Hunter and Prey

Hermione disdained cutting across country. She headed down the lane as fast as her legs would carry her. Lycanthropes hunted by scent and she doubted Fenrir would nap long. All she needed was her luck to hold until she got to a police station. She didn’t want to bring a slavering werewolf’s wrath down on a village bobby but she had no choice.

She was wheezing by the time she got to an intersection. A sign ‘Morgan’s Cottage’ pointed back the way she came but there was no sign for the road. She had no idea where she was. Hermione scrawled her name on the sign as she paused to catch her breath. Elinor was getting very heavy. Setting down the little girl for a moment, she wrestled with the jerseys. Putting both on then pulling one off seemed the fastest way. She knotted the sleeves, looped it across her shoulders and tucked Elinor into the improvised carrier.

Then she set off again at a jog. Hermione had thought herself fit enough. She had been doing a lot of fieldwork but she had never been much of an athlete and running with a toddler was not light exercise. What she wouldn’t do for a broom. She wasn’t an aficionado of flying but right now she’d take any besom gifted her. And listen to a lecture from Ron about its latest hot features.

She had visited the Lake District with her parents when she was nine and she had been working out of Carlisle for almost a year. Yet her best strategy to get somewhere safe was to alternate turning left and right at intersections, Hermione chided herself. Her fond memories of the Beatrix Potter Gallery were less than useful at the moment.

The first hopeful sign was a gate across the lane. That meant there had to be someone nearby, relatively speaking. Leave a gate as you find it, a long ago tourist guide had advised so as surreal as it was, Hermoine paused to shut the game behind her. She checked the mobile phone while she took deep breaths to ease the white, empty feeling in her lungs. No reception! She swore. This was the bloody twenty-first century. What did she have to do? Make smoke signals?

Then she heard the howl. There was no other sound quite like it. Depending on the weather conditions, a wolf’s howl could be heard from up to ten miles away. Although there were no longer any wolves native to the British Isles, Hermione had read up on them to better understand werewolves. Lycanthropes were instinctual creatures and drew heavily on their animal side. And right now that werewolf was telling everyone within hearing he was royally pissed off.

She ran even though she knew she couldn’t outrun him. There had to be something more than picturesque stands of trees and fields of sheep. Where was the Royal Mail, a phone box or a damn milkman when you needed one?

The lane ended in a T-junction. Hermione turned left only to catch something out of the corner of her eye. Parked on the grass beside the lane was a white van with the distinctive blue and red piper logo of British Telecom. Oh the irony, she smirked grimly as she hurried over. She had to spend a few precious moments getting her breath back before she could shout.

No helpful telecommunications technicians made their appearance. Hermione circled around the van and discovered its bonnet was raised. There was a lot of oil on the ground. She shouted again frantic for assistance but the only answer she got was a wolf’s howl.

Hermione found a rock and smashed the driver’s window. She had no idea how to hotwire an automobile nor the time to learn now. In hasty block letters, she wrote ‘Elinor from Morgan’s Cottage’ on the little girl’s cheek then tucked her and the mobile phone under the dashboard on the passenger’s side. There was a newspaper on the seat, the thick Saturday paper. Shaking it loose she covered her, shut the door quietly and ran.

She shouted a few more times, trying to sound increasingly panicky. It wasn’t difficult. Hermione kept hold of the rock. This was going to get bloody. Another howl far too close. Fenrir was toying with her. Discarding shouting to use her wind for running, she splashed through puddles from the morning rain wanting him to follow her. Chase her, not look at the van. Ignore the van.

A stitch in her side took more of her breath away. Hermione rounded a corner, slid on a drift of wet leaves and went sprawling. She scrabbled for the rock, staggered to her feet and started off again at a fast trot. Blisters from her borrowed shoes were starting to make themselves felt. Her fingers clenched around the rock.

He burst through a hedge ahead of her. There was no mistaking him for a big dog. His namesake grey hackles bristled as he stalked towards her growling. Saliva dripped from his jaws and rage burned in his eyes.

“Hedgerows are Protected, you bastard!” Hermione screamed at him. It was a stupid thing to say but she was beyond caring. Charging him was not terribly bright either but she got her shoulder down like a rugby player only to have him meet her charge. The impact knocked her backwards onto the road. They were nose to nose when she smashed the rock against his head and rolled away.

Fenrir caught her leg, jerking her off her feet. Hermione smacked her chin on the road biting her lip painfully. She spat blood and twisted as he dragged her onto the verge. Kicking him, she threw the rock in his face then grabbed two fistfuls of his fur. He wanted a fight? She’d give him one!

Hermione punched and scratched and seized onto hazel branches while Fenrir dragged her through the hedge, no doubt so he could enjoy his meal uninterrupted by traffic. The fuzzy socks didn’t help but she got a solid heel blow to his muzzle, forcing him to let go of her leg. He snarled and someone behind her spoke.

“Stupefy.”