Chapter Two

What seemed like only hours later, Hermione awoke feeling no better, but with the pervasive sense sinking in that someone was watching her. She sat up and pushed her covers away, squinting in the morning light that sliced though the bars of the high and narrow window meters above her head.

The illumination was still sparse, but it was far better than it'd been the evening before; she could at least see her surroundings clearly. She didn't want to turn her head to look toward the source of the prickly sensation, because she had a terrible feeling twisting in her gut that she already knew who it was gracing her with his presence.

"You were asleep quite a long time, Hermione," he said, that icy and commanding voice coming across as oddly conversational.

Her shoulders drooping, she shook her head as she forced herself to look at him. His glasses were nowhere in sight, and a thick growth of facial hair lining his jaw made her wonder just how much time had passed between his goons dragging her from Hogwarts and her waking here last night.

And that unsettling Dark energy still crackled in his green eyes.

She immediately shrank back from him. Instinct sent her hand skittering about in search of a wand, her useless hunt bringing a chuckle out of him. The sound of his amusement sent a chill through her.

"Is that anyway to greet your best friend?"

Hermione forced a hard gulp down her throat, though she had no idea how she managed to hold his gaze as she shook her head. "My best friend is dead."

He tipped his head to one side, a slow grin curving his lips. "Didn't have you fooled for a second, did I?" he asked, one brow arching for a fleeting second as he spoke.

"Of course not," she said, her voice no more than a shivering whisper. "The question is who are you? Are you . . . Tom Riddle?"

That grin widened, a strangely appreciative gleam in his eyes. "You really did have it all worked out that moment you learned what a Horcrux was, didn't you?"

Irritated by the brushoff, she repeated herself. "Are you Tom Riddle?"

"Technically, I should be," he said, crossing the floor to sit on the edge of her bed. He reached out, tapping a finger against the tip of her nose and clearly amused by how the gesture startled her. "But I'm not. Not really. See . . . I've got Harry Potter's memories, and Tom Riddle's memories. Harry Potter's magic, and Tom Riddle's magic . . . and just enough of a soul to tie it all together."

She recoiled further, her back hitting the wall as he leaned toward her. Of course she understood all that—the real Tom Riddle'd had no soul left after halving the remaining fractions so many times to make more Horcruxes after the diary. She simply hadn't realized it was possible for that sliver of Voldemort's soul residing within Harry all this time to have developed an identity all its own.

"What I am is a whole new creature, Hermione. Though, I have found myself quite fond of being called Lord Potter. So I suppose you can still call me Harry, if you like."

"I will do no such thing," she said, an angry frown tugging the corners of her mouth downward. "Because I will never call you anything."

"Ooh." He chuckled, feigning a shiver. "Denying me the acknowledgement of a proper human name. I think both sides of me never fully appreciated precisely how clever you are."

She didn't like being this close to him, not when he had Harry's face and his green eyes crackled, still. "What is it you want with me?"

Reaching a hand toward her, he patted her arm. "Soon enough, Hermione. Now it's time you ate something."

He stood from the bed and as he turned and started away, Hermione couldn't help herself from piping up. "You're going to burn yourself out, you know? The magic of two powerful wizards in one body? Your own magic is going to destroy you."

Glancing at her over his shoulder, he crinkled the bridge of his nose at her—as one might do when they thought a small animal cute. "You let me worry about that, yeah?"

A tall, broad-shouldered wizard with long blond hair passed Lord Potter with a small bow of his head, a covered tray in his hands. She recognized him for precisely the reason she recognized Antonin Dolohov so easily—because he'd previously tried to kill her under orders from the Dark Lord. His expression said clearly that he was no happier to be there than she was to have him there.

She tipped sideways on the bed to look beyond the lumbering Viking of a wizard making his way toward her. "Really? First you send Dolohov to examine me, now Thorfinn Rowle to feed me?"

"And bathe you."

"What?"

The new leader of the Death Eaters shrugged, his features disturbingly serene. "Oh, I wouldn't want you to wound or exhaust yourself while you're still recovering from your injuries . . . or think there's any chance of escape."

She watched as he turned on his heel and walked out of her line of sight. From his direction, she thought perhaps he was going to harass the wounded and bound Fenrir.

Thorfinn set the tray down on her night table before he settled into a chair beside the small bookcase. "G' on," he said with a shake of his head and a dismissive wave of his hand.

Hermione was impossibly relieved that he wasn't actually feeding her. Reaching out with trembling fingers, she removed the lid from the dish and pulled the tray into her lap.

The food could've tasted wonderful or horrid, but her lack of interest in her meal made everything bland. As she ate, her watcher turned his attention to the books lining the shelves, tapping his fingers along the spines. She didn't know if he was simply fidgeting out of boredom, or genuinely interested to see what titles her only source of entertainment bore.

After a few sips of what was probably coffee, she cleared her throat. "You're . . . you're not actually going to bathe me, are you?"

Thorfinn Rowle's blue eyes shot wide as he turned his attention to her. "No. He's just trying to unsettle you."

"He accomplishes that just by existing."

"Oh, you are a right little bundle of sunshine, aren't you?" Thorfinn snickered, shaking his head.

Ignoring any hint of levity, unintentional though it was, she dropped her gaze as she miserably finished her last bite. Every sip of her beverage was slow and measured, though she wasn't entirely certain why she was drawing it out. Maybe she was getting some twisted joy from how visibly irritated he was becoming with her dawdling.

Harmless irritation was really the only weapon at her disposal, wasn't it?

All too soon, there was nothing left in her cup. She set it down reluctantly and turned her attention to him. "I'm finished."

Nodding, he stood, grumping as he crossed the floor to her. Without asking or waiting for invitation, he clamped a large hand around her ankle and pulled her across the bed toward him.

She yelped, slapping and punching him, but her struggle didn't seem to faze him much. Only when she saw him pull the key to her shackle from inside his robes did she drop her hands back to her sides.

He unlocked her binding and brushed the heavy iron cuff aside with a careless flick of his fingers. Hermione wasn't certain if he'd done that as an intentional show of brawn, or hadn't given it a moment's thought at all. Either way, it was all she could do not to skitter backward again as she watched him pocket the key once more.

Eyeing her curiously as her breathing steadied in the wake of her little struggle—whatever spell she'd been hit with on the battlefield must've really done a number on her if she became winded this easily—he braced his fists on either side of her upon the bed. Holding her panicked gaze, he said in a low, threatening tone. "Now, what exactly did you think I was going to do to you?"

Hermione flinched back a little, not liking having his face so close to hers. "How should I know? I don't know if he said 'do what you like with the Mudblood, just don't rough her up too bad.'"

"You should be so lucky, Sunshine."

"Don't call me that."

"So you do still have some fire left in you." He nodded, before promptly scooping her up from the bed and turning on his heel.

"Oh, what is this nonsense, now?" she demanded, once more struggling against him and pretending that she didn't realize his statement meant he and Dolohov had been discussing her.

"Our Lord doesn't want you wasting any strength unnecessarily. So, as you can imagine, until you're all better that means you're getting carried about like a useless little lump."

Recognizing that her fight was ineffectual—and, really, what was she going to do if she did get him to drop her?—she gave up. Folding her arms under her breasts, she pulled in her shoulders, trying to make herself as small as possible in his hold.

He uttered a scoffing chuckle as he started up the narrow, ancient staircase with her. "Look at that, you can become even more compact."

"Is that a short joke?"

Thorfinn shrugged, unable to help himself. Armed, the Mudblood was terrifying. Unarmed, she was sort of amusing . . . and perhaps a hint adorable. "Just a little one."

Hermione turned her head and lifted her gaze to his face above hers. "That was truly awful, you know that?"

"Oh, what are you going to do? Run away from my terrible humor?"

"Letting myself drown in the bathtub so I don't have to hear any more of it comes to mind."

"Not going to happen." He wondered if he should tighten his hold on her preemptively before going on, but decided against it, genuinely curious to see her reaction. "I may not actually be bathing you, but as Lord Potter has already considered you might attempt to escape by drowning yourself . . . I am to keep an eye on you."

Her comparatively tiny frame exploded into motion as she renewed her struggle to get out of his hold.

He let her go on like that as he rounded the landing of the staircase and brought her through the first floor of a place she couldn't be bothered to look at as she fought him. Thorfinn turned again to bring her up another flight of steps when one of her flailing heels caught him in the jaw.

She froze entirely as he halted mid-step. Her stomach iced over and she could swear all sensation was sapped from her extremities as a growl-like sound rumbled in his chest, so very close to her ear.

Huffing out a sharp breath, he set her on her feet, but latched a hand around one of her arms to stop her from running anywhere. He lifted his free hand to his face, wiping at a corner of his mouth with the back of his fist.

Chestnut eyes widening, Hermione tried to feign a no-reaction response when he pulled his hand back to reveal the droplets of crimson on his skin. Her attempt at bravado proved impossible, what with her gut turning itself inside out as she waited for his reaction.

How she was keeping her breakfast in her stomach where it bloody well belonged was beyond her.

Yet, he looked amused. Actually, if she didn't know any better, that slip of a grin curving his lips as he shifted his gaze to meet hers might make her think he enjoyed a little pain.

He dragged her to him and leaned down, so close she could feel the rush of warm air against her cheeks as he exhaled. "It's going to take a little more than that to get on my good side, Sunshine."

Hermione swallowed hard, but kept her mouth shut. She had no idea how to respond to this behavior from him. Though, she did have to wonder if that was precisely what he was aiming for, because he nodded in reply to her silence and scooped her right back up.

As he started up that second flight of stairs with her in his arms, she found her voice. "So, why can't a witch keep an eye on me while I bathe?" Did this weird new Harry-Tom-creature get some perverse joy out of making her uncomfortable?

Oh, wait. He probably did—she wasn't even sure why it had been a question in her mind.

She felt the rumbling of it in his chest as he let out a weighted sigh. "I won't actually be watching you, you brilliant little twit," he said with a shake of his head. "I'm only supervising to ensure you don't do anything stupid. I can do that by listening. Unless you actually want me to watch you in the bath?"

Hermione uttered a scandalized gasp. Again he'd found a way to silence her with a statement.

He dropped his gaze to her face for a moment as he reached the second floor landing. The bloom of color staining her cheeks brought a boisterous chuckle out of him.

"I was elected to monitor you, because apparently you've got a reputation for being . . . fiery. And, as you've just proven that correct, I can understand why sending a witch to make sure you don't have the opportunity to run—or to do something as stupid as trying to off yourself—would probably not be a good idea."

She folded her arms, once more.

"Look at you, getting all tiny again."

She lifted her gaze to his face, her expression angry and soured. "Will you just stop talking already, you . . . Viking!"

Thorfinn snorted a chuckle. "You realize that's hardly an insult, you little ray of sunshine."

"Oh, shut up!" she pleaded, the irony not lost on her that he was calling her little anything while carrying her about as though she were some tiny, helpless thing.

He turned and stepped through an open doorway. Resisting an urge to simply open his arms and let her tumble to the tiled floor, he set her on her feet.

"Towels, fresh robes," he said, pointing to the items out and then to the already filled tub. "Bath, now. I'm giving you ten minutes. If you're not finished by then, I'm coming in to get you."

He didn't step out. Didn't close the door. No, he spun on his bloody heel and put his back to her inside the doorway!

"You're not even going to close the door?"

Thorfinn's head tipped back as he uttered a groan. "Bloody hell! You make everything difficult, don't you?"

She nodded. "If I can manage."

He turned to face her, leaning close to her as he'd done downstairs. "If I have to close this door, it means me standing in the closed bathroom with you while you bathe."

Hermione dropped her gaze to the floor shrugging. "If you can keep your back turned, then I suppose that's fine. Better than every Death Eater under this roof having the opportunity to catch an eyeful."

His eyes rolled so hard the lids fluttered as he squared his jaw. Straightening to his full height, he moved into the room and blindly slammed the door shut behind him. There were so many other things he wanted to be doing right now, and playing watch dog over some jumped up Mudblood was not among them—no matter how important she was to their new Lord's plans.

He pivoted on his heel, folding his arms across his chest as he faced the door. "Ten minutes, or I drag you out of that water."

She didn't need the reminder. Heading straight to the tub, she kicked off her trainers and stripped out of her filthy and torn clothes. All the while, she kept her attention trained on him.

It was a bit of a feat, scrubbing her skin and hair without looking to what she was doing, but she managed. She'd poked herself in the boob with a jagged fingernail by accident, and gotten shampoo in her eye, but the stinging—that she quickly scooped water from the faucet to handle without shutting her other eye—was nothing compared to the comfort of knowing for certain that he wasn't trying to sneak a peek.

Although, in a less serious situation, she understood she might even find the man's ability to not bother trying to look a little insulting.

She didn't know how much time had passed, but she only took as long as strictly necessary to clean herself up—the water was an unsettling dark red by the time she stood from the tub and grabbed the towel. Shaking off the repulsion that came with wondering just how long she'd been that dirty, she focused on toweling herself off.

At the sounds of shuffling and rustling fabric behind him, Thorfinn said over his shoulder, "Oh, damn. And here I was really hoping you'd break the ten-minute mark."

"You really are foul," she said through lightly clenched teeth as she set the towel aside and reached for the robes.

"I really have been called far worse."

Shaking her head, Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled on her robes. God, Harry-mort should just kill her now, sticking her in traditional witch's robes like this without even undergarments, for pity's sake! She hated that the crimson velvet of the robes was actually soft. warm, and quite comfortable. She didn't want him doing anything for her comfort; she wanted everything he did to make her loathe him more.

Of course, his entire policy of keeping her protected and unharmed shat all over that. And she was pretty sure the color of the fabric was selected on purpose, pointing out that she was a Gryffindor witch. All courage and righteousness in a . . . . In a whatever-this-place-was full of Death Eaters.

"I'm decent, now."

"Matter of opinion, that," he said as he opened the door and then turned to face her.

"I hate you so bloody much, you know that?" She scowled at him, but was fully aware how menacing she meant for the expression to be was lost on him.

His broad shoulders shook with his chuckling as he crossed the tiled floor and scooped her up, once more. "Believe me, Sunshine, the feeling is mutual."

She continued scowling, her arms folded and not caring about his short jokes, as he carried her down the two flights of stairs back to the lower level. Before they reached her dungeon-chamber of a room, she found her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Where are we, anyway?"

He spared a moment to glance at her. "France. We are currently occupying an abandoned chateau."

That made sense. The French countryside was quiet and sparsely populated, at best. It was the perfect area to stash a person—or, in this case, several persons—and not be found. "There were no acceptable hiding places closer to home?"

"I suspect he chose this place because it was built on top of this," he said, nodding about to indicate the ancient fortress-style lower level.

As he brought her into her room, she was very irritated to see Antonin Dolohov there. "God! You, again?"

She started struggling once more at the sight of the other Death Eater, but Thorfinn Rowle was not having it. "Sunshine, you kick me in the jaw again and I swear this time I will make you pay for it."

Grumbling and muttering under her breath, she stilled.

Antonin's brows shot up. "I'm actually sorry I missed the first time 'round."

Hermione knew from the way the wizard carrying her had tensed that it took some restraint on his part not to simply drop her on the bed. Now that there were two of them in the room, she accepted that struggling would only be a waste of her energy. She sat quietly as Thorinn replaced the shackle around her ankle and locked it.

"Your turn," the Viking said to the other Death Eater, his tone jovial as he clapped his dark-haired friend on the shoulder. "Have fun."

She bristled at the interaction as she watched Thorfinn stride out of her line of sight—and after a moment, there was laughter from the next chamber.

"What the bloody hell was that about, Greyback?" she yelled before she could stop herself.

"Sorry," he shouted back, the word followed by a pained and rasping cough. "Just . . . picked up on that, was all."

"Picked up on what?" she asked, aware that in her frustration at her situation, she nearly sounded like she was growling, herself. And at a werewolf, for Heaven's sake!

He laughed again, though there was a clear edge of discomfort to the sound. "I'll tell you when you're not so feisty."

Folding her arms under her breasts, for the umpteenth time in the passing of what couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes, she turned her attention to Dolohov. He stood before the exam table and she very much did not like that.

Especially not when he gave her an eloquent look and patted the table.

"Why?" she asked, her exasperation clear in her tone. "Honestly, Dolohov. I swear you just like poking me with your wand!"

Only after the words had fallen from her lips—Antonin's dark brows arching high up on his forehead and another anguished laugh echoing from Fenrir in response—did she realize what she'd said.

Her teeth clenched hard, she balled her hands into fists at her sides on the bed. "God, you two! You know what I meant! Why do I need another examine so soon? You just checked on me last night!"

"Stayin' out of this one," Fenrir said in a whispered shout to the Death Eater in the room.

Narrowed chestnut eyes moved from the wall—which had the snarky werewolf on the other side of it—to meet Antonin's icy-blue gaze. There was a note of concern in his features that worried her.

"That wasn't last night." He shook his head, any responding questions she might've had were silenced as he stepped toward her. Antonin Dolohov knelt before her so that he was actually looking up at her from the bedside. "I'm to examine you because you were asleep for nearly three days."

You were asleep quite a long time, Hermione.

Hermione swallowed hard as her eyes shot wide. She wanted to ask a million questions, but all she could do was gape back at him, wondering what the hell had really happened to her in those final moments just outside the battlefield.