Hunter and Prey

Predictably, the werewolf had struggled. They always did. But serum 42 packed enough punch to floor an elephant. Hermione knew that for a fact after they’d tested it at London Zoo. One of the base components had been a standard animal tranquiliser and she had been interested to see how much the magical modifications had changed it from the base stock. All of the fourth series worked very well on mundane animals though one of the zookeepers had been left woozy after inhaling some of the vapour.

Hermione locked the shackles and muzzle around her quarry then called her support team. They were about a mile off, ready to rescue her should things go pear-shaped. Ideally, there would be a team in the hide but hunting werewolves took a lot of cunning. They spooked easily and having a lot of people trampling around warned them off. Scotia Team had tried tracking from the air but they’d had mixed results as well as costing the SMS a broomstick after one of them flew into a tree.

Recklessness was a weakness in the Department. Young witches and wizards thought themselves impervious to harm. After Cattermole had been hospitalised and Yates killed, Hermione had read everyone the riot act. They would behave in a professional, scientific and sensible manner or they would be filing requisition forms for the term of their working life. That had curtailed the worst of the risk taking but also reinforced her reputation as a harsh taskmistress. She didn’t mind. Hermione had gone to too many funerals already to wish to repeat the experience.

Her support team, wearing hunter’s vests and carrying identification from the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, arrived in a dark green Landrover. They looked like perfectly ordinary people. Their wands like Hermione’s were concealed up their sleeves. Blending in with the local Muggle population was important so much so they actually did work for DEFRA albeit as conservation volunteers.

“Scruffy looks like he could do with a good feed.” Patrick Ryan jokingly observed as he and Euphemia Lynch wrapped the werewolf in a blanket before carrying him to the back of the Landrover. He was a recent Hogwarts graduate therefore thrilled to be this close to one of the most dangerous creatures the SMS studied. Patrick’s jest earned him cold looks from the veterans of the team. They did not consider the dietary habits of lycanthropes a laughing matter.

“We’ve got an unconfirmed report from that sheep-farmer near Haltbrooke again.” Basingly, whose first name was a closely guarded secret, handed Hermione a scroll. She had tried hard to introduce laptops but only a very few people in the Department were willing to brave such terrifying devices. Considering there had to be a Use of the Telephone seminar organised before everyone could work one, she wasn’t surprised. One day, Hermione told herself as she read the neat quill-script, she’d get everyone on PDAs.

And one day, she would have the luxury of belabouring Ralph Hutchins, the most annoying man in the north of England, with one of his own sheep. Bad luck for the sheep but nothing else would divert the bore. He gave Muggles a bad name with his longwinded sermons on Why Everything Was Better in My Day and Young People Nowadays Have No Respect. Hermione once had made the mistake of pointing out she was closer to thirty than twenty and had suffered a lecture on Women Who Should Be At Home With Their Children Not Running About the Countryside Talking Back to Their Elders.

“It might be something this time.” Hermione noted the loss of a prize ram, killed in a more gruesome manner than usually attributable to a fox or wolf. Ralph Hutchins had called their contact at DEFRA several times, usually just to complain about subsidies, but over the last few weeks he’d sworn something big was killing his sheep. He called it a Gytrash, a black dog of folklore. Opinion amongst the team was divided on whether it was just a dog.

“We’ve had no other reports.” Basingly pointed out, not anxious to deal with that farmer. “But his farm is isolated so it is possible a packless or newly turned werewolf could be responsible.” He was a diligent researcher as well as a skilled wizard but he directed a beseeching look at Hermione. She tucked the scroll into a thigh pocket in her fatigues and took pity on him.

“I’ll talk to Hutchins.” It would be an ordeal but for the good of the project, she’d do it. They were closer than anyone had ever been to finding a cure for lycanthropy. They just needed more test subjects. If putting up with an opinionated, chauvinist prick was the price for that breakthrough then Hermione would willingly pay it.

The team piled into the Landrover, Basingly and Hermione in the front, Ryan and Lynch in the back with Scruffy. They headed up a side road then with map consultations found the turn off for Haltbrooke. After Voldemorte’s defeat, the werewolf packs had scattered. The Scientific Magical Studies teams were obliged to check with the Aurors every time they captured a werewolf in case there was an arrest warrant pending. So far, they hadn’t caught any of the big names and Hermione preferred it that way.

Hutchins’s farm was a nice old place in stark contrast with its owner, who came out of his house with a cup of tea and a scowl. Hermione suppressed a groan. This was not going to be quick or painless. It was getting dark too.

“Look, this could take hours. Head back to base and I’ll call you when I need a lift.” She got out and reminded herself she had endured Severus Snape’s vitriol, Deatheaters and Molly Weasley’s ire. Mrs Weasley was a nice woman right up until you hurt one of her children. Hermione remembered idly the pitiful Easter egg she had got during that Skeeter nonsense. In the fights between her and Ron, Molly had sided firmly with her son. Compared to that, one pompous sheep-worrier would be a push over.