Three

Hermione slowed to a halt, leaning against the nearest tree. Now that she was under the cover of the forest canopy, her captors far behind her even if the petrification charms had worn off, her energy was dwindling. Fast. The back of her head was still aching, so much so that it made the skin on her shoulders crawl and her empty stomach churn. She wanted to sink down right here and sleep, but she knew she couldn't. She wanted to eat some of the food she'd snatched to ease her nausea, yet she knew she shouldn't. There was a chance she had a concussion, and she knew either action could be risky right now. The first because she could slip into a coma out here with no one to find her, the second because she imagined retching her guts out if the food came back up would take yet more of her waning energy than she had left to spend right now.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Maybe if she narrowed down the possibility of this being such a traumatic head injury, that would help? Yes, she thought, swallowing hard as she pushed away from the tree and started forward once more on plodding steps. The animals of the forest clearly knew a foreign element—namely her—was nearby, because the woodlands were hushed, aside from breezes rustling through leaves here and there. There was one thing the Horcrux Hunt all those years ago had taught her, and that was that forests were never truly quiet, even at night.

Okay, her inner voice started, time for another checklist.

Headache? Check, however, she had taken a blow to the back of the head hard enough to knock her unconscious, so the superficial aspect of the injury, itself, could be reason alone for the pain without a more lasting trauma having resulted from it, which also answered the question of loss of consciousness.

A twig snapped beneath her foot and she winced, pausing mid-stride. Again her skin crawled, this time with apprehension, as she looked around. After a few moments, it seemed nothing came from the sound and she permitted herself to relax enough to keep moving.

There was no memory loss surrounding the head injury. The witch nodded, that was a good thing. Concussion sufferers often could not recall the first few minutes—at least—leading up to receiving said injury. She'd awoken with those events fresh in her mind.

No dizziness, nor stars behind her eyes. No ringing in her ears; in fact, she could hear clear as a bell. All pluses. Slurred speech? She hadn't really spoken other than to cast those charms, so she couldn't be sure on that one.

Perhaps she should test herself for that particular symptom?

"I don't know where I am, or how I got here—not precisely how, anyway. I don't know what sort of devilish Dark Art that pompous arse Lucius Malfoy used to send me here, I mean. Nothing about this place feels quite right, but I do know if . . . when, when I get back he'll be the first ever victim of a Hermione Granger Avada Kedavra should he dare to show his face anywhere near me." No slurring, good.

Confusion? She knew precisely who she was, and while she didn't have an idea where she was; were she confused in a way that was cause for concern, she likely would not be able to plan or compile checklists. No sensation of fogginess . . . everything was clear, just exhausting. She wasn't in a daze. She didn't think she was having any delay in processing information, but as it was only her out here alone with no one to run any sort of double-check with her, she thought perhaps it best to not check that one off the list just yet.

She couldn't be certain if the nausea she felt was on account of a head trauma or simply the combination of pain and an empty stomach. Though, she wasn't dry-heaving, so logic dictated that vomiting be crossed off the list. That was another plus.

Fatigue? That one was tricky. Especially now, as she paused again, nearly stumbling over her own two feet as she stepped sideways to rest against another tree. She was certainly fatigued, she considered as she forced a deep breath, trying to will a jolt of energy into her body, but there was every chance that was simply the exhaustion of everything she'd been through in the last half-day.

God, had it really only been so short a time since she'd knocked on the door of Malfoy Manor?

Closing her eyes, she pressed her forehead against the rough, cool bark. She was no longer so certain that she could keep moving, no matter how much she thought she should.

Hermione forced herself to push away from the tree. As she started forward again, she was overcome by a sudden, strange stillness in the air. She drew in a breath and let it out slow, turning her head by increments to look about.

The witch heard the creature before her gaze found its. A deep, threatening rumble that caused her gut to clench and her pulse to beat frantically beneath her skin met her ears.

There it lay to her right, under the protective spread of a fallen elder tree's branches. Amber eyes gleaming in the sparse illumination from the moon and stars, the wolf sported a thick white coat that made the creature more visible against the backdrop of the tree.

Made the small, dark patch of slickness along its side more obvious.

"Oh, you're hurt," she murmured, trying not to startle it. She moved to draw her wand, but the wolf growled again. Slowing her movements further, still, she kept on speaking, low and steady, her exhaustion strangely stalled in the face of this strained situation. The thing had crowded itself back against the leafy branches. It must've dragged its body out from beneath the tree's weight and then . . . and then simply hadn't the capability to run away. "I want to move this back from you so I can come closer and get a better look at your wound, but . . . I think you're probably hungry, too." She gulped. "And scared."

Deciding to change tacks now that she realized that, she lowered carefully to one knee, pulling the bag she'd stolen from her shoulder. "I noticed your pack is nowhere to be seen. I'm going to guess they were forced to leave you. That tree falling caught you lot off-guard, yeah? They left because they thought you were done for, that they hadn't a choice."

Easing open the pack, she extracted from her stolen food a bit of jerky and an apple—she thought she'd read somewhere that aside from hunting fresh game, wolves would eat fruits, vegetables, and even berries and nuts when prey was scarce. "Here . . . ." Inching her way toward the wolf, she moved carefully, the food held out before her. The witch's fingers trembled a bit, though she could not be certain if that was fear or exhaustion at work. Probably a little of both.

The wolf snapped at her approach and she forced herself not to jump at the sound, but she could see the way its coat shook along its shoulders. If she didn't act fast, the poor animal would not survive long.

Getting as near as she dared, she lightly tossed the food so that it landed within reach of the wolf's paws. And held her breath.

Immediately, the beast pulled the meat along the ground to catch it between sharp, white teeth. Hermione watched it concentrate on chewing, her heart in her throat. Only after reminding herself that there was no air in her lungs did she manage to start breathing again, inhaling deep and quiet, exhaling just as low.

She went on in that calm, soothing tone she'd been trying for—as much for the wolf to feel secure that it could keep a gauge on her location without turning its attention away from the food as for herself. "I studied wolves, you know. Not . . . not for the sake of wolves, themselves, but I . . . I had a friend who was a werewolf, if you can believe that." Hiding her arms behind her back so the movement would be less likely to startle the wolf if the animal did glance up at her, she at last drew her wand from its holster. "But one of the things I know of wolves is they do no typically leave their ill or wounded behind. They do not abandon their own. Not if they've a choice about it . . . ."


He halted at the woman's voice.

When he'd followed that mysterious person into the forest, he'd not really known what to expect. He'd retrieved the horse's gear and tacked him up once more before leading him in through the tree line and tying him off safely out of sight of any potential passersby. Not that he'd expected anyone else to happen along so near to the woods in the dead of night, but he was here, wasn't he? As was the cloaked figure, so he supposed another person just randomly wandering about wouldn't be so unexpected, after all.

A short way in, the tracks seemed to shuffle a bit, as though they were struggling to keep going. That was when he realized he was catching up. And then she spoke, her voice stopping him.

No, that wasn't correct. It wasn't her voice, it was something she'd said. "I had a friend who was a werewolf, if you can believe that." As he'd approached the sound of movement, he hadn't heard anyone else, but he had heard a very distinct growl.

Was she talking to a wolf? A wounded wolf? She was either brave or stupid. His luck? Probably both. But then, she said she had a friend who was a werewolf? Was such a thing even possible without being something . . . potentially monstrous, herself?

He reached for his sword, deciding it was probably best he not wait to arm himself.

"But one of the things I know of wolves is they do no typically leave their ill or wounded behind. They do not abandon their own. Not if they've a choice about it . . . . You've lost your pack? That's me, as well. I think."

Geralt's fingers slipped from the hilt, leaving his weapon sheathed.

"Now just a moment." She murmured something he didn't quite catch. Her voice lowered, as though focusing on something as she went on. He was careful with his footfalls while he inched around the base of a wide tree that separated them, moving silently. "What was I saying? Oh, yes. No idea where I am, but I aim to get home, of course. However, maybe if . . . . Bloody hell, you can't understand me, anyway, why am I trying?"

Clearing the tree, the Witcher stalled his steps again. The woman had her back to him, one arm raised and a slender shaft of polished wood clenched in her fingers. With the movement of her hand, she was directing a fallen tree across the forest floor. The tree slid in shuddering movements and settled, clear of the wolf.

"Now," she went on in that low tone, walking toward the animal at a cautious pace. "I know once I've helped you, you'll probably be off and running to find your pack, but . . . ." The wolf didn't move, eyeing her suspiciously as a sound of warning rumbled out of its chest. Despite the defensive noise, it did not snap at the woman nor make any aggressive motion toward her as she knelt beside it. "But if you don't think you can find them, well, maybe you and I could travel together?"

She moved the bit of wood along the animal's bleeding flank. He couldn't see her face, but the way she bowed her head was obvious. "I learned this from my old potion's professor. No one knew, but before we 'thought' he'd gone Dark, he taught me some of the spells he'd created."

Spells? So . . . she was some sort of mage? Geralt supposed that made sense, as what he'd seen her do with that tree would only be possible using magic.

"I think he expected he wouldn't survive the War. He wanted his spells to live on and he knew that wouldn't happen if he was the only one to master them. With everything I was was known to have done, he must've guessed there were loads of things that were unknown—things I'd take to my grave—and so he trusted I could keep a secret. And I did. Uh, until just now, I suppose." The blood began to move unnaturally, retracting up through the pale fur and filling back into the wound. "This is a special sort of healing spell, sort of more a reversal of an injury than simply closing the skin. Well, for internal and external bleeding, anyway. Let's just hope nothing is broken."

The wolf's eyes seemed to sharpen now that it was partially healed, and it snapped its attention past the woman's shoulder. Geralt's brows shot up to find the creature's gaze locked on him. He'd deliberately not moved a muscle all the while as he'd watched them. It seemed that just the first few moments of that injury-reversal she'd mentioned had done enough that it restored the wolf's faculties, as well.

Her brow furrowing, Hermione glanced over her shoulder, following the wolf's line of sight.

A pale-haired man in black stood a few yards away. And he was staring at the wolf. Immediately she turned, her wand trained on him.

She doubted he was here for anything so simple as hunting a wolf, but that sword strapped to his back certainly screamed hunter. Or mercenary. She had been sent here after being told she was like a wolf, herself, only to encounter such a creature in need of her aid. Maybe this was fate that she be here now to protect it.

Maybe that was what the necklace meant? Perhaps the animal was special, somehow.

"You want this wolf, you'll have to go through me," she said, her voice just as threatening as the growl of the animal she shielded.

The way she stood . . . . The moonlight glinted off the medallion that hung from her neck. Geralt's breath locked in his chest as his gaze traced over the profile of the silver wolf. What?

Fuck. More of this fate rubbish, he supposed.

He held up his hands in a gesture of placation, which was distinctly different from surrender, and stepped closer. "I have not come for the wolf."

His voice was so deep it set off a series of little curling tendrils across the small of her back. Swallowing hard, Hermione stood her ground. The wolf behind her hadn't moved, but kept up a low, steady growl at the intruder.

"Then what is it you're . . . ?" Her words trailed off as he moved near enough that she could see his features . . . that she could see his coloring. The silvery-white hair and gold eyes—she was entirely ignoring the chiseled lines of his jaw and cheek bones and the impressive breadth of his shoulders—brought to mind the white-gold hair and silvery-grey eyes of the wizard who'd sent her here, as though this strange man before her was somehow the reverse of a—"Malfoy?"

"Malfoy?" His brows pinched together, tone confused, as he echoed the word in that impossible timbre of his. "That name is unknown to me. I am Geralt of Rivia."

She recognized that he enunciated his name as one would when they thought the listener had probably heard of them before, even while she noted that had he intended her harm, he'd have come at her with his sword drawn. His somewhat passive approach lessened the likelihood that he was one of that larger company she suspected might be connected to her captors.

She had trouble getting her throat to work and she squeaked out unevenly, "Geralt of Rivia? Uh . . . I suppose that makes me . . . Hermione of London."

The unsteadiness of her voice caused the loss of a few syllables. "Mione of London?" he asked, nodding, as though trying to coax a would-be jumper down from a ledge.

Her eyes rolled and she scowled. "No, Her—" She noticed the necklace he wore. The necklace with the wolf. Just like hers. "Hermione," she emphasized, her tone hollow suddenly and her heart feeling as though it might stop in her chest at any second.

Geralt of Rivia . . . Mione of London . . . . GR and ML . . . like the mysterious root pairing she'd seen at the base of the Malfoy family tree.

Her shoulders drooped and she let her wand arm fall to her side—she was too distracted to notice the wolf stopped growling the moment she dropped her guard—as she stared up at him. "Fuck."