There comes a time for every being to make a choice. Sometimes is is easy; sometimes it is insurmountable. For most, it is somewhere in-between. As one decision is made, more follow until there is no going back. The consequences of any seemingly small decision can last a lifetime. It is not always easy to see which moments are the most critical; which new fork in the path will send one further down a long path, or careen one into a new direction. Some choices, so innocuous at first glance, house a world of trouble for those under its spell.

So much is decided without the presence of a conscious thought; souls do or say or act without truly examining what is in front of them. There is always a choice, whether it is perceived or not. No matter whether the mind is present or not, a soul must endure the consequences of a decision once made.

Trust has much to do with choice. There are instincts and gut feelings balanced with the knowledge and truth of what one has done; but there are times when one supersedes the other. No matter what logic may say, instinct is not a force to be ignored. It will lead a soul down a path blindly, but often more assuredly than the path of enlightened logic. Perhaps, someday, the fruit of such a trust will make itself clear, but that is all fulfilled in time. There are times to cry for aid, and times to silently endure; it is difficult to ascertain which is the most prudent at any moment in time, but for a child, the answer is simple. A child needs help, and they will find it wherever they can, no matter the danger it may lead them into.

Changes

Fenrir rubbed at his temples as he awoke, blinking into the grey dawn. He shook his head, attempting to clear the fog in his mind that was so reminiscent of the mist in the chilled forest. He could not recall the events of the night before; which was an odd sensation for him. It troubled him, it had been years since he'd woken up from a full moon completely in the dark. Scratching a sudden itch that had set in his chin, the werewolf paused once more as he flicked blood off the aforementioned area of his face.

The werewolf frowned heavily; he never forgot biting someone. He was also hungry enough to know he hadn't eaten anything over the night. He remembered running, and then the change came, and there was nothing after that, just a frustrating wall of nothing. He looked around, blue eyes scanning the forest carefully, wracking his brain to bring up the memories from the night before. He continued to rub his chin as he surveyed the area. He managed to find the clothes he had dropped when he shifted and was halfway through redressing when he finally spotted something out of the ordinary.

A strange pattern in the foliage caught his eye. He took a few steps and froze, his gaze falling onto the same head of curls he had been trailing the past few days. Time seemed to stop as he immediately strained his ears, to pick up some sign that she was still alive. Her form was limp and bloodied; the thought that he might have killed her tore a hole straight through the werewolf's chest. Unable to hear for the blood rushing in his ears, Fenrir rushed to the girl's side, dropping to his knees to pull her into his arms. As soon as he could smell her, his anxiety began to disappear. She was breathing, and she did not smell any worse for wear.

The werewolf winced at the mark in the girl's shoulder. She was part of the pack now; there was no going back. Fenrir had not killed anyone by accident since he was a young wolf, still trying to control the shifting of his mind and body, but neither had he truly lost control once he had regained it. It startled the werewolf to know that whatever set him off about this girl was enough to make him forget decades of practice.

"I'm sorry," he growled quietly, holding the girl to his chest, praying she would not wake to see him in such a spot of weakness. He had bitten her, and her life would never be the same. The curly-haired girl in his arms was so very small, not even a teenager. He felt the urge to take her back to the pack, to take her home with him, but he had already taken one choice from her today. The other could wait. She would come to the pack eventually, but until then, he was going to watch out for her.

Thinking quickly, the werewolf pulled his shirt over his head, scrubbed the blood from his face and picked the girl up. He turned with her in his arms and ran back toward her parents' campsite. He had his family ripped from him once, he was not going to let the same thing happen to her. The girl stirred as he ran, slowly coming back to consciousness. She jumped, frightened, at his unfamiliar face when she was finally awake.

"Who are you?" she demanded through tears, her voice shaking.

"My name—" he hesitated, he had no idea whether this girl would have heard of him or not. He wanted her to trust him. He needed her to trust him. "Call me Fen," he said quietly.

"Where am I?" The girl was still fighting back her tears. She winced and cried out at a particularly hard step Fenrir took as he continued to run. "It hurts."

She tried to glance over at her shoulder, but he knew she couldn't see anything. She was confused and distressed. Her wound had mostly healed through the night, as it should have, but it was still angry and red. If he had taken a moment to think before jumping into action, he would have mixed more of his saliva into the bite to soothe the pain and help it heal, but he had been too frantic. It was too late now, she was going to have to let the rest heal naturally. It would be quick, but not immediate. A couple of days, at least. The girl was unconscious again when he glanced down at her. Good, it would be less painful for her that way.

The forest seemed endless, and yet the girl's parents came into view too soon. The werewolf knew he couldn't remain silent, he called out, hoping no one would answer; a vain hope, as selfish as it could be. As soon as he opened his mouth, a man he assumed to be the girl's father came rushing out of the campsite.

"Oh my god! You've found her!" The man did not slow until the last second, grabbing the girl from Fenrir's arms, nearly eliciting a growl from the werewolf, who only just stopped himself. "She's injured...why that's—"

The girl began to stir once more at the sound of a familiar voice.

The man's gaze moved immediately from the wound in her shoulder to her face as she awoke.

"Hermione!"

"Daddy!" The girl threw herself into her father's arms, crying. She gasped in pain a moment later, dropping her injured arm.

Fenrir had nearly taken a step toward her at her cry of pain. She was his to protect, despite the fact that he knew it shouldn't be. Her father was doing fine...there was nothing either of them could do anyway. It didn't matter what he knew, he wanted to act. Standing there watching her was more than a bit difficult, but he managed. He stood, momentarily forgotten, as the girl cried to her father about the night.

Hermione bit back another cry of pain as she unthinkingly jostled her arm again. Her shoulder was burning. She vaguely recalled the pain from earlier and knew that it was not as bad as it had been, but it still hurt. She tried to remember why it hurt. Why had she been in the forest? What had happened to her? She remembered staring up at the moon by the creek, and then…

The dog. She shook her head. It hadn't been a dog. It was a wolf. It had dragged her into the forest. She had screamed and kicked and...she didn't want to think about it any more and began to cry at the memories.

"Hermione, please, tell me what happened!"

The girl suddenly registered her father pleading with her. He was crying too. She remembered the stranger who had saved her. He brought her back to her parents. She stared over her father's shoulder to meet the strange man's eye, still not entirely aware of her surroundings. She didn't know him, but she remembered not being afraid of him. It took her a moment to realize the man was staring at her with worry. She once again heard what sounded like her father's voice, distant and vague. Unable to tear her eyes from the stranger, she breathed out the answer to a question she barely heard.

"It was a wolf," she said. The sound of her own voice bringing her back to some semblance of reality. Wolves? There were no wolves in this part of France. "I know— there aren't any wolves in France, Daddy, but I—" she began to cry once more, and realized that she was shaking.

"Hermione, if you say it's a wolf, I believe you."

Hermione concentrated on the sound of her father's voice, letting it soothe her. She was safe.

She winced as her father's gentle hand touched her shoulder to move her shirt out of the way to take a look at her shoulder.

"It's not infected, is it, Dad?" Infected wounds needed to be addressed immediately and Hermione hated the idea of being stuck in a hospital for the rest of her vacation.

"No," her father sounded almost in awe, "No, it's not. Hermione, this wound is nearly healed. Are you sure you didn't…" He glanced up warily at the stranger.

Hermione didn't even have her wand with her, the only way magic could have healed it was if the stranger had used it. She shook her head, "I didn't, Dad. I promise. I don't know why it's not so bad." Now that she was starting to calm, she began to notice that her shoulder did not hurt as much as it should have. She should have had bumps and scrapes and bruises from being thrashed around on the forest floor, but she didn't feel those either. "How?" she said quietly, wondering to herself more than anyone else.

It was then that the stranger stepped back into her view. He knelt down next to her father. "I think I can explain that," he said quietly.

Hermione hardly heard her father's questions as she stared at the other man. His bright blue eyes were so much like the moon, she could not look away. It was almost unnerving.

"You were bitten by a werewolf," he stated firmly.

Hermione frowned immediately, hardly hearing her father's protests. There was certainty in the man's face. He had been there...he knew what happened. There was a hint of pity on the man's face; just enough to tell her that what he said was true.

Still, she did not want to believe him. "How do you know?" she whispered.

The man, still ignoring her father, fiddled slightly with his clothing to pull up his shirt, revealing a pattern on his skin nearly identical to the one on her shoulder. His bite was scarred over, it looked decades old, but it was unmistakably the same.

"You're a werewolf," she said, suddenly suspicious. He could've been the one to bite her, she would never know. Perhaps neither would he...She knew nothing about werewolves, only that they existed. Something in her told her to trust him; she had a strange sensation that he wouldn't hurt her, despite having no factual basis for such a claim. What reason did he have to lie? Perhaps...even if he was lying, he seemed to want to help her. That was the best thing he could do if he had bitten her, right? Her gut told her to trust him, so she did.

The man's lips quirked up into a slight grin as he replied to her question. "Yes; and now, little one, so are you."

"How do I know you weren't the one who did this to her?" Charles Granger demanded, bringing Hermione's attention away from the werewolf in front of her.

She watched as Fen's eyes drifted slowly, almost lazily to the other man. "You don't. I can only give you my word that the wolf that bit her will not hurt her again. It has been taken care of." he smiled slightly, "One day I'll do the same to the one that bit me, but until then, I do what I can."

Hermione knew the man was hiding something, but it may have been what she thought, or something completely different and possibly personal. She trusted him; she had truly trusted him since the moment she awoke with him running with her in his arms. She had not been afraid of him; she had felt safe and protected. She still did.

Once again caught up in her own thoughts, it took her a moment to realize that her father was once again arguing with the werewolf. Hermione could only sit and watch, dazed at the new information. Being a witch was one thing; but a werewolf? She only knew the vaguest information about werewolves, most of her books hardly mentioned them. The man in front of her, who was currently making a bemused face at her angry father, could help her, couldn't he? She hoped he would.

"What do I do?" she asked quietly, drawing the attention of both the adults once more.

Fen looked relieved to be drawn away from the other man. Pity flashed in his eyes once more, "It's not easy, little one, but with some help, it will be bearable. With time, it won't even feel strange. It's a part of you now." The werewolf glared sternly at Charles, "Even if I leave, she will not be the same. It's better to have a guide than to learn the hard way: alone."

Hermione knew the look on her father's face well. He was not accustomed to losing, and was about ready to begin arguing with the werewolf once more. "Please don't leave," Hermione managed, the thought of going at something so daunting alone completely overwhelming.

The werewolf nodded, "I won't."

The tension was interrupted by a screeching of tires. Hermione turned to see her mother dart out of the hastily parked car. Jean ran up to her, pulling her into a crushing hug, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Hermione cried out quietly as her mother squeezed her. Her shoulder still hurt.

Jean immediately loosened her grip, "I'm so sorry, darling! What happened?"

Hermione's lip trembled and she looked toward Fen, not wanting to open her mouth to explain everything that was now flooding into her head. He nodded to her as though with approval, as though he had expected her to look to him.

Overcome with relief and still hurting slightly, Hermione let herself cry in her mother's arms, completely missing the look of guilt on Fen's face as her mother thanked him.

A/N: I shall warn you now. Fluff abounds.

~Cheers