CHAPTER 2. A VICIOUS PREY
The Lichfield Cathedral was now well into view. Hermione took a deep breath and wrapped herself in her make-shift cape. The winds had grown stronger, the cold fiercer – winter was days away. She was painfully unprepared, her limited wardrobe choices understated, and her wand still safely stowed away, having remained unused since she had last apparated, when she left Birmingham. She had to wonder why no one had come looking for her yet, but she chose to keep those questions hidden in the back of her mind, amongst the dusty memories of a happier time. Dwelling on what was and what could have been had the same effect on her – and that effect drained her of the vital energy she tried to keep alive.
Mrs. Peverell's words, though, were still at the forefront of her mind. Every night, as she attempted to glean a couple of hours of restless sleep, she wondered about Colin, about the Terror's flaw, about what it meant for her, for the future victim, for the foreseeable future. Had she been at Hogwarts, well-fed and surrounded, she might have figured it out already – but the dreary conditions in which she lived made it difficult for her powerful mind to evoke the answers to the many questions she still had. The mystery the Terror carried with it was the toughest one to solve yet – she had been quite naïve to think she would never face anything darker than the Horcruxes. Magic still carried secrets she hadn't yet had the time to reach, secrets so deep and so dark it'd be a miracle if she managed to uncover any significant portion of them over a lifetime. This made the task at hand all the more daunting, all the more terrifying. Nevertheless, Hermione persevered – if there was a flaw, there was hope for the days to come. She would find a solution, she would beat this threat, she would vanquish the monsters lurking in the dark. On the coldest of the days, that idea seemed so far from her current reality that she found it hard to hold on to it. Still, she kept it close to her heart – when her meals were few and far between, the only warmth she could hope to find stemmed from that desire to survive and vanquish.
That morning, Hermione attended mass. Swarms of Muggle peasants had reunited under the cathedral's arches, drinking in the wine and the words, feeding themselves on the host and the sermons, begging God for a new tomorrow or thanking him for ending the decades-long famine – Hermione could not be sure which. She vividly remembered her first mass – her parents, who were the town's healers, had taken her one morning. They came to heal the destitute and the fallen but stayed to listen to God's words as they spilled out of the priest's mouth, while Hermione fidgeted in her seat, frowning at the nonsense she was hearing. "God can't be real," she had later argued. She had pointed to the flowers in a neighbouring field, to the animals drinking from the river, to the clouds in the sky, spouting the facts of life and science that she knew to be true. Her parents had quickly dragged her home, hoping no one had heard, praying that the village did not think her a witch. Years later, when she had reached the age of eleven and the edges of puberty, they had been stunned to learn that she was in fact a witch – they had begrudgingly let her attend Hogwarts, excusing her absence by saying she had begun her training to become a nun. Hermione stifled a laugh at the reminiscence of that moment – if only they had known. Perhaps it would have been better for her to join the nunnery, to refuse to enter the wizarding world. She was now a shadow between two worlds, a foot in each, never quite making the leap to either side.
The priest began his sermon. "In Corinthians 15:58, it is said that "therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord." Keeping faith is a difficult task – the famine we experienced these past years has eroded much of the faith in God that we hold so dear. The question remains, even as our crops grow bountiful and our cattle fertile: how to keep believing in God when we've stopped believing in ourselves, in the promises of our soil? As we are reminded by Luke, "and whoever does not carry their cross and follow me cannot be my disciple"—losing faith is God can appear as an inevitable consequence of losing everything else, but one must remember that it is our faith in and love for Him that will restore the violence we've been encountering. Hebrews 6:4—reminds us that "it is impossible for those who have once been enlightened, who have tasted the heavenly gift, who have shared in the Holy Spirit, who have tasted the goodness of the word of God and the powers of the coming age and who have fallen away, to be brought back to repentance. To their loss they are crucifying the Son of God all over again and subjecting him to public disgrace." I do not come here today to…"
Hermione drowned out the rest of his voice. Unwavering belief in God, the Good, the Light hadn't brought her very far now, had it? She was still a lost lamb, rummaging through her mind to keep sane, and none of God's promises had been delivered.
The air grew colder, and Hermione felt herself shaking. There was no hope for her here. Silently, she got up from her seat and left the Cathedral, on the verge of tears. She had come looking for something, but it was now forgotten. She wasn't even sure what it had been in the first place.
She walked through the nearby village, and soon the putrid smell in the air indicated that she had reached the market. Gutted fish lay on various stalls, their viscous skin leaving thick trails on the paved streets and in the fresh Sunday morning air. Further down the lane, slabs of meat were slapped together, their odour poisoned by the dried old blood they left everywhere. The village dwellers walked through the stalls without flinching, surely accustomed to such an invasion of the senses. Hermione wished she could remove this scene from her sight and smell with a swish of her wand, but she knew that, even she felt capable of producing such a large-scale spell, she'd find herself heavily compromised – perhaps even burnt at the stake on that same evening. The idea of the flames licking her flesh and removing it from her bones reminded her of Colin and she nearly emptied her stomach right there and then—perhaps it was lucky that she hadn't eaten in days.
She kept walking away, holding her cloak tighter around herself in hopes of bringing in a little warmth. There was a path nearby that would lead her further up North, and she wanted to reach the next town by sundown, though she knew that very idea to be ridiculous given the physical condition she was currently in.
Nevertheless, she moved forward, inching closer to the borders of Lichfield and further from her current predicament – the assault on her physical senses. She noticed a forest lurked not far from there – if the horizon line gave any worthy indication, she only had a couple of miles to walk until she was safely hidden by a sea of leaves again.
Despite her certainty that she was considered dead by most of the wizarding world, Hermione lived in constant fear of being seen, noticed, heard. It made little logical sense – she could simply live amongst Muggles, picking up a farm job, or she could head to France, where Augustus Gaunt still held virtually no power. Hermione knew those solutions were there, waiting for her to seize them in order to get away, to live a peaceful remainder of life. In poverty, certainly, and without any glory attached to her name, perhaps, but away from all the horror, the rotting flesh, the violence, the threat of death. After all, she had apparated once without being tracked – surely she could do it again?
The problem, of course, was that she had no certainty of what was to come whatsoever. The Terror was still too large a threat for her to ignore—and, if Domitia Peverell's information was any good, running away made no sense. She'd be next on the list anyway. Walking North was a distraction, a faint semblance of preservation, an idea borne of fear and loneliness. Hermione hadn't realised it initially, certain that she had hatched a plan with a final destination in mind—what either of those were, though, she couldn't tell anymore. The initial adrenaline rush from her escape had lasted a lot longer than expected, and now that she was sobered up, she was left without any meaningful answers, solutions, or ideas. She ran to mitigate the consequences of something she didn't even know well enough—so much for being the most brilliant witch of her age.
The forest's borders soon appeared in her eyes. The pine trees stood tall, towering far above any manmade structure, making it difficult for her to imagine what lay beyond. The winding path she had taken seemed to become narrower as she went, until it abruptly ended, only a couple of feet past the first line of trees, forgotten by its creator. The height of the trees barely let any light in—if she walked any further, she would find herself completely in the dark, unable to retrace her steps or to decide what route to take. Hermione pressed her lips together—surely a discrete Lumos remained safe to use? Spells of such nature rarely left a trace or a signature—they were on par with household spells and minor glamour charms. There was risk, of course, but the price to pay for it seemed adequate.
Reluctantly, Hermione drew her wand out of her knapsack and whispered the spell. The intensity of the light couldn't help her see further than a few feet in front of her, but she couldn't risk a Lumos maxima, and much less a Patronus charm. Carefully, Hermione resumed walking. The floor was littered with branches, pine needles and brown grass. Occasionally, a woodland creature skittered across her path, or a fawn would make its bleat heard from a distance. It gave Hermione hope for a dinner—she hadn't had a speck of food since leaving Birmingham, too terrified to display even the smallest sign of life.
As she walked, the forest kept growing thicker. She could hardly make a move without brushing against a tree, stumbling on a branch, or slipping on a pinecone. Her frail composition had difficulty withstanding abrupt physical movement or falls—she soon found herself covered in various bruises and hematomas. Resigning herself to reach the next town another day, she began exploring her surroundings in search for a tree thick enough to withstand her weight. This proved to be a problem—she was in a pine forest, and pine trees had slim branches. As thin as Hermione was, she wasn't sure she could have one hold her weight, and a fall from any height would surely break her bones. She resigned herself to camping on the ground—the forest was so thick she could hardly make out the colour of the sky, she could safely assume no one would come looking for her.
She spent some time foraging for fresh mushrooms and managed to catch a squirrel before it could escape. She returned to the small patch of grass where she had chosen to make camp, piled some branches and rocks in the centre and reached for her box of matches. They had been offered to her by a patron in one of the taverns she had frequented back in Birmingham—she had to ensure she made them last, because there were none in the Muggle world. She delicately opened the box and counted the matches—she had ten left. Ten nights before she had to resume making fire like a prehistoric woman.
From the corner of her eye, she looked at the squirrel's corpse and her dagger, still soaked in the creature's blood. Making the fire herself would be too much of an effort, given that she still had to skin the squirrel, scalp its fur, remove its flesh from its bones and gut its organs. With a newfound resolve and a long-forgotten hunger, she took a match and slid it against the box, lighting a small flame. She quickly threw it in the pile of branches and watched as the first flames hungrily licked and devoured the smaller branches, the dead leaves, and the brown grass at the bottom. Satisfied with the progress the fire was making, she picked up her dagger and laid the squirrel's corpse squarely on the ground, in front of her. Gently, she poked the animal in its thoracic cage, tracing a straight line along its torso, before slowly beginning to peel away its skin and fur. She made further incisions on its arms and legs, down its tail, repeating the process each time. She kept the head for last. The idea of removing its eyes and teeth disgusted her too much—she decided to squarely cut it off it and toss it away from her, where its dark pupils couldn't keep staring at her in sheer terror. Then, she sliced every last bit of flesh she could find, tossing them in the fire as she went along. She considered gutting the animal for a second—some of these organs could make for some much-needed protein—but ended up deciding against it. She wasn't squeamish in the least, but the day had been difficult enough. She had meat and mushrooms—this was the most complete meal she'd had in a while. It was sufficient.
She roughly chopped the mushrooms and tossed them in with the squirrel meat. Grabbing the branch next to her, she stirred the food gently. She patiently waited for everything to cook. In the meantime, she grabbed her dagger, roughly wiped it on the log she was sitting on and placed it under her tunic, right where her belt could keep it in place. Better safe than sorry.
Soon, the smoke from the fire smelled of nuts and mushrooms —Hermione heavily breathed in the fumes, a euphoric state soon settling in her bones and watering her mouth. Impatient, she poked one of the squirrel's thighs and brought it to her—she ripped it apart; it was cooked all the way through. She eagerly picked up the rest and began eating. She swallowed large swaths of meat and fungi without biting—she was ravenous, hungry, famished. It only took her a couple of minutes to finish everything. She immediately regretted not having been able to control herself enough to keep leftovers. Idiot.
Unfortunately, lack of squirrel meat was currently the least of her problems. In her eagerness to gulp down her meal, she hadn't noticed the flames from the fire were now towering over her, grabbing the lowest branches of the nearest pine trees and eating at them. Her camping site was compromised—soon, it would be burning down. Without wasting a single minute, Hermione whipped her wand out and started screaming Aguamenti in all directions, throwing powerful jets of water at every tree surrounding her. It took her frying her vocal cords and several attempts, but she extinguished the fire. Sighing from the sudden loss of adrenaline, she looked bitterly at what remained of her rudimentary sleeping quarters—they smelled of burnt wood, the smoke was tugging at her throat, soon reaching for her organs, and the air had grown cold again. She needed to leave if she hoped to sleep at least a couple of hours this evening.
She angrily grabbed her knapsack, tossed it over her shoulder, and started walking again. The fire had woken the forest, and the silence was now long gone—birds were yelling, deer were bellowing, squirrels were screeching and chattering. Hermione kept coughing out the smoke that had made its way to her lungs, making her wand hand tremble and the light shiver. This is perhaps why she didn't notice she was being followed—until it was too late.
"Got her!" screamed a man as he grabbed her by the waist and covered her head in a linen keister.
Hermione began forcefully shaking and poking her assailant with her wand, but it was soon taken from her and her movement restricted by heavy shackles.
"Take her bag!" yelled her assailant at, presumably, one of his companions. She felt the knapsack slip from her should and gave a low sob. It was too late.
She was dragged across the forest for a while. The man holding her did not seem to care that she was being hit by trees and branches on the way—those bruises would be difficult to recover from. Hermione had tried to protest loudly at first, but a silencing charm had sufficed to keep her quiet. The shackles around her wrists and ankles were loose enough for her small frame to slip away from, but the violence with which she was being pulled made it difficult to make any movement. Nonetheless, she occasionally tried to shake them from her, twisting her body in shapes and waves—every attempt was abruptly stopped by a tug from the man holding and pulling her. The bitter smell of death followed her like a dog—this had to be it. They would either kill her to keep her quiet or sell her out to the highest bidder. Whatever they chose to do with her, there was little she could do to get away. Her wand and her knapsack had been snatched from her. She was severely underweight, her bones showing through her thin as paper skin.
Suddenly, Hermione jerked her head forward. She hadn't put the dagger back in the knapsack – its blade was pressing against her stomach. If she could reach it, she might be able to stab her assailant and run. That was… if she could first remove the shackles on her ankles. It would be pointless to reveal her last remaining weapon if she couldn't run.
Instead of shaking, she decided to try and push the shackles away with her foot, forcefully rubbing her left ankle with her heel until she could feel it give. The dragging motion made it difficult, but not impossible—and, soon enough, it slipped off. She tried to repeat the motion on the other ankle, but the left shackle was now an encumbrance, getting in the way of her movement, nearly making her stumble and slip—her assailant's arm slipped up and she felt herself beginning to choke. She needed to get her knife out fast.
Unfortunately, they suddenly came to a halt and she was released without any warning. The brusqueness made her stumble and fall on her knees. She felt a bone in her leg crack and cried out in pain.
"Shut up!"
Hermione bit her tongue. She could still get out of this. They didn't seem to have noticed one of the shackles had been removed, and they didn't know she still had her dagger. Now was the time to bide her time and to act carefully.
"Does she have anything valuable?" The voice was distant, like they'd forgotten her.
"Not really. Some Sickles, which could always be helpful, but other than that… Wait, what's that?" They were rummaging through her bag. Hermione first seethed in anger, before giving in to resignation—they could have it, for all she cared. The loss would be difficult to recover from, but she needed to focus on getting her wand back and running—fresh clothes could always be stolen, money taken, potion kits reconstituted. A wand would be infinitely more difficult to get.
"It's one of the posters they're hanging all over towns. The Mudbloods that are currently wanted," responded another voice. "Open it up."
The poster rustled. "It looks familiar, don't you think?"
"Oh yeah, it's not great but it looks like her, right. What do you think, Amicus?"
Hermione inhaled sharply. She had checked the poster obsessively every day, and Colin's face was still adorning it on that very morning. Was it possible that… no… surely not…
The man they had referred to as Amicus, who had taken her hostage, exploded in laughter. "Oh lads, this is one amazing discovery. Her bag isn't worth shite, but we could get a pretty penny out of her. The Terror's next victim! Imagine that!" His laugh grew louder and more boisterous with every passing second—it reminded her of the sound magpies made when they found treasure. "We should keep her tonight and evaluate our options for tomorrow," he added.
A moment of brief silence followed as the men hummed in agreement.
"Hey, did you notice the name?" said the one who had found the poster.
"What about it?" asked Amicus.
"I've seen that name before. I think she was a slave at Goyle manor. And before that… I can't quite put my finger on it, but I think she was important." Hermione could have cried—it was one thing to figure out she was a target for the Terror, it would be another thing entirely for them to find out who she truly was.
"We'll find out soon enough. That wand alone is worth a pretty penny. I think we can safely assume we'll make enough to last us another three months. Well done boys!" bellowed Amicus. Hermione figured he was the leader of the group – which meant he was her primary target.
It didn't take long for them to remember her presence. A couple of minutes later, the keister was ripped from her head—the linen cloth had left her hair electric from rubbing against it. She felt like a wild animal trapped by blood-thirsty hunters. So much so that she snapped and tried to bite the man's hand.
"Down girl," laughed Amicus. He was tall, his hair a dark copper colour—the wild strands sticking out of it painfully reminded her of Harry. "Well, you may think us finding this poster is your worst-case scenario, but today is actually your lucky day. This poster means you get to live one more day," he smirked. His hunger for the prize she represented shone in his hazel eyes.
He grabbed her by the arm and forced her up. He narrowed his eyes on her face and let them drop to her cleavage. "Too bad you don't have more meat on your bones, or I would have given you an amazing last night, one to remember even in death," he whispered menacingly. Hermione felt her dinner climb up her oesophagus and forced it back down. She needed to ensure she didn't give him a reason to look at her feet. "Hm," he added, staring back into her eyes, "I might still do just that." His grin terrified her – she wasn't sure which, between spending a night with him or getting devoured by the Terror, was a worst fate. To know both were in her future if she didn't find a way to escape soon made the situation all the more painful. "Come on Mudblood," he concluded as he pulled her closer to the tents he and his companions had set up.
At first glance, they seemed rudimentary, but Hermione could tell they were in fact some of the best tents one could get their hands on when one lived nomadically. She suspected they had quite a few Undetectable Extension Charms in them, as well as sound furniture. These men knew what they were doing.
She was suddenly reminded of a conversation she had with a drunk back in Birmingham, just before she met Jane. He talked of his daughter, of how she was taken from him by the Marauding Bandits, a group of self-sufficient Half-Bloods who roamed England in search of lost witches and wizards. They sided with neither the Ministry nor those it persecuted—their allegiance was to the highest bidder. After digging a little more, Hermione had found out they were responsible for a third of the enslaved wizards and witches all over the country—mostly Mudbloods, but some Purebloods were accounted for too. Usually the poor ones—the rich families had enough to pay for ransom. She hadn't thought they dwelled much in forests though—the probability of catching anyone, much less magical folk, was too low for that to be worth it. For her to run into them and to be caught by them, especially on the day her face first adorned the poster, seemed like Fate's idea of a cruel joke.
She was violently shoved into one of the tents. "Better get comfortable, Mudblood, because this is the last night you'll spend as a living witch." He flicked his wand and a cot of straw appeared. "I assume this will be enough for someone of your calibre," he laughed. "I might pay you a visit later," he winked before exiting the tent. Hermione pressed her lips together—she was alone, the shackle still dangling at her feet and her dagger still within reach. Her hands were still bound together, of course, but she could still move them enough to save herself. She wondered why they hadn't bothered to petrify her. Arrogance, perhaps. She was a wandless Mudblood, after all. And that silencing charm still hadn't been cast off—there was no way for her to scream, whimper, or cry. She considered the situation and concluded it was better that way. Arrogance was the weapon of the fools, and she was no fool.
Outside the tent, she could hear the men speaking in hushed tones. If there had been any noise in the forest, their voices might have been too drowned in it for her to hear. Thankfully, the night was swallowed in the dead silence of the thick forest.
"Should we still look for those two morons now that we have her?" The man sounded frustrated.
"Don't be an idiot, Richard! She's worth some Galleons, but the other two are worth a Hell of a lot more. We'll resume the search tomorrow. They can't very well be too far by now," interjected Amicus.
"Amicus, I get that they might be worth a lot, but they've already escaped once, and we've already wasted five days' worth of resources looking for them. We won't be able to hold that rhythm much longer. Once we've sold the girl, we need to start scouting further," argued Richard, a low growl tainting his voice with anger.
"You're not a leader, Richard, you're just a foot soldier. They're still in the forest, you know it as well as I do, so stop arguing now. We need to get some sleep, tomorrow will be a busy day."
Hermione rushed back to the cot she was given and pretended she was asleep. So this was why they were in the heart of an empty forest… Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it against her ribs. She tried to even out her breath – even the silencing charm wasn't enough to hide her lungs expanding rapidly.
Once she was certain all the Bandits were sound asleep, she sat up. The conversation she had overheard could be the key to her salvation—she only knew of two valuable idiots running around, and, if she had to guess, she'd have to say it would be Malfoy and Nott. She bit her lower lip—that information was interesting, but it wasn't in the least bit helpful. She hardly thought she could find a way to trade Malfoy and Nott's lives for her own—they had already escaped from a group with greater means than her. And she wasn't even certain she could retrieve her wand without being caught.
Hermione suddenly thought back to Domitia Peverell's words. "The Terror is flawed, by design—it needs to remain tamed by the Ministry, to avoid going after Purebloods. As such, if it were to kill, directly or indirectly, a Pureblood heir… it would…" The Terror couldn't kill Purebloods without risking its very existence. She wasn't a Pureblood… but she knew two, who were currently tracked down by the Marauding Bandits. Slowly, Hermione formed a plan—the risk was far greater than anything she had done since escaping Goyle manor, but the pay-off was great enough for her to consider it. It just might work… it just might.
She laid back down and managed to pull her dagger from underneath her tunic, hiding it under her right hip. She waited for roughly an hour, lying wide awake on her cot. Sure enough, she soon heard the rustling of the tent being opened, and discerned Amicus' silhouette in the entrance. She carefully kept her eyes half-closed, her hands holding tightly onto her dagger.
"You're really not much to look at, but you'll have to do," he whispered as his hand travelled from her neck to her knees. Hermione trembled, latching on to her survival instinct in order to avoid vomiting in his face.
After playing a bit with her hair and clothes, he lay above her, both hands placed squarely on each side of her face, his knees resting close to her hips. He slapped her face to wake her up.
Hermione jumped up, pulled out the dagger and plunged it in his stomach. He barely had time to cry out—she pulled it out and raised both her arms, slashing his throat in a swift motion. Warm blood poured all over her as his body dropped, but she got out from under him just in time. Wiping the blood from her forehead, she managed to slip out of the remaining shackles, which had been loosened further by the commotion. Still holding tightly onto her dagger, she slipped out of the tent in the dead of the night—she had expected to wake everyone, but she couldn't hear a single sound escaping the other tents. She winced as she walked—they had definitely fractured a bone somewhere in her leg. Her eyes surveyed her surroundings, hoping to see her wand and her knapsack somewhere. Unfortunately, the lack of light made it difficult to discern anything with any precision.
Trying to avoid panicking, Hermione limped back to the tent she had been assigned to. She pushed Amicus' body, so he was lying on his back—the effort alone made her pant and whimper in pain. She slapped her hand on her mouth—Amicus' death had put an end to the silencing charm.
Not wishing to waste anymore time, she rummaged his pockets. She found a purse, a knife, and a wand. Sighing in relief, she grabbed onto the items and ran out—only to find herself surrounded by the Bandits. There were about eight of them. Without thinking, Hermione stabbed one in the eye and slashed another one's throat.
She turned around and narrowly avoided a stunning spell—they intended to sell her; they wouldn't kill her. Wincing, she bolted, feeling her leg was about to give out. She needed to hold on, just a bit more. The six remaining men started catching up to her, and she narrowly avoided the dashes of red and purple curses sent her way. Gripping hard onto Amicus' wand, she realised it didn't matter if her magic could be detected now—she was already next on the list.
The adrenaline coursing through her body forced her body to a halt. She turned around and pointed her wand squarely at her would-be murderers. It was her or them. She had already killed three of them—what were six more?
Hermione gulped—she had only seen this curse being used once, by Goyle senior. She muttered "Secare faucium" as she forced her hand to stop trembling and slashed her wand from left to right. Black smoke erupted and took the shape of six hands—each reached for their destined victim and slashed their throat. The six men fell to their feet at the same time, their heavy cadavers making the ground shake slightly under Hermione's feet.
She lowered her wand and pressed her lips together. Flashes from the Goyle manor enveloped her in a delirious movement, forcing her to close her eyes and sit down. Bouts of nausea travelled through her and she emptied her squirrel dinner on the ground. She had killed nine men without giving it a second thought—she was still covered in their dried blood, her skin rendered painful by the sensation when it stretched.
"This was the only way," she whispered to herself. "There was no other way," she added, hugging her knees.
She wasn't sure how long she had sat there when she finally got up. The pain from her fracture made her scream—with the adrenaline now gone from her body, the pain was so resounding she could barely limp. She pointed her new wand to her leg and muttered "Episkey". The repair was insufficient, but it would have to do for now. Forcing her body to cooperate with her, she began rummaging the tents. She found her belongings and sighed with relief—at least, her wand couldn't be traced back to the murder, though the thought provided her with little comfort. She decided to pack one of the tents, gathered all the money she managed to find, and took all the wands she could find. Each man had one, but there was also a stash under one of the cots, which she assumed was meant to be sold. Finally, she rinsed off her face and changed into a fresh set of clothes. She had to wonder how much Marauding Bandits had made from the sale of slaves, because the clothes were fluid and made with expensive fabric. They also had dragonhide boots and thick cloaks—Hermione added those to her belongings. Winter was close now—she needed those items more than their corpses did.
Her knapsack was heavier—and certainly worth much more now. She couldn't carry it on her shoulder anymore… she needed it hidden in a pocket, which the cloak had thankfully plenty of. Waving her wand, she shrunk it to the size of a purse and hid it—it was time for her to go.
Escaping the bandits was one thing—she was now in danger of being found by the Terror, and the sheer thought of it filled her with dread. The Terror used scent to get to the Mudbloods—which meant she was days away, at best, from her death. Unless she found Malfoy and Nott—fast.
She limped away from the campsite and began her journey to find the only two people out there who could possibly help her. Knowing that she was now a known-target made Hermione more ruthless and less precautious with her magic—she killed small animals, duplicated fresh mushrooms, showered with Aguamenti, used the Point Me charm to find her way and slept in her new tent. Her mood improved considerably over the next few days—she could feel her muscles strengthening now that she was properly nourished and sleeping more than two to four hours a night. She knew she was more at risk of dying now than ever, but she held on to the hope that she would find Malfoy and Nott. With every passing day, however, that hope dimmed—it was soon reduced to a lacklustre thought hanging in the back of her mind. Maybe they had apparated far away from there—something she was less than inclined to do. Apparating still seemed like too costly a risk to take, even if she felt more confident in her use of magic. She was certain that her magical exit from Birmingham was what alerted the Ministry and had them put her name on the list. They had waited for her to be at her weakest, for her to be swallowed up by the fear of being next before striking. Their confidence in the Terror's ability drowned her in horror—she still couldn't understand how Colin had managed to evade it for so long. The mystery surrounding his death remained a thought she walked with every day; she felt like solving it would give her the answers she required to know what to do next. Unfortunately, what little clues had been left behind after his murder were not yet enough for her to make sense of that gruesome act.
When a week had passed since Hermione's escape, she felt ready to give up. Snow had started to crowd the ground, reducing to ashes her hope to find footprints or any kind of trail. The forest had grown thinner, meaning she was nearing its northern border, and she had nothing to show for the time she had spent there. Nothing, except for the consuming reminder of the nine men she had brutally murdered, without even giving it another thought. Some nights, she dreamt of their horrified faces as the curse slashed their throats and reduced them to lifeless bodies. She had never known herself capable of such cruelty until that night—now, she wondered how much further she'd go for her survival.
Every morning, she dragged the poster out of her purse and watched her face look back at her. The drawing was grotesque—it had reduced her features to caricatures of themselves, it intended to make a mockery of her. She gradually noticed that the expression on her drawn face grew more horrified with each new dawn. She wondered if it meant that the Terror was getting closer—or perhaps it was just for entertainment's sake. For those who hated her kind to relish in her pain and suffering—to get excited about the upcoming death sentence she was assured to live through.
On the ninth day, Hermione had given up hope. She was bathing in an ice-cold pond, weighing her remaining options. Domitia would never agree to the deal Hermione had to offer her—after all, if she was interested, she would have offered, instead of simply passing off information. Any other Pureblood out there would want her dead anyway—even the farmers, the peasants and the destitute. They hated her kind more than they hated their government—a thought that left a bitter taste in Hermione's mouth. She'd fought a gruesome war to bring real and concrete change, she'd defended these people's spawn and narrowly missed death's kiss to ensure the wizarding world was more welcoming to the next Mudblood witch. And, instead of thanking her, instead of forgiving her for being born to Muggle parents, they had shunned her, and were now delighted to see her sorrow and misery being extended and pushed further by the threat of the Terror. None would ever accept to make a deal with her.
Hermione washed away her tears by dunking her head underneath the surface of the pond. She scrubbed her hair violently with what little soap she had managed to conjure and let her body sink so low she wondered if she was subconsciously attempting to take her own life. She emerged the next second, taking in a deep breath and panting from the near suffocation she had inflicted upon her body. Intrusive thoughts of this nature had grown stronger lately—she wasn't sure who or what to blame for them. Maybe the loneliness and the horror were driving her insane.
She got out of the pond, dried herself and quickly got dressed. She made sure she hadn't left anything behind and resumed her journey. Maybe it was now time to consider going into hiding far from England—how powerful could that creature really be? Could it even leave the country? She looked down at her wand. She realised she had stayed in England because she had hoped to find something to end it all. She had never truly wanted to run—she had wanted to save the others, to come up with a solution of some kind. It was only now that she was ready to give up on that ideal that she realised she had it at all. She gripped her wand tighter—maybe it was now time to let go.
Some leaves rustled behind her. She sharply turned her head and audibly gasped.
"Malfoy?"