The girl ran deeper into the forest, her bushy hair flapping and flying like the wings of a hawk across her cheeks and chin. It was a brown mass blending into the red cloak she wore, red for Gryffindor, red for the courage that she hoped would seep into her legs to give them strength to run just a bit faster, a few steps quicker to escape the fate she was sure would snatch her up in powerful jaws and devour her with a single mindedness of gluttony and waste.

The beast, the hunter, the carnivore (oh, there was no other name for him!) came barreling out, hind and forelegs beating tribal music against the ground to inch him closer to her, that red-lined prey. His thoughts ran wild like the grey fur that covered his back and head, messy and untamed, to the red that was her clothes, hiding the red tinged skin of her flesh and holding within her the red blood which he would surely enjoy running down his muzzle, his teeth, blending into his eyes like roses losing their petals.

Hermione Granger stumbled over a fallen log which caused her body to sway and fall onto the forest bed of leaves and twigs. Her hands were scratched as she held them up, bewildered to see the tiny rivulets, to her eyes which closed, belatedly, when she heard the now slowing gait of the man-beast whose low growl echoed dangerously off her ears and caused a whimper to fall from her lips.

She rolled onto her back but made no attempt to get back to her feet and resume the chase, so defeated the fall had made her iron will. She was welcomed to the sight of his eyes staring into her own, then trailing down her neck, such a soft and pretty neck, like the white roses of spring. He couldn't resist but to trail his tongue, pink and prickled, across the expanse of flesh, teasing until her flesh rose to meet his, unwilled, trembling and fated to be bitten.

But bite he did not, no, not yet. After all, was he not both man and beast? An animal would have torn her immediately, claws oozing into her muddy blood and savoring the metallic taste of her life. No, he was not an animal, not entirely. A man plays with his food, twirling it around a fork or slashing it into minuscule pieces with a knife until he is satisfied with the discourse of mastication. So here, did Fenrir Greyback slather onto the girl, nipping gently where he desired and running mud-caked paws across her breasts, mimicking a lover and tearing the red cloak, her last defense against all those creatures that bump and grind in the night.

Hermione lifted her eyes to his, thinking of their roundness and the black expanse and so very very terrifying. What large eyes he has, she thought as he ripped from her the red cloak and the red dress, leaving her skin to take his scratches and tongue-warmed ministrations. She wondered if he would devour her entirely or leave pieces of her to rot in the forest. She had always cared for the little creatures, and sincerely hoped, in her mind which was calmly panicking and thinking of insanity after insanity, that the ants would be able to take the dried chunks of her flesh and eat just as flies and moth landed, defecated, and spawned their youth.

Then she heard them, the rat-tat-tat-tat of feet, so many feet. Men with the eyes of beasts, feral and strange, accompanied by wolves with mighty paws and swinging genitals and their eyes, knowing, algebraic formulas riddling their heads. One little, red girl plus multiple carnivores equals the meal they were certain to partake once their father, alpha, omega and son finished his toying. They howled, letting their voices caress the air and sky and his ears which perked, all the better to hear you with my dear, at their intrusion on his lovers feast.

At this noise he allowed his teeth to sink into her, and she screamed out and ran her fingers into his fur, arching her body into virginal first orgasm against him, bleeding with her eyes fluttering as he drank, tangy, copper blood. Her voice faded when he lifted his head and regarded her with his head cocked royally, the king allowing the prisoner one last respite of air before he ordered the executioner to swing, the axe, chop, against the neck to release the spinal fluid in sputtering gusts. She, in turn, only smiled, acceptance chasing away terror and the necessity to fight back for life and freedom.

"What big teeth you have," she whispered, laying a hand on his muzzle, staining her fingers with her own blood, before her eyes closed and her body quieted. Not dead, but choosing to allow him to take her, drink the rest of her, as her choice, not because he would take it from her. Shallow breaths escaped her pale, pink lips, already discolored from the missing cells, inviting him to silence her lungs.

When the other wolf, a lieutenant, believing her to be dead, rushed forward to claim his share of her body (a hand perhaps, he loved sweetmeat flesh), he was met with the claw of his master, swiping talons of power and the accompaniment of his brutal possessiveness. The lieutenant shrank back, lowering both ears and muzzle to the ground, submitting his rump to the jest of the pack, just as Fenrir stood over the girl, breathing, resting.

And they watched as, unmoving, she slept between the paws of this vicious wolf, naked and secure.