*.*.*.*.*.*
She'd been prepared when she'd been taken up by broom over the Forbidden Forest and dropped from a height far above the tree line by a chortling Rosier. Still, Hermione screamed all the way down, until she'd managed to get the cloak bespelled with a Hover Charm that Theodore had gifted her spread out around her body to break her fall.
With the cloak under her, she'd stopped an arm's length shy of smashing into a thick branch beneath the canopy, arrested in the air and then slowly floating downward until the temporary spell wore off and her feet touched the spongy, leaf-strewn floor of the forest.
As soon as she was down, she slid the cloak over her shoulders and tied it off around her middle to provide warmth, and then reached into the bag Theodore had given her for other essentials.
On the broom ride from Hogsmeade, where she'd been Apparated to after leaving Azkaban, she'd had a chance to discover that the little pouch she'd been bequeathed by Nott had been enchanted with an Undetectable Extensions Charm and contained a number of useful items to help her survive the night in the Forbidden Forest. Unfortunately, a wand wasn't among the things provided (not that she could have used one with the magic-dampening shackles still firmly in place around her wrists), but there had been the woollen cloak with a note pinned to the collar stating 'USE ME UPON FALLING', Bluebell Flames trapped inside an unbreakable glass jar, a serrated table knife, a red arm bandana, a rolled brown paper bag containing dried strips of beef, a metal flask filled with drinking water, and a peculiar vial containing some sort of pale pink liquid labelled 'WHEN HOPE FAILS, DRINK ME'. Unstoppering the vial, she'd sniffed and instantly recognized the scent of Valerian root, the main ingredient in the Draught of Living Death. The dosage, she'd assessed, would be enough to put her into an indefinite slumber, and she'd decided that Theodore had been kind enough to give her a means of accepting her death if it was inevitable and she didn't want to face it.
The woods were snow-covered and nearly pitch black, but she worried about using the Bluebell Flames to provide some heat and to help light her way, knowing it would act as a signal flare, allowing hunting beasts, like the pack of giant wolves known to roam this forest, to home in on her. On the flipside, she knew its bright glow would keep certain other predators at bay, especially those that preferred the stygian darkness – like Acromantulas and Blood-Sucking Bugbears. Weighing the pros versus the cons, she choose to use the glass jar with the metal handle to help guide her steps, and after tying off the bag to her belt, she palmed the knife, just in case.
The first hour had been tense, as Hermione traversed the wintry gloom, her footsteps unnaturally loud in the silent, snow-crusted forest. That alone had her on edge, as it told her one of two things: either there were no birds in the area, or they knew enough to keep quiet, which generally indicated predators were nearby.
By the second hour, she stopped to rest inside the rotted husk of an old tree, finding its narrow opening, yet wide space inside a temporary safe shelter. She sipped from her small canteen and gobbled down one of the dried jerky strips, and then used her knife to cut off the hem of her shift from the knees down so she'd have the ability to run or climb, if necessary. It meant her shins would be exposed if she happened into deeper snow, but she'd take the chance. Checking the bottom of her worn boots—the only shoes she'd ever been allowed since becoming a prisoner years back—she thought the leather soles too thin, but adequate enough for getting over rocks and scrambling up trees. They were soaked, though, as they didn't have a Waterproof Charm upon them.
Cradling the Bluebell Flames jar close and wrapping the cloak around her like a blanket, she curled up into a ball and rested for a bit. She kept her knife in hand as she closed her eyes, figuring that if she were attacked by some creature, she'd defend herself as best as possible… and if that failed, there was always the potion.
*.*.*.*.*.*
Sometime later, the lonely howl of a wolf jarred her awake.
With no way to measure time, and the sky blocked by the canopy above, she had no idea how long she'd been asleep, but surely it couldn't have been that long a time. Sandy-headed, she stayed still, coming to full consciousness, slowing her breathing, trying to hear over the pounding of her heart.
Was it a member of the wolf pack, or Malfoy, or was it something else entirely?
A snorting, wuffing, sniffing-like noise came from somewhere off to the left, as if something was picking up her scent.
Should she stay still, as Nott had insisted, or did she run? What if the thing sniffing her out wasn't Malfoy, but some other large predator? Did she risk it?
The snuffling noise got louder, and with it came some sort of grunting that didn't sound at all like a wolf or a Werewolf, as she remembered Professor Lupin to have sounded. It sounded like a bear or a lion... both of whom had really big teeth and claws that liked to rend flesh open before the feasting began.
Her fight-or-flight instinct kicked in.
Uh, yes, it was time to go. She'd risk it.
Quickly shuttering the make-shift Bluebell Flame lantern by shoving it back into the bag at her side and slipping her arms back through the sleeves of the parka-styled cloak, she gripped the knife tighter, and stared out into the darkness, hoping the beast after her was nowhere nearby.
She counted to ten, and then squirmed out of her shelter, running full out towards the right, praying she didn't smash into any trees. There was just enough light for her to see their darker outlines, but not enough to distinguish their types… or how low their branches may be. Very soon, she was covered in scratches as she flew by sharp limbs, and once, she'd even gotten her cloak tangled, and had to snap a branch in half to get free. The sharp cracking sound that had made was loud even to her ears.
Somewhere behind her, she heard bestial growling, and knew her assailant had caught up to her. His panting breath and the heavy crunching of his feet in the needles and leaves was as loud as her own, and it spurred her on.
How close was he? Oh, God!
Without night vision, it was impossible to see the way the forest floor dipped, and with no depth perception in the darkness, she was taken by total surprise when the ground suddenly gave out under her… just as a large, black paw grabbed at her hair, snagging a few threads and yanking them out of her skull.
Tumbling and rolling down at steep, fern and vine padded embankment, her shins and ribs smashed into rocks on the way down. She screamed until all the breath was knocked from her as her body skidded to a stop… right into the cold waters of a ford. The gravel lining the bottom of the narrow stream dug into the skin of her palms and cheek. Water rushed by, and she coughed and spit as it streamed into her mouth.
Lifting her head with some pain, she fought off a bout of nausea as dizziness assailed her senses. "Run, Hermione, run," she whispered to herself, pushing up on her elbows, getting her knees under her.
It was just as she managed to get to her feet that she realized she'd lost her knife somewhere in the tumble. Just as that sunk in, something big crashed down the hillside after her, and that was her signal to forget about trying to find her weapon and just move.
Hobbling through the water, she got to the other side of the ford and climbed the embankment, her ears ringing, telling her she might have been concussed in the fall – that, on top of wrenching her right knee and spraining her left wrist. Still, she fought on, refusing to lie down and die.
She'd made it as far as the moss-covered bank when she was slammed from behind by something large, extremely heavy, and furry. Its claws dug into the soft flesh of her shoulders, and a short snout full of sharp, curved teeth appeared in her peripheral vision, through the wavering curtain of her tears. The creature made a deep snuffling noise through its nose as it smelled her hair, and she knew by the sound that it was most likely a Blood-Sucking Bugbear that had tackled her to the ground, as that same rumbling huff had been described in The Monster Book of Monsters as being unique to the species.
She was finished. Bugbears were a smaller relative of the Grizzly, but were equally as lethal. They were, in fact, known man-eaters.
A snapping, canine snarl came from somewhere close by, and she felt the Bugbear's interest suddenly shift, its massive head swinging away as it was surprised by another predator appearing on the scene. A second later, the weight upon her was dislodged, as something equally as big as the bear tackled the creature and knocked it off of her in a tumble of limbs, claws, and teeth.
A vicious fight ensued, with the sound of snarling, barking, growling dog meeting the roar of bear. Hermione used the distraction to try to get away, but she'd been seriously wounded, and the best she could manage was some pathetic inching away as she used what little strength was left in her body to edge as far away from the combat.
Behind her, there was a surprised bay from the bear, as if it had been seriously wounded, and then the sounds of it shambling off, giving up the battle.
Every limb shaking, Hermione managed to flip over and miraculously found the pouch Theodore had given her attached to her cloak's wrap. Reaching in, she mentally summoned the vial. Maybe she could shove it down the victor's throat, and use that chance to escape…
The Werewolf–for that was what had fought off the Bugbear, she now saw–reached out and slapped her arm away from the bag before she could grasp the ampoule. She felt the wrist bones crack, a sharp pain that shot up her arm and into the back of her skull, and knew he'd broken at least one, if not more bones with that large, hybrid hand of his.
Despairing, knowing her death was eminent, Hermione began to softly cry in earnest. Why hadn't she taken the contents of the vial when she'd been holed up in the hollow of that tree? At least then she wouldn't have known if she was being eaten alive or not. She'd have just died without being aware of her heart stopping.
The Lycan (was it Malfoy?) straddled her, and leaned its head down next to her neck, inhaling (yes, it had to be Malfoy). When its tongue peeked out to lick at the clotted marks Nott had left on her throat, her sobs tore from her chest as fear began to choke her reason.
The fight instinct rallied for a final go, and she pushed with her uninjured arm against the creature's chest, her palm pressing into the spot right over its heart. "Malfoy, no," she begged, knowing it was useless to plead, as Werewolves were completely unaware of their human natures, the beast's instincts commanding their wills.
To her surprise, the Werewolf went utterly still.
A moment later, her cloak was roughly shoved upwards, and the tie cinching her waist was torn away. The front of her flimsy, cotton shift was shredded from neck to frayed end with a single swipe of his blood-stained claws. The cold night air chilled her skin without a barrier in place to protect it. Hermione's primary thought in that moment, however, had nothing to do with modesty, and everything to do with survival: her soft belly was now exposed. It was the most vulnerable place on a mammal... and having it punctured while still alive and breathing was the worst way to die.
Rationality fled, to be replaced by sheer terror and the need to live. She rolled, uncaring of the pain that shot up and down her spine, her only thought to escape. Wild, incoherent shrieks left her mouth, sounds she'd never made before, as she scrabbled through the dirt and moss, and fought one more time for her life.
She didn't get far. Malfoy pounced, holding her down with ease, his snarling mouth pressing against her ear.
"Ggggggggggrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnggggggggggggeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrr."
Her name growled through the lips of a monster only made her bawling intensify. It seemed somehow worse that Malfoy's bestial form recognised her.
In the middle of gathering breath for another ear-piercing scream, he bit her. At the curve where her shoulder met her neck—right over the same exact spot Theodore Nott had been so obsessed with marking, too—his fangs pierced her, and her frightened cries turned into screeches of pain. Shocked into insensibility, she was forced to lay under Malfoy, as the infection of his bite made its way through her blood, transforming her DNA forever.
It was over fast, thankfully. He released her, licking over the wound to start the clotting process. In moments, she knew from prior reading on the subject, her body's immune system would begin to alter, white blood cell production doubling, then tripling, as her biochemistry changed. In a matter of hours, the bite would be nothing more than fresh scar tissue. It would never fully heal, but it wouldn't bleed out any longer.
Tears leaked down her face in hot rivulets, but no sobbing accompanied them. She was going into shock, the familiar sensation dulling her senses, making the world seem somehow less... real. She hardly noticed Malfoy's grotesque paws pulling her up and into his embrace, but the oddest thought struck her as she looked up at him as he paused to scent the air, holding her cradled in his arms: with his snout angled towards the sky, Hermione suddenly realised that she wasn't looking at a normal Werewolf. Malfoy was bulkier all around, taller, more wolf-like in the face, and his body was covered with silvery-white fur that was filthy with blood and dirt.
What had Voldemort done to him after Greyback had infected him?
He glanced off in the direction the Bugbear had scampered, and a low growl emitted from Malfoy's throat. Then he was off, moving so fast the scenery blurred. Hermione shut her eyes, leaned against his shoulder, and prayed for a fast death.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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