Hunted

Chapter 9

Time passes much as it always does, in either a rush where nothing can be seen as the minutes and hours fly by in some ecstacy of motion, or slowly in contemplation of each second where every transgressed feeling is magnified and pain, love and peace are caressed and cherished.

"Hati," Hermione Granger's voice, stern and loving at once, came to the young, shaggy-brown haired boys' ears. He lifted himself up from bending over a fallen tree where he was fascinated with a group of ants that were slowly tearing apart the body of a decaying, black beetle.

"Mum," breathed the boy who was now cornered with a problem. Part of him wanted to run to his mother and throw his arms around her, feel her warmth. Another part of him wished to continue watching the dissection.

Hermione watched her son waver in his indecision before kneeling next to him, careful to pull up her white dress so that it wouldn't get dirty. After Hati had been born Hermione had told Fenrir that she wanted to wear clothes again and that she wanted him to do the same. At first it seemed as if he was going to refuse her, his face had darkened considerably and he said nothing. The next day, however, she was presented with dresses of all sorts of colors and cuts.

That was years ago. Now their son was four years old.

"What's that?" asked Hati, tugging on his mother's arm to gain her attention.

"Ants, love. They're taking the beetle home to their queen for a feast."

"Eww!" the boy squinched his nose and rubbed his head on his mother's arm. She smiled down at him, gathering him into her arms and sitting him on her lap. That the boy had not acquired the same tastes as his father had been a private joy to the young mother.

Hati was born with werewolf genes, not exactly a common occurrence, even in wizards. Unlike his parents he would be able to control when he transformed later in his life as his magic grew. He also had more control over his bestial nature when he was in werewolf form, being able to overcome the instincts to feed and breed. Of course he didn't show many of those signs yet, but he was young and impulsive still.

Hati squirmed in his mothers arms as they both looked continued to watch the ants crawl around over and in the beetle.

"It was moving," he said.

"What was moving, love?" asked Hermione, resting her lips gently on the crown of the boys head.

"The beetle," he said and pointed to it to clarify. "It was moving and now it isn't."

Hermione sighed and put her cheek close to his. "The beetle died, love. That's all."

"Died?"

"Yes," she hesitated. She thought of a way to explain something simple and deep as death to her son. She almost wished she had allowed Fenrir to take the boy with them when they went hunting as he wanted to do. Images, however, of bleeding limbs from torn deer was not how she wanted her son to learn the finer points of life. Fenrir had rolled his eyes when she said this, her hands on her hips, but he hadn't pressed the point.

"See those ants, scurrying along?" she said, pointing to them. Heti nodded. "They're living, like you and I. And so they go about, eating and laughing and loving. . ."

"And swimming?" interrupted Hati, who loved to be in the water. His father would often take him for a moonlight swim. He loved that time. Hermione would often sit on the shore with a book, looking up at her makeshift family with a fond smile. Sometimes she came into the water with them, but would scold Hati for staying in too long and letting his skin get pruney. If she didn't come in often enough Fenrir would bodily pick her up and drag her in, kicking and screaming, citing that she needed a bath.

Hati, even as young as he was, rolled his eyes as he watched his parents splash one another repeatedly amidst their laughter.

"Ant's wouldn't swim like we do," said Hermione with a doting smile. "They don't like the water."

"Phooey."

"But ants can do things we can't. They can burrow underground."

Hati quickly changed his tune. "Luuuucky," he whined, immediately jealous.

"You wouldn't like it underground, love. It's cold." She tousled his hair for a second before taking a breath. "When something dies, like the beetle, it goes back to the ground."

"But you said it was cold!"

"It is cold, darling. But when something is dead it no longer cares. Eventually the dead take root and become part of life again. That beetle is going to nourish the ants, and the rest of him will become plants in the spring. Maybe even flowers."

"But plants are living," said Hati, slowly as if he was working out a particularly difficult equation. And, in a way, he was.

"Yes," she smiled.

"So," he looked up into her eyes, his own shining and wide. "Dead means a new life?"

Hermione laughed and gathered him really tight against her chest (Mum, you're squeezing too hard!). "Something like that, darling. I'll explain it too you when you're older."

Hermione half turned her head when she heard some branches breaking behind her.

"There you two are," Fenrir said, his arms crossed over his bare chest (he had opted to please his mate by wearing pants, but he never liked the idea of being fully clothed and so he went shirtless more often than not). "I was wondering if I'd be searching for you all night."

Hati squirmed free of his mother and ran, arms wide, to his tall father who gathered him up in his arms. "Here's my boy!" said Fenris, lifting him up over his head as the boy squealed with joy.

Hermione lifted herself off the ground and went to her mate. Fenrir immediately snaked his arm around her waist when she was close enough and the two shared a somewhat passionate kiss.

"Yuck," said Hati, grimacing at their display of affection.

Hermione walked alone as was her wont these days. Fenrir insisted that he and his son have bonding times, where he would teach the boy how to hunt. Of course Hati wouldn't be hunting anything dangerous, maybe a butterfly if he was feeling especially brave. Fenrir wanted to teach him the basic life skills, like how to crouch, how to move without making a sound, how to calm your breathing so that even your heartbeat will not give your position away.

She passed a fallen tree (recent, it had barely decayed) and, on a whim, hopped up onto it. She balanced precariously for a second before lifting up her arms perpendicular. She laughed in a childish way as she traipsed across the tough wood, her calloused feet hardly feeling the grooves of bark. When a gay kick of her legs she landed onto the forest ground and started to sprint, her hair wildly whipping at her back.

Ah, such was freedom.

But she wasn't truly free - that would be the denial of responsibility, of her values, of her loved one, of herself. She never spoke of it to Fenrir because she liked his deluded passions sometimes. But she knew that freedom, the kind he desired, sought, and believed to have achieved even without the Dark Lords victory, was not real freedom. There were always roots, something that connected each of them to the earth, to each other.

Hermione knew she would never be free of herself and reveled in the knowledge.

When her energy was mostly depleted she rested beneath a large tree whose wide, strong branches guarded her from the sun while the roots, thick and numerous, gave her a place to rest her head.

Her thoughts wandered.

"He needs a name," said Fenir, his eyes glowing with intense pride. He held his son, a mewling babe, in one arm while he gathered his still exhausted mate to his chest. "Something strong, you can see he is going to be a great warrior."

Hermione's eyes opened halfway, even that small movement seemed to be an effort. "He's only been born only a few hours. How can you tell?"

"I know," said Fenrir, resting his head on hers. His nostrils flared as he took in the scent of her sweat and blood. Usually her blood either made him feel one of two emotions; anger, if he had not shed it himself, and arousal, if she bled from his bite.

"Augustus," said Hermione, suddenly. "That's a strong name."

Fenrir growled low in his throat. "No."

"No? He was an emperor of Rome," Hermione protested.

"Which fell," Fenrir pointed out. His real reason for his denial of the same was that he vaguely knew that the long dead Lucius had been an emperor of Rome and didn't want any association with the recently deceased pureblood aristocrat.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "What were you thinking of, then?"

"Hati," he breathed, hoping she liked it.

"Hati?" she repeated, stumbling over the name for he said it so softly.

"The name of the wolf who chases the moon," said Fenrir. "Appropriate, don't you think?"

"Hati," she repeated, snuggling up to his warm chest, thinking fondly of the glowing moon. Sometimes, when staring at the bright sliver of it in the sky, where the pull did not cause her to lose her humanity fully, she could look objectively at the source of her transformation. Still, even though after time she would get used to being different, a werewolf and rejected by society as a whole, she would never be totally enveloped in it.

But the moon was still beautiful, and she still wanted to grasp it, bathe in it, be fully one with it.

"It's beautiful," said Hermione.

Fenrir smiled, carefully putting Hati into Hermione's arms and wrapping his own long, hairy ones around them both as his mate drifted off to sleep.

Hermione awoke with a start, confused that she had dozed off. It was growing dark, the sun was falling below the horizon. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, sighing. She knew she would have to get back home soon or Fenrir would come looking for her. He didn't scare her anymore, not really, but she didn't exactly look forward to being picked up, slung over his shoulder and then hauled away like a sack of potatoes.

She picked herself up and brushed dirts, twigs and leaves from her dress. She tsked as she noticed a few stains and reigned herself to having to have to do some washing in the river this night.

She had only moved a few steps when she heard the unmistakable snapping of twigs. She froze like the cliche' deer, but quickly recovered and bent low to the ground. She silently cursed herself for wearing white; it was a start contrast to the deep brown and green hues of the forest.

If it had been Fenrir she would have known. She could smell him long before he was in sight, a nice perk of being a wolf a few days out of the month. This was a wholly different smell from him. He smelled of the forest, and bloody, something primal and muddy. This scent was young, curious, and faintly familiar.

Hermione lowered herself on her haunches, prepared to strike at whatever the sound eventually became. Her breathing increased, especially when a little voice whispered in her head that she had wandered too far away from the heart of the forest. She was near the edges of a wizarding town. A wizarding town meant death for her and her kind.

A small, almost painfully tiny white form made it way towards her. Hermione started, fear making her ready to attack or run as the need necessitated. But then the white form became clearer. It was a little girl with long black hair, straight, wearing a little white sun dress similar to Hermione's own.

Motherly instincts took charge and flooded her senses. She stood up and began to make her way over to the girl, perhaps pick her up, hug her as she would Hati, and help her find her way home. Of course Fenrir would be furious with worry if she wasn't home soon, but the forest was a dangerous place for a human, especially one so young.

"Lizzie?" came a voice, too close. "Lizzie, don't wander off like that."

Hermione sucked in breath as she froze, her eyes widening and her chest constricting.

A young man bent down and picked up the young girl, who giggled and threw her arms around his neck. The man, his dark hair matching the child's, bent down and lay a playful kiss on her nose.

"What did you find, a big bad wolf?" he said in a playfully low tone. The girl squealed with joy. It almost covered up the pitiful sound that issued, unbidden, from Hermione's throat.

Eyes met. Brown and green, like the forest. Choking breaths.

"Hermione?" It wasn't a question, not really, but a statement of disbelief and a plea.

Her eyes felt dry but everything inside of her had turned wet and heavy.

" . . . Harry."

A/N: Wooo, what a cliffhanger. I'm so freaking sorry this took forever to update. College is a pain, especially with finals coming up. Not to mention I'm transferring universities so doing the application work for that and the angst, grief and utter humiliation that accompanies that didn't give me a whole lot of will to do much of anything.

But in good news I'm back to writing. This is close to being done and should wrap up in a chapter or two (maybe more. . . who knows). Thank you so much, everyone, for your reviews. They have been absolutely lovely. I'm really glad there is such affection and interest in this pairing since it is rather completely random.

Also, fun fact, in Norse mythology the sons of Fenrir are Hati and Skoll. Hati chases the moon across the sky and Skoll chases the sun. Hati also means "hate" or "hateful one" which I wasn't that fond of for Hermione and Fenrir's son, but it really was choosing the lesser of two rather poor names.