Chapter Nine
Thorfinn gave himself a shake as he came to; his vision was blurry and his head was absolutely splitting. His shoulders ached from the restraints and he thought he'd be sick from the awful combination of an empty stomach and varying levels of pain.
Thank Merlin he'd passed out—between falling unconscious and being driven mad by the torment of repeated, prolonged applications of the Cruciatus curse, the former was a much better reaction, he thought. Dolohov wasn't looking so good, in that regard.
The Dark Lord had stormed away, presumably to rest, or eat . . . go stomp some kittens to death, maybe, who knew what. The only thing that mattered at the moment was that he wasn't there. He wasn't there, and Antonin Dolohov's icy eyes were unnervingly wide and unblinking at he stared off at nothing in particular.
Wincing, Thorfinn looked about. Aside from the two of them, the room was empty. He strained to listen, but there was no sound of footfalls headed their way—wherever their odious leader had vanished to, he was not coming back just yet.
"Dolohov?" he tried, his voice no more than a hissing whisper.
There was the faintest movement from the other man—a quick, barely noticeable blink—but nothing more.
Thorfinn shook his head, rolling his eyes in aggravation. He and Dolohov weren't exactly best friends, but he liked to think they were in this together. Partners in Crime, as it were. That, and being chained in this room alone with a madman was not by any means a comforting notion. As though the way the sparking of Lord Potter's acid green eyes had seemed to increase, getting more vibrant, more rapid, as the torture had gone on wasn't unsettling enough, already.
"Dolohov!" he said, again, the name spilling out from between clenched teeth.
Antonin blinked once more—this time a harder, more obvious closing of his eyelids than before—and he gave a shake of his head. "Oh, bloody hell, everything hurts. Where is he?"
Thorfinn couldn't believe what he was witnessing. It nearly seemed as though the dark-haired wizard had been asleep this entire time! "Are you shitting me? What in Merlin's name just happened to you?"
Drawing in a deep, pained breath and letting it out slow, Antonin again shook his head. "A long time ago, I taught myself to go into a trance. The deep, meditative state separates my mind from what's happening to my body. I'm not exactly built for torture—few people are, in fact. Well . . . 'cept maybe you, you behemoth."
It was an odd moment for a proud smirk to curve his lips, but Thorfinn did it, all the same.
Antonin sighed. "I figured if I were ever on the receiving end of torture, it might spare my mind from breaking. Turns out I was right. Though, it's not as much of a reprieve as you'd think—what's left of the pain's still there when you come to."
"We're not getting out of this, are we?"
Cringing with the movement, as he became aware just how screamingly sore his muscles were, Antonin turned his head to look at the other man. "We might not, no . . . ." He dropped his voice so low, Thorfinn strained to lean closer so he might hear the words. "Doesn't mean someone won't come rescue us."
Thorfinn's eyes shot wide. Glancing about, once more, he mouthed the name, afraid he'd be overheard—as though the Dark Lord would imagine they could mean anyone else, were he within earshot—"Hermione?"
Antonin grinned, though it was a weary and anguished expression. His voice still so low the golden-haired wizard just barely heard him, he said, "I lied."
His brow furrowing, Thorfinn tried to puzzle out what he meant by that. What had Dolohov said during this fiasco that lying about it could mean their rescue?
I'm sorry, My Lord, he'd said when they'd been Imperiused to remove their own wands from their persons and drop them at the vile creature's feet, I did not bring my wand with me when I went to check on the prisoners. I hadn't thought it necessary.
And the Dark Lord, knowing well how pragmatic a thinker Antonin Dolohov was, had believed him.
If Antonin's wand wasn't on him, and he'd lied about leaving it behind in his room, then . . . .
It was all Thorfinn could do to hold back a sound of shock. Grateful, relieved shock, but the sensation began to ebb from him in that same instant as he heard the echoing thud of Lord Potter's footfalls—overly heavy for a man of his stature—coming down the corridor toward them.
Hermione growled in frustration, throwing the spoon she'd found—apparently dropped from one of her meal trays who knew when—it was the only metal implement anywhere in her chamber. Piddle had been very careful and deliberate in his instructions to his followers, it seemed. The utensil clattered loudly to the floor as she wrapped both hands around her chain and tried to wrench it from the bolt in the wall.
She'd hoped she could at least chip away a little of the mortar around the bolt, just enough so that she could start working it free of the wall, but she was sure she hadn't managed more than a scratch, and she was wasting time! More frustrating, she couldn't even be sure exactly how many precious minutes had ticked by during her fruitless efforts, though she knew it far more than she had to spare.
Lady Wolf uttered an uncertain, confused grumble.
The witch nearly dropped the chain in surprise at what the noble beast was wondering. "No, no. Not that it hasn't crossed my mind before, but I'm not yet so hellbent on escape that gnawing off my own foot is a viable option."
She had yet to truly comprehend how it was they were communicating so fluidly. Her best guess was that without realizing she was doing so, she was picking up on not only the sounds, but the subtle nuances of scent the creature was emitting. Equally, she was probably emitting similar little tells in her own scent—on a completely instinctive and unconscious level—that Lady Wolf understood.
Dear Lord, this would all be so confusing if she gave herself enough time to stop and think about her situation, but time was a luxury she didn't have. Who knew if Antonin and Thorfinn were even still alive at this precise moment?
The very thought of Piddle harming them kicked up a violent, wrenching anger in the pit of her gut that was unlike anything she'd ever felt before.
A short growl of commiseration sounded from Lady Wolf.
The image that struck Hermione as the pain in that noise registered nearly dropped her to her knees. Swallowing hard, she forced back an unexpected wash of tears. "He killed your mate?"
There was a short sound then, a strange mix of a growl and a mournful howl.
"I assure you, I will get us out of here, and you will have revenge." She understood why the wolf had shared that pain with her—because of her new, strange bond with the wizards.
It was as Fenrir had said, wasn't it? The wolf in her saw them as her mates. Not one or the other, both of them. That terrible, boiling rage inside her at not being able to protect them, her desire to protect them, was born of that feeling.
In her distraction, she pulled too hard, her skin sliding against the thick, aged metal. She let out a yelp as that quick bite of pain in her palms caused her to release the chain out of reflex and she fell on her bum.
Hermine shook her head while she caught her breath. But then, as she inhaled deep through her nostrils—yes, there were so many scents down here now, hers, her wizards', Fenrir's, the wolf's, Piddle's—beneath everything, there was an acrid odor that felt like it might singe her nostrils. It wasn't from Fenrir. Sad as it was to consider, his corpse was still too fresh, and she somehow knew this scent was decaying flesh. For all of Fenrir's wounds, they'd been held in stasis, the edges of broken skin never allowed to decay just as they had never been allowed to heal.
Turning her head this way and that as she sniffed at the air, she couldn't help the question, "What is that smell?"
Lady Wolf made a dissatisfied snuffling noise.
The witch's brows shot up. The man who hurt me, she'd communicated. Piddle . . . . She understood in a flash his need for urgency in his precious experiment. Whatever he was planning, he needed it done soon.
Just as she'd predicted, his body couldn't handle housing the combined magical energy of both Harry Potter and Tom Riddle. It was dying on him. Little by little, fragments of death creeping in on him as the days passed.
The was a strange sort of poetry to that, but all the same . . . .
"Oh, no." The laugh that escaped her was utterly malicious. "He's not going to meet death that easy."
Her lone companion agreed.
It was then, as Hermione turned her head back to look at the bolt in the wall once more that she noticed it. Peeking out from beneath her blanket, just the tiniest bit, just enough that she might see it.
A sound of disbelief stuck in her throat as she scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees. Throwing back her bedcovers, she spotted the tip of a wand poking out from between the mattress and the half-rotted box spring.
Oh, that sneaky devil! She bit her lip to keep from screaming in a mix of joy and relief as she wedged Antonin's weapon from its hiding place.
Lady Wolf noticed the change in her scent and snuffled again, this time out of curiosity.
"I'll tell you what's happened," Hermione said before whispering the Alohomora charm under her breath and feeling the sweet alleviation of the heavy metal cuff falling from her ankle. It might not be as powerful in her hand as her own wand would be, but with her newly-awakened animal side—all shiny and sharpened and waiting to be put to use—her magic, and her Lady Wolf, she knew the Dark witches and wizards barring the way between her and Piddle wouldn't stand a bloody chance. "One of my mates has made avenging yours possible."
Climbing to her feet, the witch spared a moment to dust herself off. She tried hard to keep her feeling of triumph in check. That could wait until they were staring down at his cold, fully-dead body.
Exiting her chamber on her own two feet for a change, she deliberately avoided so much as glancing into Fenrir's chamber as she passed it. They'd come back to him in a moment; just now, she needed to focus.
She rounded the bend into the final chamber, the air leaving her lungs in a rush as she at last came face-to-face with her Lady Wolf. "There you are." Holding in a mournful laugh, she closed the distance between them, reaching a hand through the bars to gently stroke the back of the wolf's neck.
Leaning near, she closed her eyes and lowered her head. She felt the press of fur against her forehead and, for a moment, they were still. A simple, quiet moment of breathing in the same space before the torrent of violence and blood that was to come.
Sniffling, she nodded against the wolf's head before she stepped back. Unlocking the cage, she led the way to back to Fenrir.
Antonin had taken the care to cover the body. She'd not expected that. Hermione could feel her throat close, she could feel the faint trembling in her belly from holding in a sob, and that annoying ping of tears in the corners of her eyes.
Drawing in a deep breath, she grabbed hold of the sheet and pulled it away. His eyes were closed, and his mouth gaped just a bit. Swallowing hard, she touched her fingers to his jaw and eased it shut. He was cold, but rigor mortis had not yet set in; he'd been dead less than four hours. Just a handful of hours . . . but she'd easily been at her attempts to escape for two, if not longer. Had she really missed the moment of his passing so narrowly?
Or was that what had actually awakened her this morning, rather than Lady Wolf's howls of grief?
The wolf trotted up beside him and laid her head on his chest. At the sight, Hermione had all she could do not to scream. Out of sorrow, anger, frustration, yes, even fear.
Forcing a gulp down her throat, she leaned toward him. "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you," she whispered, her voice thick with her unshed tears. Pressing her lips to his forehead, she thought for a moment she couldn't move. His pained laugh rang in her ears, the teasing tone of his voice as he'd nagged her about this or that played through her head.
It was only the nudging of Lady Wolf's nose against her side that urged her to pull away from him.
"I'll not leave you here, either. Goodbye, Fenrir Greyback," she said, at last letting a tear roll free. Her lower lip shivered as she pointed her borrowed wand and murmured, "Incendio."
Lady Wolf let out a quick yowl of surprise as she backpedaled from the sudden blaze.
Hermione looked to the creature for understanding. "He's not keeping any of us prisoner, anymore." When she was certain Lady Wolf comprehended why she'd done that, she nodded.
Her grip on the wand so tight her knuckles drained of color, she said, "Now let's go rescue my mates."