Chapter Four

Hermione dragged open her eyelids, her vision fuzzy and her ears ringing. Her throat was dry and her lungs felt like they were made of sandpaper.

Swallowing hard—and wincing at the sensation—she struggled to sit up, but found she did not have the strength. There was the sound of a steady thudding beneath her ear, but beyond that, she heard howling, deep and mournful, and the sound of growling and struggling from the chamber beside hers.

She tried to, at least, raise her head, but there seemed a weight pressing to the top of it, holding her in place from even that small movement. Blinking hard to clear her blurry eyes, she noticed a tangle of blond locks not far from her face.

Though she wasn't quite certain how, she managed to lift her hand and reach toward the golden strands, threading her fingers through them as her brow furrowed in question. The effort was exhausting and she just as quickly let her hand fall back into her lap.

Turning her head beneath the weight atop it, she saw Dolohov in the barely-there light of her chamber. He was in the chair beside her bookcase, looking rather uncomfortable as he snoozed there.

The sight brought her last memories thundering back to crowd her mind. The wolf, poor battered and transformed Fenrir, that awful injection . . . .

Now stop squirming like that or you and I are about to get a lot closer.

Thorfinn Rowle's whispered voice in her ear as he held her. That mingled look of pain and concern in Antonin Dolohov's eyes as he watched her from the bedside.

Thorfinn Rowle holding her?

In an instant, the thudding beneath her ear and the tangle of gold in front of her face made sense. At some point after she'd passed out, he'd clearly shifted across the bed to rest his back against the wall, still holding her. Either she'd moved or he had, but now she was sideways in his lap, curled into a ball against him. Her cheek pressed to his chest, she realized the weight atop her head was his chin and that thudding the beat of his heart.

Her frame sagged and her eyelids drooped. She'd barely done much of anything just now, but still the minimal activity drained her, and in moments, she was drifting back to sleep.

She must've shifted again, because she became distinctly aware of the sensation of his heartbeat pounding against her spine. Hermione made a little rumbling sound of satisfaction deep in her throat in response as he sank his fingers into the hair at the back of her head and curled them into a fist.

Tilting back her head, he lowered his mouth, the tip of his tongue and the very edge of his teeth tracing along the pulse just below her ear. His free hand tore at her robes, pulling them from her easily.

She shivered at the rush of the cool night air against her exposed body. She tried to shift back into the heat of his solid form behind her, but he held her there, chuckling as the contrast of his warm breath against her throat raised goosebumps along her skin.

"Oh, no, no, Sunshine," he said when she tried again, his lips moving against her ear as he whispered. "You're not the one in charge, here."

Hermione met his gaze over her shoulder, a growl edging her words as she asked, "You're in charge, then?"

With a savage grin, he nodded, shifting beneath her so that she felt the hardness of him against her.

The sensation stole her breath a moment. Licking her lips, she swallowed before she managed to say, "Prove it to me."

He pulled her back against his chest, stealing a hungry kiss before pushing her forward, again. Tightening the fist in her hair, he used his grip on her to force her from his lap and onto her knees on the bed.

Rising up behind her, Thorfinn moved her again, until she was bracing her elbows against the mattress.

A delicious coil of anticipation unwound low in her belly as she heard the rustle of fabric. She shivered in his hold, aware that he was using his free hand to open his robes.

But the Viking of a wizard proved to be a dreadful tease as he, instead of entering her, sank into her with only his fingers.

She turned her head as much as she could in his grasp, baring her teeth at him, even as he withdrew his hand and sank into her a few more times. "Stop teasing right this minute!"

He met her gaze, his expression severe. "Thought I told you I was in charge?"

"Thought you realized you're only in charge if I let you be!"

Withdrawing his fingers for the final time, he nodded. "You have a point there, Sunshine. Was just checking that you're ready for me."

Yet, he held back again, and she knew it was deliberate. A show that he still had some power in this.

Only when she uttered a pained groan and arched her back, lifting herself toward him, did he give in. Positioning himself with his free hand, he thrust forward, entering her.

Hermione started awake, panic and dull terror washing through her as she fought against the arms holding her. She couldn't seem to recall where she was or how she'd gotten there.

All at once, the memories flooded back as she found herself still curled sideways in Thorfinn's lap. Antonin Dolohov had risen from the chair where he'd slept and was standing beside the bed, watching her with concern evident in his pale eyes.

Her robes were still on her, not a stitch of the fabric torn, and muted sunlight sliced through the bars of her window.

Only a dream . . . . She frowned as she allowed her weary arms to drop into her lap and gave up her struggle. Just a safe imagining. Then why the bloody hell did I have to wake up right at the good part?!

She tried to focus though, giving her head a shake as she blinked hard. Thorfinn was talking to her, as was Antonin . . . or perhaps they were talking to each other? For a few heartbeats, she couldn't make sense of their words.

But it was daylight, which meant her fellow prisoner was human again—or as human as Fenrir Greyback could be. Yet, with how terrible he'd looked last night, shifted but wounded so extensively . . .

"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."

"Greyback?" she called, aware her voice was tight with fear.

"Worried about me, Mudblood?" The werewolf shouted back, followed by that awful pained coughing that choked out of him whenever he raised his voice.

"Not anymore," she said, even as she blindly tried to shy away from one of the Death Eaters with her pressing a palm to her forehead.

"Good. You should save your strength, anyway. No need to fuss over me when you're dreaming what you just did."

She slapped the hand away. "How did you—?" She scowled, saying the words at the same time as Fenrir did, "Werewolf nose."

Someone caught both her wrists in one hand and she finally looked up to see Antonin as he once more pressed a palm to her forehead. Avoiding her gaze, he looked to Thorfinn. "No good. The potions didn't help, either; she's burning up."

"Shit," the Viking holding her said from between clenched teeth.

Antonin reached around her, carelessly invading Thorfinn's personal space as he fished inside the other wizard's robes to retrieve the key to her shackle. "I have an idea, it's a little archaic, but it might do the trick. C'mon." He shook his head, a frown tugging at his lips as he unlocked her.

Hermione didn't have time to ask, or voice a protest, before she found herself in the air and being carried from the chamber.

As they moved toward the staircase, Antonin glanced back at her. Something in his gaze . . . . she must be hallucinating from her fever, she decided, as the way he was looking at her hurt a little.

There was a jab of guilt that she'd dreamed such a thing about Thorfinn while Antonin slept only two meters away.

Oh, she must be sick for either part of that thought to make sense!

Yet, as Thorfinn followed Antonin up the staircase and through the house to the next flight of steps, he seemed to refuse to look at her. The rare occasion his gaze skittered down to touch upon her face, he would immediately snap his attention away, again.

With a confused pout, she puzzled over that for only a moment. Even that was longer than it should've taken her, but her head felt cloudy.

Fenrir's comment about knowing what she'd dreamed, and the way both of the Death Eaters who's shared her sleeping space were looking at her suddenly made her wonder . . . . Had she made telling noises about that horrifically inappropriate dream while it was happening?

A shiver wracked her, just in time to stop her from cursing aloud at her own wayward imagination.

Antonin stormed into the bathroom ahead of them and headed straight for the tub. Running the water, he produced his wand, casting mild freezing charms at random intervals to chill the water without turning the entire tub into a block of ice.

When she realized what that archaic idea he'd mentioned was—her reactions dulled from her fever—Hermione started struggling, again. The shock alone was not something she thought she could manage. "No, no, no! Please don't put me in there!"

Surprised by the outburst from the weakened witch, Thorfinn scrambled to keep a hold of her.

Uttering a little sound of anger, Antonin stomped over to them. He clamped his hands on either side of her face, forcing her to look at him. "You are reacting to the experiment badly. Potions haven't worked, healing spells haven't worked; it's the only thing left I can think to do!"

It seemed beyond her capacity to believe that Antonin Dolohov was trying to save her life, but there it was. She shivered again, forcing a nod even as tears threatened at the prospect of being put in that tub.

His expression softened a little as he nodded back.

But then he stepped aside and motioned toward the tub, his gaze meeting Thorfinn's over her head. "Put her in."

Lord Potter looked up from the book he was studying at the now-familiar sound of Hermione Granger screaming. With a weary sigh, he shook his head and closed the book.

Setting it aside, he rose from the tattered chaise in the second floor study and started toward the sound. The screams quieted as he got closer, but were replaced by uncomfortable groans.

He stepped into the bathroom, arching a brow at the sight of the soaked witch sitting in the tub, fully-robed and shivering. Dolohov knelt beside her, patting her face with a damp wash cloth as he spoke to her in a hushed tone.

Rowle stood by, his arms folded and his expression strained as he looked on. Oddly, the large wizard's hair and the top half of his robes looked wet, possibly as though the diminutive witch might've tried to drag him into the water with her.

"Someone want to explain this mess to me?"

Hermione muttered notably angry sounding words, but didn't even look at him. Dolohov paused in his ministrations as his pale eyes snapped up to lock on his Lord's face.

Clearing his throat, Rowle spoke up. "Trying to bring down her fever, My Lord. Nothing else was working."

His face pinching in displeasure, Lord Potter turned on his heel to pin the other Death Eater with his crackling, green-eyed gaze. "Is it helping?"

Swallowing hard, Dolohov pressed a palm to her forehead, then touched the back of his hand to each of her cheeks, followed by the sides of her throat. He let out a heavy breath as his shoulders slumped, nodding.

"Good. Can't believe you didn't stop this before she got this bad, Dolohov!"

Antonin closed his eyes. "My Lord, I swear I tried—"

"I have no use for your excuses. She is too important!"

"Why is that?" Hermione's voice, small and shivering as it was, seemed to cut through the room.

All three wizards turned their attention to her. She was looking into the icy water in which she was submerged, ignoring the tremors wracking her, her darkening lips shivering.

"Why am I too important?" she asked, clarifying. "You've already done whatever it was you wanted to do to me, right? So what's the point in keeping it a secret now?"

With a quiet exhalation, he crossed the floor. Stooping to his knees behind her, he draped his arms around her shoulders, laughing when she shuddered at the touch, especially since she was clearly too weak to fight him off.

"Oh, dear Hermione, we still have to wait and see if it even worked," he said, his mouth disturbingly close to her ear—she could actually feel the brush of his facial hair against her skin. "Which probably won't even be obvious until the next full moon. Your body needs time to adjust to what it is, now."

"You turned me into a werewolf, didn't you? What's so special about that?"

"If this works," he went on in a cooing tone, his fingers dipping around her to drag in the chilled water, "then you will be so much more than a simple werewolf."

She lifted her gaze, meeting Antonin's and then Thorfinn's, before dropping her attention back to the water. "Because of the blood plasma you injected me with from that wolf? Is she special?"

Piddle chuckled in her ear. "Tell me, Hermione . . . . How did you know that wolf was a she?"

Her brow furrowed as she thought on that. "I—I didn't. I just . . . guessed."

"Tell you what, you will be observed closely as this moon passes and the next draws near. The more signs I have that my experiment is a success, the more tidbits of information I will give you about what I've done."

She was frustrated by the lack of answers, but relieved that he slipped his arms from her and stood.

"Get her out of there before you undo the help you just gave her," he snapped before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

A few strained heartbeats of silence ticked by before Thorfinn grabbed a towel. He tossed it to Dolohov. "Can you manage her while I go pester the witches about fresh robes for her?"

Antonin nodded, not moving until the other wizard left the room. Draping the towel over his shoulder, he stood, holding his hands down to Hermione.

Gripping her fingers around his, she pulled herself from the water on unsteady legs. She wobbled as she stepped from the tub, her soaked robes making a hell of a mess on the tiled floor, she was certain.

"Could . . . could you look away?"

He only stared at her a moment, blinking, before he realized why she was asking. "Oh, oh. Sorry." Clearing his throat awkwardly, he turned away once he was certain she could stand on her own for at least as long as relieving herself of her drenched clothing would take.

Hermione bit hard into her lip as she tried to control the way her body was shaking. She pulled off the sopping robes and immediately grabbed the towel from where it hung over his shoulder.

Not wasting the time to dry her skin, she simply wrapped the warm, fluffy cotton around herself. The towel was large enough that it covered her from under her arms to below her knees.

"Okay."

Turning to face her, he kept his gaze averted. "Do you think you can walk on your own?"

"Oh, I certainly think—" She cut herself off as she took a step and her legs gave way beneath her.

Antonin swooped down, catching her before she could hit the floor.

"Okay, I apparently think not," she said, shaking her head. Bloody hell, she was really starting to hate this damsel in distress bullshit Piddle was forcing her to go through.

"Probably won't be as smooth of a ride as being carried by Rowle, but c'mon." Despite his words, he scooped her up rather easily and started from the room.

Hermione kept her mouth shut on whatever he might've been insinuating with his comment. She had no idea what she may or may not have said in her sleep, and really thought perhaps she didn't want to understand why he seemed upset with her, or why she felt guilty.

They were silent as he carried her down the stairs and through the chateau's first floor. With a hushed sigh, she put her cloudy head down on his shoulder and closed her eyes. The motion was making her dizzy.

Down the next flight and into her chamber, he continued.

"She all right?" Fenrir asked in a whispered shout.

"She'll live; now you hush up and rest."

The werewolf grumbled something unintelligible but then feel quiet.

Antonin settled her on her bed. Though he appeared reluctant about the action, he secured the shackle around her ankle before carefully pulling the blankets up over her. As he stepped back, he was surprised to find her stopping him, her delicate fingers circling his wrist.

Meeting her gaze was a mistake, he realized, especially with her chestnut eyes swimming as they were.

"Please don't leave me alone," she said in that same small and shivering voice she'd used upstairs.

Nodding, Antonin tried to step back toward the chair, but she clung tighter to his arm, her head shaking.

Hermione understood she was being forward, but she couldn't help it. She knew she needed the comfort—and the body heat.

"You're sure?"

She nodded, tugging on his wrist.

Letting out a breath, he carefully laid himself on the bed beside her, but stayed above the covers even as he gathered her into his arms.

He ignored the awareness that Thorfinn would be there with her fresh, dry robes any moment as the exhausted witch fell asleep against him. Eyeing the chamber's wide entryway, he listened carefully.

Footfalls sounded at the top of the steps, and he took the moment this left him to press a kiss to the top of her damp hair.