The insidious scent of pine and freshly turned leaves and sunlight through the trees imprinted on her bare flesh where Antonin's hands and mouth painted her with his possession. Currently his lips were on Hermione's throat and she was immersed in the spill of his short, dark curls.
"Why do you smell like that?" The thought streamed out with her breath, her whole body loose and languid as though on a pool float. He pulled away and his hair tickled her nose.
His grey eyes were still swallowed up by the New Moon of his irises as he frowned down at her. "Is it offensive, my love? I will endeavor to correct it if so."
"Not at all. You just… smell like the forest. Sometimes the forest and fire, and firewhiskey even. But always the forest." She played at a dangling ringlet, absently twirling it around her fingers. It was odd, Hermione mused. Most of the people close to her in life didn't have curls. Harry's hair was a mess, but wavy at best. She got her curls from her father, and his were cut short. Was this why others loved playing with her curls? It was quite fascinating, and all curls seemed about as dissimilar as they were alike.
A fond smile played along his lips as Antonin studied her. "Perhaps because we are surrounded by forest." At the parting of her lips, he chuckled and cupped her cheek. "I have lived around forests my entire life, and always enjoyed my forays beneath the trees." Thoughtfulness tugged at his brows. "Would you like to take a walk with me?"
"In the forest?" Her voice rose in a hopeful chime. "Yes, please! I would love that."
Antonin's mile unfurled completely as he lowered his lips to take her own, tongue sweeping through the cavern of her mouth. His hands slipped the buttons at her front, diving into the tempting flesh of her breasts to knead and grasp. He was eager to taste her gratitude, settling a brutal rhythm over her.
"Sweet Hermione," he groaned, pulling her legs over his shoulder to pound into her, tight grip bruising the soft skin of her hips, nails digging in to the point of blood. "You take me so well, kitten."
Bent double, hair clinging to her from sweat, Hermione couldn't help but think the price worthwhile; she was going to go outside.
Antonin tugged a light cloak across her shoulders, securing it with a shining enamel pin fashioned in the shape of a rose. He'd provided Hermione with sturdy boots that morning and her heart had raced into a hum as she laced them over her ankles.
"Are you ready?" He brushed back her hair and she nodded. "Very good." He held out his arm to her and led toward the front door; it swung open to reveal gilded emerald light streaming and they passed into it, Hermione's breath shallow as a koi pond and thoughts excitedly darting like the fish therein.
The sky was open, more open than she had even noticed before. It climbed overhead with grey and white clouds piled atop each other and stopped only where the trees began. And the trees passed into the distance until they disappeared into velvety shadow.
It was beautiful and terrifying and Hermione was small in the face of nature's vastness.
Antonin squeezed her hand, grounding her back into her body and she favored him with a wan smile. They began their walk, his weight beside her tethering her perspective so she didn't have an anxiety attack.
How odd. Hermione had never felt this way before. She knew what the sensation was though; it had an individual name. Agoraphobia. Fear of places where one may be unable to escape, including open spaces, crowds, even bridges. Hermione had never particularly suffered from it, but now she thought she might.
Deep breaths, Hermione. Use reason. You are no more in danger here than you are in the manor, familiar though it may be. Breathe. She was supposed to enjoy this, so she set about immersing her study in the details of the experience.
The air was crisp with the cool lick of the wind, finely woven through with the bitter tang of growing things, and laced with a reminder that snow would follow on the heels of golden leaves. It was nearly September, and she was wistful over the buried grief of loss.
Brown earth shown between patches of detritus, which crinkled drily underfoot. It was satisfying, the crunch beneath the firm tread of her boots.
"This way, love. This is a good route." It was worn through the forest by decades or more of feet leading through it as Antonin led her now.
He was stroking the back of her hand with his right hand fingers, gently running over the little bones there. It was in moments like this that Hermione could easily forget the beast that wore men's clothing, how it bubbled out in the darkest moments to invade her, to twist her, to mould her to itself. He was every inch the gentleman, attentive and kind, full of soft smiles for her. He wanted to hear what she was reading, would discuss it in depth. His touches in the light of day were brushes of the cheek or a hand on her thigh. And he was handsome.
She could almost hear the sighs of her previous classmates, how they'd swoon over his ruggedly handsome features and his noble mannerisms. Hermione was lucky, she was sure they'd say. What girl wouldn't want his attention?
And beneath her dress were the signs of his attentive nature, no length of skin bare mark of his ownership. When the visage of a man was shucked, he worshipped her with all the cruel intent of a pious inquisitor.
His gentle touch guided her through the thickening trees until his manor disappeared entirely, but still the little footpath went on. "Here, just up ahead."
Hermione glanced askance at him with her eyebrows pinched, but his chin thrust forward to indicate the looming shadows ahead. There appeared to be a clearing, though solid grey obelisks and slabs of stone sent long velvet black patches across the barren earth. It took a moment for the shapes to click in her head.
A graveyard.
"The first grave here is my grandmother. She was the first to pass after my father's family emigrated to England." His gesture swept to the grandiose testament over that one and the one beside her, almost a marker to the entrance. "And my grandmother, of course. An aunt who died too young to be married, poor thing." Dolohov's fingers skimmed solemn stone as they passed each marker. "My father and mother. We will be buried beside her."
Shivers passed through Hermione at his words, but her skin froze completely as she took in little slabs laid in the earth. There was a name and a single date on each.
"Ah, yes. My would-be siblings. As I said, my mother miscarried multiple times. There were stillbirths and infants who did not survive more than a scant few hours. Hardly, at that. My father took a single glance at them and knew they would pass. My mother, soft soul, insisted on magical baptism and naming for each, as well as a full burial." Concern ghosted over his rigid features, the whisper of memories where a young boy held a weeping woman's hand as a shrivelled bundle was lowered into the hard ground. "My father refused to attend after the third. He didn't come out here until it was time to lay down my mother."
Antonin was stroking his mother's headstone. Annika Borisovna Dolohova. She'd died at thirty-six, so young for so many little graves weighing the ground surrounding. Hermione had a flash of imagination through her stream of thought; a sad woman with dark curls and grey eyes staring out a window of the manor, a black veil shielding her delicate features.
"I didn't imagine there would be so many." It was hushed over the hallowed grounds, not daring to disturb the slumber of those interred.
A hand cupped her cheek. "Wizarding pregnancies are difficult, and young children fragile. My father wished for multiple heirs to carry on his legacy should anything befall me." His lips brushed her curls. "I have no desire to keep my witch in such a way as my mother was- always pregnant, always hidden, always grieving. After three attempts, perhaps four, whether fruitful or not, we will be finished."
There was that word, we , ringing in her ears. The rhyming three thrummed along in counterpart."
"Did your parents struggle to conceive, katyonok ? Those things can run in family lines." Her stomach wound into a tight ball of steely wire even as she gave a terse shake to the negative. "Yet you are an only child. Why?"
She shrugged, voice flat with the effort to ignore her churning gut. "It's different for muggles. There are sciences to help conception, and young children rarely pass. My parents had me when their practice was already established, so they were not as young as many others and decided not to risk pregnancy, as age can add complications."
"When do muggles stop having children? Surely your parents were not so old?
"Well, most women go through menopause around their fifties, I believe, but most women are through having children by then, I imagine. Mid-thirties is considered older for first-time mothers. My mum always said that was ridiculous."
"Truly?" Dolohov's brows had climbed his forehead in incredulity. "Wizarding women have children well into their fifties, and wizards much older than that." He pondered, tapping forefinger to lips. "I would rather not become a father much later in life than I am now." Antonin wrapped an arm around her and whirled toward the path. "Come, kitten. I don't wish to tire you with this outing, and we still have the rest of the day."
Hermione nodded and allowed him to lead her back through the autumnal world and into the safety of his home.
