Hunted

Chapter 11

It was a silly thought, really. Especially now. But it came regardless, a little twittering butterfly, flitting across her mind. She looked into Harry's green eyes and wondered if this is what he looked like when he faced Voldemort. There was as intensity, a determination that she had seen before.

It was the same look when he searched out the Philosophers Stone, the same one when they saw Mrs. Norris stunned in front of that bloody message. It was there when they faced Sirius in the shrieking shack, and again when they, together, blasted Professor Snape clear off his feet. It was there when he said goodbye to her in the tent when he went to face the dragon at the Tri-wizard tournament, and again when they trained for the DA.

It had always been there, she realized. For a boy who had been so unsure of himself, he was very determined.

She had never been on this end of his eyes before, and it filled her with dread.

Fenrir immediately put himself in front of Hermione, pushing her behind him none too gently. She could see the tense muscles rising on his back, knots of rope they were, and they led up all the way to his neck. She placed her hands, cool from fear, on the large expanse of flesh between his shoulder blades. He relaxed a fraction, but the growl in his throat was unmistakable.

"Put that wand away, boy," he said, his gruff voice making a mockery of the youth of Harry's tones.

"Let her go, you filthy animal!" Harry shrieked.

Filthy. The word rang throughout Hermione, like little bells all over her skin. For whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee, ah yes indeedy. The thoughts of a grey eyed, equally angry wizard with pale hair and pale skin and pale morals calling her the same thing, filthy filthy mudblood, again and again, like a mantra in the space between ears.

"You will not threaten me or my mate."

She imagined his eyes must be narrowed into little slits by now. Furiously she pressed herself against him, hoping that her presence at his back, her full presence at his full back, would calm him. Anything to keep them from killing one another.

"She isn't your mate!" Harry spat the word like it was a fly trapped between his teeth. "You stole her from me, you son of a bitch. You fucking stole her from me!" He let out a curse then, just as Fenrir leaped forward in some blind, aggressive charge.

Hermione was faintly aware of her own scream echoing through the trees, and a black thought of what would happen to Hati if Fenrir died?

Moments like these pass very quickly, even slow-motion quickly, where the seconds are drawn out because the mind and body become numb. A woman like Hermione, who had dedicated most of her life towards learning the details of every situation, object, person, and place cannot cope with unprecedented events. She had never had two men she cared for rip one another apart in front of her. She closed down. Averted her eyes. Hope that if one of them fell they would both fall, and somehow take her with her so that she wouldn't have to survive with the loss of both.

Hati, again, and she knew she had to survive. Fenrir, too, must survive. And Harry had to live for Ginny and Lizzie.

When her eyes opened she was met with Harry, tattered robes and bleeding arm, half standing and half crouching over Fenrir, whose face was contorted with blood. The werewolf made to stand, but Harry's wand quickly trained itself on his face and began to glow green. Green like his beautiful eyes.

"Avada Kedavra"

She must have apparated. Subconsciously perhaps. In one instant she was feet and miles away, and the next she was laying over his body, her hair falling into the blood on his face. Her almost nude back was exposed to Harry's wand, her face half crushed to Fenrir's shoulder, half pleading with Harry.

Hermione was lucky that Harry had not dedicated his life to studying and found more enjoyment in Quiddich. Reflexes had been honed, and in this instant it served him well. At the first sign of her familiar, longed for bushy hair, he tipped his wand away and a tree, thousands of years old, father and grandfather to thousands of fledglings, turned grey and black within seconds.

"Move, Hermione."

"No," she whispered, her voice barely recognizable to her own ears, it was so wet with tears. "No," she repeated, stronger this time.

Fenrir made a movement to push her off him, but her pressed her body into his own, her tears and saliva from her opened, pained mouth mixing on his chest. He whined without dignity, caught between his desire to rip apart the threat and the desire to comfort his mate.

"You're hurting me, Harry," she continued, wrapping her arms around Fenrir, attempting to burrow her self into his body. "Can't you see that you're tearing me apart?"

Harry's breath hitched. "You can't mean that."

But Hermione didn't hear him. She only cried harder, to the point where she didn't even know the reason why for her tears. Her face seemed to be stuck in this contortion of sorrow which made her both pitiful and empathetic.

Fenrir tried to wrap his arms around her. Her called her name softly, tried to soothe her. He tried to stroke her hair, to let her know that it was going to be okay. Oh my dear, you'll only make yourself sick if you keep crying like that.

Every time he tried she only made louder, cut off, choked noises of wetness. She clung to him in a quiet desperation, and each one felt that their hearts would break in that moment if they were not touching. They needed that physical reminder of the others presence, for if they were parted, all that they were would rupture and crumble into irreplaceable pieces.

Somewhere above her, like some benevolent and guilty deity, she heard Harry say, "I never meant to hurt you" and nothing more.

A/N: All that remains now is the epilogue. I'm going to warn you now, it'll be irritatingly short.