Chapter Five
Hermione awoke in a haze to the unfamiliar—although, becoming less so by the day, it seemed, what with how she'd last woken up cradled in Thorfinn Rowle's lap—feeling of arms around her. She lay curled on her side, her head pillowed on a chest, the steady thudding of a heart beneath her ear.
But it was not Thorfinn's heart. She didn't know how she was so certain, but she could simply tell it was a different sound, a different . . . resonance. She wasn't even certain that made sense.
The fuzzy memory of asking Antonin Dolohov to stay with her drifted through her mind.
She moved her head, her cheek rubbing against his chest as she lifted her gaze to look at him. The darkness of the room told her easily it was night, but she had an odd sense she'd have known even if she'd kept her eyes closed. Despite the lack of illumination, however, she could see he was sleeping.
She could hear the fitful breaths of Fenrir in the next chamber; it sounded like he'd managed to fall into a restless slumber. God willing, he'd manage to get some genuine sleep—she hated that Piddle had turned her life so upside down that she could feel sympathy for Fenrir Greyback—as she was not sure how much longer his body could hold out while he was kept in that constant, terrible, state of not-healing.
Thorfinn, however, was not here. Hermione didn't need to scan the surrounding darkness to know, she could just feel that he was, instead, on one of the floors somewhere above their heads. She wasn't sure how she knew, she simply did.
Just as she knew it felt odd that he was not down here with her and these other two males.
She pushed it out of her mind as her gaze traced over Antonin's features. Tomorrow she could puzzle over these bizarre, unfamiliar bits of awareness.
He was so calm, serene—she supposed that should be no surprise as he was sleeping . . . . But he was sleeping so peacefully with a witch he'd twice tried to kill in his arms. Perhaps that sort of thing was nothing new for Death Eaters?
In a way, she thought him rather an odd looking creature. Some of his features were so delicate, almost feminine, but not in any way that could actually be mistaken for female. Maybe it was his jaw . . . . He had a very strong jaw, almost too-wide to suit his face.
Hermione didn't notice that she was shifting against him. Unaware she was moving at all, she lifted herself slowly toward the object of her scrutiny.
Actually, now that she was thinking about it, it was a rather lovely jaw.
Antonin's pulse quickened as he awoke to the sensation of teeth raking his skin. Snapping open his eyes, he angled his gaze downward.
There was Hermione, her own eyes closed in a serene expression as she nipped and bit at his jaw and his chin as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
He knew this was a result of their Lord Potter's experiment, reason told him that. But he had not expected her more . . . feral instincts to kick in so fast.
And, though he knew he should stop her, he wasn't so certain he wanted to. Especially not now as, between nips, she darted out her tongue to stroke his skin.
Antonin exhaled sharply, willing his arms not to hold her tighter to him. He really didn't want to stop her, but he knew she'd probably kill him the next time he fell asleep in her presence if he didn't.
She shifted her body against his and he winced. Oh, yes, he definitely needed to put a stop this now, as she was quickly pushing him toward a point of being unable to reason with himself.
Opening his arms wide, allowing her the freedom to pull away—as he was certain the sound of his voice was going to startle her into backing away from him—he said, "Hermione?"
The witch made an unhappy rumbling noise in the back of her throat and tilted her head. She scraped her teeth along the pulse below his ear and shifted against him again, as though trying to get closer, still, through the layers of quilt and towel and clothing separating them.
He sank his teeth into his bottom lip, holding in a groan as he let his head roll back against the pillow. This was it, he thought, as he felt her delicate fingers curl into the fabric of his robes, this was how she was going to get him back for those previous attempts on her life, because this was surely going to be the death of him.
God, he didn't want to stop her . . . . but he was aware she'd never forgive him in the morning if he didn't. Just a short while ago, he could not imagine caring about forgiveness, or the next morning. Dear Lord, this witch was ruining him.
Slipping his fingers around her wrists, he pried her hands from his robes as he said again, "Hermione."
"Hmm?" Finally lifting her head, she opened her eyes, an obvious haze in them as she met his gaze.
Furrowing his brow he only watched her as that haze cleared . . . . As she realized what she'd just been doing.
"Oh, God," she said, pulling back and tugging her wrists from his grasp. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what just came over me!"
Yet, her words seemed lost on him. Hermione frowned, wondering why his brows had shot up, his gaze having diverted from her own rather rudely.
Then she realized she did not feel the twisted tuck of the towel over her breasts. Following his line of sight, she saw that not only had her towel fallen open, but when she'd pulled back from him, it created a gap in the quilt . . . giving him full view of her lady-bits.
With a startled gasp, she covered herself with one arm and shoved against Antonin's chest with the other. He tumbled backward off the bed, letting out a surprised oof as he hit the floor.
Looking about, she saw the witch's robes Thorfinn had brought for her draped across the foot of the bed. Which meant he'd seen her asleep in Dolohov's arms. She imagined that was going to make things no less tense with him than they'd been with Antonin yesterday after she'd awoken from that highly inappropriate dream about Thorfinn.
She muttered a half-arsed apology as she snatched up the robes and hurried to struggle into them.
"Ow . . . ." Antonin said with a frown as he pulled himself to sit up.
"Oh, my God, you two!" Fenrir's voice was the sound of exhaustion itself as it carried across from his chamber into Hermione's. "I hope you're more quite than this when you actually get around to shagging!"
She bared her teeth—Antonin might not have noticed the ferocious expression if he'd not been staring up at her, the vantage point allowing him to catch the flash of her teeth in the darkness—as she hollered at the injured wolf, "Really? Funny, seems like you'd be the type to want that sort of activity to be loud enough for you to overhear."
He chuckled. "Oh, not in my current situation, being immobilized and all, you feisty little brat!"
The witch snickered, but the sound was edged with a rumbling tone . . . more like a growl. Antonin swallowed hard, aware rather suddenly that he was in a catacomb with two werewolves. She was not anywhere close to turning, yet, but . . . .
He watched her laughing, heard Fenrir's continuing chuckles, as though they were sharing some joke he hadn't heard. Dear God, he was so stupid!
"I have to go," he said, scrambling to his feet.
Hermione shot out her hand, instinct ruling the action. Only when her fingers were latched around his wrist did she seem to notice what she'd done.
Swallowing hard, the mirth of only a moment ago faded from her eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I keep doing that."
His shoulders slumping, he patted his free hand over hers as he extracted his arm from her grip. "I think I do, but I need to perform another exam. In the morning, for now you need to rest."
She nodded, letting him set her hand in her lap. She couldn't believe she wanted to protest, but she didn't want to be down here alone. Fenrir was with her, but she could not get close enough to him. She didn't want to be without Antonin or Thorfinn, and how stupid was that! She was not dependent on them in any such way, so why did she feel like this?
Hermione needed to think and it was quite clear her brain was exhausted. There was also the chance she might not be able to think straight as it was around either of them right now, anyway.
He was right, she needed to rest.
Holding his gaze, she pulled up her quilt and settled into her bed. "Goodnight."
Antonin nodded as he backpedaled toward the mouth of the chamber. "Goodnight." Only when he stepped into the wider, main chamber of the catacomb did he finally turn away from her to start for the staircase.
After his footfalls reached the top of the steps and vanished into the first floor of the chateau, Fenrir said, "You could've made him stay."
"I know, but it wouldn't have been right."
Fenrir fell quiet—blessedly—and Hermione puzzled over her behavior, over her strange new feelings and thoughts. She wanted them all close. And she was just barely refraining from standing up on her bed to put her face between the bars of her narrow window.
The only coherent notion from that was that the scent of the wind through the grass and trees outside might calm her. It was the same reason she wished she could go into that chamber beyond Fenrir's and assure herself that the beautiful white wolf she'd seen was all right.
She actually thought she could hear its soft, slumbering breaths even from this distance.
"Greyback?"
"Mudblood?"
Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced a gulp down her throat. "What's happening to me?"
Surprisingly, he was quiet for a while—surprising, because he seemed to have no shortage of things to say at any given moment—before he said, in a somber tone, quite unlike anything she was used to hearing from him, "I think you already know."
There. Just another sign of how utterly the thing inhabiting her best friend's still-breathing corpse had twisted her life into something completely unrecognizable that she'd just heard sympathy for her in Fenrir's tone.
Hermione bit her lip to hold in a sob as she turned on her bed to bury her face in her pillow.
"Had a nice nap, did you?"
Antonin could not be bothered to look up as he scanned the notes he'd been making since the start of this mess. He'd kept detailed account of every examination he'd performed on her over these weeks—including, and especially, following her injection.
He could not be concerned with the mild, chiding scorn in Thorfinn's voice. "I didn't make a fuss when she woke up moaning and squirming in your lap, I should think you could handle me holding her with a bloody quilt between us with much the same sense of aplomb."
Thorfinn's brows shot up. Yes, he shouldn't even be awake now, it was the middle of the bloody night, but he'd had trouble sleeping. Nothing to do with the thought that she'd been dosing peacefully, all cuddled up with the other wizard when he'd brought her those robes. Nothing at all.
"I'm not making a fuss."
At that, Antonin glanced up to meet the taller man's gaze, one brow arched as he snorted a derisive laugh.
"What are you doing, anyway?" Thorfinn asked as he crossed the room to catch a glimpse of the notes over Antonin's shoulder, choosing to ignore the matter.
Antonin shook his head as he continued looking over his hastily scrawled words. "She and Fenrir were . . . bonding."
Frowning thoughtfully, it was now Thorfinn's turn to arch a brow. "So? They've been doing that since we came here."
"No, no . . . it was different this time. There was some sort of unspoken communication going on between them, like—"
"Like wolves."
With a shoulder-slumping sigh, Antonin nodded. "I stayed with her because she insisted, and I don't think it was because she's afraid to be alone. I think it was because she felt like she needed one of us with her."
Thorfinn's brow furrowed. "What in three hells are you going on about?"
"She's been around the three of us, consistently, for weeks—and only the three of us. You've noticed the Lord's visits with her are infrequent, completely random. I had wondered if there was a purpose behind that. You, Fenrir, me . . . . I had considered that, provided our Lord's experiment was successful, she might think of us as pack when she became more . . . . wolfy."
"If you keep making me ask things instead of just finishing telling me what's going on, I swear I'm going to chuck your arse out the nearest window."
Snapping shut his book full of parchment scraps, he turned his full attention on the taller wizard, completely aware that if any of his fellow Death Eaters could manage such a feat, it would be Thorfinn Rowle. "She's already seeing us as pack—God help us, we're just lucky she doesn't consider Lord Potter her alpha, or something. She's already communicating silently with another werewolf. She is already thinking more like a wolf than even she realizes."
Thorfinn's jaw fell open, realization dawning in his expression. "Her fever. She wasn't dying, was she?"
Antonin shook his head. "I don't believe she was, no. I think whatever transformation he's hoping for with this experiment was happening faster than he expected."
"So tell him." Thorfinn frowned, shaking his head. "It's the only way to put an end to this madness and get us all out of this shithole."
Inhaling deep through his nostrils and letting it out slow, Antonin shook his head. "If he knows it's already working, he's going to dispose of Fenrir. She's already thinking like a wolf. If he kills Fenrir, and she finds out we were the reason, she may turn on us, pack or no pack."
Thorfinn sighed, his head falling back to stare daggers at the ceiling. "And I thought she was a feisty thing before. That little she-wolf would tear out our damned throats."
His dark brows shooting up, Antonin nodded in agreement.
"But, of course, this also means if Lord Potter finds out we're being . . . less than forthcoming, he's going to torture us to death."
Again Antonin nodded.
After a moment sharing an exasperated look, Thorfinn uttered a sad chuckle. "Merlin's beard. We're both so stupid that we're more willing to risk his wrath than hers, aren't we?"
"So stupid," Antonin said, puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled.
Thorfinn knew, somehow, something about this experiment was causing Hermione's pack mentality to affect them, too. "God, that little witch is ruining us."
Hearing his own thought from earlier echoed by Hermione's Viking, Antonin could only chuckle—at himself, at their bizarre situation, at everything, really—as he nodded, yet again.