Hunter and Prey

Hermione took herself home, called her mother like she promised then fell into bed. Her dreams left her flushed and hot. When she woke in the small hours she had to take matters into her own hands and jerk off because she couldn’t move without moaning. More memories trickling back, she thought later in the shower. Or it could be hormones. Possibly it was a combination of both. She could not recall enough of the dreams to place them and it was quite possible that her body had simply become accustomed to regular use.

On the strength of that, she threw up.

Almost had a routine going, Hermione could just about laugh it off if she didn’t dwell on it. Racy dream, shower, puke, shower, breakfast of terribly exciting porridge, possibly another bout of vomiting and she would be good until morning tea. She got dressed even though she was not going anywhere. After the blanket-wearing experience she wanted to be fully clothed.

Trooping downstairs, she heard the familiar thump of the Daily Prophet and the owl’s quick departure as Crookshanks eyed it. That reminded her of the lawyers’ correspondence. Better get on that. She put the kettle on and sat down to read the paper. By the time the water boiled, she had her wand out and was aparating for the Burrow.

The end of May was particularly kind to the ramshackle old house. The spring flowers were in bloom, everything was green and the sky was the colour of cornflowers. Hermione did not pause to look. She stalked into the kitchen, tossed the Prophet on the counter amongst the dirty breakfast dishes and shouted at an astonished Molly Weasley.

“Where the Hell is he?” Hermione’s demand bounced off the walls. With all their children grown, Molly and Arthur finally had some peace and quiet. At least they had until their former daughter-in-law arrived irate. Arthur put his wand away. It had not been so long since the war and he remembered the first reign of the Deatheaters.

“Ron hasn’t been home for two nights!” Molly took a step back from the sink, ready to defend her son from this virago. Then she saw the front cover of the Daily Prophet. Their paper was always late, the owl did the rounds of the Lovegoods, Diggorys and Fawcetts before coming to them. Mrs Weasley groaned.

There on the cover with flashing headlines was her youngest son, drunk as an ogre with his arm around a woman best described as affordable. More headlines scrolled under the image as Ron bent double to relieve himself of his firewhiskey into a gutter. ‘Quidditch Star Reveals All!!’ and ‘Shock Baby News!’ then lastly most damningly in Hermione’s eyes ‘Ex-Wife’s Affair with Notorious Werewolf’.

“We truly haven’t seen him, Hermione.” Arthur rose from the table to comfort his wife. He met Hermione’s furious gaze without flinching. “Whatever he’s said, its the Prophet that published it. Hexing Ron won’t fix this.”

Hermione didn’t trust herself to answer him so she aparated away. Not to the Daily Prophet’s offices but to her lawyers. Barkin, Todhunter and Meach was an old firm she chose chiefly because it had closed its offices during Voldemort’s purges rather than reveal its muggle-born employees. The door was marked only by a brass plaque and the foyer decorated tastefully in pale yellow and white. The slight badgeriness of their letterhead revealed the partners’ traditional sympathies.

Florentyna Meach rearranged her schedule to see Hermione right away, partly because her client was extremely agitated and partly because it did her firm a lot of good to represent one of the Golden Trio. She had also read the Daily Prophet.

After arranging for legal wrath to descend upon the Prophet, Rita Skeeter and Ron Weasley in equal measure, Hermione went to the Ministry. She had to make an appointment to see Minister Shacklebolt but was assured the urgency of her request would be emphasised. Then she went to her Department to consult with Basingly and the other senior team leaders.

It was Basingly who took her to St Mungo’s after she fainted. One moment Hermione was reorganising rosters and diverting field personnel to Scotland to contain what she feared might be an epidemic of newly bitten werewolves spawned by Fenrir Greyback, the next moment she was on the floor. She protested as she was helped to her feet but Basingly would not listen.

He waited while a Mediwitch checked her, diagnosed over-exertion on an empty stomach, then aparated them both back to Hermione’s house. He made chicken soup and fed Crookshanks while she drank a cup of tea.

“You don’t have to do this, really.” Hermione said, a shade wretchedly. She was exhausted and close to tears again, angry with the world and herself. Basingly brought two bowls to the table, proceeding to watch her eat like a mother hen.

“I feel partially responsible for your condition.” He stirred his soup, not looking at her. “We left you alone at the farm.” Basingly put the spoon down aware he was fidgeting with it. “I promise we scoured the countryside for you. Every cave. Every barn.” He paused then sat back. “You must take better care of yourself.”

The fervour in his voice made her glance up. A tendril of suspicion curled through her mind. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“Well, yes.” Basingly replied reluctantly. “The whole Department is worried. We’re not well liked in some quarters, stepping on toes that sort of thing. Too modern in our approach. We get a lot of funding because of your reputation. We’re seen as serious researchers.” He grimaced. “Everyone has worked so hard but we’re worried if something happens to you we’ll be shuffled off under the purview of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Department and left to quietly gather dust.”

Hermione dropped her head into her hands. One more damn thing she couldn’t fix. After a moment, Basingly patted her on the shoulder.

“You’re on medical leave. Be on leave, please.” He ventured a small smile. “Once you’ve had a rest, you’ll be able to focus much better. Then we can track down that animal and give him a good thrashing.” She looked up, liked what she heard and resumed eating her soup. He grinned. “We’ll find him or my name isn’t Elvis.”