Instincts

The Wesley Wedding

"The Ministery has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."

Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice seemed to echo through the stunned hush that fell over the tent. There was an instant of dead silence before panic spread through the crowd like a wave.

Death Eaters! Hermione sprang into action, frantically searching for her friends as the sounds of apparation and alarm assaulted her ears. Somehow, through the sea of color, she caught sight of Harry's Weasley disguise and immediately hurried toward him. Where on earth is Ron? He had just been there! Without giving herself time for more thought, Hermione grabbed Harry's arm and apparated.

They reappeared in a small clearing, surrounded by thick woods.

"Hermione! Where's Ron?" Harry's voice shook as he looked to her for answers.

"I don't know, Harry!" she replied shrilly, not bothering to even try to hide her concern, "I had to get you out; you have a job that only you can do."

"I'd be dead without you and Ron," Harry argued.

Hermione gave a quick nod. "We don't have time for this," she said quickly. "You need to stay alive, Harry." She reached into her beaded pouch and pulled out several objects. "Here, set up camp. I'm going to go look for Ron." She apparated away before Harry could protest, leaving the wizard alone in the clearing.

The tent was burning, spreading fire to nearby plants. Debris littered the ground and screams filled the air. Hermione tried not to look at the bodies on the ground as soon as she determined none of them were Ron's. Ducking to avoid inhaling smoke, the witch scrambled out of the burning structure. She ran as soon as she could; searching frantically for any sign of her friend.

"Ron!" she screamed, her ears straining to hear over the sounds of battle. She deftly countered a stray spell that came too close for comfort. She had to find him! She raced toward the Burrow, hoping he had run to somewhere familiar. She desperately glanced at every dark shape on the ground, praying they were no one that she knew.

The scent of fear permeated the air. It was a welcome smell; familiar and exciting. Terror blew around the muggle-lover's home as much as the smoke from the Death Eaters' fires. Fear made the chase even more exhilarating, even when the moon was not out to play.

Wand in hand, Fenrir Greyback charged into the panicked crowd alongside the Death Eaters. Their prey was apparating away quickly, but there were still many remaining. Some had been killed by the initial spells that had been fired into the pandemonium, but some were rousing from their stunned states. Those who either could not escape magically or were engulfed in panic were trying to flee on foot. A cruel grin appeared on his face as he caught wind of life in the large tent.

Some foolishly brave witch threatened him, brandishing her wand. A mistake; waiting for him to respond. He silently disarmed her and let loose and excited snarl. The terrified woman turned to run, but the werewolf was quicker. He grabbed her arm, wrenching the witch toward him. She cried out in pain; he suspected he had broken something. She shook in his hold, reeking with the sweet scent of fear. He took the time to revel in the smell before tearing into the witch's neck with his strong teeth. The witch screamed, trying to struggle out of his iron grasp. As he moved in once again, this time to kill, a breeze blew past his nose, carrying a new scent.

Greyback froze; this fragrance was something he had never smelled before, but he knew what it meant. It was her. The high from the terror that swirled through the air paled in comparison to the elation this scent brought him. Every other scent was gone; turned into insignificant, useless odors. There was nothing like it anywhere else, it belonged to only one woman, and he would find her.