The sun had set now, and the chill in the valley went bone-deep. Slowly, inevitably, Hermione's pace started to falter. All the recent events – the hunt for Dolohov, the Shabash, the night with Draco, even the flight on Drakosha's back – came to rest on her suddenly stumbling form. Her steps became heavy, a weary ache settling in the dip between her shoulders. Her mind hadn't had any time to process, file or organize what all of this meant for her. She desperately needed time to slow down, and let her think, to restore even a modicum of emotional stability.
She also didn't want to do it alone.
So when Anastasia turned, telling them that she'd have her elves prepare a set of rooms, Hermione nudged up to Draco, sending him a brief, shy and pleading look.
He understood. Harry or Ron wouldn't have, but he did. "One," he said, and then coughed and had to clarify: "One room."
"Oh." Anastasia looked down, her cheeks turning the color of late-summer cherries. "Of course."
...Hermione was out before her head hit the pillow, and Draco's too warm body settled in carefully by her side.
. . . .
. . . .
The cosmos stretched on a canvas of midnight, stars and moons twinkling with celestial grace. Partnered since the dawn of time, they danced across the heavens as the world slowly turned, revolving on its axis. It brought on a different dawn: one tinged with the delicate pink of a dew-capped rose, blooming over the mountains to herald the start of a new day.
It reached forward, brushing over woods and snow, and painted the cheek of sleeping girl in hues of orange and cream. Her eyelashes fluttered under its tickling touch, and she sighed, comfortably spooned against a pale wizard with hair of silver and light. Lines of anxiety creased the young man's forehead; pupils, hectic, darted under closed lids. He moaned from time to time, but the girl didn't notice; she was safe, warm, and felt more secure than she had in years.
She dreamed of a sailboat in the arms of a sea, of wind in her hair and salt on her lips. A pair of seagulls darted above. One was the softest shade of eggshell; the other – dark as buckwheat honey. They flew together, dipping with the bow of the ship, following its movements, and their cries echoed across the endless expanse of foamy blue.
But then the wind changed, becoming stronger, and the skies darkened. A mighty gust came from the north, breaking apart the two birds. It carried the pale one far away, until its shrill and panicked cries became lost in the roar of the storm. It disappeared in the distance, and the darker seagull was left alone, mourning for the loss of its love...
. . . .
. . . .
When she woke, Hermione's heart fluttered frantically. Wisps of frightful dreams faded in her consciousness. She tried to grasp them, to hold onto their escaping forms, but found that she couldn't. They slipped through her fingers, melting away like fog under the morning sun, until nothing was left but a faint echo of worry. Hermione frowned, but then, as her hand skimmed over the bedsheets, her expression softened, and a dreamy smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
The reason for this was simple: the bedsheets were warm. Draco had left – she could hear him washing up in the en-suite bathroom – but the heat of his body was still trapped between the covers and under the hand-embroidered comforter; this, she could feel with the palm of her hand.
Feeling giddy, nervous and scared – all at the same time – Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, reveling in the intimacy it brought. This wasn't just her bed – it was their bed. Her and Draco's. She squealed softly and then, overcome by emotion, rolled over to his side, burrowing her head into his pillow. It smelled just like him: masculine, rum with a touch of spice. When she raised her head, she saw that she had shed one of her hairs onto the white cotton. It lay next to his: eggshell and honey side by side.
They looked well together.
Comforted by the thought, Hermione thrust the covers away, stood, and tiptoed over to a vanity with a large mirror. Her reflection stared back sullenly, arms crossed and lips pouty.
"It came again tonight," the reflection huffed. "The monster." Hermione surveyed the disaster in front of her and gave a heavy sigh. There was no point in arguing – the proof was right there, before her very eyes.
Now, this Monster the girls spoke of isn't some clever allegory to terrible, sweat-and-scream-inducing nightmares, nor is it a factual description of a heinous villain that crept into her bedroom and chuckled menacingly while sharpening a pair of butchers knives.
No. This terror was very much real. You see, for most of her life, during her time of slumber, Hermione Granger had the great misfortune to be the target of…
...the Hair Monster. That's right. A beast most terrible and foul, it had stalked her since childhood, waiting patiently each night until she fell asleep. It didn't matter what measures she took nor what sacrifices she offered. The Hair Monster would always come and feed and then leave her to wake up to a frizzy mess that would make even the mangiest cat give her a look that inevitably vacillated between pity and morbid amusement.
Which is why, when Draco walked in from the en-suite and started to laugh, she became thoroughly miffed and responded by throwing a pillow. It hit him right on the nose, which made her feel proud right up until he chucked it back. Now, it bopped her on the nose, and then, the next second, his fingers were on her sides, tickling till she squawked and screamed and toppled over on the bed, laughing breathlessly until his lips were on her neck, pressing a series of urgent kisses into skin as fair as snow.
A part of her noted the care with which he positioned himself. He was by her side, making sure not to lock her in with his body, lest he trigger her fears. She smiled, melting into him as their breaths became heated, and his hands trailed down to palm one of her breasts, giving it an affectionate, needy squeeze. A moan rose from the back of her throat, as her nipples hardened under the stimulation. Her arms rose to trace the plane of his back, going up to ruffle his hair, before coming to a stop on his chest and gently pushing him back.
His face was flushed, eyes feverish. She brushed a few strands of hair from his forehead and whispered, "Not now. Tonight."
He looked concerned. "Are you sure?"
Hermione was more than sure. She leaned forward, pecking his lips in response, and then rose, swaying her hips as she walked to the bathroom. She was the spitting image of confidence, but the truth was, she was just a single inch away from melting into a sappy puddle of goo on the floor. She passed the mirror on her way, enabling her to spot that his eyes were glued to her rear. Hermione smirked, her step a little straighter then, her reflection throwing back a saucy wink.
Even this simple act of flirting made her feel powerful and alive. She sighed again and thought about how much she wanted to stay here, cuddling next to Draco under the fluffy covers, until the sun reached its zenith and then fell, yielding to the tender touch of night. But she couldn't, because there was a job to do and a murderer to apprehend.
Dolohov was close – she could feel it in her her very bones.
. . . .
. . . .
...Her bones lied; in hindsight, not at all surprising, considering that the study of divination is a simmering pot of hoax, mixed in with copious amounts of alcohol and peppered with mystical gobblydegook. Dolohov wasn't that close at all, because Anastasia's babushka, who was the only one capable of brewing the tracking potion they sought, was out.
Out.
Antonin Dolohov was busy killing muggles, raping and pillaging to his tiny, shriveled, putrid heart's delight, and their connection to him had gone out, an action more applicable to a randy teenager than a centuries-old crone. "Vat can I say," Anastasia said with an apologetic shrug to her shoulders. "She does zis. Leaves for day, maybe two sometime. She vill return soon, and I vill know ven she does. Hungry?" Abruptly, she changed topics. "You vant vodka with blin or blin with vodka?"
Hermione suffered a moment of abject horror which only grew when, with a sly grin, Anastasia added: "Or maybe vodka with vodka? Try: breakfast of champion!" The Gryffindor, realizing she was being teased, scowled.
Draco was famished. With gaunt cheeks and eyes lit with hunger that reminded her of Ron after a lengthy game of quidditch, he tore through plate after plate. For the entire breakfast's duration, his wand never left his hands, as he entertained the two girls with all sorts of silly charms. Hermione wanted to worry, but she kept laughing, and, by the end of their meal, he did look much better. Anastasia, anxious to visit some of her animals, left shortly thereafter, and the two companions were left to themselves.
They spend the day outside, calmly walking the grounds, until Hermione made the mistake of going ahead and then 'whoofed' as a snowball slammed into her back. Whirling around, she gave her compatriot, who looked entirely too innocent for anyone's good, her most contemptuous glare. Attacking from behind – really! She then noticed that one of his hands was hiding behind his back and felt a tingle of magic.
Hermione dodged the second snowball just in time.
"Oh, it's on, mister," she growled, retrieving her own wand to charm three dozen snowballs into an artillery barrage that would have made even the most experienced German bombardier at Verdun proud.
Draco weaved, dodging in his cheating ways (he always had been an slippery git), and responded with his own cannonade. She parried with a wall of ice, feeling smug at the sounds of impact. Not a single one of Draco's snowballs came even close to hitting her. "Ha!" she yelled, victorious, dispelling her cover...
…and falling right into her opponent's trap. During the time her vision had been obstructed, Draco had sprinted forward and lunged at the girl the second her defenses fell. Hermione, with a high-pitched 'eeeeek!', tumbled into the snowdrifts, shrieking from the sudden cold on her neck.
"Prat!" she screamed, trying to smack him on the back as he rolled them over several times, covering their clothes in layers of frosty icing. She ended up on top, and he lifted his head to sneak a quick kiss onto the rosy tip of her nose.
"Nope," he quipped, leaning back with an ear-to-ear grin, "it's Draco, not Chris."
"Oh my… You idiot," she stated with an aggravated roll of her eyes, but then giggled as he tried to tickle her through the fabric of her sleek winter cloak.
They spent the next hours outside, and Anastasia joined them soon after for a battle of bewitched snowmen, although 'snowmen' wasn't the most fitting description for their creations. Draco's monster stomped around on massive hind legs, looking like some T-Rex out of a certain Hollywood franchise. Hermione, just to spite her schoolmate, made a basilisk with one of the ugliest snouts ever. It slithered over the ground, trying to constrict its opponents and lashing out with a whip-like tail. Anastasia claimed the home-field advantage, conjuring a sleek Siberian tiger with fangs and claws of the sharpest ice.
The battle was legendary.
Like Napoleon at Waterloo, Draco gained the initial advantage. Hat askew, and hair waving in the breeze, he brandished his wand like a sword, commanding his army of one as it charged over the snow to chase down its adversaries. With every jab of Draco's weapon, it reached down to snap its massive jaws, the snake and the tiger barely escaping death between its mighty fangs. The blond, believing his battle to be won, smirked triumphantly.
Overconfidence always has been the bane of men. It took one sly look between the two witches, and suddenly the snake and tiger pivoted, now working in tandem. Hermione's creation lunged forward, tangling in the beast's legs, bringing it down with a earth-shattering crash. Pouncing on the back, the tiger raked its claws, cutting deep gouges into the snow-crusted hide. Draco's eyes popped from indignation, his wand a flurry of movement in a futile attempt to save his creation. It was all for naught. Hermione's serpent bound itself around it, constricting any movement, while Anastasia commanded her handiwork to sever the head.
With one final, pitiful roar, Draco's beast shuddered and fell silent. "Cheaters," the wizard complained to no one in particular, watching as the rest of the battle took place. His pout didn't last long, however: soon, he was yelling out advice to Hermione like a spectator at a quidditch match. His zealous strings of "No, go left! Left! No, not now! What are you doing?! Turn!" only succeeded in distracting her. Hermione started yelling back and missed the moment when the tiger dodged an attack, rotated in midair, and sunk its jaws into the serpent's midsection.
"I vin!" Anastasia gleefully hopped up and down.
"Your fault," Hermione growled menacingly to Draco, but then left to give the raven-haired girl her congratulations. The tiger wandered up, purring and rubbing its sides against their thighs, before dispersing into thousands of snowflakes.
Dinner was spent over a small table, where Hermione, recalling Draco's words on pureblood dining etiquette, kept trying to steal her friends' food until they gave in and tried to steal it back. Hogwarts had never had any notable food fights, and Hermione vowed she would find a way to remedy such a travesty. It was much too fun, although she did feel a pang of guilt when the house-elves had to clean everything up.
Still: it was their job, they legitimately enjoyed it, and Anastasia treated them well.
She looked around the room at one point: at the crackling logs in the fireplace, the warm mugs of cocoa in their hands, the soft glow of Draco's eyes, reflecting the light of the flame. She heard the wail of the northern wind outside, buffeting the house, breaking across its exterior like a wave against the bow of a ship. It was cold there, freezing, desolate, but here, between the cozy armchairs and the sounds of laughter, it was warm in more ways than one.
It reached into her very soul.
It was past midnight when they retired, Draco leading her up the stairs. Her pulse was racing, and Draco's palm caressed the small of her back. She traced his jaw and lips before the door closed behind them.
The night was cold, long, and entirely ignored by the young couple. They spent the time learning each other's secrets, succumbing to the reaches of sleep only the when the silver bow of the new moon started to lean below the mountains. It fell, and the sun rose, and they rested together, smiles on tired lips.
. . . .
. . . .
On the dawn of the third day, Hermione heard a rustle in their room, and woke to Anastasia's soft nudges. "She is here," the girl whispered, and Hermione's mind went on full alert. The identity of the 'she' was obvious.
Thirty minutes later, they were trudging across the snow to a small hut near the edge of the Dolohov property. Draco was walking last. When they woke up, Hermione thought his skin was much more pale than usual, but by the time she returned from the loo, his face had regained some of its color. Draco twirled his wand as he walked, keeping up a comfortable warming charm on the three of them. Hermione argued at first, claiming she was capable enough to cast the magic herself, but her – her, oh sweet Circe, labels were immature, but he was her boyfriend, wasn't he? – her boyfriend insisted and she relented.
They marched forward, snow crunching under fur-lined boots. Scores of evergreens, like watchful sentinels, rose around them, boughs bowed to winter's frosty weight. Hermione saw it first: a small dwelling made of carved wood with a spiral of smoke rising from a chimney. Lines of white decorated the exterior, framing the windows. She mistook it for snow at first, but then, at a closer approach, realized the decorations were less than celebratory.
They were bones. Children's bones.
"She is old," Anastasia explained, taking in their apprehensive expressions. "One of the first of my family. Times were… different then."
Hermione stared at the little fingers, skulls and ribs. Magic always had a darkness to it, and the farther one went into the past, the more uninhibited it became. "How old?" she asked.
The Russian girl shrugged. "She married into our family around 800 years ago. How old she was zen, I do not know. But she has cared for us ever since."
Hermione felt Draco walk up beside her and pause. "So she's not human then?" he asked, unsurprised.
"Baba Yaga." Hermione startled. She had heard of the magical creatures; powerful demi-human witches that always played an ambiguous role in Slavic folklore. They could help or harm on a whim.
"And these were…?" Hermione pointed to the scores of bones.
"A vay to prolong her life. To remain beautiful and young. She does not do zis anymore, and it has taken itz toll. Come. You did zis once, my friend."
Hermione turned to give her a quick smile and then a hug. "I did, didn't I?" she whispered into the tresses of Anastasia's raven-like hair, which smelled of edelweiss. "I was right here, and I could have ended this all months ago, if I hadn't been foolish and tried to do it alone."
The witch hugged her back. "You are not alone now," she answered and then let go.
They walked up to the cabin, snowdrifts covering up to half of its walls. Anastasia cleared her throat and rattled off a quick phrase in Russian. Draco sniggered.
"What?" asked Hermione curiously. "What's it mean?"
"Oh, the know-it-all doesn't know?" he teased. She shot him a withering glare. "Alright, alright," he added quickly, as the hut suddenly groaned. "Baba Yaga residences always face away from any guest – it's part of their magic." The noises from the building were increasing in volume, and it started to shudder. Draco continued. "So, whenever you approach one, you have to request entrance, but the phrase is… humorous, in a way."
"How does it go?"
Draco laughed again. "It's something along the lines of 'Hut, oh hut, turn your front to me and your ass to the woods.'"
Hermione snorted. "It does not–" she began to argue, but then the hut rose – actually lifted itself out of the snow on a pair of enormous chicken feet – and laboriously shuffled around, sheets of snow flying off the roof. Draco quickly conjured a soft shield to protect them – the wand had never left his hand.
The hut grumbled one last time and the dropped back down, settling into the snow. The side with the door – framed by more bones – faced them now. The tiny digits rattled as they approached, a drumbeat of death. It might have intimidated someone else, but Hermione thought it sounded tacky.
The door creaked open, and Anastasia walked through. Hermione, taking a deep breath, followed.
Wan morning light filtered in through the windows. Hermione squinted, observing that an additional source of illumination came from a wide stove placed against the back wall. A necklace of garnets – coals – flickered within. Bundles of herbs lined the walls. Their scent was strong, cloying.
"I said that you would return."
A shape emerged from the shadows. The babushka. Bright as topazes, a pair of eyes glittered in the darkness, pupils thin and vertical. Her skin was creased, textured like the bark of a tree. A hooked nose sported several warts above a mouth filled with needle-sharp teeth. The old witch turned to her granddaughter and barked something in Russian. Anastasia hesitated and then, with a quick apologetic look towards her two friends, scampered away.
"I'm sorry?" Hermione asked uneasily.
"You came back." The crone's english had an odd accent. Not Russian, not European, but something old, something… ancient. "Just like the bones foretold."
"The bones?"
The witch reached into the depths of her cloak to withdraw a set of bones. Cackling, she threw them onto the wooden floorboards, sending them spinning to her guest's feet. "The bones never lie," she rasped. "Thus, you are here. You failed your task, girl."
Hermione hesitated before responding. "I did not kill Antonin, yes," she finally agreed.
"You couldn't have. It was not his time." When the brunette didn't respond, the old witch cocked her head and inquired: "You still have no faith in destiny?"
Hermione had the distinct sense she was being tested – and her test-taking radar was rather acute – but she could not fathom a guess as to the test's purpose or methodology.
"I believe in myself," she replied hesitantly. "In my actions and thoughts."
"You have said those words before," came the disappointed response. "You have not learned yet. But you will. The moon is new, and the time is coming. We all have our part to play. I am the crone here, and you – the girl. In the next life, who knows? Maybe I will be the girl, and you – the crone. It has all happened before, and will repeat again and again, till the sun expands only to die in a halo of fire and be reborn." She laughed, eyes burning yellow and black.
Hermione had had enough of this mystical nonsense and snapped: "Since you knew I was predestined to return, have you brewed the potion we seek?"
The witch's laugh cut out. "So eager," she growled, "to receive that which you will not need. Do you insist on acquiring it?"
"I do."
"Then there is the question of payment. What will you give me in return for my blood?"
At a loss, Hermione turned towards Draco. His jaw was stiff, fists clenched. It seemed like he wasn't even paying attention to the scene before him.
"Don't look to the boy," the voice boomed. "Answer! What will give?"
"I…" Hermione cast about for an answer. "I don't know. What do you want?"
"That wasn't the question. Answer the question."
"I don't know!" Hermione cried out. A headache pounded in her head, and the smells from the herbs intensified, making her feel woozy. "I can give whatever is in my power to give! I don't have money, jewels, or any kind of–"
"Material riches pose no interest me. I will take one thing. When you find Antonin, he will show you the future and then try to rip it away. Should you survive the encounter, you will bring it to me."
The world was whirling before Hermione's eyes, and she couldn't focus, not one bit. "Bring you… the future?"
"The future, child, yes. Do you agree?"
"...How can I–"
"That wasn't the question. Do you agree or no?"
Hermione stumbled, holding onto Draco, who felt as cold as ice. "I agree…" she whispered and saw the old witch smile grotesquely.
"Then the potion will be ready in two nights," she said, clapping her hands three times.
By the third clap, the world spun like a dradle, turning black, till only the eyes of the Baba Yaga remained, glowing like gems in the dark.
And then, they were gone.
. . . .
. . . .
Hermione woke up, coughing. Anastasia felt her forehead and then brought a glass of water to her lips. The brunette drunk greedily, till the glass was empty, and then she leaned back with a contented sigh. She was back in her bed. The memories of their trip to the Baba Yaga were foggy, but she knew she had bargained away something precious.
Still, anything was worth finding Dolohov.
She jerked when Anastasia handed her a newspaper. "Babushka said to bring you zis," followed the explanation. Hermione read the headline and gasped. It was The Prophet. "Corban Yaxley Killed!" it proclaimed, and then, lower: "Potter and Weasley Deliver Justice To Victims Of Diagon Alley Attack!"
Every single hair on the witch's body stood on end. Harry! And Ron! They had caught Yaxley! This was huge! She needed to speak with Harry right away – they hadn't been in contact for several days now. Oh, she missed him so!
Maybe Harry could organize a portkey here; they needed to group up for when the blood potion was ready anyway. A quick trip to London with Draco… and then they could all be back here, ready to take on the monster that had terrorized so many for so long. Antonin Dolohov wouldn't even see what hit him.
With a smile on her lips, Hermione jumped up. Her worries receded, till they were just mist in the distance, hazy and unclear. She would see Harry and Ron; introduce – properly introduce – them to Draco, and then they would all be happy.
Nothing could go wrong, she felt.
Nothing at all.