Hunter and Prey

A forest somewhere in northern England on a fine spring day...

The tranquiliser gun was an object of much dispute in her Department. Hermione Granger, formerly Weasley, loaded her weapon untroubled by the controversy. She was a muggle-born and proud of it. The teasing of her years at Hogwarts had crystallised the belief within her that a hybrid approach was best. Of course, some hybrids just plain needed leashing, she thought as she sighted down her scope.

Hermione had joined Kingsley Shacklebolt’s newly created Department of Scientific Magical Studies because of a blonde Quidditch fan. It was a long story and the ex-Mrs Weasley used it to calm her mind as she watched her quarry from her camouflaged hide. Thinking about how dangerous this was just made it worse so she thought about coincidences and the fickleness of fate.

Her husband had been unfaithful. It wasn’t the first time. Ron had a weakness for admiration. She had forgiven him the brunette after the Championship qualifier because he had been drunk and she hadn’t been there. He swore it was an accident, he loved only her and it would never happen again. A little voice in her head had replied ‘it won’t happen again because I’ll cut your balls off’ but she hadn’t gelded him.

In the balance of things, Hermione slightly regretted that. Ron had not learned his lesson, defaulting to his school boy habit of being too pleased at having got away with something. He had also forgotten she wasn’t stupid. It was an odd thing for him to forget considering how her brains had saved the Golden Trios’ hides several times but there it was. One had to be philosophical about such things. Hermione pulled the trigger and her rifle gave a little cough.

The dart struck her quarry on the haunch. Almost immediately his leg went numb. She watched through the scope, mentally taking notes. This was the second field test of serum 42 and it was proving very promising. It was one of a new batch of techno-thaumaturgical pharmaceuticals developed by the amusingly initialled SMS Department. Hermione was pleased with the progress they were making.

The trick was to sufficiently immobilise the target without 1) death; 2) murderous rage, which was likely to result in option #1 or; 3) wearing off before the target could be properly restrained. Hermione had a long scar down her left thigh as a result of serum 27 doing #3 and provoking #2. That field test had been rather too full of excitement but it had yielded two useful results. The first was they isolated the reactive compound in the serum and secondly she got her rifle.

Previously they had to use blowguns, which aside from prompting a lot of off-colour jokes, had not been particularly efficient. They had tried magical means of targeting and launching but the serums were, in less than scientific terms, tetchy. The intricate binding enchantments that held the chemical compounds together degraded quickly if exposed to incautious wandwork. Hence the camouflaged hide and the distressingly pungent ointment that Neville Longbottom assured her would keep her scent from being detected by her quarry.

After the Minister for Magic had appointed her Lead Researcher, Hermione had immediately gone to Neville. Herbology was seen as a soft subject next to Potions and DADA but she had wanted to decrease her Department’s reliance on minor magic so they could focus on the cutting edge. Hermione smiled as she recalled Neville’s reaction. He had dragged her into his workshop and talked non-stop for three hours about what he could do if given the proper support.

Two muggle-born wizards who had fled England during Voldemort’s purges had been coaxed back with the promise their work would redress the balance. Neville had his lab assistants, which got Hermione and her colleagues their alchemical tricks. It was simply unfortunate that the scent-masker smelled of things normally found in rotting quietly in the bottom of ditches.

A stink rather like it had wafted from Ron’s lie about the blonde. Shortly before their third wedding anniversary she had come home early from work to see a young woman leaving their terrace house. After the brunette she had been suspicious, Hermione freely admitted to herself, but she had tried to give Ron the benefit of the doubt. He’d been in the shower when she had reached their bedroom. There had been a pair of knickers, in Cannons’ orange, left amongst the dishevelled bed sheets.

Her dear husband had emerged looking pleased with himself to tell her with the fluency of the desperate that the undergarment in question was a gift for her. That had gone down like a lead balloon as her mother would say. She had hexed him out the front door, still in his towel, warding the house against him. Ron had eventually walked to Harry’s to explain the situation and beg for the loan of some trousers only to discover Hermione had used the cunning invention of the telephone to inform their friend and his sister what had happened.

At rather more volume than she had intended, Hermione reflected ruefully. She had cried for a couple of days because she had wanted the romantic dream of living happily ever after with her school sweetheart. But eventually she had pulled herself together and gone into London to start divorce proceedings. Kingsley had noticed her trudging along a Ministry hallway as he left a meeting. They had got to chatting.

A new and challenging job was just the thing for a fresh start. Hermione had accepted the position with alacrity. She approached her still twitching quarry with more caution. Unlike some of the adventurous youngsters in her department, Ms Granger had no gung-ho desire for more scars. As she neared, she noted that the creature she’d shot was subject J12, designated Scruffy by the Northumbrian team. Weaning purebloods onto scientific methodology was an ongoing process. Shouldering her rifle, Hermione surveyed Scruffy for injuries. He was underfed and had an infected wound on his shoulder, possibly the bite that had turned him.

“If you lie still, it will be over quicker.” She remarked to the growling werewolf.