Instincts

In Moorning

Hermione ran across the heather covered moors; not once pausing to admire their solemn beauty. The vibrant pinks and purples of the marsh flora brushed against her legs, leaving wet leaves and debris across her jeans. She did not see the quiet grace in the rustling of the marsh grass and bracken as they left the denim on her legs soaking with morning dew. She only saw that the troublesome dew was making her unfortunate situation even more uncomfortable. Still, she ran on. The ground beneath her flying feet was uneven and so covered in flora that she often did not see holes and dips until she had stumbled through them. She did not care how often she fell; she refused to slow her pace despite her rapidly disintegrating footing. She might have been surprised she had not managed to break an ankle in one of the hidden trenches she had fallen into, but she was so preoccupied with the events that had occurred and consequently running as far away as she could, that she did not give her ankle another thought.

The moors flew past Hermione, but never seemed to change. The same terrain stretched out around her for miles; no matter how far she ran, she did not seem to make any progress. The only consolation she had was that she could no longer see the large castle behind her. She struggled against the prevalent thought that she would never escape the werewolf. She could not let him take her back; she had begun to give in to him, and there was little left of her will to fight him anymore. Those thoughts spurned her on, even as her muscles shook with every motion. She did not stop running until she was too weak to carry on; and even then, she forced her legs to carry her further. Simply standing caused her entire body to shake with effort; her exhausted muscles trembled with each step she took. Still, she walked on until the sun began to set.

As darkness crept over the moors, Hermione finally allowed her wearied body to rest. She collapsed on the soft, moss-covered ground and very quickly found sleep. It was not to last, however. Sleep may have come easily, but keeping it was like trying to hold water with her hands. As soon as she had it in her grasp, it slipped away once more. The night was quiet; peaceful, even; and it was not cold, or wet; there had been worse nights when she had been out with Harry and Ron. This time, however, her surroundings did not seem to make an impact on how she fared in the world of dreams. Her nightmares had returned, and they were worse than they had ever been. Every dream, no matter how it began, ended in screams and tears. Hermione awoke often in a panic; glancing around frantically for a familiar sight and dissolving into tears when there was no comfort to be found. There was no warmth and no safety here. Hermione mourned the loss of Fenrir's warmth; however unwanted it had been before. She was not going to go back, but she allowed herself to miss the peaceful sleep his presence brought her. She mourned the loss of her friends' presences, they would at least feel sympathy for her fears; the moors were far less understanding. It was dry that night, but the same could not be said of the following morning.

Hermione awoke with a start; she had finally caught some restful sleep as the sun was coming up over the horizon. As quickly as the world lightened, it was darkened again by thick grey clouds; it was going to rain. The witch forced herself to move her stiff muscles, willing herself to stand. Her body ached, making every movement a struggle. She forced down some impending tears and made her legs obey her. The tired limbs protested with every step, crying out for more rest, but she was determined to get as far away from Fenrir as possible; something that was turning out to be more difficult than she had wanted. She was hungry; she had not eaten since the night before. Why could she not have waited to leave until she had some time to gather some sort of food? When had she become so hot-headed? It had to be the werewolf; he seemed to set her temper off like no one else could, but, though she hated to admit it, Fenrir did not get on her nerves the way that Ron seemed to on a consistent basis. Her anger with Fenrir was different somehow.

Hermione was afraid of Fenrir, or the thought of him. The way her body seemed to gravitate toward him without thought frightened her. She had been drawn in so quickly; she had let him kiss her and had entertained the idea that she could forget it all and somehow stay with the werewolf. She felt like she had betrayed them all: Harry, Ginny, Ron, the Order; everyone. There was no destiny other than the one she chose; there was no forgetting; not until the war was over; or she was dead. Somehow, she did not think Fenrir would allow the latter option. He was certainly attached to her; which was enough by itself to cause Hermione alarm; but he also seemed to want to treat her well. He had not kept her a prisoner, in the strictest sense; he had been almost accommodating; nearly familial. That frightened her more than anything else; the thought that he could be home pervaded her mind, refusing to dislodge itself. She had been so close to giving in to his deluded fantasy that she was somehow meant for him. That was all it was; nothing more than an illusion; a farce; no more than a warped perception of reality thought up by an equally twisted man. The further away she ran, the more she tried to convince herself that he had enchanted her; that she had somehow been tricked into thinking the way she had. He was not familiar; he was not home; thinking that was crazy. Hermione was certainly not crazy, so there had to be some other explanation.

He could be home; I just have to let go. A frustratingly rebellious thought fought through the fog in her mind. No matter how she struggled to tell herself otherwise, she always came back to the same set of thoughts. She wanted it to have been a trick; she did not want to want Fenrir. If it they were not really her feelings, then it was not real at all, and she could put to rest all of her conflicted sentiments.

The clouds overhead began to drizzle, and very shortly turned from a soft mist to a roaring pour. Hermione continued to fight with her own thoughts as she struggled on through the freezing rain. She shivered, and some form of logic told her to turn around; she could become hypothermic in this weather; but there was more of her that refused to even entertain the idea of going back. She would not even turn to look in the direction she had come from. He would know she was thinking about him; his body heat chasing away her nightmares, and his lips gently pressed against her neck. She absently brought her hand up to the crook of her neck, biting back the urge to scream at the unfairness of the entire situation; she wanted to cry, to collapse on the soaked heather until...a dozen different thoughts flashed through her head; the foremost being Fenrir finding her out in the rain; in another, she merely disappeared. She could not dwell on either thought for long; she was not going to let herself waste away and die out in the moors, there had to be civilization somewhere nearby.

It was after midday when Hermione sat down to rest. The rain had ceased, if only momentarily, leaving everything as soaked as the witch was. She managed to find a rock in the midst of the drenched heather that was only mildly damp and took a seat. Her feet pounded and her body shook from the strain of her flight. Her hands trembled as she ran her fingers through her damp hair. Hunger gnawed at her belly and she was beginning to feel light-headed.

Come on, Hermione; two days without food, that's nothing. You'll be fine. She did not believe her own thoughts as she sat on the cold stone, shivering and hungry. I can't stop now. I have to find someone. She made to stand once more, her exhausted legs trembling with the effort of holding her frame aloft.

One step at a time. Right. Left. Right again. How long have I been out here? Hermione's muscles ached and she strained her mind for every clear thought. The sky darkened as she trudged on, stumbling and tripping over the uneven ground.

Two days. Hermione mused as she stared into the increasingly blackening sky. Night...dreams came at night; horrible, terrifying dreams. She could not sleep; she had to find somewhere dry, someone with a fire, anything but the moors. She counted her steps, her sight fading with the sun. She tried to focus on moving forward; she could not stop. Surely she was closing in on a road, or an inn; there had to be something out here, the moors were not so large. And there was Fenrir...Hermione did not think he would let her go so easily; he would not let her die; a thought that scared her just as much as it brought her a strange sense of comfort.

Hermione's thoughts trickled away from her as the night deepened; she had not taken note of when the rain had stopped. The night was dark and she could not see the heather underfoot; she was not certain she would be able to discern what was heather and what was rock even if she could see the ground. She was so weary. Suddenly, she stumbled, her body flying forward onto the wet ground. She fell, rolling down an embankment, becoming more soaked than she had been already. She did not land in a marsh, as her addled brain expected, but onto something harsh and pointed. She fought to sort through what had happened, grasping the rough material beneath her fingers. Small, sharp rocks poked her digits as she tried to process what it meant. Before she could reach into her mind and realize the significance of the gravel beneath her she slipped into blackness.