The full moon was high in the sky, bathing the forest in eerie silver light. It was quieter than usual as most of the creatures were likely still gathered at the centaur's village center. Maybe they were all taking orders from the Hero or whomever the ruling party the centaurs spoke of was.
Or perhaps they were avoiding her like the outcast she had become in the past few hours. If that were the case, Hermione was doomed — it would be quite impossible to conduct a census of the Forbidden Forest with every creature hiding from you.
Most people would have felt defeated, but not Hermione. She had yet to toe into the wild side of her tenacity, though she teetered dangerously close to the edge. So much so that the lion was finally going on the offensive, seeking out answers to the questions of the Forest that bombarded her from all angles. The balance of the wood had become the ultimate decider of her fate in the outside world, which felt like a lifetime away.
Hermione followed the sound of running water until she found the stream that filled the Black Lake. Hiking boots trekked through mud, grass, and shale, following the path of the river with a singular destination in mind: the den of the white wolf.
Hermione hadn't really thought about what she would say to the wolf when she found him, only that she needed his help.
And from the sound of things, the Hero needed her help, too.
Hermione's hand had swollen considerably from the centaurs' blow, limiting the mobility of her fingers. Whenever she did move them, pain shot up her arm, tensing muscles up to her neck. She had hidden the injury from her friends at Hogwarts when she parted with a stoic Pyronesia, not wanting anyone to know how dismal her census efforts had been thus far.
Her failures were an embarrassment enough to herself, let alone to have them on public display. There was no need to worry the expectant couple over such trivial matters. Everything was fine, perfectly under her control.
Luna and Neville either preferred not to know the details of what Hermione had gotten herself into or were too interested and excited to have two magical equestrians staying in their barn. Hermione wondered how much Pyronesia would tell them if she told them anything at all.
It was imperative that not a word of her failures got back to her friends or — heavens forbid — the Ministry. No one could know that she had thwarted the centaurs and offended them to the point of exile. Especially,she couldn't be identified as a conspirator if Pyronesia's plan fell to pieces, taking the Forbidden Forest out with it — that wasn't something she wanted on her karmic resume.
It felt strange to be keeping secrets again, reminiscent of the adventures during her Hogwarts years, but lacking the camaraderie and fun of having friends in on it. Instead, she felt a bit like she had at the start of the war — a thought she dared not give too much power after such a troubling night.
Hermione felt some type of heavy responsibility bestowed upon her, a burden she thought she could carry alone. Only time would tell if she could really bear the weight.
The mighty oak came into view, standing proudly on the edge of the cliff above her.
A cold breeze rustled its branches as if the tree were stretching, greeting Hermione once more. The mixing of the two streams roared against the silence of the forest, dulling Hermione's anxieties until she felt ready, at last, to meet the man that had been eluding her for the past few weeks.
Clouds were rolling in from the other side of the mountain. The evening she had endured would have had most people returning to the safe isolation of camp, but Hermione found herself stepping forward anyway. The sky above her rumbled.
Water rushed furiously before her, an amalgamation of rivers from the mountain and the mundane forest beyond the magical bounds. A challenge to her plans by the sheer force of nature. It wouldn't be easy, but she was determined to cross.
Hermione focused pointedly on the intricate root door, almost slipping into the current as she navigated the unfamiliar waters in the dark of night. A chill crept into her bones as her pants wicked up the moisture, but her mind was too busy rolling away with possibilities to notice.
Once landslide, she gave the root-knocker a few quick rasps against the earthen door. Hermione waited with bated breath, but after a few minutes, she was sure that no one would be answering: not home or too cowardly to face her.
Having learned her lesson with wands against the door, Hermione decided on a more direct approach. She'd go in the same way she had before: from above.
She crept along the cliff face, teetering on an edge above the water. She held on with one hand, her injured one cradled protectively against her chest. Her ascension was slow, tip-toeing on a narrow edge of shale that would bring her close enough to climb up.
Well, at least if she fell she'd only be going for a swim.
When the upper ledge of the cliff was within reach, Hermione hoisted herself up, staying low to the ground once on the top of the bluff.
Her mind toyed with the idea of sneaking up on the wolf, but that hadn't gone well for her previously, so she attempted to announce her presence. Though if he were home, he was surely aware of her proximity by now, as she had just knocked obnoxiously at his door.
"Hello! Uh, Mister Hero?" She called out as she approached the trunk, "it's Hermione Granger. Your friend, a Centaur, sent me to help."
Hermione waited a few moments of painful silence, searching for any signs of life coming from within the den.
Nothing, no response.
She picked up a rock from the grass and lobbed it through the hole, hoping that if the wolf were inside, an intrusion would draw him out.
A moment passed. Still nothing.
The lioness prowled forward, coming to a stop just before the dark space that marked the entrance to the wolf's den. She reached a tentative hand forward, waiting for the push back from the wards, but they didn't keep her out. Instead, her hand passed straight through to the wood of the oak tree. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the thrum of magic beneath her fingers, though the feeling was fleeting.
The moment felt entirely too important, the decision to either willingly go into the wolf's den or to turn around and run weighed heavily on her. Her logical side had her pausing, considering the options before her. She knew if she were to go down there was no turning back. Whatever she found would change the course of the summer, if not her life, forever.
It was wrong to break in, but she needed to do something before the situation soon spun further out of her control.
Besides, it was a bit fun to break the rules.
But really it was desperation that brought her to such a reckless plan. Hermione situated herself at the entrance to the den, dangled her feet into the opening, took a deep breath, and pushed herself off the tree roots, allowing her body to slip down and under the tree.
Into the unknown.
Panic rushed through him.
Where was she?
Where had they taken her?
Draco tried to follow the centaurs as they dragged Granger and the one-eyed centaur out of the village square but had lost them on the way to Moon-Gazer Clearing. The woods had gotten him turned around, pushing and pulling at him through thickets of trees until he found himself somewhere else in the forest entirely. Namely, near the abandoned remains of a giant spider nest.
The wolf had never braved the cobwebby path before but found himself drawn to it often. It was a place he would find himself unwittingly, but he didn't like the cold sense of desolation that came with the dark crypt. The more he tried to run from it, the more frequently he found himself back there.
Draco had lived in the Dark Wood long enough to know that travel in the forest was not linear. Paths he stalked countless times had the potential to lead him somewhere else; how or for what purpose, he did not know.
Was it simply the Wood, directing traffic as it pleased? Or were diversion wards placed, keeping him from something or someone that wished to remain hidden?
By the time he had made it back to the periphery of the Clearing, Draco found that the witch and the centaur were already gone, leaving nothing behind but cut ropes and his hopes of catching up to them.
Panicked thoughts raced through his mind.
If they weren't here, then where were they?
Looking for him?
Watching him right now?
Was it all a trap?
Frustrated, Draco threw his head back and let out an angry howl.
What was he going to do? He had nowhere left to run. Granger was probably calling in the Ministry now, reporting the mess with the centaurs… and maybe even talking about the wolf in the woods.
His bones quaked with anxious energy and the sudden desire to run . Anywhere he could and as far away from here as possible. But the forest only stretched so far and it would be only a matter of time until the cavalry arrived.
He'd have to choose his last moments of freedom carefully.
He took off running to the Reflecting Pond, distracting himself from feelings of fear and dread, instead focusing on the steady ache in his powerful legs.
He visited his Mother one last time. Draco was unable to contain his anguish and a howl burst from inside him, a goodbye both to her and to the forest at night.
With a growing emptiness inside him, Draco decided to head home and lie low. Perhaps his wards would save him from capture, as he couldn't expect anyone else in the woods to look out for him.
Who would come to my rescue anyway, the bloody centaurs?
The wolf shook out his coat at the thought, chilled by the realization that he was all alone and would be until the bitter end.
On the long way home, Draco gazed fondly at the full moon above him, just in case it was the last time he saw it. His fears of what would happen to him once the Ministry came began playing like reels in his mind.
Tears brimmed in his eyes. His second chance at life had been nice while it lasted, despite the hardship and loss he'd faced during his time in the forest. Draco was grateful – it was more time than he ever deserved – but that didn't stop him from wanting to make it last just a while longer.
Thoughts of mortality wrapped around him like a well-worn cloak. Draco wasn't ready to die, but it was the preferable outcome over the alternative: Azkaban. His anxieties about the uncertainty surrounding what would come next forced his throat to constrict. He fought the whines that begged to escape.
Just when Draco worried the overwhelming emotion would force him out of his animal form, a warm breeze shook the trees around him, trapping him in a swirl of air and greenery as the forest moved around him. His worries morphed into curiosity laced with an undercurrent of dread: just where was the wood taking him now?
Hermione's landing was rather ungraceful and she found herself in a heap upon the dirt floor. Her ankle stung from the impact that broke her fall, throbbing in cadence with the swollen hand that she had crushed upon landing. She braced herself as the dust settled, half expecting to be attacked upon entry, but no such act came.
Out of all the things she had imagined, what she found was not quite one of them.
Part of her thought she would be falling into an underground mansion, the hidden palace of the Hero. Another part wondered if it would be a mundane wolf den after all.
What she saw was somewhere between the two notions. It was a room with walls made of earth. The base of the oak tree covered the roof, its roots shooting out and falling down or disappearing at the circumference of the room, as if they were grown to the room itself, or had they just been carefully put into place by the man who lived here?
The atmosphere reminded her much of the dungeons at Hogwarts. A dampness was in the air and darkness hung over the room, with no window in sight. The only means of entry or exit was the hole under the tree or the door on the opposite side of the room that, presumably, would put one in the river abutting the cliff.
It also smelled a bit like the dungeons: heavy petrichor, notes of musk, and wet dog. Hermione wrinkled her nose at the odor. She wished she were capable of casting a deodorizing charm, but her hand ached with any attempted movement and one of her fingers had gone numb. The smell would dissipate as her senses acclimated, but the disgusted look on her face would not.
The den didn't seem like suitable living quarters at all. Reality struck her as she looked more closely at her surroundings. The sight was absolutely heartbreaking.
Throat muscles began tightening as she took inventory of her surroundings. The place was filled with trash or plant material that had been repurposed. There were distinct areas for a bedroom, a kitchenette, and a sitting area. Though the space appeared to be functional and recently used, Hermione could hardly count the conditions as livable.
The Hero lived like one of the creatures, with little way of carnal comforts or possessions in his home.
A small table, a single makeshift chair. Scraps of fabric piled against one corner. Parchment, newspapers, and magazines littered the floor and walls. Familiar items caught her eye: crisps and biscuits she had picked for the trip; stashed in the corner, her medical supplies and potions. Her umbrella leaned against the wall next to the door.
After her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, Hermione was intrigued to find that the walls and floor were dirt with in-laid rock. In some areas, the little pebbles had been organized into intricate designs: three Quidditch hoops on the wall in the sitting area, and a winding snake had been set into the floor of the kitchen with thousands of white pebbles. Behind the pile of fabric – which she assumed was a bed – were some stones that made no discernible image but were instead used to affix things to the wall.
With so much information about the Hero inside his home, Hermione practically salivated at the opportunity to gain insight into the elusive wolf of the woods. Outside, the wind blew harder, and thunder called out again. The storm was no longer incoming; it was already here.
The feeling was replaced with something much more foreboding when a particular image caught her attention. Hermione felt stricken. A familiar set of eyes, her eyes , shifted in the moving photograph of a Daily Prophet article. Hermione started to tremble as she neared the wall. She knelt next to the rags, leaning over them to examine the display.
She recognized many faces and scenes, most articles displaying the progress the world made in the aftermath of war. How did the Hero come to acquire all these? Why was he so interested in what was happening outside in the Wizarding World?
She started with the article about the second anniversary of The Battle of Hogwarts. It was the year they started the Remembrance Gala, when restorations of the castle had finally been completed. She was wearing a simple, floor-length black gown and her freckles stood out in stark contrast against her pale skin. Her curls had been straightened, chestnut locks secured in a sleek French twist. The corner of the image was torn neatly as if a component of the image had been purposely removed.
This article was years old and the parchment was worn… how long had the Hero been waiting for her to come?
Her fingers just grazed over her own image when a loud crack of thunder sounded from outside the den, causing her to jump and send several clippings into the air, where they floated gracefully down to the floor.
It took her a minute to rise, her ankle now swollen to compete with the size her hand had grown to. Rather than picking up after herself – he certainly hadn't when he had been an uninvited guest in her home – she staggered over to the potions he had stolen from her and grabbed the small bottle of dittany which was rightfully hers.
The violated feeling from the night the wolf had raided her supplies returned, only this time Hermione felt like she was the one in the wrong. Just because this person was willing to stoop so low as to steal doesn't mean Hermione had to do so to get back at him. She needed the dittany to make a healing salve, but the rest – she glanced sadly around the squalor of the wolf's home – was obviously needed more here than it was back at camp, where she had already replaced the majority of her supplies.
Guilt consumed her then, ashamed that she had thought breaking in here was a good idea in the first place. It took her many futile attempts to climb out of the wolf den and back into the night, where a chilling gust of wind blinded her, whipping moisture into her face as little raindrops came showering down from the heavens, a small promise of the storm that had just begun.
Hermione cleared the hair from her face, freezing in surprise as lightning flashed, illuminating the forest around her. She started counting in her head, one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three…
A loud crack of thunder followed.
When the next flash of lightning came, Hermione found that she was no longer alone at the base of the mighty oak tree.
The wood spat him out and the white wolf staggered a few steps, reorienting while appraising his drop zone. Just on the outskirts of the Centaur territory, Draco could see this home tree standing proudly in the distance, overlooking the wood beyond the cliff. He sniffed the air, wary that the angered Centaurs might be close by, but only caught a whiff of something sweet – too sweet or at least too familiar and not in a good way – laced with a hint of rain.
As if conjured by his thought, water began pattering the leaves above, some drops shaking free in the wind and clinging to the white fur of his coat.
Was it the skies crying at his imminent demise?
Sticking to the shadows, the wolf prowled closer to home. His ears perked up as he approached his tree, overwhelmed with the scent of wildflowers and vanilla. By the smells of it, the witch had been nearby. Draco wondered for a moment if the centaurs had dragged her this way or if she had been lurking again… looking for him.
The wolf pushed forward, this time ignoring the instinctual need to run.
Lightning flashed as he neared: a warning which he ignored. Draco stepped closer to home, his snout clearing the trees that cowered away from the oak when thunder rumbled, signifying his last chance to turn back.
A bushel of curls came into view as Draco exposed himself from the cover of trees.
Granger stood in front of the entrance to his home, fighting with her mane until lightning lit up the space between them. They locked eyes then and the air was charged with the electricity of the night and the magic of this fateful moment.
Draco's eyes roamed over her appearance. The moonlight through the barren branches of the oak tree cast shadows on her face. Messy curls stuck out at all angles, wisps dancing along the breeze, her scent following them. Her eyes were wild, darting back and forth across his own, calculating and analyzing, the wheel in her mind visibly churning.
She looked just as exhausted as he felt. But there was something about the tense positioning of her body that gave Draco pause, he started backing away cautiously from the witch.
Why did she look guilty? And why was she approaching him cautiously, like he was some wounded beast she wanted to help?
The clouds opened up, letting forth steady streams of rain, but neither of them moved for shelter, both frozen as if awaiting the other's decision about how to act. There was a moment of silence between them before the witch, who just couldn't help herself, began to speak, shouting above the echoes of water that hit everything in their descent to Earth.
"Hi!" She flashed him a nervous smile, hands going up defensively, the wolf jumped at her sudden movement and gave a low growl.
"It's ok," she cooed, her voice as buttery and soft as velvet, "I'm not going to hurt you…"
As if he could believe that . Though, if he thought about it, Draco had never seen her be cruel to anything before. But he did know what Granger was capable of, having seen her disfigure someone when they fell on the wrong side of her moral line, one of which Draco was desperately far from.
"My name's Hermione Granger." The wolf moved one paw backward as the witch held out a hand. Thunder grumbled and rain came down harder. She had to shout to be heard over the hum of it all. "My friend, a centaur, sent me to help you."
The centaurs were no friends of his. It was at that moment that Draco knew this was a trap. Any minute now the herd or the Aurors would be coming for him. They likely were closing in already, just waiting for a signal from the Golden Girl that it was time to strike. He took another step backward, his tail finding the nearest tree behind him.
He noted her right hand was swollen and red and he could make out the promise of bruises around her wrists. She took a step forward, favoring one of her ankles, Draco backed up again in kind.
"Mister Black, please don't run away again. I really need to talk to you!" Her voice was ragged and Draco couldn't tell if she was crying or if it was simply the rain pelting her face.
The wolf bared his teeth, confused and frightened. Who exactly did she think he was? And what did she want to speak about… turning him over to the authorities?
His animalistic instincts fought for control over rational thought, wanting to kill Granger for how she addressed him. How dare she call him by his mother's name, the very woman she brought flowers to days previous – the woman whose son she was going to capture... or kill.
His emotions surged, questioning if she knew his identity or not… the only people to ever call him a Black were members of the Black family themself. And Granger had never called him anything but Malfoy – insults aside.
An image of a black and brown wolf came to his mind. Did Granger think he was him? Or was she taunting his loss, throwing his grief in his face right before the final blow?
A wave of panic hit him, if she knew, did that mean this was the end? And if she didn't know, what would happen when she found out who he really was beneath the fur?
Instinct heightened and again all he wanted to do was run. He would be faster than her, more familiar amongst the trees, and could surely escape her again. The wolf licked its jowls with an anxious whimper, readying to retreat back into the thickness of the wood from which he came, but at his next retreating step, he felt something blocking his path, preventing his escape.
He reared back again, futilely, held firmly in place by some unknown force. Sidestepping found him the same result. The only direction he could move forward uninhibited, toward the witch he wanted to run from.
Lightning flashed again: Granger looked anxious, scared. The barrier pushed him forward, his paws dragging in the mud to prevent coming any closer than he needed to, but it was no use. The unknown force seemed hell-bent on this meeting, though nature thrashed more accurately in kind.
A wolf knew better than to trust anyone outside its pack and Draco knew that talking was likely the last thing on Granger's mind. The witch tensed at Draco's aggressive posturing, backing up as he was pushed toward her, even taking on a defensive stance, but the wolf quickly saw the shaking of her swollen hand and how inadequately she grasped the hilt of her wand in the holster at her side. She was injured and weak. It would be all too easy to take her out now.
A voice, Lucius, echoed in the recesses of his mind: Do it, Draco, kill the mudblood!
The wolf within him agreed, but a more delicate voice cleared her throat, commanding a stillness within him.
It was wrong, wasn't it? To hurt someone who was already hurting?
Draco had taken part in his fair share of darkness and where had it landed him? Facing off with Hermione Granger, as a wolf, in the Forbidden Forest during a rain storm.
Without a wand, Draco didn't stand a chance against her, and he certainly didn't believe that listening to the voice of Lucius Malfoy would lead him on the best path.
No, Draco made his own choices. And today he wanted to flee, not fight. Though if he had to, he would defend himself. He just wasn't ready to die.
The wolf's lips began twitching, showing his sharp, gleaming teeth. The beast took a deep breath through his nose, exhaling with a trembling growl that increased in volume as he lowered his body, angling himself for an escape. Hermione kept the wolf to her front as she circled in cadence, her wand visible at her side.
"Please!" she begged the wolf, "I mean you no harm, Perseus, I'm just trying to understand so I can help!"
The wolf gave a menacing bark, spittle foaming around the edges of his mouth. Hermione made to back up, but a tree limb swooped down behind her, pushing her closer to the aggressive beast before her.
Hermione stumbled, falling to her knees on the ground in front of the wolf who lunged forward, snapping his teeth and growling in response. Hermione covered her head with one arm and cast a shield charm with the other. The protections popped up just in time, stopping the wolf from sinking his teeth into the flesh of her arm, but her hand began cramping with the effort.
She stayed crouched behind her shield, eyes closed as Hermione fought to catch her breath. Concentrating all her magic into the hand that spasmed with pain, she searched her mind frightfully for a plan; anything that would save her from becoming a midnight snack.
The Hero must be scared, she reasoned. Perhaps he feared she was just another human that would bring more darkness to the forest. It would make sense that he would be distrustful of her, especially as he had just watched the centaurs try her for treason and crimes against the Dark Wood.
Her history of throwing spells at him and chasing him through the woods probably hadn't warmed him much to her, either.
Hermione had to remind herself that she was dealing with a skittish beast and trust would not come easily; it would have to be earned, not given. However, a certain amount of the relationship would have to be forced or she feared she would never make any progress before the summer's end.
When her shield gave out, the beast was already gone; no surprise there. But Hermione was determined to not be eluded once more. The downpour had slowed, but the rumbles of thunder remained… a warning that the storm was not yet over.
Hermione drenched her hand with dittany and rubbed it gingerly over her ankle, willing her injuries to heal. She began wandering, knowing that the wolf hadn't been able to get too far. She called out to him and hoped he was listening.
"I know you are hurting, and I know you are scared, but you don't have to be afraid! I promise I won't hurt you!"
Hermione walked delicately through the trees, the woods quiet save for the twigs and weeds crunching beneath her feet.
There, she spotted a flash of white weaving in and out of trees ahead of her. Hermione took off after him, calling out between her pants for breath, and ignoring the residual stinging in her ankle.
"Mister Black! Please! I just want to talk!"
Side-stepping trees and jumping over roots had Hermione surprised at her own agility. It wasn't her first chase through the forest, but she moved more instinctually now, allowing her proprioception to keep her balanced while she focused solely on the target before her. She hardly felt the pain in her limbs as adrenaline took over, propelling her forward.
Either he had slowed over time or Hermione was gaining on him. Either way, Hermione's legs, and lungs burned with the effort to stay on his trail. Several times she swore she saw the wolf check over its shoulder to gauge her proximity.
Fatigue was screaming at Hermione to give up, to end her pursuit and find another means to contact the wolf, but the opportunity was a heavy motivator. One that kept her legs moving and her arms pumping as she propelled blindly after the white creature.
She could not stop. Hermione would not quit. If she just kept going she would eventually catch the beast.
He couldn't keep running forever.
The wolf was gaining speed, heading straight toward a ravine, across which another plateau stood. Once at the edge of the cliff, the animal leaped into the air without hesitation. He soared across the gap and landed with a skitter on the grass on the other side.
Lightning struck nearby, followed by a heavy crack of thunder. The wolf glanced back, as if watching to see if the witch would follow, while simultaneously inching closer to the shadows.
Hermione kept pursuing him, several aerial charms coming to mind, but when she planted her foot to take off, a root snaked up from the ground and wrapped around her ankle. She fell face-first into the dirt path, the impact knocked her wand loose from her grip; it rolled over the edge, distant sounds clattering against natural extremities that lined the ravine sides confirmed that it had fallen. Hermione would be lucky if she ever found it again.
Her hand contorted and she let out an agonized cry as she attempted a wandless accio , but her range of motion was restricted with swelling, making the spell impossible. Dittany was a miracle plant, but even it had limitations to how quickly it could heal.
Rain showered down again. A part of her thought she should turn around and head back to camp, bested by the beast once more.
Her eyes shot across the gap, finding the wolf looking triumphant as it stood more boldly in her sight. Hermione kicked her foot free from the forest hold and then she stood, making futile attempts to wipe the dirt off her face.
The night had left Hermione feeling risky and desperate. Forbidden to enter the majority of the forest put both her promotion and, more importantly, the longevity of the Forbidden Forest at stake. If Hermione wanted to contain her problems and make any headway in solving them, she needed to do something, now .
She padded backward a few steps, taking a deep breath before facing the cliff again. Thunder crashed, hardly discernible over the heavy hum of rain. If the wolf, nothing more than a man bestowed with immortality by a magical forest, could clear the gap then Hermione figured she could, too.
In a moment blinded by bravery, Hermione hurdled herself forward, running full speed to the edge of the cliff before launching herself across it just as the wolf had.
The minute she had left the safety of land, Hermione knew that she had made a mistake.
First of all, she hated flying. Heights, the feeling of nothingness around her that she associated with flight, and her general clumsiness compounded her anxieties and thus, she avoided leaving the ground at all costs. It was an explored fear, having been forced to fly more times than she cared to during the war, but the fear of flying atop a winged beast wasn't as bad as her fear of broom flying… both of which paled in comparison to the fear that gripped Hermione while in free fall.
Her body began to descend too quickly and before she knew it, Hermoine's ribs collided with the edge of the cliff she had been aiming for, wind leaving her lungs with an audible 'oof' .
Her fingers scrambled for purchase but found none, slipping through wet grass and clawing at the mud. She took one look at the wolf, who looked just as panicked as she, before Hermione felt herself slipping. She tried to dig her feet, her knees, her elbow, anything , into the Earth to prevent her from falling to her death.
The ground shook beneath her hands, pushing Hermione farther from salvation, but closer to her destiny. Her eyes widened as she realized falling was inevitable, that she wouldn't be able to save herself.
Hermione whimpered. The wolf stepped forward and bowed his head, mouth open, but as he neared, she slipped further.
The witch fell then, her screams fading until they silenced with a sickening thud.
When she came to, Hermione lay at the bottom of the ravine, screaming and crying in pain.
The pressure in her head was too severe, the pain coursing through her body too much to endure. Her faculties were leaving her, a black haze was taking over her peripheral vision.
Through the fog, she heard footfalls approach her, a chillingly familiar drawl hissing, "Fucking hell!"
Floodgates in her mind unleashed, the new information clicking firmly into place despite the fire that burned at every nerve.
She was wrong, so very wrong. The wolf in the woods could not be trusted and he certainly did mean her harm.
Gooseflesh spread over her body. Hermoine felt herself shaking as her body autonomically dissipated the pain that shot through her leg and up her spine.
"Accio, Granger's wand!" He called out, his gravelly voice fading into the clanging of wood against plant and rock as her only form of self-defense flew straight into the hand of the enemy.
It was difficult to process what was happening, the pain shooting through her so severe that she was having trouble remaining conscious and heavy darkness threatened her peripheral vision. Hermione was certain she was blacking out for reality played before her like a stop-film. With each blink of her eyes, the scene shifted.
First, she saw nothing but stars and trees above spiraling around her. A blink, and she was examining her bloodied lap and a leg that bent the wrong way above the knee.
A moment of blackness. More sky.
Her head lolled to the side. Grass, rock, weeds. Sticky red liquid saturated the ground.
Blink. A figure approached. Bare feet came into focus. Long, dirt-encrusted toenails on equally dirty toes. Thick hair covered his legs and bits of the Forest clung there, just along for the ride.
Shadow fell over her and she heard muttered words that she couldn't make out. Her eyelids were heavy, but her fear was stronger than the blinding pain she experienced.
"You fool …" his venomous voice spat.
Eyes rolled about her head, but with her last bit of strength, Hermione sharpened her vision, willing her eyes to confirm the identity of the man above her.
A walnut wand came into focus and, for a moment, Hermione thought she was hallucinating. Was she still on the marble floor of Malfoy Manor, having imagined a summer of camping in the woods to deal with the pain of being tortured? Was she going to die on the other end of Bellatrix Lestrange's wand?
All concepts of time and space vanished, draining from her as her soul reached for the next plane of existence before pain brought her crashing back down to reality.
Hermione's head was straightened and her body burned hot with searing pain. The world around her swam.
The next clear image she saw was long, matted locks entwined with leaves, string, and twigs; the back of the head of the man bent over her body. Her eyes trailed down his back lazily, noting that he was adorned in scraps of materials sewn together with vine making up his shirt; beneath his shirt was evidence of deep, angry scars.
Darkness found her once more, unsure of how much time had passed. She felt the tingles of magic rushing through her followed by a small reprieve from the pain, but a heavier pull toward unconsciousness.
When she blinked, his grey eyes were all she could see, his own pupils staring into hers. His look was foreign, difficult to decipher in her current state, but he looked frightened, angry, and concerned. The sight took away her breath until Hermione felt like she was choking.
Weakness flooded her and Hermione closed her eyes which were suddenly heavy. She felt everything get very cold and each raindrop that struck her body stung like a knife. Clammy fingers jammed against her neck.
"Fuck!" She heard, opening her eyes again. Hermione should have felt panicked, should have clawed away from him and screamed, but her autonomic nervous system had taken over, she was no longer in the driver seat of her own body. He had her wand, if he wanted to kill her, he would have already, but that didn't answer the question of why he was helping her... or if she would make it through this at all.
The burning hot pain had numbed, whether it be from the spells the man above her cast or simply desensitization as her body held on to life. From what she could make out with her vision beginning to distort, the Hero glowed with otherworldly light. However, Hermione didn't sense the raw power she expected him to exude. Not that she was one to talk about power as she lay dying on the forest floor.
But was she? The world spun above her still, or was she simply moving? The hard, cold forest floor was replaced with something warmer, firm but more pliant, underneath her cheek. It was difficult to discern what actually was happening, her body shutting down her senses one at a time. The only constant, which she focused on, was the steady hammering of her heart — or was that his? — pounding against her ear.
Hermione blinked again, but her vision was gone, the darkness had won control. Sounds were beginning to muffle and her consciousness beginning to fade, but she hung on just long enough to hear the choked sob of the man who carried her in her arms.
Words that would haunt her subconscious until she woke again. A hope, a prayer.
" Please , don't die."