Chapter Text
Hermione spent minutes staring at the smiling, joyful, and lively faces.
She had been doing that every day since she had created the board. Every day for five minutes at least. The board took up almost the entirety of the wall next to the door, partially obscuring the Black family tapestry.
It had been her choice to use the once grand drawing room as her own domain. Kreacher had heavily protested when she had set up beds and privacy screens. The elf had cried when the ancient rug had been soiled over and over again with blood and other bodily fluids to the point that it had had to be burned. Kreacher had punished himself when he had been barred from the room following his destruction of her precious board and ruining her equipment.
As much as it had pained her to see the wrinkled elf hurt himself, she hadn’t taken pity on him. Because her board and her domain were most important to her.
Nobody in the Order understood her near-obsession with the board. That was also the main reason almost nobody visited her in the recently christened infirmary. Ginny, in particular, avoided the place more than the others. She understood the red-haired witch. It was too painful to look at his lively face for Hermione too.
The Order members only came whenever they were seriously injured or on the brink of death. Far too often, it was the latter. Far too often, there was nothing she could do but only add another picture to her board.
Her board contained pictures –photographs taken from yearbooks and family albums or cut from newspapers- by the dozens of various sizes. Some were in colour, some monochrome. She collected them and arranged them. Lest she forget.
One side contained the faces of the missing, and those unaccounted for following bloody battles. Some familiar –too familiar-, some mere acquaintances, yet tragic irrespective of familiarity. Some of them had been missing for years, several for over five years even.
Hermione’s forlorn gaze found Luna’s pale one staring back at her. She was smiling softly at the camera, her fingers playing with her necklace every now and then. The eccentric blonde had been never seen again after her abduction from the Hogwarts Express five years ago. Neither had been Dean. Or Mr Ollivander. Katie Bell, Penelope Clearwater and so many more, alongside with numerous Ministry officials, Aurors, and business owners. They too had never been spotted again.
She had no hope that they were alive. She had lost all hope four years ago.
On the other side of the board, she had the pictures of their fallen. Their heroes whose sacrifice too often felt in vain. The side that was most unbearable to look at as it had been constantly expanding. She had had to add Seamus’ face to the cluster only a few weeks prior.
Those cheerful, bright green eyes behind round specs beckoned to her once more. Seeking them out she couldn’t stop her eyes from prickling despite her best efforts. It had been four years since the battle at Hogwarts. Four years since he had died when he should have lived. He should have won, prophecy or not.
“Oh, Harry...” She choked on a small whimper and rubbed her eyes.
It had been four years since they were forced into hiding once more and she was still unable to come to terms with anything. Four years since the flicker of hope inside her chest had been irrevocably snuffed out. Four years since she had last raised her wand to fight.
She had confined herself to her make-shift infirmary and helped the people she cared deeply about in other ways. Madame Pomfrey had taught her most of what she could before the matron was killed in her home two years ago. Ever since then, the Order had only Hermione to rely on when it came to reverse dark curses and heal near-fatal wounds.
The Death Eaters showed no mercy and the Order’s numbers were dwindling with each encounter. The open battle at Hogwarts had been merely the beginning of a full-out war that consisted of raids, ambushes and small engagements with the Death Eaters.
The Order just didn’t have the manpower to take on an army that controlled everything. The Ministry, St Mungo’s, the press, borders, and resources all belonged to Voldemort. The whole of Wizarding Britain was under Voldemort’s merciless rule. International travel had been banned, Portkeys were tracked, Floo networks got disconnected, and unauthorised Apparitions were monitored. It was needless to mention that none from the Order had the proper clearance to Apparate but still did regardless.
Thankfully the Ministry struggled to enforce the ban on Apparition, yet most wizarding settlements had enchantment around their entire perimeter detecting said unauthorised Apparition or Disapparition. Thus, the Order exercised utmost caution and only Apparated if necessary.
Air travel was also made quite difficult given the lack of available, licenced broomsticks. Air patrol was constant above Wizarding London. There weren’t many places they could go aside from the Muggle villages and smaller towns nowadays.
The Order had to move on foot, travel from safe house to safe house, if they needed supplies. And they always did. Food, money and potion ingredients had been the top on the list of scarcity for years now. They mostly had to resort to stealing and foraging whatever they could but they were struggling. Every day, the struggle would become more difficult to bear.
Grimmauld Place still acted as the headquarters –thankfully, Yaxley had never managed to see where they were going as Hermione had not let him on the secret willingly. The secret was still safe.
The three other safe houses were scattered across the country. The Shell Cottage, Andromeda’s home, and Kingsley’s residence were the only ones that remained in use for their dwindling numbers.
The Burrow had been compromised all those years ago, and to this day, nobody dared return after the recovery team had been ambushed. In the confrontation, too many members had lost their lives including Arthur. The Weasleys had never been the same afterwards.
The Order had begged and pleaded for foreign aid but the French, German, Russian and American Ministries had only sent empathetic but nonchalant responses.
The “official” stance the foreign countries took was a diplomatic one. As long as Voldemort would stay in Britain, they had no reason intervene in a “domestic affair” and help a small uprising commit a coup d'état. On the surface, their Ministries now fostered quite good relations with Voldemort and his followers.
It was evident that the British propagandists hadn’t done their job well enough, however. Because the unofficial stance was caution. The foreign powers too recognised the threat Voldemort’s reign posed but were hesitant to aid such a small resistance. They weren’t to offer any sort of help until they could make sure that the Order would triumph. They didn’t intend to participate in full-scale warfare.
Hermione hadn’t had it in her to be upset at their refusal unlike many in the Order had initially been. She was constantly busy securing rare ingredients, making potions and healing the injured to be too involved. That was why she wasn’t part of the top council.
She preferred it that way if she was honest with herself. Ron had always been much better at strategies and planning moves. She trusted him, Molly, Kingsley, Neville, and Minerva to make the right decisions. She preferred the reclusive lifestyle she had chosen for herself. Distancing herself had made her work much easier. She didn’t think she could do her work otherwise.
Her hands shook no longer when her former classmates or professors were bleeding out. Her lips trembled no more when she cast the spells. Her voice didn’t crack anymore when she would announce that she had lost whoever was lying in front of her. Her eyes didn’t water when she searched for pictures to pin on her board.
However, that didn’t mean she was unfeeling. Each loss hurt her deeply. She simply couldn’t make the time or effort to deal with her sorrow in any other capacity.
She only allowed herself five minutes a day to grieve. No more.
She was constantly busy.
Releasing a deep breath, she sent one last glance at the faces she had long memorised. She had wasted enough time lost in her thoughts. Leaving the confines of her sanctuary, she descended the creaky stairs of the old estate.
Molly was already waiting for her at the foot, holding a basket and Hermione’s favourite red cloak that she had knitted for the young witch. In the four years’ time, the Weasley Matriarch had come to regard her as a daughter and in spite of Hermione trying her best not to, she had come to reciprocate the feeling and view Molly as a mother figure. Especially since her own parents were in Australia –alive but blissfully oblivious to having a daughter in Britain.
She had also let go of the notion that her parents would ever again recognise her. With each passing year, reversing the Memory Charm seemed more and more impossible and dangerous.
The war just wouldn’t end.
“There you go, my dear,” handing the basket over, Molly proceeded to wrap the warm cloak over her shoulder. “I sneaked in an extra bottle of scotch. I know how much Minerva enjoys it in her morning cuppa.”
The brunette felt her lips pull into a small smile. Everybody in the Order knew of Minerva’s fondness for an early drink.
However, Minerva had not been to the headquarters for weeks now. She had fallen ill a few weeks prior, never quite recovering from a previous nasty hex that had left her in a lengthy recuperating progress. Hermione had taken it upon herself to check on the elderly witch every couple of days, bringing some of Molly’s cooking and her own tonics and potions.
Tonight was no exception.
Molly pulled her close and held her in her arms that weren’t as plump as Hermione had remembered being all those years ago. Letting her out of the embrace, she cupped the younger witch’s face.
“Be very careful, Hermione,” the older woman breathed the same words she would always whenever Hermione would go. “Never stray off the path. Do not delay or be misled. Far too many dark creatures roam the surrounding woods.”
Hermione nodded. It was true; Minerva lived alone far up north, in the Scottish Highlands, not being able to part with her homeland. And much like Hermione, the former Head of Gryffindor enjoyed the solitude the desolate location offered.
The very next moment, Ginny appeared atop the stairs. It seemed that she was leaving Neville’s room, once more dressed only in his oversized jumper. Hermione couldn’t fault the red-haired witch though. Many had come to see Neville as their new “Harry”, the new Chosen One after many fierce battles. He was charismatic and loyal, a rather apt duellist and an overall inspiring wizard.
Much like Harry had been.
At times, even Hermione would catch a glimpse of Harry in Neville. And Ginny, having loved Harry since she was but ten, desperately clung to those similarities –her own way of coping.
“Ah, Hermione!” The ginger witch cried and rushed down the stairs before throwing her arms around the brunette. “You’re leaving already? Send Minerva my love, okay?”
The once sleek and fiery hair was now limp and lifeless, bright eyes dull and cheekbones prominent. There was a scar on her right temple that reached to her cheek. Ginny’s smiles never quite reached her eyes anymore either. Gone was the playful girl, and an empty shell was all that remained in her stead.
The war had changed everybody. It had to end.
Some would say it had already ended four years ago and Voldemort had emerged victorious. Hermione, on her worst days, wholeheartedly agreed. But she refused to think like that. It would mean that all her loved ones, and people like her, were exterminated or sold as cattle.
As long as one of them fought, the course of the war was not decided. And if it ever came down to it, she would fight one final time. She would bravely face her demise, like all those faces on her board.
Like Harry had.
“I will, Ginny,” she said and looked at Molly. “I’ll be back in two hours.”
Hermione then nodded to herself and pulled her red cloak tighter across her shoulder before Disapparating with a soft pop.
Landing in the ominous yet familiar woods, the brunette made her way towards where Minerva’s wards lay. It was but a few minutes away, so she didn’t bother lighting her wand. Not only was the full moon bright and showing her the way, but she also didn’t want to attract too much attention from the denizens lurking within the safety of the trees.
A thick cloud glided over to obscure the moon and she felt a shiver creep up her arms as a chilly autumn breeze swept under her cloak. Pulling the thick, woollen material tighter, she picked up her pace. A few twigs crunched under her boots, the leaves rustled and the branches on the trees groaned quietly.
Yet despite all the sounds of nature, it couldn’t drown out the distant thuds across the fallen foliage and dirt. She stilled due to the sound coming from too close to her liking.
Holding her wand with an iron grip, she looked around. She saw nothing out of the ordinary but dark trees and a darker darkness between the trunks. She wasn’t certain if she was supposed feel relieved or on edge. The noise could have been made by a Mooncalf –she tried to convince herself.
Soon, much to her delight, the moon reappeared.
And then she saw a sight that could have made her weep tears of extreme joy. She had been unsuccessful in getting her hands on that particular potion ingredient for over seven months.
On a small clearing not too far into the woods, a patch of moondew blossomed in the pale light.
Yet, she hesitated. Molly’s warning not to stray away from the path rang clear in her ear. On the one hand, Minerva was waiting for her and the forest was indeed dangerous and uncharted. On the other hand, the flowers only bloomed once a month and she would miss her chance if she didn’t harvest them.
Weighing her options, she eventually decided to go with her first instinct and venture inside the dense forest. Keeping her wand close, she cautiously approached the flowers, tensing at every sound she heard.
Lowering herself to her knees, she rummaged through her beaded bag that now mostly contained healing supplies after years of being unused for anything else. Although, a tent and an emergency survival kit lay at its bottom –a habit that she yet couldn’t put to rest. Finding a few vials, she began to meticulously pluck the petals and transfer them into the glass containers.
Whilst she was working, she couldn’t help but shake the feeling off that she was being watched. By whom –or what-, she didn’t know but she picked up her pace nevertheless. Her ears were straining for any alerting noise but she was unable to hear much over the wind that began to blow.
A few minutes and four additional vials of ingredients later, she perked her head up and fell back on her bum with a jolt. There, between two great trees, a pair of silvery eyes bore into her. They were almost white in colour and practically shining metallic in the weak light.
However, they were gone in but a moment, swallowed by the darkness and the sound of faint, metallic clinks.
Hermione shakily rose to her feet and began backing away from the clearing, heart pounding in her ribcage. Swallowing thickly, she turned around and fled, silencing her steps with a swish of her wand. Because she knew very well what creature those silvery eyes belonged.
Werewolf.
She practically ran towards her destination, mentally scolding herself for straying off the path, for allowing herself to be delayed and misled. She could already see the cottage whose windows’ warm lights gave a her a miniscule sense of relief. Soon, she’d be inside the protective enchantments and no Werewolf could harm her.
As her bright red cape billowed in her wake, her senses screamed at her that she was being followed. And judging by the not-so-distant thuds accompanying her silent footsteps and panting breath, she confirmed that she was indeed. She hastened her pace as her pursuer was heard closing in.
Reaching the door to the small home, she spun around and let her eyes roam her surroundings. The abrupt stillness of the night-time only served to enhance her paranoia and snap her eyes to every little movement and noise. Even the wind seemed to have gone silent.
But she was all alone, she concluded. She sighed a deep breath of fatigue but nearly jumped out of her skin when howl echoed around her.
She was safe now –she reiterated to herself. The wards would protect her and Minerva. The wards would -
The wards...
She hadn’t felt them shift around her form; she hadn’t noticed the magic descend onto her. Perhaps she had been too caught up in trying to outrun the single –or Merlin knew how many more that were lying in wait- Werewolf. Yet, her theory fell quickly when a swish of her wand would affirm her greatest fear.
The wards were down, dismantled. Fidgeting with the gold coin in her pocket she contemplated about alerting the Order. Something was clearly wrong.
Trying the doorhandle, she found it unlocked which only fuelled her apprehension. The door creaked open and she poke her head in.
“Minerva?”
The fireplace was merrily popping and providing warmth. The living room was empty of anything suspicious save for an open book lying face down on the couch. Braving the foreboding sensation, she walked further inside and deposited her basket.
Casting a Homenum Revelio , she waited with bated breath for a sign that could soothe her nerves. It never came.
She should have left then. She should have Disapparated immediately but she had to confirm the worst. The grip around her wand and the coin only tightened when she found the kitchen empty too. There was but one room left for her to check.
Walking closer, having made sure that the silencing spell on her shoes were still working, she stopped before the door that was slightly ajar. Heart thrumming in her throat, she pushed the door open silently before the smell of death hit her nose.
The sight that greeted her had just proved her cynical side right.
Glass shards littered the ground; the curtains flapped quietly against the now paneless window. On the bed, Minerva lay in her own pool of blood, small rivulets making their way to the floor, dampening the rug with their crimson taint. Breathlessly gasping, she began to back away from the gruesome scene because she was interrupting a grizzly feast.
A gigantic grey Werewolf stood above Minerva’s body, tearing pieces of her flesh and munching loudly. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to have noticed her as it was showing her its back. She tried to calm her furious heart, tried to stop the ringing in her ear lest she be found because of the acute hearing of Werewolves. She hoped that the stench of blood masked her scent, as there was nothing keener than a Werewolf’s sense of smell.
Yet, unfortunately for her, she had bumped into the kitchen counter.
Eyes wide, Hermione froze as the wolf turned its head towards the sound. She would recognise those piercing blue eyes anywhere.
Greyback.
Her fingers trembled as her mind was transported back to the decisive battle where she had all but given up fighting afterwards. The same numbness and helplessness that she had felt following Harry’s body slumping to the ground cemented her to the ground. Her lips trembled as she tried to cast a spell –any spell- that could save her.
Her mind was too disoriented, too unfocused to even attempt Disapparating. Not that she would as she still stood staring into those blue eyes.
The image of Lavender’s bloodied corpse morphed into a man’s with jet-black hair and round glasses. Flashes of green and red painted a cruel yet beautiful picture before her eyes.
“Stupefy!”
“Avada Kedavra!”
She could hardly breathe. She felt her eyes water and knees wobble.
Meanwhile, the fully-transformed Werewolf growled lowly, blood dripping from his mouth. Then suddenly, he lunged.
The witch scarcely had time to let out a shriek and scream a particularly weak Protego . The impact made her stumble and fall whilst Greyback kept pounding against it with its huge paws. Scrambling to her feet once the adrenaline had kicked in and shouted into her ear to flee, she ran back into the living room and out of the cottage.
She felt the moment her Shield Charm gave in, felt the panic tighten her throat. Yet, she kept running. Her thighs hurt and lungs burned but she mustered all her mental energy and thought of the three single words.
Determination. Destination. Deliberation.
Envisioning 12 Grimmauld Place, she spun mid-run but was ultimately tackled to the ground before her body could have been sucked away by the tightness of magic. Her head felt like splitting in half and her nerves tingled as she must have hit the back of her head badly upon landing flat on her back. Her hands were empty too; her wand and the Galleon had likely ended up somewhere in the thick vegetation.
Her worries about her head and wand were forgotten once she felt two heavy limbs on her shoulders and an impossible weight settle upon her. The air had been pressed out of lungs as muscle and fur pushed her into the ground.
So, this was how it was going to end –she thought to herself upon smelling the stench of Greyback’s breath. This was the stench of her own death.
A long drip of bloodied saliva drizzled into her face prompting her to close her eyes. She was going to die at the fangs of the Werewolf who maimed and murdered people for fun. She was simply going to die. Greyback was not known for holding back under the influence of the full moon. She would not be turned. She would be killed.
Bracing herself for the inevitable, she refused to beg. It would be meaningless. Notwithstanding her heart feeling like it would explode any moment, she experienced a sudden peace washing over her.
Would her heart stop aching after she would die? Would she be reunited with her friends and loved ones like Harry, Tonks, Remus and Minerva? Would she be finally liberated from the past? Would anyone remember her in the way she forced herself to remember the fallen and missing?
Would she even care whether they did or didn’t?
She had barely heard the rapidly approaching thuds, the clinking of metal and the vicious snarl when the weight atop her was gone and she felt her ribcage expand with a rush of oxygen. Groggily sitting up, she clambered towards her wand and raised it defensively.
Yet, the spell on her lips faltered as she watched an all-out-brawl between two Werewolves. Two equally enormous Beasts were snarling, growling and snapping at each other, rolling on the ground. It was reminiscent of dogs playing, but given the small yelps and whimpers released she knew that this fight was to the death.
It appeared that the newcomer was emerging victorious, a wolf with shaggy fur that must have been white at some point but was now caked with dirt and dried blood. She noticed that the white wolf had a dark metal collar around its neck and a long whipping chain was attached to it. She now understood why she had heard the clinking sound.
However, Greyback caught the end of the chain within his maw and the course of the fight had changed. The white wolf tried its best to break free from the squeeze of the chain that had managed to wrap itself around its body and neck during the fight, constraining its mobility. Greyback cleverly used it to his advantage and subdued his opponent. The white wolf thrashed and kept releasing choking sounds.
Hermione realised that if she didn’t do anything, the white wolf would surely be strangled.
Why did she care?
She should have Disapparated then and there, whilst the two Werewolves were busy mauling each other. She should have used the opportunity to escape.
Although, she should shave done all that, she didn’t. The witch raised her wand and decided to intervene in a subtle way.
She wanted to give the white wolf a fair fighting chance. It had saved her after all. Had it not attacked Greyback, she would have already served as a meal to the blue-eyed wolf. The enemy of her enemy -as the saying went.
She’d rather have Greyback lay dead than have any more innocent suffer. Perhaps they would even end up killing each other, making her job easier.
A silent Relashio later, the chain detached from the collar.
Greyback, who was pulling at it with all his might, lost his balance and fell to the ground. The white wolf, however, turned out to possess quicker reflexes than the grey one. It sprung to its feet, and pounced on the disoriented one. A loud crunch and an agony-filled yelp ensued.
The white one tore at the neck of Greyback, blood rapidly gushing forth, soaking fur and grass. Greyback writhed and flailed, managing to sink his fangs into the shoulder of the white one once before his life gave out. His large head lolled to the side, blue eyes unseeing.
Hermione felt a miniscule sense of relief. After all, the monster had finally been slain. Remus, Lavender, Bill, and so many other Wizarding and Muggle folk alike had been avenged. Greyback’s reign of terror had just been ended. The number of children affected by lycanthropy should drop significantly.
Before long, however, the momentary cause for celebration dissipated when the white wolf turned its head towards her. Its silvery eyes bore into her brown ones, and Hermione could have sworn that they turned mercurial with recognition and something else she couldn’t name.
Taking a few limping steps, the Werewolf was heading towards her at a torturous pace, almost as if seizing her up and at the same time trying not to frighten her more than she already felt. Hermione mused that this particular Beast acted much too human, much too conscious yet her wand remained poised at the approaching creature.
Constant vigilance.
Unexpectedly, the wolf swayed before collapsing accompanied by a tiny whimper. It tried to raise its head and get back on its feet but its eyelids dropped and body went still.
Blinking, the witch rose and gazed at the two creatures lying on their sides. She eyed them both, unsure what to do next. Her nagging sense of curiosity wouldn’t let her leave from her spot. She merely stared at the creature for long minutes, whilst her heart was trying to calm down.
Why would they attack each other?
Whilst it wasn’t unheard of Werewolves killing their own kind due to territorial disputes, it was rare. Werewolves also preferred solitude and thus, unlike with regular wolves, there were no significant pack dynamics involved. It couldn’t have been a challenge between Alphas either.
Perhaps they both wanted to eat her. Perhaps the white one wanted her too and refused to let Greyback have the first bite. Although Werewolves weren’t known for sharing prey, she doubted it was a case of struggle for food. Besides, if her suspicion was correct, it was the white wolf who was watching her forage, following –or rather chasing- her to the cottage. It had had ample opportunities to attack as she had been vulnerable far too many times –the thought of being so exposed made her wince with reproach.
It was evident that years locked away in her own infirmary had dulled her once fine-tuned senses and reaction times. But she wasn’t a fighter –she convinced herself. She wasn’t anymore.
The other enigma was the howl she had heard.
Had it been meant to be a warning for the other or for her? Could it have warned her of the danger that lay in wait?
She dismissed the last notion. Regardless of how human the white one had acted; it was ruled by urges and instincts first and foremost. It wouldn’t have warned her even if it could have.
Hermione looked for her discarded Galleon and plucked it from the grass. Fidgeting with it between her fingers, she sent a few short messages to keep the Order updated.
Minerva’s dead. Greyback. Also dead.
Then she hesitated. Cautiously approaching the softly breathing form of the white wolf, she kneeled at its side. Despite the fatal danger Werewolves posed on the night of a full moon, she felt uncharacteristically braver than before. It had saved her life after all, irrespective of motivation.
Gazing at the still profusely bleeding wound at its shoulder, she reached deep into her beaded bag. She was a healer. She swore to herself that she would help all who came to her. She could at least patch the wolf up as a sign of her gratitude.
Taking care of things. Be back later.
Pocketing the Galleon, she used both hands to grab hold of the tent at the very bottom and fish it out. Several charms and protective enchantments later, the tent stood erected. The witch then aimed her wand at the unconscious form by her feet and levitated it inside.
Following the hovering wolf, she faltered as the memories rushed to her upon entrance. Even though this wasn’t the tent her best friends and she had been using for almost a year when they were hunting Horcruxes, she still felt heart twinge at the sense of bittersweet nostalgia.
She drew a calming breath, squared her shoulders and refused to let the memories gain ground in her mind. She needed to focus.
Depositing the creature atop the couch, whose legs immediately gave out under the great weight of furry muscle, she kneeled once more. She swished her wand and the vile, metallic yet sweet smell of flesh coming from the wolf’s maw disappeared, as did the odour emanating from its fur. She still couldn’t stomach the stench of decay whilst healing despite her years of experience.
Casting a Cleaning Charm on the dirty fur in order to assess the wound properly, she readied her supplies. Unfortunately, she was lacking powdered silver to keep the cursed wound from scarring. Nevertheless, she applied Dittany meticulously, hoping to stop the bleeding at least and encourage scab formation.
If asked, she couldn’t have explained why she was using expensive and scarce healing supplies such as Essence of Dittany on a creature that may have only saved her life coincidentally. She merely did.
During her work, the wolf whimpered and scrunched its eyes following each sizzling drop of Dittany but didn’t wake. She was grateful for the absence of disruption. She would have hated to subdue the creature once more. Seeing the thick, metal band around the Werewolf’s neck, she frowned.
After all these years, her heart still went out for magical creatures and their plight in a world where they were equated to less than dirt. Her “unfortunate” birth had made her receive only slightly better treatment than those labelled “Half-breeds” or worse. Perhaps that was the reason she had always empathised with their struggles. She found a twisted form of kinship with the mistreated and misunderstood creatures.
In another life, she would have proudly championed for the equal treatment of those with sentience.
Once she was finished with healing the shoulder wound as much as she could, she performed additional examining spells to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. Aside from being dehydrated and suffering from very mild malnutrition, she found him physically healthy –much to her surprise, given the deplorable state of his fur and the collar around his neck. Yes, him, judging by the unmistakable shape of a sizeable furred sheath and sack between his hindlegs.
Sitting back onto her haunches, she reached for the collar. To think that he was collared and leashed for someone else’s pleasure made her blood boil and feel pity at the same time. Werewolf or not, nobody deserved to be kept chained like some feral beast.
However, she quickly retracted her prying fingers when he tensed before starting to convulse and let out whines. Whoever had attached that collar had made sure that it can’t be removed just by anybody. Not without causing significant pain to the Werewolf.
She didn’t even try her wand in case she caused even more harm unbeknownst.
The band was utterly barbaric and inhumane, and it hinted at a certain group of people that she could imagine doing such a thing. Since the Werewolves were allied with Voldemort, she presumed that whoever this one was must have earned the ire of Him to receive such a cruel treatment.
Before her mind could have run amok with theories as to why and how, she stood. There was nothing more she could do to help the wolf, so she headed back to the cottage. She had to prepare Minerva’s body.
Hermione was moving almost robotically as she cleaned the blood, fixed the gaping holes in the elderly witch’s shoulder and neck, and wrapped the body. Levitating the corpse behind her, she returned to the tent only stopping by to send a glare at Greyback’s body.
She was grateful that he was gone but couldn’t help feel disappointed. He didn’t deserve a quick death. He should have suffered more. The vengeful side of her rued that Greyback hadn’t been subjected to all sorts of torment before perishing.
Upon returning, she deposited the body somewhere safe and cast several charms on it to slow its decay. She would spend the following hours sitting by the small heater in the middle of the tent, taking swigs from the scotch meant for Minerva. Undeterred by her dislike for the alcohol and every wince her face would scrunch up into, she drank a third of the bottle. She needed the drink after tonight.
She watched the Werewolf sleep, fingers clenching around her vine wood every time the wolf would stir. She wanted to bring him in, so that the Order might be able to remove that wretched collar around his neck. He deserved that much after saving her life. He would be then free to go, of course. She only wouldn’t take him until he transformed back as he still posed a danger in this state.
She only hoped he wouldn’t wake until sunrise. And thankfully he wouldn’t.
The brunette felt her eyes and head droop when she heard a crunching sound coming from the sofa. Jumping to her feet with her wand at the ready, she observed his transformation with a warped sense of fascination.
She should not have been looking, she should have given him some privacy and save whatever was left of his dignity –she knew all of that yet couldn’t tear her gaze away. In addition to her bearing witness to a Werewolf reverting back to human for the first and possibly last time in her life, she had to know the identity of this man.
Whom did she own her life?
With heart palpitating, she studied carefully as his form changed shape with sickening crunches as the bones and joints realigned themselves. His legs elongated, resembling human arms and legs, feet and hands. Claws thinned and shortened; fingers lengthened. The white fur gradually receded, as did the fluffy tail, almost as if his body reabsorbed the pelage and the extra appendage.
His spine contorted under his skin. His ears began to shift downwards from the top of his head, his snout was diminishing and separating into a nose, lips, chin and jaw.
It couldn’t have taken more than a minute for the changes to finish. Standing by the now stark-naked man lying yet unconscious on his side, she couldn’t stop her eyes from roaming.
Like his wolf form, his human form too was gigantic and impossibly broad –thanks to the physical effects lycanthropy had on the body, no doubt. Even in his curled-up position, she could reckon that he was at least a foot taller than her.
His skin could have been white at some point but it was impossible to tell for sure due to layers upon layers of caked dirt, mud, filth and dried blood. If she had to guess, this man had not been afforded a shower in years which made her shake her head in sadness.
Taking a peek at his head, she took in the state of the tangled, greasy and grimy mess that was his shoulder-length hair. It must have been blond once, she suspected. She brushed the fringe out of his eyes with a shaky hand. She instantly recoiled with a sharp gasp.
Because in spite of the shaggy, unkempt beard that covered the lower half of his angular face, irrespective of the filth that darkened his brows and otherwise pale complexion, she would recognise him anytime. Although she had not seen him in the flesh since their sixth year, his now matured features had remained still reminiscent of his teenaged ones.
His high cheekbones, straight nose and prominent brow bone were unequivocal. She was certain that she would meet piercing grey if he opened his eyes.
She would know because she would sometimes gaze at his picture in the dated newspaper she had stashed away and wonder how different things had been for him if he had murdered Dumbledore that night. She would wonder if he had suffered before having been executed.
Executed for being a blood traitor. Because he had been deemed one not long after Dumbledore’s funeral, and had been executed shortly thereafter.
According to the Prophet article, Voldemort had done the Malfoy family a great service by delivering them from further shame –a final act of mercy that entailed warning within. Voldemort didn’t suffer the weak and disobedient in His ranks whatever prominent Pure-blood scion they happened to be.
Hence, she would have never thought to encounter him again. He had been thought to be dead for over five years after all.
It was therefore unimaginable for him to be here five years later. It was impossible for him to be a Werewolf, watch and follow her, kill Greyback, and then collapse at her feet only to have her take pity on him and heal him.
It all should have been implausible.
Because Draco Malfoy was dead, or so Wizarding Britain was led to believe.