Hunter and Prey

Hermione woke from her nightmare abruptly, heart pounding from adrenalin. Disjointed flashes of memory scudded through her head. Rousing in a barn with her hands tied as Fenrir mounted her in wolf form. The alien wrong feeling of a canine phallus and the horrendous violation of being stuck to him, plugged full as he ejaculated over and over. Crying out around a gag as someone laughed...

That wasn’t right.

Hermione lay still. The room was dark. It had an antiseptic smell like a hospital. She let a long, slow breath out then took a long, slow breath in. It was all over. She was in St Mungo’s recovering. Someone had found her. Closing her eyes, she tried to relax. Everything was alright.

Wasn’t it?

Doubt trickled in. Straining her ears, she couldn’t hear any of the quiet sounds of a ward. No nurses doing their rounds, no patients grumbling or visitors talking in low voices. There were none of the little noises of bustle happening outside her room that should have been there. And why would St Mungo’s smell of antiseptic? Cleansing charms left a faint scent of the caster’s choice. Lavender was very popular. Chemical disinfectant was not.

She could be in a Muggle hospital. But again, there should be noise. And why was her room so dark? Hermione sat up cautiously. The blanket fell away. No sheets. She was naked too. And sore. Holding her composure tightly, she reached out her hands. On her left, she touched a wall. It was cold and smooth. Tiled. Was she in another bloody bathroom?

Investigating with her hands, Hermione determined she was lying on a camp cot. Swivelling around to put her legs over the side her feet touched an icy floor. More tiles. Well, they were easy to clean. A kitchen? A morgue? An abattoir? It had to be something mundane because of the antiseptic. She sniffed. It was an old smell, ingrained into the grout.

Hermione sat there staring into the darkness remembering. When she had first woken in the barn she had not been gagged. Bound, yes, but not gagged. And Fenrir had not been in wolf form. She crossed her wrists together echoing their position in the dream and a little more of the memory solidified. Her hands had been tied together. Tied with rope, not the rags of her clothes like the first time.

Sitting very still, she thought hard. More recollections surfaced though they made little sense. Cold wind against her skin with her legs swinging free. Lying awake but unable to see, listening to voices she could only half hear. Fenrir between her legs with her on her knees and on her stomach and on her back and bent over a chair. The chair had a leather seat. She was sweating and her skin stuck to the leather.

She shivered. Hermione smoothed her hands down her arms. She couldn’t feel any damage though she could do with a depilatory charm. That spell lasted a month to six weeks depending on her hormonal cycle. Her forearms were quite furry. For a horrible, terrifying moment she wondered if the werewolf had bitten her. Frantic, she ran her hands over herself searching for a bite mark. Werewolf wounds scarred badly. You only had to look at Bill Weasley to see that.

No scars. Hermione found she could breathe again and let out a long sigh. The relief was palpable. Upon further level-headed investigation, she decided such growths of hair as she had upon her person were entirely normal for an adult female human and if she was going to panic she should do so over something significant. Such as the fact time had passed.

It was surprisingly difficult for her to tell how long. Chunks of her memory were just not there as though she had been sleeping for days at a time. More likely she had been Stupefied. Repeated use of that curse caused disorientation and minor amnesia. Nothing as distinctively delineated as an Oblivate where the recollection was excised away, but rather an absence of mind. Hermione noticed her feet were aching with the chill from the floor and drew herself into a tight little ball.

Her stomach was bigger. She stretched out again in almost a convulsive movement. Hermione shook herself mentally. Be rational. She lay there for a long time before she could bring herself to survey her belly. Her quick scar investigation had not brought anything to her attention. There wasn’t anything blatant, not yet. But she carried her excess weight on her hips not her abdomen so the slight roundness was either from a large dinner or the early stages of pregnancy.

Hermione just lay there staring at the darkness. Pregnant. Beginning to show, which was the big red flag issue. Depending on the woman, you had a bump by about twenty weeks. She had read that and queried her mother only to be informed she had shown earlier because she was short. Hermione added that to her equations. Not tall equalled earlier bulging. Twenty weeks for a single embryo.

The word ‘litter’ kept percolating to the top of her mind. Although the Weasleys’ fecundity was more likely due to Molly than Arthur, Hermione had done a little research on twins in case she and Ron were similarly blessed. She had not wanted to inflict another Fred and George on the world. The more babies, the earlier pregnancy was obvious; almost in quadratic progression.

So. Her thought stopped there. So. Again rational thought just fell over. She was lying in the dark pregnant. That thought didn’t help a great deal. Hermione pulled the blanket up, curled into the fetal position and cried.