Chapter Ten

Hermione could swear she felt Voldemort's delight oozing into the very air around them as she asked Caster to bring their guest whatever he required. She knew from the moment she'd laid eyes upon the creatures in her new, forced-upon-her home, that their presence was a deliberate decision on the Dark Lord's part. Really, how could she think otherwise, given that the elves were the ones who would be punished, should she try to grant them freedom.

She sat with her back perfectly straight, her shoulders even—intentionally the picture of calm grace, despite the icy churning in the pit of her stomach.

However, even as he grinned broadly while listening to her give orders to a house-elf, she knew he was displeased. She was not the downtrodden, broken creature he was hoping to see with his Death Eaters when he'd stepped through the Floo.

She knew there was a chance that, like their elves, her husbands might be punished for this. Hermione could only hope that Voldemort did not believe she cared enough for them that such an outcome would make any difference to her.

"I trust you are settling in well, Hermione?" Voldemort said, looking strangely comfortable as he sipped his tea. "Your husbands are making you . . . happy?"

The witch fought not to wince at the barely sheathed venom in the Dark Lord's voice. She could tell that Thorfinn and Antonin, seated on either side of her across from their master, were tense enough for all four of them. They barely touched their tea, and Hermione thought maybe she should've had Caster sneak some liquor into the cups. Then again, she dreaded the thought of not having her wits entirely about her with their present company.

"Tom, let's not pretend you're concerned for my happiness or well-being, in any measure." Oh, she still did get a little thrill of visceral joy from the way he flinched whenever she called him Tom.

Setting his cup down against its saucer, he looked startlingly sincere as he shook his head. "On the contrary, your well-being is very much a concern for me."

She thought she must've reacted, then, a drain of color in her cheeks, or the slight widening of her eyes, because he smiled broadly in response. Though there was little comfort in it, it only confirmed that she'd been right, all along.

Her life—at least for now—was in no danger from the Dark Lord. He might have been keen on the idea of his followers breaking her mind or her spirit, but there was something he needed that required her continued existence. Her continued—physically healthy—existence.

Not wanting to ponder that notion any further, she shot to her feet. The abruptness of the motion drew the attention of her husbands, but she was not paying either of them any mind, just now. Her own attention was fixed, still, on the serpentine wizard who held her very existence in the grip of his bony fingers.

"If you will all pardon me, I think I'm a bit tired. Good day, Tom. I'm certain my husbands can see you out."

As she stepped from behind the table and started across the room, she pretended she did not hear Voldemort's barely-veiled chuckling at her discomfort. She also pretended that, as she slipped out the door, she could not hear his chuckling die away in favor of reprimanding Antonin and Thorfinn in a lethal sounding whisper she could not quite make out the words of.

She ignored the jab of guilt, telling herself they could've received a much worse punishment than a few hissed, angry statements. Not that it mattered, she'd go to her grave before she got on bended knee—physically, or metaphorically—in front of the so-called Dark Lord.

"You've been here this entire time?"

She looked up at the sound of Antonin's voice. Hermione had no idea what sort of picture she made, curled up in a corner of the sofa, staring aimlessly ahead as she held a bottle of Fire Whiskey by the neck.

Okay, so perhaps she'd been more jarred by Voldemort's visit than she'd let on. Frowning, she lifted the bottle and looked at how much she'd had.

"Oh," she said in a surprised whisper, her brows drawing upward. That was why he looked a bit fuzzy around the edges. "Yes, here I am. Looking for me, were you?"

Smirking at the slur lacing her words, he stepped into the study and crossed to stand before her. "Actually, yes. Caster had conniption, you missed dinner."

The witch laughed, covering her mouth with her hand when the laugh ended in a little, bubbly hiccup.

Antonin folded his lips in a tight line, so as not to chuckle at her inebriated state. But . . . . Bloody hell, she was adorable.

"Why didn't you come looking for me sooner, then?"

Sighing, he shrugged as he took a seat beside her. "We thought you were upset by the Dark Lord's visit and had closed yourself off in your room, or in the library. But then, when it came time for dinner and you weren't in either room . . . . Bloody elf almost didn't serve the meal, but we convinced him to simply save you some, instead. It's in the kitchen if you—"

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry."

He met her gaze with a serious expression. "Not hungry, or worried putting food in your stomach might take the edge off your stupor?"

Narrowing her eyes at him, she pointedly took a long swig from the bottle.

"The second one, I see."

She made a loud smacking sound with her lips as she pulled the bottle from her mouth. "So nice that I've got a husband who knows me so well."

Antonin tipped his head back, an appraising look in his eyes as he observed her for a moment. When she lifted the bottle, once more, he shot out his hand.

Hermione jumped a little at his fingers closing over hers, holding the bottle away from her. "Antonin? What are you—?"

"Pretty sure you've had enough. Actually, pretty sure you've had enough for Thorfinn."

Frowning, she relinquished her hold on it, watching as he set the bottle on the table. "How dare you make a decision for me?" She climbed to her feet. "Isn't it enough that I . . . ?"

He arched a brow, standing just in time to catch her as she swayed in place.

She looked from the finger she'd been wagging almost aimlessly in his general direction to his face. "Oh, thank you."

"Looks like it's time to put you to bed."

"Now, see here," she said, the words drifting and her voice listless as he scooped her up in his arms. "This is exactly the sort of thing I'm talking about. I've had . . . I've had just about enough of this."

"Have you, now?" he asked, trying—and failing—to hide a grin as he turned and walked from the room.

"Yes. I can't . . . I can't remember the last time I made a decision for myself." She put her head down against his shoulder, pouting as she let her eyelids drift closed.

"Oh, I don't know." He glanced down to make sure he didn't miss the first step as he started up the staircase. "You've made a fair few choices that were all yours."

"I mean about my life," she said, a vaguely whiny edge to her voice that made him chuckle. "I mean . . . look at it? Did you know—did you know that if I was a normal Muggle girl, I'd have no idea the Wizarding War had even happened?"

"Is that so?"

She nodded, but didn't lift her head. "It is! I'd be doing whatever I'd been doing before. But, here I am, prisoner of the enemy. Married to his minions."

"Yes, yes. Tell me, again, how we've made life so terrible for you."

At that, she did lift her head, glancing about to see that he'd reached the second floor landing. "Now that's not fair, don't put words in my mouth."

"Oh? So you mean you weren't going to say that?" He knew he should stop. The alcohol was having that truth serum effect on her, and she might end up saying something that he knew her sober, guarded self would not dare utter.

"No, I wasn't. You're not—you're not terrible, neither of you." She blinked hard a few times, pursing her lips in thought. "I told Thorfinn, earlier, but you, I didn't get to say it to you. I—I know you've had no more choice in any of this than I have. And I know I'm not as mean to you both as I was, but I also know I don't always make things easy on you, either."

"You almost sound apologetic," he said as he paused before her door.

She nodded as he nudged open the door with his foot. "I think I almost am, sometimes, anyway," she muttered, giggling. "You're both . . . you're not so bad. It's not your fault I'm miserable, you do try to make things better."

"Finally a word of acknowledgement for that, thank you." He snickered, crossing the room to her bed. She mumbled what might've been the words you're welcome as he placed her down atop the quilt.

But then, as he tried to slide his arms out from beneath her, he found she'd curled her fingers into his robes. He froze, aware how cozy she'd made herself in his embrace.

"Hermione, you'll need to let go."

"No."

His brows shooting up his forehead, he pulled back as much as he could to look at her. "No?"

"No." She repeated, nuzzling against him. "I'm comfortable, you're just going to have to lay down with me."

He made a pained expression. "I'm not certain that's a good—"

"Oh, just stop talking and get in the damn bed, Antonin."

The dark-haired wizard groaned and hung his head. "Fine, fine. Move over."

Grinning triumphantly, despite the sleepy look on her face, she shifted back, making room for him. Though, she refused to relinquish her hold on his robes.

With a sigh, he slid onto the mattress beside her. This was not at all how he'd imagined his first time sharing a bed with her would go. Not even when she snuggled against him and rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

As a sound of comfort worked its way out of the back of her throat, Antonin felt himself sag deeper into the mattress. Holding her so close, yet her being so very inebriated that he could not bring himself to do anything . . . . This, he decided, must be what Hell felt like.

He couldn't tell if a few minutes, or a few hours had passed when she stirred against him, but he was distinctly aware that—just as he began drifting off—the witch had lifted her head. The feel of her lips brushing his throat caused a zinging warmth to course through him.

Shaking his head, he slipped his hands around her shoulders and pulled her up. She looked vaguely dazed and sleep-rumpled as she stared back at him. Her gaze was clearer than when he'd carried her up here, that was certain, but he couldn't help his caution.

"You're still pissed," he said with a shake of his head.

Her attention fell to his mouth as she shrugged. "A little, maybe. But . . . ." She swallowed hard, unable to believe she was about to tell him this, yet it was true. How many times had she forced herself away from wondering about this very thing? "But I've thought about this a lot, especially since that day by the woodshed."

"Hermione, I—" He cut himself off as she tugged open his robes and brought her mouth back to his throat. He didn't even know how he was managing to form words with her raking her teeth along his skin like that. "Merlin, you're making it hard to think."

She shifted on the bed, straddling him as she leaned against him. Her lips brushed against his as she spoke. "So, stop thinking."

"I'm going to hate myself in the morning," he said with a groan, giving into her as he started tugging her dress off her.

Hermione winced at the sunlight peeking through her bedroom window. Her head was pounding, but her body was tingling pleasantly. She recognized the delicious soreness as she turned beneath the quilt and stretched.

As her arm swept across the bed, she came into contact with someone.

Snatching back her hand, she looked at the other pillow. "Antonin?"

He stirred in his sleep, but didn't wake. The wizard muttered something and simply pressed his cheek more firmly against the satiny fabric beneath his head.

She sat up, not even bothering to hold the quilt against herself. What was the point? Last night came back to her in a rush of images and she buried her face in her hands.

She wasn't angry with him. She was angry with herself.

She'd used the alcohol in her system as an excuse to take a step she'd been afraid to while sober. She hadn't told either of them, but her thoughts had been fairly dominated by notions of inviting one of them into her bed. Especially in the wake of their bungled confessions of their feelings, yesterday, and what almost happened with Thorfinn in the library before Voldemort's unannounced visit. And the woodshed, and the armchair . . . .

If she closed her eyes, she could still hear the sounds of Antonin's rushing breaths in the quiet of the room; she could still feel the grip of his fingers digging into her hips as she rocked herself over him. The remembered sensation of him sliding into her and withdrawing again and again sent a delicious shiver through her.

She couldn't bring herself to wonder if Augustin had come into the room last night and seen them together. She was more than aware that he knew these wizards were her husbands, but neither of them had been in her bedroom before. That was bound to give the poor specter mixed signals.

Turning more fully toward him, she let her gaze wander over Antonin's sleeping face. She shouldn't have done that. She knew what he felt for her, but wasn't at all sure what she felt for him, not exactly.

Reaching out, she traced over his handsome features with delicate fingertips. The worst part, she thought, was that she certainly could fall in love with him.

And Thorfinn.

And Augustin Selwyn—a bloody ghost!

Again, she buried her face in her hands.

Antonin blinked open his eyes to Hermione choking out a sound of frustration. Frowning, he slid a hand around one of her wrists, tugging her hand down from her face.

She met his gaze, her eyes unexpectedly watery. She'd never been so confused in her life! Pulling her arm from his grasp, she once more shielded her face. She hated this—she felt like she'd been so strong this entire time, and now . . . .

"I'm sorry," she actually shouted, the words muffled against her palms as she let herself break down in tears.

"What? You're . . . ?" Antonin sat up. Pulling her into an embrace, he hugged her while she cried. She was sobbing, still shouting, but now her words were incoherent.

"What do you mean, you're sorry? Aren't I the one who should be—?"

The door burst open, then. A confused looking Thorfinn stormed in, his gaze landing on the bed. "What the bloody hell . . . ? Oh, dear Merlin, I'm blind!" Snatching up the other wizard's robes from the floor, he tossed them at the man. "Put some clothes on!"

Antonin ignored the fabric hitting him in the face, in favor of comforting the crying witch. "This was not the time for—"

"Stow your excuses!" Thorfinn was not having any of it. "Why is she crying? What did you do? I know she was drinking last night, I saw the bottle—did you take advantage of her?"

Antonin shook his head, blinking rapidly at the fast-shot words tumbling from her other husband's lips. He could certainly appreciate how awkward wandering into this particular scene must feel for Thorfinn. "I know what this looks like, but—"

"No, no!" Hermione dropped her hands, looking from one wizard to the other, and back. "He didn't take advantage of me. I—I took advantage of me."

The men exchanged a glance before returning their attention to her. "What?" they asked in unison, both their faces marred by confused expressions.

"I had sobered enough to have control over my actions, but was still inebriated enough to do something I probably wouldn't have let myself, otherwise. I . . . I intentionally used my drunken state to give myself permission, and I'm sorry!"

Antonin darted his gaze about the room as he shook his head. "I don't understand. Are you apologizing for sleeping with me, or for feeling like you needed 'liquid courage' to do it?"

"The latter, I think." Closing her eyes tight, she frowned. "It's not that I didn't want to, it's that I shouldn't have had to give myself an excuse to do it."

"I understand, I think," he said, nodding as he climbed out of the bed and pulled on his robes—he barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the way Thorfinn melodramatically shielded his eyes from the sight.

"I also think you could use some coffee. I'll have the elves bring some up for you."

"Wait." Hermione reached out, catching his wrist as he turned away from the bed. "Are you . . . are you angry with me?"

His dark eyes widened as he met her gaze. "Oh, Lord, no. As I said, I understand. None of us have made this situation easy for each other, so . . . . No, I'm not happy you needed an excuse, but I get why. You, um, also, might want to get dressed."

Hermione frowned as she let his arm slip from her fingers. But then, as he turned and stepped from the room, she looked down at herself. Dear God, she'd just had this entire conversation with them—both of them—with the quilt pooled around her hips.

Swallowing hard, she looked up. Thorfinn still lingered in her room. He grinned at her, winking. "Don't cover up on my account."

"You're handling this awfully well," she said, purposefully crossing her arms under her breasts. She'd pretend she didn't enjoy the way his brows crept upward.

"I'm trying to be more pragmatic. But in all honesty, I'd probably be livid if we hadn't shagged, first."

She uttered a scoffing sound as she rolled her eyes. "You wizards and your weird, perverted sense of pride. Can you please get me my dressing gown from the wardrobe?"

Thorfinn chuckled, shaking his head. "Yes, Dear." Maybe, he thought, as he crossed the room to do as she asked, just maybe this whole 'making the best of things' idea wasn't so bad, after all.