Hunter and Prey

Square flagstones, check. Hermione could not call herself surprised to find she was in the prison cell again but she had not been certain. Some of her erotic dreams had been the product of hormones. Perhaps even most of them. The subconscious was a tricky thing. But whatever lingering connection between her and Fenrir Greyback, it was real enough to leave marks.

She did not want to do this. She did not want to be here. The dream ward kept her aware this was all in her head. It gave her a measure of control. It did not make this easy. Hermione looked around her. The room was about five metres square and definitely stone. There was a narrow window set high near the rafters. It was dark but she could see. She knew this place.

Hermione touched the ropes biding her. The knots did not shift. She concentrated, for the first time regretting she had dropped Divination. Dreamwalking was part of the advanced syllabus. How Trelawney would cackle if she ever found out. The ropes slowly unwound themselves. She got up and lifted the edge of the mattress.

There was a blur there. When she had been in the cell physically she had not moved her bedding. Hermione could imagine the ritual circle’s presence but not its actual pattern. That would have to wait for the real world. She replaced the mattress and walked to the door.

It was popped open at a touch, giving her sight to the barn beyond. There were locks on the door set at human and wolf height. She remembered the grating noise they made when Greyback opened them with his paws. He had guarded her here until Aurors came close enough to spook him. Then to Morgan’s Cottage, then back here then to Scotland, she thought.

The barn itself was not large. Hermione could see a great deal of detail about this place. The stunning curses they had used against her had clouded her recollection. Dreaming, everything was clear. It still wasn’t much. The roof joists were old, seasoned oak she guessed. She walked to the double doors to her left.

The lower halves were more distinct, suggesting she had seen them most often from a lower perspective. On her knees. Hermione felt her anger surge up like a physical force. She strode to the doors and stepped through.

Into a dim tiled room. She looked around her. The distillery or whatever it was. Hermione tried the heavy metal door but it did not budge. She had never seen it open. The tunnel was there. She slid through it much more easily mentally than she had done physically. The courtyard. It faded to either side of her so she must have been unconscious when they brought her there. Climbing the wall to perch atop it she had a lovely view of moorland.

There were no convenient signposts or church steeples. Hermione willed herself down and walked around the wall. And around and around. Her mind filled in the texture of the brickwork because she knew there was a wall there but no gate. She had not seen the front entrance. Had she been hooded for a broomstick flight? Maybe.

Damn maybe. Hermione concentrated, pushing herself back to the barn. This was the place that would give her clues. She just had to remember them. Standing in the middle of the room, she glanced down. Those flagstones were etched sharp in her memory.

“Ryan always watched.” Fenrir’s voice was sharp too. Hermione had not realised she recalled the sound so distinctly. He was hardly a conversationalist. She turned around or rather the barn moved until she was looking at what she wished to view. The werewolf was there, in his human form sporting an impressive erection. Why in Hell’s name was she imagining him with a hard-on? That was the last thing she wanted to see again.

“He wasn’t there the first time.” Hermione objected, feeling like she was arguing with herself. Fenrir made a face. With his sharp canines and heavy brows he could make a very good face or a very bad one depending on your viewpoint.

“He came to the barn soon after I took you.” He snarled. “Weak. Spying. Checking up on me. Looking at you.” Fenrir growled. “I enjoyed killing him. I should have taken my time. But you took his wand.” He glared at her, stalking closer. Hermione did not move. She was in control here.

She punched him in the face and felt his nose crack. It was quite satisfying. Her memory of him healed. Hermione punched him again. She lashed out with all her rage. He stood there taking it until his shoulders were splattered with blood and she was dizzy.

“You look wrong, bitch.” He put a hand on her stomach. Hermione had pictured herself with a flat belly. She stared horrified as she swelled under his touch. Fenrir laughed. “That’s what I like to see.” He tickled a finger over her bump, caressing the contour of one of his cubs’ head. “Who did you let bed you? Is it Malfoy’s whelp?”

“This is my dream!” Hermione focussed but try as hard as she could, she could not reassert the image of herself not pregnant. She shook her head and willed herself to calm. This was all in her head and she was the mistress of her thoughts.

“Our dream.” Fenrir bared his teeth. He backhanded her hard enough to knock her onto one knee. He kicked her leg out from under her and laughed at her as he sent her sprawling. “The wizard said I could have you whenever I wanted you. He made this place for us so you could never run from me. You are my bitch!”

“Not tonight, Josephine.” Hermione hissed and dragged herself out of the dream.