CHAPTER 1

"In the end it must be as it is and always has been:

great things remain for the great, abysses for the profound,

nuances and shudders for the refined, and, in brief,

all that is rare for the rare."

Friedrich Nietzsche

Hermione Granger couldn't concentrate on anything — a haze of fog was clouding her brain and had been doing so for days. The words on the parchment in front of her blurred as she struggled to focus, and the voices outside her office sounded something akin to being underwater.

She shook her head but the fog remained.

She'd celebrated Ginny's birthday over the weekend — twenty-one deserved a huge celebration according to her friend — but it was now Wednesday and hangovers didn't usually last quite that long.

And her clouded brain wasn't the only issue.

For weeks, muscle spasms and tremors had been wracking her body; her heart would race randomly for minutes, and at times she felt like she couldn't breathe. She didn't feel ill — she felt heavy, uneasy, like a ball of lead was weighing her down.

And then there were the dreams.

Dreams she could never quite recall woke her, whimpering and curled into a ball.

Her healer had been brushing her symptoms off, telling Hermione simply that she worked too hard and needed some time off. Hermione finally convinced her to prescribe a sleeping draught and the healer sent her away with a mild one. But it hadn't helped. In fact, the potion had made matters worse.

She had woken that very morning, after having slept deeply for the first time in weeks, actually able to recall her dream. And it was a dream like no other she'd ever had.

A hulking, naked male lay beneath her while she languidly moved over him.

Muscles toned to perfection.

Strong hands on her hips.

The feeling of being filled like never before.

A sense of power — of ownership — over him that he couldn't fight.

The images and feelings had been so vivid that when she awoke, it was with a desperate cry and an overwhelming ache she couldn't seem to soothe.

She leaned on her desk, her head in her hands — the pounding intensifying with each passing minute — and groaned. She was Hermione Granger. And Hermione Granger never got sick. The Pepper-Up Potion she'd taken had made no difference, and the aspirin was even less effective.

But she didn't have time to be sick.

She'd left the monotony that was the Ministry a year ago, much to everyone's surprise. But the life of a politician, the life she thought she wanted, turned out to be dull and tedious, and laws that should've been simple and easy to implement took forever to even be considered.

Her new rare and collectible book shop was finally giving the long established shops a run for their money and days off weren't an option. In the last two months, the shop had begun to become a success and the sudden interest in her enterprise left little time for a life away from work. And she'd only recently been able to employ someone to help out. Hannah Abbott had been a godsend. Her knowledge of books was as in-depth as Hermione's and the pair had become an efficient team. And she never would have thought it, but at just twenty-three, Hermione had achieved her dream.

But also at just twenty-three, she was exhausted.

With grim determination, Hermione pulled the parchment towards her, concentrating furiously on the words written on it. It was one thing she excelled at — ignoring everything but the task at hand. But as hard as she tried, the words still seemed to swim across the page.

She groaned in frustration and thumped her head onto her desk.

What was happening to her?

"I'm guessing lunch is not happening today. You look like hell," Ron chuckled as he entered her office. "You need a few days off."

Hermione's head whipped up at the sound of her friend's voice, scowling at his ridiculous grin.

"Still recovering from the weekend then?" He laughed and the sound grated on her nerves.

"Shut up, Ron," Hermione snapped. "You drink so much you're probably never sober. I don't know why Daph puts up with you."

"Hey now," Ron was startled at her tone and insinuation. "I'm too busy with the Aurors to drink that much. And I wouldn't anyway, you know that."

"Sorry," Hermione mumbled, but even to her own ears, her apology sounded hollow. "I'm not sure what's wrong with me. I've not felt well for… actually a while now."

Ron sat in the chair opposite her and smiled. "You work too hard, you always have. There's nothing wrong with taking a few days off."

"That's what my Healer said."

"Maybe I should have been a Healer," Ron grinned at her and leaned forward in his chair.

Hermione instantly sat up, pressing back into her own chair. An odour that almost made her choke suddenly surrounded her and she slapped her hand over her mouth and nose in an attempt to stem the acrid smell.

"Hermione," Ron began, looking alarmed. "Are you okay?"

She shook her head, swallowing hard. The odour was flowing off him in waves, and the foul stench was so strong, she had to close her eyes.

The smell reminded her of burned and rotting flesh. Like the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts.

Her stomach lurched and she bolted for the bathroom, dropping to her knees and vomiting a thin, watery gruel into the toilet.

"Shit, Hermione," Ron stood in the doorway staring wide-eyed at her.

She lifted her head to look at him and the stench hit her again. Her head dropped down and her hair fell around her face like a veil. Her stomach rolled and she gagged, but nothing followed.

"Hey," Ron said gently as he squatted beside her, his hand coming to rest on her back. "I think you should go home."

Hermione's throat clicked and she gagged again — he was too close and the odour swirling around him was bringing tears to her eyes. She reached out and shoved at him. "You need to leave."

"It's fine. I've seen worse than someone chucking up." He ran his hand across her back in what she assumed was supposed to be a soothing manner. But all it did was anger her.

"Get. Away. From. Me." She snapped her head towards him and snarled. "Now."

Ron's grin dropped and his face paled at the growl of her voice. He stood and held his hands up, slowly backing away. "Hermione, what's—"

"Fuck off, Ron!" Hermione screamed the words and Ron almost toppled backwards as he scrambled away.

"I'll get Hannah," Ron called and she heard his hurried footsteps, then the door of her office slammed shut.

Hermione rolled back on her heels and leaned against the wall, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, then hesitated. She took a deep breath; the nauseating smell wasn't as strong now that he'd left the room.

What the hell was going on?

Why on earth did her friend smell so vile? And why did Hannah not smell him when he came in and kick him out of the shop?

"Fucking hell," she groaned and leaned her head back against the wall.

"Hermione?" Hannah sounded cautious. "Ron said you were sick."

"Any wonder," Hermione looked up at her. "How could you stand it?"

Hannah's brow creased, "Stand what?"

"The stench," Hermione grimaced, "He smells like death."

"No…" Hannah shook her head in confusion. "...he really doesn't."

Hermione sniffed the air — a lingering scent still remained. "Is he by the door?"

Hannah glanced over her shoulder, frowned, and then returned her gaze to Hermione. "Yeah. How did you know?"

"He smells like death, like rotting flesh." Hannah winced as Hermione dragged herself to her feet. "Ron, you really need to leave. Please."

"Are you okay?" he called. "I'm worried."

"Just give me a day or two to figure out what's wrong. I'm sure I'll be fine," Hermione called back. "Sorry I screamed at you."

She heard him laugh. "It was no worse than usual. Let me know if you need anything."

She pressed her fist to her mouth as another wave of the god-awful stench swirled across the room as he left. She looked at Hannah, who wasn't reacting at all. "How can you not smell it?"

The bell chimed over the door indicating Ron had left. Hermione took a deep breath and let out a huge sigh of relief.

"Maybe it's…" Hannah placed the palm of one hand over Hermione's forehead, making her huff out a laugh.

"What are you doing?"

Hannah hushed her and wrapped the fingers of her other hand around Hermione's wrist, feeling for a pulse. "You're not too warm and your pulse is fine. I don't know what it is. Did someone hex you on the weekend?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't think so, but it certainly feels like it."

"Go home. And stay there tomorrow as well," Hannah told her. "In fact, stay home for the rest of the week. I'll get Ginny to help out here. The Harpies are out of season, so she's got plenty of free time."

Hermione was about to protest, but the expression on Hannah's face told her she looked as bad as she felt.

"Fine," she said, defeated. "But if anything happens—"

"Yes, yes." Hannah reached out and grasped both of Hermione's shoulders. "You'll be the first to know. Go home. Rest. Don't come back until Monday."

Hermione stepped out of the floo into her living room and instinctively sniffed the air. A sharp tremor ran through her; a faint aroma that held a certain familiarity — but which she never noticed before — hung in the air. It smelled of Harry, with an underlying scent of Pansy. Ron may have told them already of what happened, but neither of her friends was in her living room — and it had been more than a week since they'd last visited — making the scent yet another anomaly that was confusing.

She lifted her hand, whispered Homenum Revelio, and waited. She wasn't as paranoid as some — the war had made some half-bloods and muggleborns overly cautious — but she did protect her flat with wards and charms to allow access to only those whom she approved. Her friends were welcome, of course, but they had never been in her home without her present.

She sniffed the air again, glancing around, but the charm had revealed nothing.

Waving her hand in a quick circle, Hermione cast a cleansing charm and then dropped her bag at her feet as the magic rid her flat of the odours. She shrugged off her jacket and dragged her hands through her unruly curls, pressing her fingers hard into her scalp in an attempt to squeeze the pounding out of her head, and took a step towards the couch. But as her foot landed on the floor, her legs gave out and she collapsed in a heap on the carpet with a surprised yelp.

Something was wrong.

She tried to push herself up, but a heavy weight seemed to be pushing her back down. This was insane. She didn't feel ill, despite her vomiting, and Hannah pressing her hand to Hermione's forehead ruled out a fever. And now that she was away from Ron, the acrid burning, rotting stench was gone.

Something was definitely wrong.

Hermione tried once more to lift herself from the floor but what little strength she had completely abandoned her. Her arms shook and buckled, and she hit the floor again.. She groaned, part in frustration, part because her body had begun to ache, and it was an ache that she was becoming all too familiar with. Her nipples tightened and her core clenched, and she craved nothing more than the need to feel the naked body of the man who was haunting her dreams beneath her.

And the fear of her craving a complete stranger gripped her so tightly she found it hard to breathe.

A whimper escaped her throat; the desire rising within her was almost unbearable. Never before had she ever experienced the raw need she felt both in her dreams and upon waking.

Never before had she actually even been intimate with a man.

She and Ron were hardly together long enough to do anything more than share a few teenage kisses. And she'd not found anyone since that even piqued her interest. But now, her nights had become a series of the most erotic dreams imaginable. Her mornings had found her waking with a sudden urgency, gasping for a release she had no idea how to find.

And the face in those dreams…

It was a blur, but she somehow knew him. He felt familiar, he also felt oh so dangerous. But the fact that the faceless man who had become an almost nightly feature in her subconscious and brought about an unrelenting desire of which she truly had no knowledge, confounded her.

Hermione closed her eyes, trying to quell her rising temperature. She squeezed her thighs together tightly and rocked back and forth slowly — an instinct that she never knew existed within her. She lifted one heavy hand to her throat, tugged the open collar of her shirt, and traced her fingers over the swell of her breast. She could feel her heart racing, the quickening thump-thump-thump loud in her ears as the heat inside her grew.

She gasped. Her skin was damp, her body shuddering, and the image of him flashed through her mind. She cried out — a tiny flash of an unknown pleasure shot through her — and her eyes flew open, half expecting to see her mysterious stranger in the room with her.

And then everything subsided, ending as quickly as it had begun.

She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling until her breathing eased. What the fuck was going on?

Getting up off the floor took an almost monumental effort and, walking to the kitchen, her legs felt like lead. She poured herself a glass of water, drinking it slowly, replaying Hannah's question in her head — Did someone hex you on the weekend?

It was possible, she supposed, but she knew what was happening wasn't caused by a hex — the after-effects of a hex would have worn off in days. Besides, her symptoms, if that's even what they were, had been going on for weeks. And no books or healers had been able to offer any explanation as to what she was experiencing.

She swallowed the last of her water and headed for the stairs — too terrified to Apparate in her current state — and she caught sight of herself in the mirror in the hallway. Her face was flushed, cheeks streaked with pink. Her hair was a mess, but rather than it's usual unruly state, it had a look of having been…. shagged soundly.

But her eyes… they were like nothing she had ever seen.

The warm, dark brown that she usually saw in her reflection was gone, and a rich, golden hue stared back at her. She was startled at the vast difference, yet she was captivated by the oddity. She couldn't recall a time her eyes had ever looked lighter — even in the brightest daylight her eyes never changed.

She leaned closer to the mirror, as if that would change the state of her eyes, but they remained the same.

"What the fuck...?" Hermione murmured to her reflection and then stood staring idiotically, waiting for a response. Frowning at her own thoughts — and her unanswering reflection — she turned and resumed her trek up the stairs. A shower was what she needed to soothe her body and clear her head.

Starting the water, she stripped off while it warmed and ran her hand unconsciously over her forearm, not glancing down to the word she was so accustomed to seeing. She knew she would never rid herself of it, and as hard as she'd tried, she had yet to break the habit of trying.

Another shot of heat rocked through her body, smaller this time but nonetheless intense. She winced and pressed her hand to her stomach, breathing deeply and waiting for the sensation to pass.

Hermione ducked her head under the water and closed her eyes when she stepped into the shower. The sound of the falling water seemed louder in her ears, as if she could hear each drop as it hit the tiles — a heavy plop followed by a lighter splash as the drops broke apart on impact. Even the steam seemed to have its own resonance as it mingled with the cool air.

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, willing the sounds away. But her action only seemed to heighten her awareness. The birds outside. The sound of the wind in the trees. The voices of her neighbours as they walked past.

She put her fingers in her ears, and the sounds dimmed somewhat. But the lack of sight and sound only intensified the feel of the water on her skin.

She wanted to cry — exhaustion and confusion were an almost suffocating mix — but her tears refused to flow. Why she could suddenly feel, see, smell, and hear more of everything around her wasn't making any sense.

The images in her dreams were insane, and the feelings they caused were even more so.

The heightened awareness of everything around her was absurd.

The odours she never had even noticed, yet could now smell with a clarity that overwhelmed her.

The soothing touch of her childhood friend brought on an anger that was inexplicable.

And her eyes…

Her senses were in overload, and there was no understandable reason as to why.

All she knew was that something was definitely wrong.

Very, very wrong.

A/N:

An idea formed in my mind a few weeks back: Alpha Hermione. And the result is this.

Much thanks to my behind the scenes team for keeping me on track and helping me out on this one:

coyg_81
TheOtterAndTheDragon
PotionChemist
CuppaTea90