a/n: Okay, another chapter. Huzzah. Thanks so much for the reviews. Another author note at the end so as I don't give anything away here. Please enjoy!
Hunted
Chapter 8
"Breathe," said Fenrir in a tight, almost strained voice. He held onto Hermione's hand lightly as her dirty nails bit terribly into his flesh. He winced but allowed no sound to pass his lips.
Hermione was laying on a deerskin, another of Fenrir's gifts to her. It was rough, perhaps, but warm. In the weeks previous, when her belly and feet and breasts had swelled, she had taken almost rapturous delight in the presents that he bestowed upon her. Choice cuts of meat, books and flowers, sometimes he even brought milk and fruits. He also made a habit of keeping a fire going at night so that she wouldn't grow cold. She wouldn't have, anyway - his body was always next to hers, distributing the warmth.
"Push, love," Fenrir's voice quietly murmured against her ear. She whimpered and looked up into his eyes. He looked exactly as he thought a father should - tall, strong, quietly proud. His strength gave her strength, and she took comfort in him even though her body was wracked with almost numbing pain.
Hermione was in such a flurry of emotions she didn't know if she wanted to laugh or cry - though she settled for screaming when the physical pain grew too intense. This birth, she thought almost insanely, was as natural as they come. No pain medications, no IV, no midwife, nothing but some soft blankets Fenrir had managed to scrounge up and a fire to try to keep the warmth in.
When she had learned of her condition she had been deliriously happy, but in a stilted way. She had always wanted children - someone to mold, someone to teach, someone to let go of and watch fly away into the large world. She had always imagined she'd be with someone like Ron - someone who wasn't as interested in reading or learning as she was but who had a good heart and would care for her, adore her, love her . . . marry her.
But with Fenrir she could almost delude herself into believing that he adored her as she wanted to be adored. Certainly he was at her beck and call lately. He brought to her intelligent, if somewhat passionate and carnal, discussion which was something she would have never had with Ron. She was treated as a Queen of the forest; how Artemis would have been treated if the goddess had ever let go of her sacred virginity.
"Push, mate," came Fenrir's voice over the wave of pain. It was grounding, a light at the end of the darkness, something to cling to. Strength for her aching body.
Hermione sucked in sweet air and pushed, a wail of new life echoing from her lips.
"This is it, mate," said Ronald Weasley, breathing hard as he looked across the field at the gathered death eaters. "Blimey, they look like a sea of black," he whispered in awe.
"Yeah, they do, don't they?" said Harry, distracted. He was poised, wearing only a simple t-shirt and a pair of jeans. It felt good, somehow, to dress like a muggle while going up against the muggle-haters anonymous club. Even if today was the end of all his days, Harry wanted to snub the bastards in any way he could.
And what a sea of black they were. In the distance their pointed hats could just be made out. They were marching almost as one. One thought, one mind, one purpose. They were singular, great, and terrible. Harry Potter shuddered at the thought of the one who controlled them - the eminent general, the denier of love, the easiest hater in the world.
Lord Voldemort, bane of everything.
He, dark, tall man, was in front of his army. He was proud, the sin was visible from his straight shoulders, his calm swagger, the way his lips parted with anticipation. His eyes, red fire iris', burned and consumed like fat, glutton-pigs.
Harry Potter felt his knees trembling as a sick thought ran through his head. "Is he what I was made for? Was it this moment?"
And then, a few seconds later, almost an afterthought flitting about. "And what shall I do afterwards?"
But the present was the only thing Harry could worry about now. He lifted his wand as he had seen generals do on made for tv movies and marched on forward.
For my parents. For Cedric. For Sirius. For Dumbledore. For Hermione Granger.
"I can't, I can't," whimpered Hermione. She let out a sigh as Fenrir placed another cool cloth on her brow. The kindness of the gesture made the pain drop away for a few moments as she focused solely on the refreshing wetness.
Fenrir gathered blankets, clean and silk (he had taken them earlier from Malfoy without the long-haired wizard noticing. He was rather preoccupied lately which served Fenrir well) and brought them near Hermione's parted legs, ready to catch and purify the child as it entered the world.
A moment later the pain began again as hot tears fell down her face.
The battle was fierce. Had anyone expected anything less? For evil fights with ardor and bravery for all their faults. They believed in something too. They wanted to change the world. Change through cataclysmic events, through massive death, through a holocaust of souls.
And light, breaking through on the wings of the Phoenix, to stop the impending change and restore order.
But the darkness was methodical madness. Voldemort was magnificent in his cold rage as he brought many a wizard and witch to their knees. Funny, he always made them bow before him before he silenced them with the Avada. Like by swearing fealty they could know peace through a quick death.
And they said Lord Voldemort knew no mercy.
Remus Lupin was the one to take down Bellatrix Lestrange. She had beseeched her lord to rescue her, to do something for her in her final moments. Had she not followed him fervently, believed in his cause, loved him in her twisted, obsessive way? Would he not come for her now and cover her with his cloak, at least to shield her eyes for one last second before that flash of green invaded her? It would all have been worth it if he would come and gaze regretfully at her for a moment - any sign to show he cared.
What good it did her, when the dark lord scoffed at her fallen body, and marched headlong into the boy-who-lived, drew his wand and sent a slicing hex at the boy's neck.
"Just a little more, mate. I can see the head."
Agony, blessed agony, ripped through her. Fenrir grounded her when she would have blacked out. He focused her thoughts on him so that she thought only of pleasing him, and herself, by letting the little child out of her.
"Give it one more push. Then the arms and legs should come out easily enough. Ah, here it comes . . ."
They circled like lions over a fresh kill. Indeed, the bodies of Kingsley Shacklebolt and Walden McNair were curled like cats on the ground between them. A barrier of death. One more would fall.
"Boy," cried Voldemort, triumph alighting his eyes. "You think you can match the strength of Lord Voldemort? You're nothing, child. I've made you what you are."
He raised his wand with ease.
"And I can unmake you."
Harry dodged but not before sending a curse of his own flying out in blue iridescent light. Did he hit Voldemort? It didn't matter as the dark wizard was sending hex after hex at the boy in his cold, high, mocking voice. Oh how joyfully did the dark lord flirt with death. He laughed with madness and enough hatred to give him a glimmer of sanity - something to focus on. Oh Harry Potter, he hates you so much it's made him sane.
Wailing. It wailed its first word, an ahhhhhh. It made Hermione wail too, but silently, in joy. Finally. The deed was done. She could rest.
He was right. The rest just slipped out. Almost easy. As if anything from the experience could be classified as easy.
Her eyes, half-lidded with a dull pleasure and pain, gazed upon Fenrir as, naked as Adam and with just as much shame, he cleaned the newborn, wrapping it in the white silk. He said something which Hermione didn't hear over the buzz in her ears. She looked at him oddly, and he only laughed and repeated it a bit louder.
"You're nothing, boy, just a fly in the honey," snarled Voldemort.
Both the contestants were bleeding and grasping at their wands and at their minds, trying to call out a spell that would give them the upper hand.
"I. Am. Your. Destroyer," panted Harry, who meant it.
Each raised their wands and cast the only spell left in their minds. Green illuminated the sky.
"It's a boy."
He then handed the child to his mother carefully, his strong arms supporting the head until she was able to grasp her progeny in her arms. Her eyes watered and a smile broke out across her face. Oh, such love, such joy, such longing echoed in her sob.
"Why do you cry?" asked Fenrir, at once stiffening and afraid. Was something wrong with the child? All he could see before him was perfection. Perhaps she was rejecting the child as she had once rejected him. Or worse, perhaps the child was dead. Indeed, it had stopped crying not long after birth. Its eyes were closed. Had it died in the moment he handed it to his mate?
"I'm crying," said Hermione with a weak smile up at him. "Because he's beautiful."
As are you, thought Fenrir.
They both fell.
And a hush descended.
Ah, thought the wise, this is what the breath before history is made feels like.
And a lone figure rose, on shaky legs, up from the parched earth.
Fenrir wrapped his mate in a blanket and drew her and his son into his arms. He nuzzled his face into her hair and inhaled deeply. He could still smell the blood and sweat on her skin. The smell filled him with pride and a rage to protect. He held them both tightly against his chest, certain that they would be with him, perhaps like this in this moment, forever.
"I thank you, mate, for giving me this gift," he whispered into her ear, but she was sound asleep in his arms. She was safe and home with her family. Danger had passed. It was her time to rest.
It was Harry Potter who stood up, his scar blacker than ever, his green eyes like death, as exultation and relief passed through the crowd of phoenixes.
He was partly happy as he had never been happy before, alleviated as he was from the burden. In that relief came a sense of loss, of weight being lifted. Instead of this being an act of freedom, however, it felt like his previously crushed lungs could finally breathe only to learn that all the air had been stolen away.
And it was Harry Potter who wept.
a/n: Ah well, war sucks. Poor Kingsley and Mcnair (not Bellatrix, I don't really like her for some reason. It's such a joy killing her. . .) I like them a lot so I'm a bit upset that they died but someone had to. Poor Voldemort especially! I'm sad that he's more than likely going to die in canon. He's so enjoyable with his crazyness. Alas. And fear not, happy ending won in a ridiculous landslide so the angst should be lessening eventually. Which is all good and plenty. I generally prefer happy endings too. It gives me that warm, fuzzy sense of completion. Okay, thanks for reading again and please review!