Chapter Three
Holding Antonin Dolohov's icy blue gaze, Hermione shook her head, forcing herself to speak. "Stop looking at me like that; makes me think you actually have the capacity for compassion."
He shrugged. "And there's a chance you'd be right."
She stared at him until he finally rose to stand and retreated to the exam table, once more. "What actually happened to me?"
The slumping of his broad shoulders was visible from where she sat. She watched him as he put his back to her to tinker and fuss with a tray of potions.
"You recall the curse I struck you with during that battle in the Department of Mysteries?"
"Of course," she said, though she made an effort not to touch the too-well-remembered site of impact. "Not sure what makes that day stick in my mind more—Rabastan Lestrange bumbling around with a baby's head, or the scar you left me with."
There was the distinct sound of snickering from the next chamber. "Rabastan with a baby's head," Fenrir said in what seemed a whisper to himself. "Merlin, I wish I'd been there for that."
The witch and wizard ignored the pain-dazed werewolf.
Hermione was far too focused on the way Antonin was looking at her over his shoulder, one jet brow arched in a curious expression. "My curse left you with a scar?"
Her face fell as she held his gaze, blinking stupidly at him. "You mean to tell me you don't know the effects of a curse you crafted yourself?"
Clearing his throat as he gave a shake of his head, Antonin said, "My curse is intended to sear from the inside. No external damage to the victim's body. However, you are the only person to have survived a direct hit from it, so . . . ." He shrugged and turned his attention back to the potions tray.
"I see. This has what to do with me sleeping for three days? Unless you struck me with it again."
"No." He stepped aside, once more patting the exam table.
When he said nothing more, she realized he wasn't going to say another word until she complied. With an indelicate groan rattling out of her, Hermione stood and trudged across the floor to him, the sound of her chain scraping against the stone a bit unsettling.
Stepping around Dolohov, she lifted herself up onto the exam table and folded her arms under her breasts. "Well?"
"Rabastan has always wanted to learn that curse, but he's . . . a bit hot-headed—" Another round of snickers from the other chamber interrupted him.
"Ah, sorry, sorry," Fenrir called out. "She said the whole baby head thing, then you called him hot-headed. Just picturing Rabastan running around with a flaming baby head now."
Now that he'd mentioned it, Hermione couldn't help imagining the same thing. She bit hard into her bottom lip to hold in a giggle. No, no, flaming baby heads were not laughable matters . . . Rabastan having a baby's head that was set ablaze was a different thing, entirely.
Antonin looked serious, but the way he'd folded his lips inward to form a thin line told the witch staring at him that he was probably attempting to hold in a laugh of his own.
With a shake of his head, the wizard drew a sobering breath. "I refused to teach him how to cast it, so he went about crafting his own version based on his observations of mine. He's a bit volatile; tends to give his spells more of a bite than he usually means, or needs, to."
"And so he's the one responsible?"
Antonin nodded. "You're the only person to survive the direct strike of an otherwise lethal attack spell. Twice. Now, it could have been from something you interacted with that night in the Department of Mysteries that might afford you some protection against this sort of curse, or . . . ."
When he left off with a shrug, she couldn't help prompting him—anything to get past the fact that she'd just shared a giggle with a Death Eater and the werewolf who'd wanted to claim her as a prize during the War. "Or what?"
Those pale eyes lifted from the tray he kept fiddling with to lock on hers. "Or it's just something about you."
"Uh-oh," Fenrir chimed in. "Caught that, too."
The witch frowned. "What is he going on about with that?"
With a mirthless smirk, Antonin held up a finger. "Pardon me a moment, would you?"
Unsettled by his formality with her, she simply watched as he pivoted on a heel.
He strode toward the other prisoner. Curling himself around the bend in the wall between the chambers—a moment during which Hermione tried not to notice that the wizard actually had a very nice bum—he proceeded to speak to the werewolf in a hissing, threatening-sounding whisper.
"Fine, fine. I'll be quiet."
Straightening, Antonin huffed out a sigh before turning around and coming back to Hermione. "As I was saying, yes. Your long sleep was on account of your body's need to manage the brunt of the damage Rabastan's curse did to you. The scar must be . . . ." He shook his head, frowning thoughtfully. "I never expected a survivor would have any lasting marks."
"Well, apparently, now I have two, thanks very much."
His expression still thoughtful, he tapped his chin. "May I see them?"
Her brows shot up.
"Your scars," he said, uncertain why she was staring at him as though she hadn't understood a word.
"I know what you meant. Why?"
"Scientific curiosity."
She frowned at him.
Antonin shook his head, his expression serious. "I'm being sincere. You are the only surviving target of this form of magic, and you just presented me with an outcome I had not foreseen. Please?"
Hermione's shoulders slumped. He could always force her to show him, but he was asking. Shaking her head at the unexpected oddity of a Death Eater asking permission for anything, she sighed.
"Fine, but just the one on my back." Swallowing hard, she hopped down off the table. Putting her back to him, she opened her robes and lowered them off her shoulders and down, until she felt the soft velvet bunch at her waist.
Antonin pushed her damp, heavy locks over her shoulder to get a better look. Curiosity getting the better of him, he reached a hand toward the slash mark of seared skin that ran from her left shoulder blade and across to disappear beneath the fabric in the direction of her right hip.
The brush of his fingertips against her scar sent a shiver through her. She wanted to step out of his reach, but the bloody exam table was in her way.
"Could you not, please?"
Her tone made him arch a brow as he continued the delicate examination. "Am I hurting you?"
"No." She cursed herself the moment that word fell from her lips. It was honest, but she didn't want to have to say what the sensation was that made her want him to stop.
"Oh." Clearing his throat, he straightened up. "It does look like a burn. Is that how the other looks?"
Fixing her robes, the witch nodded. "Can we get on with the examination, now?"
"Certainly."
Like last time, he stood uncomfortably close as he examined her. Hermione didn't look at him, her gaze fixed on the stone tiles of the floor beyond his shoulder. Yet, she thought she could sense his eyes flicking up to watch her face as he went about his inspection of her injuries.
Like last time, his hip bumped her knee and as he worked. She didn't know if he even noticed the contact, which only bothered her more since she did.
"You're healing well," he said, stepping back from her. "I'd say no more than a week or two before you're in perfect health again."
"A week or two of being carried about like a useless little lump." She was not pleased with that idea. Maybe she could pester Thorfinn Rowle so much he'd drop her down a staircase and the fall would break her neck!
But no . . . . Her shoulders slumped. The Death Eaters were probably not willing to do anything to anger their new Lord, not with the magic in him so strong it was literally pouring out of him every second.
"Try to rest." With that, Antonin Dolohov turned on his heel and started away.
"Because there's oh so much else for me to do here."
He nodded as he continued on. "I told you to keep that fire. Glad to see you can listen."
She waited for his footfalls to start up the staircase before she hopped off the table. Gathering her chain and the length of her stupid traditional witch's robes in her hands, she made her way along the wall separating her chamber from Fenrir's. She hadn't forgotten about the werewolf's jokes with himself at her expense.
When she peered around the bend in the wall, she found Fenrir Greyback's amber eyes already on her, expectantly.
She also found that he'd not healed in even the smallest measure, despite that it'd been three days since the first time she'd seen him like this.
"Oh, don't look at me like that, Mudblood." He gave an uncomfortable cough as he shifted, his limbs still bound to the bed. He sounded much like she had with Dolohov minutes ago as he tacked on, "Might make me think you actually care."
"Why are you still such a mess?"
"New Dark Lord doesn't want me at full strength," he said, shrugging. "There's a stasis charm keeping me from healing."
A disgusted expression pinched her features. "That's horrible!"
"Yes, well . . . ." He shrugged again. "I did tell you I was stuck down here to be kept alive, didn't I?"
"What for? Why is he doing this to you?" She could not understand what plans this new, twisted version of Harry—Harry-Tom? Hom? Tarry? Rotter? Piddle? Piddle!—had for them.
If he wanted to turn her into a werewolf—which was the only thing that made any sense at all—why did that have to mean keeping Fenrir alive in this horrid state?
"Your guess is as good as mine."
She nodded. No wonder he was preoccupying himself with stupid jokes and finding humor in odd things. He had even fewer options to occupy his mind during their captivity than she did, and a mountain of pain from which to distract himself.
Clearing her throat, she focused on why she'd come over to his side of their happy little dungeon. "Anyway, you said you'd tell me what you found so funny when I wasn't so feisty. So?"
His brows drew upward. "This is you less feisty?"
Again, Hermione nodded.
"Merlin, did I miss out when you got away from Malfoy Manor then, huh?"
She held back on the sudden and sore temptation to poke at one of his wounds. "What made you laugh?" she asked, pushing forward with the discussion, despite Fenrir's verbal antics.
A mischievous grin curved his lips. "Just wondering which one of them you want to shag."
Chestnut eyes shot wide as she gave a start. "Which of who I what?!"
"Oh, sorry," he said, feigning an apologetic look. "I didn't realize you were keeping that a secret from yourself."
"Wh—where would you even get an idea like that?"
"From you . . . and them, incidentally. Werewolf nose."
Unfortunately, Hermione's incredibly logic-based mind immediately pulled together all the information he'd just given her. Most werewolves did not have their canine senses unless they were shifted, but Fenrir Greyback was not most werewolves. He was always a bit closer to the wolf than any other victim of lycanthropy she'd ever heard of or read about.
It was actually very likely, then, that he was able to detect things the humans around him couldn't, were that the case . . . . If he thought she wanted to shag anyone, it meant he'd picked up on an increase in pheromones in the air, caused by arousal. Hers and theirs?
Madness!
"I would sooner chew off my own leg for a chance to escape this place than shag either of them. Now, if you'll excuse me." She spun on her heel, ignoring his mocking expression of disbelief at her words. "You know, I was going to read to you to help you pass the time, but you can forget that, now!"
"You have books over there?"
She paused in the process of stepping away from him. He sounded curious and even a little excited at the prospect. She knew he probably wasn't much of a booklover, but the idea of anything to get around the numbing quiet and solitude was likely more than welcome.
"I was given a small collection of books, yes."
"Okay." There was the distinct sound of him swallowing uncomfortably. "I'll keep my mouth shut, if you read to me."
Hermione glanced back at him over her shoulder. "Really?"
Looking away, he shrugged, shifting against his bed a little. "If it's a good story."
Nodding, Hermione crossed her chamber to her bookcase in search of something they both might enjoy. "I suppose anything with a big bad wolf is out for you?" she called across to him.
Fenrir sputtered out a chuckle. "Actually those are my favorite."
Shaking her head, she drew a thick book of collected fairy tales from the stack. She sat in the chair that big, stupid Viking had occupied while she'd eaten her breakfast, opened the book in her lap and started reading aloud.
He probably got a kick out of it that the very first selection in the tome was Little Red Riding Hood.
Two weeks passed in precisely the same fashion. Piddle harassing her every few days, Antonin Dolohov checking her injuries, and every bloody day, Thorfinn Rowle bringing her meals and carrying her to the washroom or bath when she required it.
Her time spent in the presence of either Antonin, or Thorfinn, and occasionally both, was only made more tense—for her, at least, she knew—thanks to Fenrir's helpful observation. Even as she exchanged verbal jabs with Thorfinn, she couldn't help but be aware of the feel of the muscles in his arms and chest as he held her close to tote her about the chateau.
She was irritated beyond belief that the sound of that ridiculous, boisterous laugh of his occasionally popped into her thoughts for no reason, whatsoever. Infuriated that she'd become accustomed to the scent of him.
Antonin Dolohov's examinations became more about discussing spell mechanics and what ingredients might make certain potions more potent. The smirk that curved his lips when she got snippy with him was beginning to become reason enough to get snippy in the first place. She found herself examining the cool blue shade of his eyes when he wasn't really paying attention.
She stopped shying away from his touch at some point that she couldn't really recall.
Fenrir was good enough to keep his thoughts to himself on these unsettling developments, patiently listening to her reading, as was their arrangement.
The only thing that proved truly unsavory about her current state of being was Piddle's occasional visits.
At the end of that second week, Fenrir interrupted her reading.
"Listen, the next few days, I'm not going to be my charming self."
Forcing a gulp down her throat, she closed the book. "Full moon's coming, isn't it?"
"Yeah. I may not have a good view out a window, and the days have blended together, but I can feel it."
"Are you scared your body won't be able to handle the shift the way it is?"
There was a distinct pause, but then he scoffed. "Scared? Me? You clearly don't know me very well."
She snorted a giggle and shook her head. "Fine. Concerned, then?"
He sighed. Hermione imagined him nodding as he said, "Yeah. Yeah, I am."
Sometime the next evening, Hermione was roused from a nap by the scrape of metal against stone, shuffling and heavy footfalls. It was hard to keep to a regular cycle of sleep when every day was the same. She'd gotten in the habit of catnapping whenever the feeling struck. Opening her eyes, she sat up and pushed back her blanket, quick to get out of bed to investigate the sounds.
Beyond her chamber, in the main body of the old fortress, a cage was being pulled along. Behind the metal bars rested a wolf with a beautiful, snowy-white coat—from its prone state, she imagined it was probably drugged or under the effects of an enchantment.
She could hear Fenrir growling and struggling against his restraints anew. Peeking around the bend, she saw that he'd angled his head on the bed to watch the cage. And he was not happy with the site of the unconscious wolf.
The cage was brought into a chamber beyond Fenrir's. After the spectacle was over, Antonin Dolohov and Thorfinn Rowle emerged from that third section of the dungeon, engaged in some hushed conversation.
They each looked up in her direction at the same time, both falling silent. She didn't like that. Especially not when they passed Fenrir's chamber and entered hers.
Passing her without a word, Thorfinn took up the chair beside the bookcase. Antonin went to the exam table, patting it in reminder, as he always did. They both wore grim expressions that did not bode well, at all.
The Viking kept his gaze trained on the floor and Antonin was silent as he gave Hermione her examination. She couldn't stop her gaze from darting back and forth between them all the while.
Nodding, Antonin stepped back from her. "Perfect health," he said, but his tone was strangely hollow to her ears.
"That is good news." Piddle's voice rang in Hermione's ears as he entered, seemingly on-cue.
She shrank back from him—as did the Death Eaters in the room, despite that they each had much in both height and weight on him. "What are you all doing in here?"
He grinned viciously as he leaned a shoulder against the wall, holding her gaze and folding his arms across his chest. "Waiting."
She didn't have to ask, but she did all the same. "For what?"
"Moonrise."
Hermione didn't have time to process the terror of the expectant way he was looking at her before a pained howl tore from Fenrir's throat.
Without thinking, she jumped off the exam table and started for the other chamber to check on him. The voice of reason in her head screamed at her to hide somewhere, as if it would do any good, but her compassion reminded her that he might very well die simply in the process of shifting—he posed no threat as he was.
"Thorfinn, the Mudblood," the new Dark Lord said in that cold voice as he walked out of her chamber and into Fenrir's.
Thorfinn Rowle's arms closed around her and she was being pulled backward before she could react. "Sorry 'bout this, Sunshine," he said in rough tumble of words as he sat on the bed, securing her in his lap.
Before her eyes, Antonin withdrew a syringe from the potions supplies and disappeared, as well.
"Whatever's happening, please don't!" She struggled and fought against Thorfinn's hold as she pleaded.
"We're not being given a choice," he whispered through clenched teeth. Lowering his mouth to her ear, he continued, "Now stop squirming like that or you and I are about to get a lot closer."
The sound of whimpering echoed through the chamber as Hermione stilled. Turning her attention toward the awful noise, she saw the man who was once her best friend dragging a shifted Fenrir Greyback in by the scruff of his neck.
The werewolf winced and whined as he moved along on all fours, the wizard's grip on him visibly unforgiving.
Antonin returned, the syringe full of what Hermione thought looked like blood plasma from the thick cloudiness of the yellowish liquid. He appeared exactly as contrite as Thorfinn sounded.
The golden-haired wizard tightened his arms around her as their Lord Potter dragged the werewolf closer.
She started struggling again, but the horrible man caught her wrist in an iron grip with his free hand. Barely coherent streams of words left her lips as she tried to pull her arm from his grasp.
Antonin and Thorfinn both averted their gazes as Potter dragged the injured werewolf just a bit closer . . . . And forced Fenrir's fangs into Hermione's skin.
She threw her head back against Thorfinn's shoulder and screamed, the pain of the bite searing through her.
Even after the fangs had been withdrawn, and Harry was pulling the poor creature back to his chamber, she couldn't stop the anguished shrieks tearing out of her throat.
Antonin crossed to her, his head shaking and his mouth pressed into a firm line as he took her wrist, his hold tight but not unforgiving as his Lord's had been. "I'm so sorry," he said, his voice barely audible.
Thorfinn winced on her behalf, murmuring in her ear even as she screamed. "Brace yourself, Sunshine. This probably isn't going to tickle."
Inserting the needle into the open wound, the dark-haired wizard muttered to himself in Russian as he injected the liquid into her blood stream.
Antonin's curse and Bellatrix's Crucio had nothing on the blinding sensation that coursed through the witch's veins as she screamed again.
Slowly, the pain began to recede. She became aware of a soft, rolling blackness edging her senses.
Thorfinn Rowle cradling her, and Antonin Dolohov on his knees before her to stare up at her, she twitched and trembled. The sensation of sweat beading on her skin made her itch a little.
Closing her eyes, she gave into that soft blackness and lost consciousness.