Chapter Nine

Hermione stretched as she sat up and looked about her room. Of course, Augustin was gone—she'd thought she had felt him fade away while she'd fallen to sleep, but had been too tired to really notice at the time.

Swallowing hard, she shook her head. She still wasn't quite certain what to think about this whatever-it-was she had with him. He was a bloody ghost, for pity's sake! And she had not one, but two husbands to contend with, as it was. If she and Augustin were friends, that was fine, she didn't think she could—or should want to—handle more than that.

But thinking of him as merely a friend felt hollow and untrue.

It really didn't help matters that, after recent events, when she thought of Antonin or Thorfinn, her heart seemed to skip a bit and she felt a sweet, heated stirring low in her body. Considering the circumstances behind her union with either one of them, she'd almost forgive herself if she fancied someone like Augustin Selwyn. Ghost, or not, he was caring, intelligent, and handsome. All right, upgrade that to gorgeous, but appearances notwithstanding, the person she was coming to know beneath that was someone well worth knowing.

And it broke her heart, just a little, that her feelings were so confused, right now. She needed to help him, and that outweighed anything else, but part of her wanted to be selfish—wanted him to stay, for her. And she had the feeling he would agree to that, if she asked.

Perhaps that was why she hadn't found a way to mention him to Antonin or Thorfinn. Whatever existed between her and Augustin was something that was hers, alone, that way.

Which was precisely why she hadn't told him she was looking for a way to release him from his ties to Selwyn Hall. He might suspect, but she would not tell him, outright. They could go on, pretending forever could be real, right up until he could move on from this world.

Sniffling, Hermione gave herself a shake.

Oh, this was ridiculous. She had to wash up and get to the dining room for breakfast. After Thorfinn's hissy fit the other day, Caster refused to serve meals unless all parties were at the table.

She didn't want to be on the receiving end of her husbands' displeased looks, should she be a reason to delay food getting into their stomachs. And there it went—the stupid little thump in her chest, and that warm tingle zipping through her at the mere notion of walking into a room to find both their gazes on her.

Rolling her eyes at herself, she made her way to the bathroom. "Dammit, Hermione," she said in a hissing whisper as she shook her head.

Just when she thought things could not get more complicated.


She'd been hoping for conversation, or . . . an argument, maybe? Anything to distract from thinking about her own, confused, feelings as she sat at the table, picking at her meal.

The relaxed moment between the three of them yesterday afternoon—not to mention the way they'd bid her farewell before departing to answer their summons—only further served to highlight just how confused her emotions were. As if this thing with the bloody house ghost didn't do that enough?

They were her enemies, she was supposed to hate them. This forced sham of a polyandrous marriage was not supposed to have altered that. And yet, it had . . . .

No, that wasn't quite right. They had.

Swallowing around an unexpected lump in her throat, she reached for her coffee. She somehow managed a quick sip, though she wasn't even certain if the warm, mildly bitter liquid eased that bit of tension as it went down.

Hermione lifted her gaze from her plate, considering both of them, in turn. Just as she'd been doing, they were each staring down at their food.

And . . . . "Dear God, Thorfinn. What did you do to your face?" Honestly, she had noticed when she'd first walked into the room, but the difference hadn't actually registered on her until just now.

He looked up, a startled gleam in his blue eyes. "What?"

Antonin sighed and shook his head. "She means the sudden absence of beard."

"Oh." The Viking of a wizard—who looked slightly less Viking-ish without his facial hair—shrugged and returned his attention to the food before him. "I just shave it every so often, is all. We just . . . haven't been together long enough for you to have seen me do it, before."

She couldn't believe she felt a smirk curving her lips as she, too, dropped her gaze back to her plate. "I haven't seen you without a beard since Hogwarts."

Antonin refrained from rolling his eyes. Another reminder that those two had some sort of a history, together. Oh, goodie!

"I had one, then . . . ." Thorfinn shrugged, once more. A hint of pride showed in his expression. "Or rather, was at least capable of having one, then. The faculty was rather insistent I keep a clean shave while I was in school."

She furrowed her brow as she finally picked up a forkful of eggs. "Why?"

He snickered. "Because I'm damn-near two meters tall, and have been since I was sixteen? They were concerned over having what looked like a grown man as a student."

Hermione nodded. She could only imagine the nightmare he'd had trying to squeeze into those school desks after his growth spurt had finished.

This was it. This was why. They kept reminding her that they were more than just faces on the other side of the War, more than just names she'd learned to fear or hate.

They were both so complicated, and she found herself wanting to learn more about their individual complexities. She wanted to know how to comfort each of them when they were upset, or know what their favorite beverage was after a long day—aside from the obvious answer of Fire Whiskey, of course.

But she didn't like thinking about this. She didn't want to think about this. And the silence that wrapped the table, once more, after Thorfinn had quieted, didn't help.

There was some uncomfortable tension between the two of them that was palpable. Honestly, she thought this must've been how Antonin had felt before his outburst the other day.

Of course, she wasn't certain what her response would be if it turned out the wizards were acting funny because they'd snogged.

"Okay," she said, feeling her skin positively itch with the awkward air in the room. Throwing her napkin on the table beside her plate, she said, "What is with the two of you today?"

Though Antonin and Thorfinn didn't turn their heads in one another's direction, they did exchange a glance before both lifting their gazes to her. Antonin opened his mouth and shrugged, but nothing would come out.

Thorfinn squared his jaw and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. But then, unable to hold it in with her looking at him so expectantly, and Rabastan's words from last night running circles in his head, he pointed his finger at Antonin. "He's in love with you."

Hermione felt her face fall and her eyes grow wide.

Bearing his teeth in what was almost a feral expression, the dark-haired wizard turned in his seat to glare at Thorfinn. "So are you!"

She honestly didn't think her brows could climb any higher up her forehead as she looked from one, to the other, and back.

"Oh, please," Thorfinn said, his face souring. "You're so much further off the deep end than I am, and we all know it."

"My feelings are my own to—"

"How . . . incredibly kind of you both to toss it around like some sort of vile accusation."

They both snapped their attention across the table to lock on Hermione, then. She'd tipped her head downward a bit, lowering her gaze to her plate, once more. But even from their angles, they could see her disheartened expression.

Why? Why did she care that they weren't happy about their feelings? Hadn't she been just as displeased with herself to think about her changing emotions toward them? Of course she had been! So, why then was her throat tight over this? Why were tears gathering in her eyes at the thought of them each vehemently trying to put distance between themselves and what they felt for her?

Forcing a gulp down her throat, Hermione shook her head. She supposed she should take comfort in the idea of them all being in similar positions, but . . . .

Blinking hard, she pushed away from the table and stood. Aware of their attention on her, she ignored them utterly as she turned and stormed out of the room.

Antonin shot Thorfinn a withering glare.

Rolling his eyes, the younger wizard held up his hands. "I get it, my fault." Puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled, he stood from the table and followed after her.

Watching him leave, Antonin sat back. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was probably a bad idea letting Thorfinn go talk to her when she was already upset—the last time one of them had approached the other like this, they'd ended up shagging, for pity's sake.

To be fair, he hadn't behaved much better when she'd come to him after he'd been upset. But he also knew he couldn't try to prevent it, either.

Her dynamic with Thorfinn was far more explosive—and not in a fun way. If he didn't allow them time and space to sort things between themselves, it was only going to make living in this situation harder to bear than it already was.


Thorfinn supposed he should not be surprised to find her in the library. But, he was surprised that she did not have her nose stuck in a book. Instead, she sat by the window, staring out. In the reflection against the glass, he could see her unhappy expression.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.

"You know, there are times when I think 'why can't I just let go and allow myself to enjoy whatever I'm feeling in this moment?' Only . . . ." Swallowing hard, she shook her head. "I'm too aware of the moment that will follow. I'm too aware of our situation. And, so, I can't help but wonder if what any of us feels is genuine, or simply our brains trying to make the best of things."

A sigh rumbled out of him as he crossed the room. Settling on his knees beside the witch's seat, he looked up at her. "I'm sorry I made it sound like a punishment to feel that way about you."

She shrugged. "It's all right, I suppose. At least it was honest."

"No." Frowning, he shook his head. "I mean, yeah, sure, honest, but that doesn't make it all right."

Hermione turned her head to meet his gaze, but remained silent.

"Thing is," he said, with another head shake, "you have to understand, Dolohov and me? Well, we're a couple of idiots."

She folded her lips inward, but only barely held in a snicker.

He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "C'mon, you've talked to us. You know it's true."

Flicking her gaze toward the ceiling in thought, she said, "Well, I don't know that I'd say that."

A smirk curved his mouth. "Every time things seem not so bad, every time they seem like maybe this all can work out, somehow, one of us goes and cocks up the whole bloody thing." His brightened expression faltered. "I never would've thought I'd consider it this way, before, but . . . doing, or saying, things that make you look at me like you hate me? Feels pretty damned idiotic to me."

She uttered a half-laughing scoff. "Well, to be fair, I don't suppose I've handled things any better. Logically, I know you weren't offered a choice in this. Just like me, you're here whether you like it, or not. But, in a way, that only confuses me, more."

"Whoa. Something that confuses you? We should mark this date on the calendar!"

With a shake of her head, she swatted him on his shoulder. "Seriously. I know I don't feel the same toward you, anymore. I can't hate you like I used to. Lord knows, I want to. But I need to acknowledge that my feelings are changing, and while, technically, it is your fault—"

"What?" His brows drew together at the blame.

Hermione shrugged. "You know, for showing me you're human, and not all bad, and all that."

Thorfinn nodded. "Oh, that. Well, I could try to keep that under wraps, if you'd prefer."

She frowned. "Again, seriously. Shut up."

"Sorry."

"As I was saying, I need to acknowledge that how I feel is changing, and maybe . . . . Maybe Rabastan was right. I need to give you a chance, without trying to place blame. In that respect, I suppose I'm not dealing with my feelings any better than either of you two did, just now."

He arched a brow. "So you—you really don't hate me, anymore?"

She searched his gaze with her own before answering. "No. I wish I still did. It would make things easier, but I don't hate either of you, anymore."

"Either of . . . ?" The golden-haired wizard scowled. "Oh, you certainly know how to ruin a moment, Princess."

For a few, quiet moments, she merely stared at him. She shifted in her seat, aware of him watching her movements with caution.

Leaning close, she let her eyes drift closed as she brushed her lips over his.

Perhaps he was seeing more of an invitation that was there, but he moved to sit on the floor as he slipped his arms around her. Thorfinn pulled her from the chair and down, into his lap.

When she pulled back enough to look up at him, he asked, "Was that all right?"

She gave him a strangely shy half-smile as she said, "I . . . was actually sort of hoping you'd do something like that."

Grinning, he lowered his head back to hers.

Just as she parted her lips for his kiss, the horrid jangling sound of someone arriving by Floo tore through the house.

Groaning, she dropped her head down against his chest as he tipped his face up to stare daggers at the ceiling. "If that's Rabastan, I'm going to murder him."

Hermione shook her head, even as he stood with her in his arms, and then set her on her feet. "Not if I do it first."

"Oh?" He arched a suggestive brow while leading the way out of the library. "Wanted to let me have my wicked way with you that much, did you?"

A blush flared in her cheeks, her lids fluttering as she rolled her eyes. "I may have been considering it, if you must know."

Their jovial, flirtatious mood shattered in a blink as they neared the bottom of the staircase and saw Antonin in the parlor entryway. The dark-haired man was down on one knee with his head bowed.

Oh, no, the witch thought, feeling a cold knot of dread form in the pit of her stomach.

She exchanged a glance with Thorfinn—it put her at ease a little to see that he did not look particularly thrilled with what this meant—before they continued to the foot of the steps. He walked ahead of her, and, the moment he saw who waited before the fireplace, he too, went down on bended knee.

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione forced a hard gulp down her throat and steeled her nerves. She pushed herself to walk, striding carefully to the entryway to stand between her husbands.

She knew perfectly well who their guest was. And she would remind him, again, that she would not be cowed. What a sight she must make, she thought, her two, dark wizard husbands kneeling on either side of her as she stood, tall as she could make herself and clad in fineries that would make Narcissa Malfoy blush with envy.

He meant her to wallow and suffer. She would show him that she was, instead, flourishing.

Arching a brow, she met the serpentine wizard's gaze unflinching. "Tom. To what do we owe the pleasure?"