A/N: New to writing and had this stuck in my head, please be gentle. Disclaimer: I obviously own none of the rights to the Harry Potter universe or the cover image. The plot is mine but based on a song I heard recently.

Minerva is now a couple steps away, she dips at the waist and gathers her basket and turns back towards me. She is more agile than I had given her credit.

I am frozen like a deer caught unaware in the forest as she steps back towards me.

"I prefer witch" she says with a quirk of her lips. Then simply: "Come."

I glance warily back towards the centre of town. I had left none of my meagre possessions back in the hayloft across town. If I had made it cleanly away with my apple I would have followed the road out of town and continued on my way.

"Or do you have somewhere else to stay?" she asks stepping towards the forest now.

I resolve that if she murders me in the forest no one will miss me. Perhaps the towns people will be cursed I muse. I plan on haunting them for eternity if this is the case. Everyone has returned to the market and I hear the sounds of them calling out their wares to the other townspeople.

"Nowhere." I reply, stepping after her where she has moved to the edge of the woods. She holds aside a large branch and reveals an animal track into the darkness of the forest.

Now or never.

We weave across trickling streams and climb steadily in the cool damp of the forest. The sun splits through the canopy and highlights the fluttering birds and other creatures of the forest. Minerva for all her apparent age, moves quickly up the stony path and surely forward.

My travels have been across fields and hills but nothing like this uphill ascent. I stumble forward, not as fit as I thought and unwilling to waste my breath on talking.

I freeze when Minerva holds a hand behind her and becomes a statue. She ducks quickly into a crouch and I do the same. We have come to a plateau and the trees clear slightly just ahead.

I notice then that the forest animals have become quiet and a strange rumbling disturbs the peace. Suddenly, a stag bursts from the edge of our clearing, his breath fogs out of his frothing mouth. He stands for a split second and looks directly at us before the baying of hounds becomes clear in the distance – in a breath he is gone. Dashing off and quickly absorbed back into the landscape.

Minerva has not moved and I follow her example and remain crouched on the forest floor.

The hounds are not shy, baying their joy and bloodlust into the air. They pour like a wave from the forest into the clearing. A mass of milky brown coats and slobbering snouts they mill around the clearing and then dash after the stag. Gone in a heartbeat but not alone.

The men are just as bloodthirsty and arrive on horseback trumpeting their own excitement and moving quickly towards their prey.

A single smaller rider stands out, he laughs jubilantly from his seat on horseback and leads the charge after the hounds and stag. In a glance I can see clearly that he is better dressed, wearing a deep blue coat different from the russet of the hunting party.

And then we are alone again and Minerva slowly moves back into action and begins back on our journey with little explanation. We continue the trek and after what seems like ages we step around a bend and are at once inside another clearing.

Minerva moves to one side clucking cheerfully at the hens who are scattered about. My breath stops as I turn and see the view out beyond her small cabin. The rolling hills of the country stretch endlessly until the horizon. A patchwork of fall colours and a castle nestled on the horizon.

"Was that…?" I begin.

"A royal hunting party." Minerva finishes for me.

"I didn't realise that it was permitted to live on crown lands." Years of ingrained social rules and understanding rears its head inside my mind.

"Neither is stealing" she replies slyly and I colour in embarrassment.

She ducks under the lintel of the door and disappears from sight. I follow her and stop dead when a furred beast moves threateningly towards me with an unwelcome rumble in its throat. Its fangs gleam above a jowly snout.