Retreat - Act I: Occupation

3. Arrival

But for the absence of Harry Potter, the Gryffindor table seemed to have time-warped back to when hardly a day went by without a heated discussion about Draco Malfoy or Quidditch or Slytherin sleaziness or . . . or any combination of those topics plus several of their closest relatives. Hermione could almost fill in the empty spaces where Harry's comments would have further underscored the indignant chorus of voices.

'Of course he cheated! It's what Malfoy does!'

'Dark magic probably.'

'Bloody cheating bastard!'

'Bloody show-off! Did you see him spin around on that Plasmabolt? I mean, a metallic broom?'

'Only Malfoy would buy that--'

'Where'd he get it, anyway?'

'Promotional broom. Didn't even know those things could fly - s'posed to be hanging in bloody windows, aren't they?'

'Expensive as hell, must be.'

'But how did he cheat? Maybe he just happened to see the Snitch--'

'My salad is moving.'

'Five minutes into the game?! Not bloody likely!'

'About as unlikely as Ron's salad moving.'

Everyone but Ron laughed. 'I'm telling you, it's moving! Look!'

Hermione was looking, but not at Ron's salad. She observed Malfoy entering the Great Hall and felt the tug of the perceptual time warp grow stronger. This was not the Malfoy she had seen shuffling towards the Quidditch pitch earlier that day; certainly not the Malfoy she had been secretly trying to unravel that whole term. This was the old Malfoy, the centre of Slytherin attention, smirking, strutting, sweeping into the Hall like a white-hot torch of towering arrogance.

'GAH! It's a slug! There's a slug in my salad!'

'You're not belching slugs again, are you?' said Dean Thomas, sidling away from his frantic friend.

'I 'aven't even touched it! It came with the salad! - I'm glad I haven't touched it! I'm not going to touch it!' Ron had developed a rather severe slug phobia since the Belching Incident in second year. He prodded the snail with his wand, ineffectually trying to spur it towards Dean's plate.

Malfoy was approaching. Hermione could see his eyebrows rising as he became aware of the Slug Commotion. Somehow he would turn it to his advantage. This Malfoy always would.

Ron yelped and pulled at his wand. 'The slug is sucking my wand!' It was, unfortunately, a magically mutated slug, with rather violent sucking reflexes.

This was the opening Malfoy had been waiting for, slowing his steps to saunter past their table. 'We do not wish to know the sick ways in which you play with your wand, Weasley.'

Ron paid him no heed, waving wand and slug furiously through the air. Suddenly, everyone decided to follow Dean's example, sidling rapidly away from Slugging Ron Weasley. When the slug finally lost its grip, it was poor Lavender Brown who happened to be sidling in quite the wrong place. 'GAAAH! There's a slug between my legs!'

Malfoy could not resist. 'Nor do we care to hear about your appalling sex-change endeavours, Miss Brown!'

'It's GROWING!'

'Yes, I do seem to have that effect on people...'

'Get it off! Get it off!'

'Use your hands, man!'

'GET IT OFF!'

'Anyone want to help Miss - sorry - Mister Brown get off so that we may continue our meal without further seedy sexual innuendo?'

At this, Malfoy, shooting his wit from a distance, sank into his seat at the Slytherin table. He appeared disinterested, but Hermione could see - having learnt to read Malfoy subtext with surprising skill - that underneath the mask lay simple, unadulterated pleasure. Draco Malfoy always hid behind masks, and one thing he concealed was his immense fascination with language, and the skill with which he could wield it as a weapon against the world. She had been given both a demonstration of his penchant for well-turned phrases and the key to unlocking his masks that very first night he took her to the kitchens. He had told the younger Slytherin to hide in plain sight, no doubt speaking from experience. His lyrics for Weasley Is Our King in fifth year were an excellent example; he would never, could never, be seen to take pleasure in being linguistically creative for the sake of being so - for the sake of being a poet, a pathetic artist - but he could display his skilful word-painting for the whole school to see under the pretext of being a mean, petty, bullying bastard.

Malfoy was a master at draping himself in shrouds of deception, but Hermione had the claws to unseam them, layer after layer. Maybe, in time, she would find the real, naked core of Malfoy - if there were such thing to be found.

~~~*~~~

In a society of minorities, the largest and most vocal group tends to assume the role of majority and rule the rest, though its size may be insignificant compared to the society as a whole. Surprisingly enough, these things tend to go unnoticed for quite some time. Then comes the Revolution. Often featuring generous amounts of blood.

For Them, the Revolution had not yet come. And even then, they would be hard pressed to manage blood, possessing none unless they stole it from someone else first. Someone living, not merely existing.

From a scientific viewpoint, they didn't live - they existed - if, that is, one subscribes to the traditional idea that life requires Biology. In these days of attempted Artificial Intelligence and the existential debate surrounding it, there are certainly scientist who would argue that They are alive. However, what cannot be argued with is their lack of Biology.

Not that they cared either way. They were feeling more alive than they had in centuries and that was all that mattered.

Feeling.

The Majority laid out the plan. Liberation was at hand. They could smell it.

Even without nasal Biology.

~~~*~~~

The Marauder's Map (courtesy of Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs) was good for a great many things. It was good for solving the mysteries of overly shrill and aesthetically challenged buildings and their animalistic occupants. It was good for monitoring the movements of people you wanted to find, and people you did not want finding you. It was good for finding your way through the most mysterious parts of Hogwarts (as opposed to the merely baffling and somewhat illogical parts that made up the rest of the castle) and it was good for wiping up smaller amounts of Butterbeer, spilt when trying to break one's table with one's depressed, drunk and not altogether together head.

Luckily, neither the table nor Ron Weasley's aching head broke on impact. Thus, no Weasley galleons (always, as a certain Slytherin would be quick to point out, in short supply) needed to be spent on reimbursing a heavy oak table, covering a medical bill, or the premature burial of the most inadvertently adventurous of all the Weasley boys.

The Marauder's Map had, in fact, been made to withstand most anything - and was, furthermore, specifically designed to effectively soak up Butterbeer, for reasons known only to Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot & Prongs, and a great many old patrons of Hogsmeade's The Three Broomsticks. And so, the table remained intact and the Map dried up nicely, something which couldn't be said for Ron Weasley's composure, or the tears coating his puffy cheeks.

The reason for this miserable state of depression was simple. Simple in the same way that a Rubik's Cube is simple in design but oh so hard to properly colour-code. Ron doubted he would be able to colour-code his way out of the miserable mess he had made of his - so far, purely hypothetical - love-life.

Red, the colour of love, the Gryffindor hue, yet also the colour of shame and embarrassment. And, let's not forget, the colour of hair, Weasley hair, poor hair, pauper's hue, a match penniless as few.

Blue, he was, that much was true. Red and blue, a purple hue, the longing love of one, not two.

Green waylaid him more often than not. Jealous, now, even of one he truly despised. She looked at him, that boy, that bastard, that pompous ass, almost as pretty as a lass. The green Slytherin who brought forth the blazing orange of burning hate, consuming the green, leaving

Black, depression, an urgent lack, a lack of love, of someone to hold him - to really love him - back.

Black.

And white. White as a blank page, an empty sheet, a paper not written, no hope for a grade. He had no academic ambition, no analysing mind. He had already, by pure accident mostly, become part of History, and yet he knew next to nothing about it. Professor Binns was such a bore. Hermione too, sometimes, but in a way that he had come to adore. But not when she asked (What do YOU think?) of him to be something more than a reluctant audience.

Discussion - he couldn't do it. Not about that stuff. Quidditch History was okay, but the Emancipation of the Eurkic Elves?!

She made him feel stupid sometimes. Unintentionally, of course. But still, he often felt stupid these days, and not just because he hung out with little Miss Know-It-All-Plus-Appendixes. So many of his friends, and even more of his Hogwarts contemporaries had gone through some sort of intellectual growth-spurt. Many had taken a sudden interest in politics, war, and history. They lived in interesting times, they said.

Ron had never viewed interesting as a synonym to dangerous before.

~~~*~~~

In the Gryffindor common room, the red hair of Ginny Weasley clashed with the deep red of the couch on which she was asleep. After an hour of Hermione's purposely boring monotone recital of less inspiring parts of Hogwarts: A History, Ginny's brain had finally given up on forced alertness while awaiting her brother's late-night return.

It wasn't that Ron was never out on his own, or that the women in his life were generally disposed to nervously wait up for the Ron in their life. This night was different. This night, more than half of the Aurors posted at Hogwarts had been called away. That they were away meant they were needed urgently someplace else, and where Aurors were needed urgently was no place for anyone else to be. Rather, it was a place were those not of the Auror persuasion became urgently aware of their own mortality.

Ron was someplace else.

This was the reason for their anxiety. This was the reason Hermione had used a book to put Ginny to sleep, in a more sophisticated - if not necessarily nicer - way than hitting her over the head with it. This was why, in the dead of night, a small cat of the Granger breed padded across the shingle in front of the main entrance to where Terry had been placed on watch for the night.

She needed someone to talk to.

~~~*~~~

The scouts were in position, the warriors standing by, the collectors advancing, the Darkness on a steady approach, coming closer, commanding: ATTACK.

~~~*~~~

The fog lay on the land like a smothering quilt, a microscopic patchwork of water and air visible at a distance, providing invisible moist up close and personal, hindering sight and encouraging fright. There was a white lake floating above the black surface of another, like the insubstantial ghost of a loch trying to escape the monsters dwelling inside it and flee to cower amongst the clouds. But there were no clouds to cower in. The stars stared down upon the dampened land while the full moon set the mist aglow with its cold, white gaze.

Outlined by the silver backdrop of that pervasive mist stood Terry, all alone, hands in his pockets, clutching his wand. Anything could come through that mist, and not be seen until it was almost upon him. Of course, there were wards - but if they were foolproof, what were the Aurors for? Protection against fools?

Hermione stood still, silently watching Terry for a few moments, observing, evaluating, committing to memory, listing all the good points - all the points where he could compete with Ron. Terry was handsome, but rather short. Not that Hermione had anything against short men, per se. But she was rather tall herself, and maybe it would look odd, and Ron was rather tall but, of course, that was neither here nor there.

Terry was robust, well muscled. Well, that was certainly nice. Yet perhaps a bit too much muscle and width for that height. Ron had become rather muscular too of late (he was always around, she was bound to notice). But Ron was tall and lanky at the same time, which, on the whole, was also neither here nor there, though possibly in a pub somewhere getting pissed for some stupid reason but, really, that was also nowhere in particular.

Terry was Terry. Terry was not Ron, but this too was ambivalently placed in three-dimensional space. Ambivalent was also what Hermione was, unsure of how to proceed now that she had reached her destination. She couldn't just suddenly shift back into her human form. She wasn't a woman swept in a fur coat on her way to meet her lover, pulling the garment just a little bit tighter to avoid the chill night air; she was a wild cat in her own skin, and her fur coat could not be pulled tighter without the aid of a plastic surgeon.

And even though Terry did not seem to be aware that there was a cat close by, the sudden unfolding of a female student might make him remember seeing one (cat, not female student) out of the corner of his eye. Hermione was not a registered Animagus and revealing this talent to an Auror - even a nice bloke like Terry - was, without a doubt, a Very Bad Idea.

So Hermione looked around, located a shape that looked like an ogre standing on one leg but, as there was no particular reason for an ogre to stand on one leg outside Hogwarts, was probably quite an ordinary tree. She slipped into the shadow of said tree and was just about shift into something less comfortable (under the circumstances) when a distant howl froze her almost as well as a Stupefy.

She shivered, heat and cold competing for control over her body, and spun around to stare in the direction of the howl. She might as well have tried to spot the bears in a picture book about Polar Bears in a Snowstorm.

Maybe the howl hadn't been so distant after all.

The problem with sudden, unrepeated sounds was that they didn't get recorded properly in your memory, and the twisted recollection of the shock they gave you made them grow in the silence afterwards, coming closer, growing more sinister. Though the latter would be hard for the howl in question to manage. Hermione felt that if there were Hounds in Hell, that would be the sound they would aspire for; the perfect pitch for pitching damned souls off the precipitous Mountains of Madness. In short, not a noise you'd want to hear on a foggy night, or indeed any other occasion.

Hermione glanced over at Terry. Well, he was obviously not hard of hearing. The tenseness of his posture indicated he had heard the howl just as clearly as she had. More clearly, perhaps, since he was, regrettably, closer to its ominous origin.

Then, there was another sound, much weaker but almost as terrifying. A low rasping noise - lazy footfalls on gravel. Coming closer.

Hermione was no longer actively concerned about Ron being Someplace Else. In fact, she was rather more worried about herself being Right There and, specifically, Terry being Over There.

Then the mist unveiled its secret.

There was a large, four-footed shadow making its way out of the thick fog. Hermione recalled Harry's telling her of when he had glimpsed the outline of his animagus godfather, believing it to be an enormous Dog of Death, a Grim.

Maybe this was the real thing.

Whatever it was, it ignored Terry's demand that it make its identity known. Either it couldn't speak, or could but wouldn't. Either way, Hermione felt sudden dread sweep over her. The shadow moved steadily closer, responding neither to Terry's voice nor the wand he had pulled from his pocket. If it was an animal, it was an animal with a purpose.

'Halt! Stay where you are!' Terry commanded, voice faltering at the end.

While ominous as a shadow, the creature proved downright terrifying as it emerged from the fog. It bared rotting teeth and growled. Hermione felt as though she had been killed, stuffed, and put on exhibition. She wanted desperately to back away but her legs wouldn't move. The creature's eyes were locked on Terry.

Not a dog, nor a cat, the hulking creature looked made up of bits from different animals, inexpertly pieced together. The head was canine, the eyes undoubtedly feline. The creature's paws sported massive claws and large pads while the tail was hairy, scabby and worn. It looked sick but moved as if in perfect health. A brownish rib had punctured its badly lacerated chest but it seemed to take no notice. It crouched low. The rib moved out at a sickening angle.

It didn't even wince.

The beast pounced. Terry hurled a hex at it. Unaffected but annoyed, the creature turned its head and closed its jaws around the young man's arm while slamming him to the ground. With a sweeping motion of its head, the beast severed arm from body. The loud rip, squelch, and pop inspired a violent churning of Hermione's stomach and an acrid taste in her mouth.

The arm landed with a splash in a nearby puddle, wand slipping out of a limp and lifeless hand. Then the beast went for the throat.

In the abrupt silence following Terry's final, frantic scream, Hermione's soft whimpers were much too loud. The creature raised its head, blood dripping from an uneven collection of vicious-looking teeth in various states of decay. It inclined its head, staring at her.

Backing up so quickly her legs tangled, Hermione spun around, heard the beast growl behind her, and made for the main entrance as fast as her unsteady legs could carry her.

It took some seconds for the beast to react, but when it did, she could hear the heavy thumping of its paws approach with horrifying speed. The entrance was near, but for some reason, no one had ever thought to install a cat door. She would have to pull the handle.

Using hands.

Hermione had never shapeshifted while in motion, and never had she been in more motion than now. Her run became wobbly and uncoordinated as muscles lengthened, bones changed form, and joints shifted and realigned.

The creature was gaining on her.

Claws were morphing into fingers as she made the first leap up the stairs. Misjudging the length of her arms, her undeveloped hands smashed into the hard stone while stubby feet scrabbled for a foothold. She fell flat against the stairs, bruising hairless knees and elbows. She felt the creature was almost upon her.

Pulling her aching leg up, she placed her fully morphed foot on the midway stair, pressed upwards as hard as she could, and launched her body upwards. Her hand closed around the handle. She pulled down, tearing the massive door open. The creature was on the stairs.

Throwing herself inside, Hermione turned and began pulling the door shut. She stared into the golden eyes of the approaching beast. Intelligent eyes. Intelligent enough to turn a handle.

She wouldn't have time to lock the door.

Hermione slammed the door shut only to kick it open again with all her strength. The massive structure boomed on impact with the beast, sending it flying back into the inner courtyard, momentarily dazed. It wouldn't last long. She turned and sprinted into the darkness of the main hall.

~~~*~~~

Staggering through the poorly lit tunnel leading from the Shrieking Shack to the Hogwarts grounds, Ron had both hands clutching his head and his glowing wand stuck in his left front pocket. The placement of his hands was not merely a result of the overwhelming dizziness he felt due to his having imbibed a substantial amount of alcohol, during several hours belonging to late evening, early night, and finally past closing-time. He had also bumped into the sides of the tunnel numerous times already and had resolved to keep his hands firmly on his head as a sort of pre-emptive measure.

Now, his hands were bruised too.

Ron felt his spirits rise a bit as he approached the end of the tunnel and the opening beneath the Whomping Willow. When, upon emerging from the tunnel, he saw the corpse of an Auror looking far too much like human casserole and three massive wolf-shapes prowling just outside the reach of the Willow, he felt not only spirits but also whatever else might have been in his stomach rise rapidly through his throat.

~~~*~~~

Hermione hadn't wasted time locking the doors to the Great Hall, but had hoped the beast would simply lose track of her. Nor had she run up the main stairs, as that would have left her in plain view and within reach of but a few easy, deadly leaps. Here, at least, was a door and places to hide.

As she crouched behind the High Table, she cursed not having locked the doors after all. As she had feared, doors posed no problem for the beast. She could hear it moving up the central aisle with slow, deliberate steps.

She crept towards the end of the table and heard the beast knock over chairs as it passed under tables to follow her. It could track her every move without any apparent effort. And there was no exit she could get to fast enough.

She was trapped.

It was no use going left, or right. The solid wall in front of her served as entrance and exit only to the resident ghosts. Up was also out, as she had neither broomstick nor any innate flying-ability. And down was as solid as forward, not a single hatch in the floor. All food was brought up from the kitchens by magic.

By magic.

The beast's head lifted the tablecloth behind her.

The tables.

She leapt onto the High Table just as the beast pounced. From there, she jumped across to the nearest of the long tables that stretched through the Hall. She spun on her heel and saw the beast already on top of the High Table, snarling at her. She pulled out her wand and aimed. Terry's failure to hex the creature suggested it was immune to magic, but she had to at least try. It could lead to her expulsion from the school but she felt no inclination to waste time trying lighter hexes but moved directly to the most powerful weapon in her arsenal - the Killing Curse.

'AVADA KEDAVRA!' The world flashed green. The beast's eyes glowed as the spell was deflected. The resulting shockwave flung Hermione down and sent her sliding backwards along the table. The beast leapt across and chased after her.

Spells didn't work.

Still sliding, Hermione rolled over and pushed herself up, running even before her hands were off the table.

The wards around Hogwarts made it impossible to Disapparate within the school, but there was something about the tables in the Great Hall and their exact replicas in the kitchen below that made it possible for food to be magically transported from one floor to another. At first, Hermione had discarded her impromptu escape plan, thinking that the tables probably only allowed for inanimate objects to be transported. Then, she remembered the snail Ron had found in his food the other day. It had been transported along with the food. Quite alive. What remained to be seen, and tested, was whether the tables would allow the transport of something so large as a human. There was simply no other way out with the beast so close behind her.

And she didn't even know the proper spell.

Panting and almost out of breath, Hermione muttered a basic transportation spell. Nothing happened. She tried another. And another. She was running out of time and table. The beast snapped at her heels.

There was only one more spell to try. But surely the Disapparation spell would be blocked even on the tables? Otherwise, it would be a serious security risk, and McGonagall would simply have to deal with it.

Appalled by her detached thoughts of school security, when her own level of security was near nil, Hermione concentrated and roared out the spell. The beast leapt. Claws dug into her shoulders.

She fell forward into darkness.

~~~*~~~

Ron tried to keep from falling as he half staggered, half ran back through the pitch-black tunnel. He kept his arms out to both sides to push himself away from any walls that came in his way, tearing sticky, stinging gashes in his tender palms.

He ran, and ran, and ran, scraping the rough walls, bumping into the furry ceiling. He had to get back to the village and get help. And it was a long way back to the Shrieking Shack.

...

The furry ceiling.

Ron skidded to a halt and fell headlong to the ground. Ceilings weren't usually quite so furry.

He rose slowly, straightened his back.

And bumped into the furry ceiling. It was soft, but with hard structures beneath. Bones. There was an angry hiss from somewhere above him. The ceiling moved.

'Lumos.' It came out as a hesitant whisper but his wand responded, illuminating a few metres ahead of him. It was enough for him to wish he hadn't uttered the spell, or looked up.

Large, spiderlike creatures with grey fur were crawling upside down in a slow procession towards Hogwarts. Instead of the faceted eyes of the giant spiders that lived in the Forbidden Forest, these creatures had small black slits that seemed to suck up all light around them. Their mouths were fanged and wolflike and their ears like those of giant bats. The part of the creatures that Ron in his dazed state had taken for a furry ceiling were huge round bellies that seemed packed so full they were ready to burst. Bluish light peeked out through cracks in the skin of some of the larger specimens. They were pulsating.

And now they were all staring at him. The light, or his former belly-bumping, seemed to have agitated them.

Ron spun around. Up ahead, he could just make out the front end of the procession. Turning back in the direction of the Shrieking Shack, he saw no end to the creatures.

There was a sudden change in the steady movement of the procession. Two of the creatures were moving down the sides of the tunnel.

One in front of him, one behind.

They weren't going to let him get out of there.