Imminent

And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying, Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
When people run in circles, it's a very, very…
Mad world…
(Mad world, michael andrews)

March 2006

The storm caused the shutters of the inn to beat furiously against the windows. The wind was howling so similarly to the wolves it almost set her on edge.

Almost.

The steaming hot water in the tub was so inviting, she couldn’t wait to bask in it. The blood and sweat and gods-know-what else covering her desperately needed to be washed away. She wasn’t the least bit surprised when the muggle innkeeper looked at her as if she was crazed and stepped out of a horror film. 

She supposed she certainly looked a fright. Thankfully, she was advanced at Obliviation spells, so it took barely a few seconds to erase the image of her bloodied face and clothes and replace it with a pleasant conversation with a seemingly respectable, mute young lady with long red hair and face full of freckles. The innkeeper happily wrote the name Jean Smith on the books; a name as plain as could be without raising suspicion.

Hermione sighed as she shed her ripped clothing. It was rather difficult to remove her jeans since the blood around a gash on her thigh had dried, making the stiff fabric peel the clots right out, blood starting to dribble out again. She unstoppered the vial of dittany she had placed on the counter and gingerly dripped a few drops over the wound. The dittany burned for a moment as the wound knitted itself back together. It wasn’t too deep, mostly just the skin separated near the surface. She was thankful the claws hadn’t dug any deeper or else she would’ve been incapacitated. 

Standing fully naked in the bathroom, she did a once over check of any other wounds she missed. A cut along her forearm. Bite marks behind her shoulders, just barely missing the constellation tattoo in the middle. She shivered when the dittany dribbled down her back before she reached up to rub it in. There were other small scrapes and bruises but she didn’t want to waste the dittany on any of those, deciding she would just add a few drops to the bathwater to help speed up the healing. Besides, she had some of her homemade bruise paste that would help clear up the black and blue marks faster. 

She quickly turned away, not raising her gaze above her shoulders in the mirror, not wanting to see what a frightening sight she was. Better to not see it, she decided. Slowly she dipped a foot in the scalding water and hissed at the pain. The burning heat soon faded to a soothing warmth on her foot and she slowly lowered herself fully into the tub.

Her entire body burned horribly for a few moments.

 Then it was pure heaven. 

When was the last time she had a bath? A month? Maybe two? At least since it was a proper bath in a real tub. And baths were much more preferred and different from quick showers if she were being honest with herself. It was vastly more appropriate for a fox to be bathing in a stream or lake than it was for a young woman. That was the surest way to get everyone’s attention if she wanted it. 

Hermione chuckled at the idea of her skinny dipping and what Harry and Ron would think--the prude of the century waltzing around naked as a babe for all to see. 

If only they knew how much of a prude I wasn’t.

Hermione smiled to herself and sunk down further into the tub. 

Everything hurt. Her body ached, every muscle straining to make the slightest movements. She was sure that she had a rib popped out of place and maybe a few fractured knuckles. Thankfully, she had a few weeks before the next full moon and could take the time to recover while tracking them from a distance.

This was what happened from luring beasts into a trap. Greyback had been more than happy to deliver punishment on her for side-tracking his pack. Though she guessed it was well deserved. 

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. 

So now she had another wound that would surely scar, adding to her ever growing collection on her body. 

She mused that maybe it was truly deserved, for her to be beaten and ripped apart every time she interfered with the wolves. Though this time she had done it purposefully-so then yes, it was truly deserved. 

She thought back to how it played out this time. 

Greyback stalked towards her, looming like a large boulder. He could certainly hit like one. Her magic rippled across her skin like soothing water as she felt the shift take over.

Gone was the fox, and standing before Greyback, teeth bared in a grinning snarl, was a pure black werewolf. She crouched on two legs now, her tall pointed ears were thrust forward in warning, hackles raised as she bared her claws and teeth, ready for battle. 

Greyback howled viciously, the sound like nails on a chalkboard to her ears before he charged forward. They met in a thud of bodies and a clash of teeth as they ripped at each other. Hermione was determined to avoid being caught in his jaws, climbing over the back of him and locking her teeth onto his ear. He gave a roar of pain as her claws anchored into his back. She felt a surge of satisfaction at the sound. Her celebration was cut short as he reared back, slamming her sideways to the ground. Hermione gave a yelp in pain as she felt a popping in her ribs. It was an easy enough fix that her magic would heal but it still hurt like a bitch. 

Limping and slightly hunched over, Hermione snarled back at the brute. As he lunged for her again, she threw a fist aimed perfectly for the underside of his jaws. She felt the connection reverberate through her hand along with pain. Her mouth opened in a wolfy grin as  Greyback staggered backwards, his jaw popped out of place from the force behind her uppercut. A shake of his head and she heard it snap back into place. Greyback narrowed his eyes towards her, blood and snot mixing with the saliva dribbling down his dislocated jaw.

Hermione took a deep breath and prepared for the next assault.

Hermione huffed and sunk further into the bath water. It was aggravating that eight years on and she still let that old wolf get the better of her. She was frustrated with herself more than anything. It always felt like it wasn’t enough. 

It wasn’t enough that she was separated from her friends first for a year and now for another six years.

It wasn’t enough that she’d spent countless hours training every aspect of her magic that she possibly could without over exhausting herself to near death.

It wasn’t enough that she’d trained to harness the shift and could now do it at will in an instant.

It wasn’t enough that she lost everyone dear to her because he was a psychopath.

Nothing was enough because she couldn’t get close enough to actually kill the bastard. She had followed him for years, tracked the pack’s every movement, allowed herself to be captured just to get close enough to deliver that killing blow.

But Geryback knew. 

Of course, he knew. How could he not? 

He allowed her to get so close that she could almost swipe at his heart but was always just out of reach. And he loved toying with her. Allowing her to feel that close to victory and then snatching it away. It was a game to him. That’s all it had ever been: a game. He was the white chess piece who made that first move. She was the black piece, barely able to keep up.

It just was never enough.

Hermione held her right hand above the water, gingerly resting it on her raised knee. 

There it sat on her middle finger. An ever-present reminder that broke her heart. 

The obsidian glinted in the dim lighting as she moved it slowly, rolling the ring around her finger.

It was tempting.

So, so tempting to tap it.

She was thankful that she had been thorough in her charm work and the taps had to be deliberate to be delivered to the sister ring. Otherwise…otherwise he would’ve known ages ago…

She shook her head and swallowed back the tears. It broke her heart to think of all the times after the battle that she felt the burning sensation in her hand. Sometimes a soft warmth every now and then. A few times it was a searing pain that made her want to tear at her hand. Regardless, she never took the ring off. It had been years since the warmth blessed her hand. And she would be lying if she said she didn’t miss it. 

She did. 

She yearned for it. 

To know that he was still holding out hope for her.

Hermione wanted to believe he still was but she would never blame him if he wasn’t. Though there was never anything in the Prophet about the young Malfoy heir on any outings with eligible young ladies, it didn’t mean it wasn’t happening. It didn’t mean it was either but…It certainly didn't hurt any less. 

She shook her head and sank into the tub until just her nose and eyes were slightly above the water. Hermione reminded herself that although they’d had a tryst–and what a wonderful tryst it had been–Malfoy hadn’t made any promises to her, nor she to him. It was the one thing she absolutely refused to allow happen. Not since that night on the Astronomy tower when he’d let the Death Eaters into the school. 

Not since he’d left her behind.

June 1997

She knew something was wrong when she woke and the space beside her on the bed was empty, going cold. The body that had been keeping her warm was nowhere to be seen, no trace left that he was even there save for the sore ache between her legs and the marks along her skin.

Hermione dressed slowly as she looked around the small dorm room. It was after midnight and even though she was in the Slytherin dorms, she was thankful that Slytherins were given separate rooms. It at least made disillusioning herself and sneaking out much easier.

She was slowly making her way back to Gryffindor tower when she heard the shrieking laughter echo in the halls. Bellatrix. Ice cold fear trickled down her spine and rooted Hermione to the spot. Then she heard the shouting. Harry’s shouting. Hermione turned swiftly on her heel and took off after the source. The shrieking and shouts echoed off the stone walls but her vulpine hearing urged her towards the Great Hall and out the front doors.

There they were. 

Harry giving chase, screaming at them. 

Bellatrix and Greyback laughing maniacally. 

Snape hastily pulling him along. 

Draco.

Her chest seized as she realised he was being taken away. She knew it had been inevitable. They hadn’t talked about it but she knew. She knew he would have to leave. But this felt too sudden.

They had just…they had just…

Tears sprang to her eyes as she chased after them. Harry was too far gone to notice her but she still gave him a wide berth and followed the others to the edge of the bridge. She called his name twice but either he couldn’t hear her or ignored her. 

She fell to her knees, feeling defeated as she watched them at the other side. She knew this wasn’t his choice. It couldn’t be. All their time spent together. All those secret moments. Was it all a ruse?

“Draco,” she sobbed and screamed his name once more as they reached the outside of the barrier and Disapparated. Her heart broke as she watched, never knowing if she would see him again. 

Hermione visibly shook herself out of the memory, sealing it back behind glass walls with the rest while she scrubbed her skin raw with the complimentary soap. It was never a good idea to look back too much at the old memories. They hurt like hell and caused her to rethink everything she had done. Everything she had given up to be this much closer to finishing what that psychopath started.

She swallowed hard as she felt fresh tears burn behind her eyes. She would later try to blame it on the soap. But Greyback had started it. Started this whole mess simply because he could. Simply because he wanted her, Harry Potter’s mudblood. Maybe if it hadn’t happened, maybe that second chance with Malfoy would have turned out differently. She certainly wouldn’t have been kept away from her friends, the only family she had left now. And maybe promises would have been made and maybe those promises would have come true when it was all over.

But she would never know.

Because the white chess piece had made his first move. And it had been a devastating blow.

July 1997

She was practically catatonic sitting up in the bed, leaning against the propped pillow. Bandages wrapped tightly around her right leg but it was already numb from all the potions and salves. Her sides ached from the ribs being magically mended and her fingers twitched as feeling returned to them after her shoulder was healed. Remus was there, sitting in the chair next to the bed, talking softly. But she barely heard him. Something about searching and nothing found. 

But she didn’t care. 

They were gone. 

They were dead.

Her parents.

Slaughtered before her eyes.

They had been enjoying a simple family dinner, laughing, and chatting away. Hermione had been debating on convincing her parents to move to Australia, far away from the fray. She didn’t know if they would go willingly or if she would need to use magic to convince them. Either way, she felt the beginnings of her heartache at the thought of possibly never seeing them again.

Helen Granger was in the midst of serving dessert when they heard the howls. The sound sent an icy chill down Hermione’s spine as the three of them looked at each other, eyes wide in shock and terror. Before any of them could react any further, the front door was blasted open. A large werewolf stomped into the small home, bloodshot yellow eyes darting all around before settling on the family who was frozen in terror. Hermione couldn’t move, feeling as though she’d been petrified .

A werewolf was here. 

In her home. 

And not just any werewolf but Greyback.

She knew it was him because of the tattooed Dark Mark on his chest. Hermione felt her chest constrict in fear, not just for herself but also her parents. She had magic on her side; they had nothing except her.

Greyback stared with narrowed eyes and what could only be described as a wolfy grin as he sized up his prey. Hermione was thankfully on the other side of the table and able to slowly move her hand towards her wand that was in her back pocket. Her chest heaved with quickened breaths as the standoff continued.

Was he biding his time? Was he playing a game?

She would never get her answer. Before she could blink, he had lunged.

Hermione was knocked backwards, her head slamming into the ground hard, causing her vision to go black for a moment. Blood curdling screams filled her ears as her vision came back quickly. She shook her head to clear the last hazy details and vomited at the scene before her.

Blood splattered walls, broken table, overturned chairs, broken dishes scattered around the floor. She felt the colour draining from her face and a lump filled her throat as her gaze landed on the ground next to her.

In those few precious seconds, Greyback had ripped her father apart. Next to her lay the upper half of his body, neck broken at an odd angle, and deep slashes across his face. He was almost unrecognisable. She could feel the bile rising in her throat again until she heard the sounds coming from across the room. 

Hermione snapped her head to the side and her eyes widened, tears spilling from her eyes. A scream ripped from her mouth as her gaze met those unnerving yellow eyes as a blood-soaked mouth rose out of her mother’s chest. 

That wolfy grin was back as he lunged across the room. Hermione had half a second to grasp her wand that lay next to her and bellow Avada Kedavra. She watched helplessly as the spell bounced off the werewolf, only stopping him for a moment. She scrambled off the ground and sprinted towards the kitchen, grabbing a knife from the butcher block before being tackled to the ground. Twisting around, she thrust the knife upwards and twisted as it stabbed into the werewolf’s shoulder. 

A howl echoed around her, she felt herself start to shift to her Animagus form out of terror, survival instincts fully taking over.  Before she could finish the change, a searing pain shot up from her leg and across her stomach. Hermione saw flashes of red and felt those jaws release her mangled leg. 

Her vision went black again. 

—

She couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw those bloodshot, haunting yellow eyes. The grotesque grin. The howls.

She realised Remus had stopped talking and was looking at her.

Oh, he had asked her a question. 

She turned her head to look at him, and she could see the grief on his face. What should’ve shown on her own but she felt…nothing. Why did she feel nothing? Shouldn’t she feel something? She lost her only family just days ago. 

“Hermione. I know this is a lot to take in. But we need to prepare as early as possible for this next moon since we don’t know- “

“I’m going to turn. I can feel it already,” she whispered, “Is that…is that normal?”

She had felt the trembling in her bones since it had happened. Her skin shivering with anticipation, tensing for a change. She hadn’t dared to try shifting to her fox while healing. She’d been told it took a day before the lower half of her body had switched back to human after the attack. Trauma had taken over her body.

Hermione wasn’t sure that werewolves were supposed to know the Other was there before their first moon. 

“You can feel it?” Remus raised his brows, concern etched on his face, “Like another entity?”

Hermione shook her head, her throat still horse from the screaming and now staying silent, “No. it’s like…it’s like when I shift. It’s a bristling feeling though. The fox isn’t another entity…and this feels the same?”

Remus couldn’t hide his concern as he studied her face. He excused himself briefly and walked out of the room before returning a few moments later with McGonagall. He ushered Hermione to repeat what she’d said. McGonagall worried her lower lip. 

“I see. Miss Granger—you said you shifted after being bitten, correct?”

She nodded slowly, “I…I tried to kill him…I even used an Avada but…it-it didn’t work. I was mid-shift when he…he…”

The words caught in her throat and she choked back a sob.

McGonagall sniffled slightly and spoke softly, placing a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “You didn’t have the intent, my dear. Even given the circumstances. And there is no shame in that.”

“I have a theory,” Remus murmured softly, “there’s been very, very few Animagi that have been bitten by were-beings. And from what I understand, done only in human form. I wonder if because you were mid-shift, the virus mixed with the magic of your Animagus form.”

“Is that even a possibility?” McGonagall’s eyes were wide as her eyes flicked between the other two. 

Remus shrugged, “I’m honestly not sure. Hermione might be the first of her kind. Considering her extraordinary control of her magic, it’s extremely possible that the virus mixed with her magic and she could shift at will into…well…”

They were all silent for a few minutes, taking in the implications of the theory. 

“We’ll be able to know for certain after this full moon. If you’re feeling up to it. We’ll also need to conduct some tests, some exercises. To determine what the extent of this is.”

Hermione nodded. McGonagall tried to chastise Remus for turning her trauma into an academic study. But Hermione appreciated that Remus was attempting to help her compartmentalise the trauma. 

Tests. Studying. She could do that. She could figure out what this meant. She could put everything to the side and focus on the academics of the situation. It was the only way she was going to survive the trauma. 

March 2006

Hermione towelled off, letting her hair air dry before she would later plait it. She slipped into some soft pyjamas as the memories from that night replayed in her head. She felt her breath quicken with the feelings of that night returning in full force. Fury. Terror. Disbelief. 

Almost nine years since her parents had been murdered. Nine years of feeling like a failure for not bringing the man responsible to justice. Nine years of sharpening every skill she could possess to bring her that much closer to her vengeance. 

Nine years feeling wasted as well. 

Hermione reached into her extendable bag and pulled out one of her journals and a pen. She sat on the bed, propped up on a pillow as she set to writing everything she could remember from the last few nights of tracking the wolves. Even though she planned to offer up her memories if needed, she knew that these journals would be necessary in the event of her premature death. 

She glanced at the ring on her right hand again. She ignored it, focusing on her entries before finding her gaze drifting back to it again. 

Why?

Why was she now becoming fixated on it? This wouldn’t do any good, she reasoned with herself. She needed to ignore the urge to tap against the ring, she reminded herself. 

Don’t do it, Hermione…you can’t do it…

After an hour of journaling, Hermione finally put the pen down and relaxed against the pillows. She debated on what her next move should be. She knew she needed to rest and recover from this past moon but she also needed to scout around and track down the wolves again. 

This felt like a terrible waltz repeating itself every month. 

Every month she tracked the wolves. Every month she would watch them from afar while keeping an eye out for any potential victims. She always hoped to catch them before the next one but she was always just too late, too slow.

Just like that night for her parents…

Hermione shuddered and closed that thought shut in a small box before locking it away in the shelves of her mind. 

Occluding, she decided. 

Occluding would be her focus for tonight. She was already more advanced than she should be, having spent the last nine years honing and perfecting every skill she could manage. Even with her advancement, Hermione would always admit that she could do with the practice. It showed when her walls had weakened because she had physically weakened. She couldn’t afford for that to happen again. Maybe that was her problem: nothing ever felt good enough. 

It certainly never helped that with being muggleborn she always felt out of place. Never fitting in with the muggles and never with the wizards either. Always just out of reach with fully belonging.