*.*.*.*.*.*

Sick to her gourd, dizzy, and in serious, mind-bending pain, Hermione barely held down a bout of nausea and barely held onto her consciousness as Malfoy carried her through the dark forest.

Time, again, held no meaning for her as she slipped once more into the role of captive. Occasionally, she'd peek through her lids up into the sky at the thick canopy of leaves and branches overhead. Sometimes, very briefly, she'd see a sliver of starlit sky, sometimes the moon's brilliance. Eventually, though, those glances began to make her head pound, so she squeezed her eyes tightly together again and simply awaited another chance to grab the vial in her bag.

Sometime later, they slowed, and then she felt the change in the air, indicating she was no longer under a free sky, but inside the earth. The smell of wet soil and rich minerals confirmed it. It got colder and the angle steeper. Then, it got warmer, although they continued downward. She began to both sweat and shiver.

"I'm going to vomit," she warned.

It seemed Malfoy understood, for he came to a sudden stop and put her down gently onto her feet. She swayed once and fell to her knees, spewing her guts out all over some rushes on the damp cave floor. She expelled another heaving mouthful for good measure. When nothing else wanted to come up, she spit, trying to get the acidic taste from her mouth. With a shaky hand, she wiped her lips and chin. "Ugh. Disgusting."

It was pitch black in the cave; she couldn't see two inches in front of her nose. The darkness seemed alive – a hovering presence, weighing down on her from the top and sliding in on her from the sides. Hermione began to hyperventilate. She'd always been a little claustrophobic, especially after first year, when one time after Potions class, Pansy Parkinson had shoved her into a cramped broom closet in the basement and spelled it with an extra strong locking charm that had taken her half an hour to un-spell. She'd been aware the whole time of the weight of all that ancient stone overhead and around her, and had been eternally thankful afterwards that she lived in a tower where she could see the sky, and not underground, stifled by the possibility of being crushed under tonnes of rock.

"Malfoy?" Where was he? Had he dumped her down here to die?

A moment later, she was hauled back up into Malfoy's hairy arms, and she had her answer: clearly, he wasn't going to leave her to fend for herself, nor was he going to kill her. He'd had ample chance to do both. Besides, he'd turned her with that bite. He wouldn't go through that kind of trouble if he'd intended on snacking on her intestines, right?

He sniffed at her face, his big, wet nose touching her cheek, and made a snuffing noise as if he found the smell of her vomit-y breath unpleasing. Her head buzzing still, she laid it back on his shoulder, not caring if her body odour offended him. She'd been held captive, rarely allowed the opportunity to clean her skin, hair, or teeth while in prison; only Theodore would grant her the chance to be clean with a Scourgify spell, used once a week, upon his regular visits. She was used to being dirty and smelly otherwise.

They were off again, and it became clear that Malfoy's night vision was superb, because she couldn't see a bloody thing... until they neared a hot spring further into the cave, Magical moss grew like a carpet around it and gave off a phosphorescent glow, providing some dim light to the dark cave.

The moment Malfoy stepped onto the moss, it reacted, glowing brighter. A reaction to magical energies, she remembered from sixth year Herbology. It was quite beautiful, and if Hermione had been feeling better, and this encounter had been under a different set of circumstances, she'd have loved to study its properties. As it was, Malfoy simply tromped over the moss, heading for the small pool of steaming water in the middle of the cavern. He paused only long enough to adjust her in his arms so he could dump her cloak and bag onto the ground and to get her shoes off her feet, and then he entered the water, submerging them both up to their necks.

Hermione squealed. She hadn't felt water flowing over her body in years, and the sensation was both pleasurable and scary. She held onto Malfoy, shaking as she adjusted to the temperature difference. He, however, had other ideas for them.

Grabbing a hunk of the magical moss that grew over the edge of the cauldron, he tore it off and began rubbing it all over her hair. It was a noxious green colour, and stung when it accidentally got in her eye. Hermione had had to hold her breath and submerge to get it all off of her. Several more dunks and it was finally out of her hair... along with all the dirt and grease and oil that had knotted it. It felt softer, cleaner. She worked her fingers through it, getting the tangles out as Malfoy used more moss to clean her arms, neck and legs.

Using a sharp claw, he tore her frayed and thin shift the rest of the way off her. The worn fabric separated as easily as a hot knife passing through butter. It came away as two sodden strips, which he tossed to the side. He did the same with her filthy knickers.

Covering her breasts, Hermione dropped down in the water to cover up, scolding Malfoy for looking at her naked body. He wuffed in what sounded like laughter, grabbing more moss and tossing it at her to use to clean up the rest of her body. He then took his own handful and cleaned his fur and claws.

The moss worked like a charm, leaving her skin as clean as if she'd used soap, and its face was rough, like a loofah, so she was able to work off a few layers of grim and dead skin at the same time. The hot spring seemed to have a gentle flow to it, so all of the dirty water was washed downstream, replaced by clean water that came in through a fissure near her feet.

"This moss is amazing," she said, holding it up and examining it. It was dull in her hand, probably because her magical energies were sealed by the bracelets on her wrists, and it couldn't feed off of them as a result. "I wonder if it grows anywhere else and what it's made of."

She was feeling much more energised now, she realised, her earlier shock, her injuries, and her exhaustion seeming to dull and give way to a new vigour. It was the advanced healing she'd obtained from the Lycanthropy, she was sure. Gingerly, she touched the spot Malfoy had bitten her. It ached, but when she pulled her fingers away, there was no residual blood. The bite wound had clotted already.

"I'm going to be like you now," she said. "You've condemned me to share your life. Why?"

Malfoy stared at her with those bestial eyes of his, and reached out to touch her wrist, where he'd broken it. It was healing properly, she realised. He indicated her other injuries, which would have been fatal in the exposed environment top-side, and she suddenly understood: he'd done it to save her life.

"I don't understand. You're a Werewolf and... you've always hated me," she reminded him, perhaps a bit unwisely, but what did she have to lose really?

Fiercely, he shook his head.

"Yes, you did. I'm a 'filthy, little Mudblood', remember?"

Just speaking the word made her sick to her stomach. She'd heard it enough times while incarcerated, and although she'd learned to hide her feelings with a blank expression, she'd still felt inside every insult hurled at her over the years. Some things a person shouldn't get used to, she'd always believed. Bigotry was one of those things.

He stood, approached, and it was only then that she realised how... male... he was. His huge genitalia, sheathed as a wolf's normally would be, hung heavy and thick between his legs. As he came closer, it began to stiffen, the weighty sacks underneath drawing up and tightening. Hermione sank lower in the water, made sure her breasts and sex were covered by her hands, and turned to the side to prevent him from having any kind of access to her, front or back. She had no idea what he was thinking or how he would behave, but if there was one thing she'd learned during her incarceration, it was that no male was to be trusted, no matter the species.

Hunkering down to her height, his great, platinum-white snout pressed into her shoulder, sniffing and nuzzling her. His arms shot around her, pinning her in place. Against her outer thigh, his huge, frightening erection pressed. Terrified, Hermione could only close her eyes and pray for death again. She'd spent years being tortured by Death Eaters, and now she'd been turned into a Werewolf against her will. Would she also be mated against her consent by this creature? Would her torment never end?

Tears stung her eyes and fell in uncontrollable streams as great, heaving sobs were suddenly drawn from the well of her suffering. "Please, don't," she begged. "Enough. I can't take anymore."

Malfoy stilled, and then he melted into her, holding her to his warm, fast-beating heart with a careful hold. He licked her cheek, her ear, her neck where he'd bit her, as if apologising for everything. She continued to cry, and it seemed the years of suffering were pouring out of her now – all the loss, all the death, all the physical punishments she'd endured. How had she kept her sanity at all?

"They hurt me so much," she whimpered, throwing her arms around Malfoy and burying her face in his furry neck. "They destroyed everything good in the world."

He gave a canine sigh, and held her until she cried herself out. Then, he lifted her waterlogged body out of the hot spring, and laid her down on what appeared to be a makeshift nest in the corner, made of old clothing and scraps of fabric. The room was humid enough for her not to feel too chilled, but she still hunched in on herself, trying to keep the heat in. Malfoy stood back far enough and shook his wet fur out before sitting down opposite her. He passed her cape to her and she huddled under it, amazed that it was dry, despite lying in the snow and falling into the stream. It must have been charmed. The wool was scratchy, but it kept her warm.

She sniffed and rubbed a tired hand across her eyes, staring at her 'host', unsure what to make of him. Malfoy was a Werewolf, of a kind, and he should be this mindless, horrific killer, and yet here he was, watching her without an inkling of hunger or viciousness in his features. He'd saved her from that Bugbear, and from her mortal injuries by giving her the means to heal. True, he'd also infected her with Lycanthropy, but the HIV that had run through her system would be destroyed by the Werewolf's curse, which trumped any human virus on the planet. She wouldn't die of AIDS-related complications, but in exchange, she'd turn into a monster once a month.

Honestly, she didn't know which fate was worse.

"I don't understand you," she said around a yawn. "You've changed, and not just into a wolf, I mean. You're… different." Lying down and huddling under the blanket, Hermione stared at her companion for the longest time, fighting sleep. Eventually, though, it won.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Author's Notes:

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