Chapter Seven
Hermione was a nervous wreck . . . . Well, not exactly. A wreck was a bit of an overstatement. She was nervous, though. Days had passed since that awkward and revealing conversation with Fenrir, and now, whenever she was alone with Antonin or Thorfinn—or worse, with both of them at once—she couldn't help her mind tripping back to those damnable images Fenrir's words had put there.
Nervousness was not in her nature as of late, but she couldn't help the knots coiling in the pit of her stomach that she would say or do something to give away the shift in her feelings toward them. The mess with squirming in Thorfinn's lap when she'd fallen asleep, or the neck-nipping incident with Antonin, could both easily be explained away by her new instincts taking over when she was asleep.
But when she was wide awake and mostly in control of her words and actions?
She sighed, turning her head against her pillow as she stared about in the twilight darkness of her chamber. It was a bit unnerving how much clearer her lowlight vision had become since the bite. She could actually discern the pattern of the dulled, antiquated brickwork in the barely-existent illumination.
The sound of Fenrir's dozing breaths against the otherwise quiet night, hindered only slightly by his constant pain, was lulling. Hermione wasn't quite certain why she couldn't sleep, but the occurrence of insomnia was becoming more common as the days passed.
She refused to acknowledge that—though, she was painfully aware her refusal was a form of acknowledgement all on its own—perhaps she was having so much trouble sleeping because her mind was elsewhere. That, maybe, she couldn't sleep because she was focused on the two wizards slumbering some floors overhead.
That she felt, for some totally and completely irrational reason, they should be down here. They should be curled around her, their dozing breaths lulling her to sleep as their warm bodies cradled hers.
The sudden creak of a foot on the staircase rang in her ears and Hermione lifted her head. Eyeing the wide entryway of her chamber, she blindly reached toward the bookcase. Though from this far she struggled to get a good hold of one of the spines, she managed, sliding a thick volume free from its shelf and hefting it back.
She'd not seen Piddle in days, and she didn't trust that it wouldn't be him, creeping down here to watch her as she slept. To gauge how well she was adjusting to the effects of his so-called experiment.
Well, since he required her continued existence and so the most she might have to fear was a wrathful few moments of a Cruciatus, she was going to make her displeasure with her situation abundantly clear by cracking him in the head with that book the moment his face came into view in the darkness.
She listened to the footfalls continue down the steps and round the column. They drew closer, and she tightened her grip, her eyes narrowing as she focused.
Yet, her gaze fixed on where she knew the vile creature's head would be due to Harry's height, a robed chest came into view, instead. She immediately shifted her attention to the figure's face.
She'd not expected to see Thorfinn Rowle. His long golden hair tied back rather sloppily, he clasped one hand around his dully-illuminated wand—she would guess he'd intentionally muted his Lumos so as not to wake the unwilling occupants of the chateau's cellar. Around his other hand, she could see the wind of a bandage that he appeared to be trying to tie with his teeth.
She dropped the book noiselessly to the bed beside her pillow. "Thorfinn?"
Her whisper startled him, the end of the bandage falling from his mouth as he lifted his gaze to hers. "Oh, um . . . . Oh."
Hermione's brows shot up at his response. Sitting up, she merely stared at him for a few quiet heartbeats. "Oh?" she echoed, tipping her head to one side. "'Oh, I didn't mean to wake you,' or 'Oh, it's not what it looks like, Sunshine. I don't creep down her to watch you sleeping?'"
He chuckled, shaking his head at her. "Someone clearly thinks much of herself."
There was something there. Something in the air? Something in his . . . in his scent? She wasn't sure, but she had some sense that he wasn't being wholly honest in his flippant brushoff. "Tell me I'm wrong."
"I wasn't coming down here to watch you sleep. I was . . . ." Dropping his already murmuring voice lower, still, he entered the chamber. When he reached the side of her bed, he went on. "I was coming to check on the wolf. I'm, well, I'm worried about her. And . . . maybe I was going to check on you to make sure you were sleeping okay, but that was not my main objective."
Sighing, she nodded. "Well, that's a relief, I suppose." She wouldn't tell him, but she found it endearing that he was concerned for the wolf, so she let her focus drift to his hand. "What did you do to yourself?"
Lifting his hand in the sparse illumination, he grunted a sound that was almost a laugh. "Well, let's just say it was the wall or our delightful new Dark Lord's face, and I had a feeling I'd fare better against the wall. He's . . . he's just so much more of an arse than his previous self."
"Oh, you big, silly, Viking," she said with a tired snicker—she would ignore that she felt like she could sleep now, because that could only mean it was because one of them was with her. "Sit down and let me have a look."
Thorfinn tried not to make it obvious how he glanced from her to the bed and back before complying. He tried not to focus too hard on her wild hair as she tipped her head down, over his hand—that she'd dragged into her lap, for pity's sake. He tried not to think on the feel of her fingertips dragging along his skin as she unwrapped the poorly wound bandage.
Sitting so close, he was too aware of sudden shiver wracking her. "What is it?"
Hermione tried to steel herself against the instant barrage of feelings—his nearness, his voice in her ear, the scent of him—and failed. Swallowing hard, she couldn't stop herself from looking up at him as she held his bloodied hand between both of hers in that dull light.
"I just . . . ." She swallowed, again, holding his blue-eyed gaze as a rush of warmth zipped through her. "You just smell divine."
Thorfinn knew she was probably talking about his blood. That it was something in her new instincts making her think of how appealing he'd be as prey.
Yet, he somehow found himself leaning closer to her. Closer, until he could feel her breath against his skin.
Closer, until she dipped her head back just a little and moved to meet him, her lips pressing to his.
Antonin rubbed his fist against one bleary eye as he made his way back toward his room from the toilet. Half-asleep, he really wasn't sure how he'd even managed to get there in the first place . . . .
A sharp, unpleasant jarring sensation rocked through him, forcing him wide awake as he passed Thorfinn's bedroom door—his open bedroom door. He didn't need to duck his head inside to know the room was empty.
He had a pretty good idea where the other wizard was at such an hour.
Shaking his head, he knew he should simply return to his room. Whatever might be happening in the chateau's cellar was none of his business, now was it? What Hermione chose to do, or with whom, was none of his business, didn't he know that?
Yet, it seemed he couldn't stop himself from making his way toward the staircase.
She pulled back, looking up at him. Her brown eyes were huge in the darkened room as she held his gaze.
He'd felt the stroking of her tongue across his lips, he'd thought for sure she'd been about to deepen the kiss. To hell with sure, he was damn well positive that in mere moments, they'd have been tearing at each other's robes and forgetting the rest of the world existed.
"I'm . . . sorry?" he said, though he was more than a little confused by what was happening.
Hermione snickered at his bewildered expression and shook her head. "No, it's okay. I wanted you to kiss me, it's just . . . ." Dear Lord, she was an idiot, wasn't she? She really wanted him—so much so that she knew if Fenrir were awake, he'd never let her hear the end of it for all the scents she must be emitting right at the moment—but she was so dreadfully exhausted now that one of them was here with her.
Now that her body had let go all that awful tension, and she knew if she were to ever ravage Thorfinn Rowle, she wanted to be fully awake for the entire experience.
His brows pinched together as his gaze searched her features. "Just what?"
She bit her lip in thought as she observed the way he watched her face. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way, I really . . . ." God, she couldn't believe she was actually going to say this, but she didn't want any mixed signals between them. "Really want to shag your brains out."
Thorfinn's eyes shot wide as a surprised chuckle burst out of him. "I didn't know there was a way to take a declaration like that wrong, Sunshine."
With a quick, airy laugh of her own, she shook her head once more. "No, I mean, I want that, just not now."
He nodded, his expression sobering as he looked at her. "So, just now, what is it you do want?"
Oh, sweet Merlin, he thought his heart would melt from the sudden lost glimmer that filled her eyes. She seemed so small and helpless when she made that face, and he knew that for as petite as she was, this unarmed witch was far from helpless.
"Would you—God, this is going to sound so stupid and childish—but would you just stay with me while I sleep?"
Thorfinn was nodding in response to her question before he even realized he was moving. After all, didn't it make sense? All of Dolohov's research into the new Dark Lord's experiment, his notes on her unusual condition . . . . If she really saw them as pack, she probably had trouble feeling at peace enough to get any rest while she was alone. Even having Fenrir as a roommate probably didn't help, what with a literal wall between them.
At his nod, she crawled into his lap and curled up against him. There was just something so secure, so safe in having the Viking of a wizard wrapped around her like this. She refused to repeat to him—or even to Antonin—what she had said to Fenrir the other day, but that didn't mean she didn't feel it anymore.
She was scared.
How warm he was comforted her, as did the sound of his heartbeat as she pressed her ear to his chest. Already she could feel her eyelids drifting downward and her breathing steady, seemingly of its own volition.
The witch was lightly snoring faster than he'd thought would be possible. Breathing a quiet chuckle, Thorfinn pushed himself across the bed—his movements gentle, so as not to jostle her awake—until his back was against the wall.
Dropping his chin down atop her head, he closed his eyes. He didn't know if it was her, or if Dolohov was correct and somehow what she was becoming was effecting them, as well, but he found the position strangely comfortable. Before he knew it, he, too, was falling asleep.
Antonin stopped short in the chamber's entry. He knew what he was expecting to see when he'd stormed down here, nearly on autopilot, and the two of them fast asleep and fully clothed had not been it.
With a sigh, he shook his head at himself. What the bloody hell had he thought he was going to do had he caught them in the middle of what he'd believed had been happening?
This really was a mess, wasn't it? He didn't even know what he was doing down here!
Shaking his head once more, he turned away from the sight of the pair curled up so peacefully together.
"Oh, no you don't."
Antonin started at Thorfinn's whispered voice. His shoulders slumping, he turned to face the other wizard. "I beg your pardon?"
Rowle had one eye cracked open, and it was locked on Antonin. "You're not going anywhere."
Antonin's body shook in a silent chuckle. "And why not? Seems you've got things well under control here."
"You're such a shit, sometimes." Thorfinn sighed, aware he hadn't exactly been pleasant when he'd come down here and found the Russian wizard cuddled up with her a few nights ago. "Egos aside, she needs us. So . . . sit your short, grumpy arse down and shut your cakehole."
Scowling despite that he already knew he'd lost this argument, Antonin said in a hissing tone, "I'm not short."
Chuckling, Thorfinn's eye closed at last. "Compared to me, most people are short. Now get over here."
Though he rolled his eyes and set his jaw, Antonin dragged his feet across the chamber floor. He wanted to make a grand, irritated show of sitting on the bed and throwing himself back into the wall to settle beside the pair . . . but he knew that would only wake her, and she had seemed rather tired as of late.
His motions delicate, he climbed onto the bed and turned, putting himself beside Thorfinn.
Antonin started at the brush of a hand against him. Looking down, he found Hermione'd slipped one arm from the bundled up form of her and Thorfinn. Her fingers rested atop his thigh, and he knew unmistakably that, even in her sleep, she was aware of his closeness.
The wolf in her really did see them as her pack.
Antonin allowed his head to drop back against the wall behind him. Resting his hand over hers, he closed his eyes, surprised at how simple it was to let himself fall asleep like this.