Chapter Three

When the faint sounds of whooshing and crackling around them died out, Hermione pushed away from him with as much strength as she could muster. She was moving before she'd even opened her eyes to take in her new surroundings.

Despite her diminished weight, he wasn't expecting the sudden struggle and she managed to force herself from his arms . . . . Only to lose her footing and stumble.

The one thing that stopped her from toppling to the floor was the Death Eater swooping down—quicker and more agilely than she'd thought a man of his stature should be able to move—to catch her in the crook of one arm.

Setting her on her feet, he frowned at her, his tone lightly amused. "There's a little more of the witch I remember."

She scowled, but moved much more delicately this time as she pulled away from him. "What is it you went to all this trouble for, anyway?" she asked, trying to still a nervous quivering in the pit of her stomach.

Thorfinn's brows shot up in question.

Hermione was getting so irritated so quickly that it was actually winding her to speak in her weakened physical state. Though, she'd thought perhaps this whirlwind of a day might be contributing to that. "What is it you plan to do with your ownership over me?"

Smirking, he shook his head to step past her, walking further into the room she had yet to even glance at. "I should think that was obvious, Princess. But, quite honestly, you're a bit gamy from your time playing in the wilds. So, you're going to wash up and then we'll finish this little chat."

"Oh, yes," she said, her chestnut eyes narrowing lethally as she spoke in a hissing whisper, "and you positively smell of rose petals." Okay, so this had been the second time in one day she'd been held close enough to his body to catch the scent of his skin, and he actually smelled quite nice.

But he'd have to torture her horrifically before she'd ever open her mouth to admit that.

"And to think, for a moment I almost missed your argumentativeness."

Her attention was flagging and wavering easily in her tired state. Just as Hermione's gaze started to rove, taking in the room where they stood, she found herself in the air. There was no time to appreciate the surprisingly pleasant, though modest, parlor—or that it was much sunnier than she would ever have imagined the home of one of Voldemort's followers to be—as the Death Eater tossed her over his shoulder, precisely like he'd done on that road in Inverness just that morning.

"Oh, my God! Thorfinn Rowle you put me down this instant!"

"Sorry," he said as he started walking through the humble—at least compared to other pure-blood ancestral homes—estate house. "Perhaps you're fuzzy on how this all works, but you are in no position to give orders. Literally or figuratively."

The witch huffed and began slapping angrily at the small of his back.

"Aim a little lower and I might actually start enjoying that, Princess."

With a scandalized gasp, Hermione tucked her hands under her arms. The more compact position caused her to swing about a bit as he started up a winding staircase, but she'd rather smack her head against the banister than chance accidentally swatting him, again—or swatting him any lower.

She put up no more fuss as he reached the second level. Down a corridor and into a bedroom, they went. She tried not to panic about the change in environment, but she focused on her breathing, on the idea that whatever he intended was better than going slowly mad in Azkaban as all warmth and light were stolen from her by the roaming army of Dementors . . . .

And hoping that he actually wouldn't want to do anything untoward to her while she smelled gamy.

But he continued past the bed and into the open doorway of an en-suite bathroom. She was sure he was tempted to simply toss her onto the tiled floor, but instead he knelt, slipping her from his shoulder to set her down almost gently.

Rising to his full height—which was even more imposing than usual from her seated position—he pointed to the bathtub as he held her gaze. "Wash up. I mean it."

She folded her arms under her breasts and scowled. At this point, she was being stubborn for the sheer sake of it and was perfectly aware that they both knew it.

Letting out a surprised chuckle, he sat on his heels before her. "You will get in that tub and clean yourself up. Shower, bath, I don't care, but you will do as I say," he said, his voice pitched low. "Because if you don't, I'll do it for you, and I will be certain to scrub every single millimeter of your lovely skin, Princess."

Swallowing hard—there was something in the way he continued to hold her gaze as he leveled the threat that she utterly refused to think on—she nodded. "Fine, I'll wash up."

He smirked as he stood and she wondered if he read something from her expression of which she simply wasn't aware. "Funny, I'm not sure if you want me to be pleased or disappointed with your choice."

Her jaw fell open, but before she could sputter any sort of protest, he stepped out and pulled the door closed.

Hermione dragged in a deep breath and pushed it out from between pursed lips. There was something pleasant about the idea of having a nice, hot shower. Of wrapping herself in the soft towels and the plush bathrobe she spotted, piled atop the marble shelf beside the tub.

Nodding to herself, she pushed up to her feet. She was oddly grateful her captor wasn't there to witness the way she used the wall at her back to keep her balance.

That her current physical state, combined with the multitude of unpleasant shocks she'd received in less than twenty-four hours, had made her so unsteady on her own feet was cause to worry just how much longer she'd have really lasted, had she not been captured that morning. But she was not going to allow herself to dwell on the idea that Thorfinn Rowle might've actually saved her life.

Meeting her reflection's gaze in the gilded oval mirror above the sink, she started peeling off her clothes. She carelessly allowed them to drop to the floor around her.

When she finally stood bare, she tried not to think on how gaunt she'd gotten over these months alone. Not that there'd been anyone to notice how slight her figure had become; she didn't know if she was grateful for that, or it only made the past almost-year even more depressing to recall.

Yet, in trying not to notice her pronounced collar bones, or her now easily defined rib cage, she did notice the new addition to her person that she didn't recognize.

The silver necklace was beautiful. The thick chain held the pendant—an ovular bar, housing a triangular reddish-purple gemstone with artful gaps between silver and stone—just above her breast bone.

"What the bloody hell is this?" she asked, her voice loud and sharp without her realizing as she reached around her neck to unclasp the mysterious piece of jewelry.

"Oh! You've found your new little trinket, have you?" Thorfinn's voice came through the door.

She barely held in a growling sound as she eyed the door. "Are you joking! What is this?" And why wouldn't the clasp open?!

"That is an artifact I had made just for you. Slipped it around your neck when I caught you catnapping in that ruddy little cellar in Inverness. There's a locator charm on it that'll allow me to find you anywhere in the world. Don't waste your energy trying to remove it; the clasp has been magically sealed, and an unbreakable charm placed on the chain and pendant."

"That is all very disturbing!"

His tone made her picture that he was shrugging as he said, "It's actually as much for your protection as it is for keeping track of you."

"My protection? You can't be serious." She was still trying to unclasp it, hoping he'd overestimated the charms on it.

"Oh, Princess, if you only understood the situation better."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Part of our chat later. Go wash up, already."

Her shoulders slumped at the brush off. Aware the only way she'd get him to talk further would be to open the door and continue face-to-face—something she refused to do like this—she turned her attention to the tub and switched on the overhead faucet.

Sparing a moment, Hermione picked up her beaded bag from where it had fallen out of her boot as she'd kicked them off. She tucked it into one of the waiting bathrobe's deep pockets.

The steaming water as she stepped beneath the spray felt so good on her tired muscles and aching bones that she had to bite her lip to hold in a moan. If he was still hovering outside the door, she didn't need him hearing any such sounds from her.

She took her time, washing her hair, scrubbing her skin. The pleasant, brisk scent of the soap relaxed her, making her hope nothing else taxing would happen today. It was only the late afternoon, and she was certain she could fall asleep standing up, just now.

Then her heel slid in the soapy water, tearing a surprised shriek from her throat as her feet went out from under her. She landed hard against the side of the tub.

The pain made her stomach churn. She couldn't be arsed to care about her current state of sopping wet undress as Thorfinn burst through the door to see what had happened.

His bewildered gaze on the witch who was trying—with a clearly pained expression on her face—to reach for a towel from the shelf, he couldn't even get the entire word out as he asked, "Wha—?"

"I slipped," she said, the words stated so simply and quietly that there was an almost childlike quality to her response.

Broad shoulders slumping, he rolled his eyes. "Can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I?"

"Believe me . . . ." She continued in her attempt to reach for just one corner of that bloody towel. "I really wish that weren't so."

The wizard held in a sigh as he crossed the room, fully ignoring her death-glare as he sat on his heels beside the tub. Snatching the towel she'd been groping toward, he opened it across his lap.

Even in her haze of pain and exhaustion, Hermione did not like this look of this. "No, no! Thorfinn Rowle, don't you dare!"

He was amused by the fuss she tried to put up as he leaned into the tub and pulled her out. Depositing the unhappy witch in his lap, he wrapped her in the towel.

He found her apparent shock that he did no more than that before scooping her up and standing equally amusing. Before leaving the room, he angled her toward the shelf so she could grab the bathrobe.

Again, she couldn't mask her shock at his human—like behavior. There'd been a time when she was honestly convinced that behind closed doors, the burly wizard behaved something like a gorilla might.

Bringing her into the room, he dropped her onto the bed. "Dry off, then find your way to the kitchen. And see if you can manage it without hurting yourself, again."

If she had a bit more strength, she might've tried to find something to throw at him as he exited the room, laughing at his own joke. Or at her obvious irritation over said joke, it was difficult to tell which with him.

Left alone, she moved delicately as she shifted the towel around her body to dry herself. Without a wand, she did what she could to dry her hair by hand.

Lifting herself from the bed, she let the towel drop to look herself over. By some miracle, there didn't appear to be any bruising from her spill in the tub. She let out a relieved sigh at that—she had enough marks on her body, as it was.


Hermione made her way down the stairs on careful footsteps. Though she could've gotten a change of clothes from her beaded bag, she was instead wrapped in the thick bathrobe, and not caring if that sort of thing might be frowned upon in a pure-blood house. Despite her circumstances, this was the most comfortable she'd been since before the War.

The plush carpet that ran the length of the steps and down through the main floor of the house felt wonderful beneath her bare feet.

She wanted to explore, to poke around a bit—to hope that the house had a library. Yet, she wasn't certain she had the energy to put up with whatever her captor might do if she disobeyed the simple instruction to find the kitchen.

Her personal mission of find the library would have to wait.

Looking toward the foyer, she followed the main floor in the other direction. Bypassing rooms that were probably cozy and interesting—sitting room, drawing room, whatever else charmingly antiquated estate homes like this held—she made her way through an intimidatingly large dining room that felt strangely off from the rest of the architecture, due to all the dark wood furnishings and accents.

On the far wall was a set of double doors, one of them open a jar. Voices came from just inside and she held back a moment to listen.

"What is it you even plan on doing with her?"

Hermione's face lit up at the voice. Even after not seeing the other witch for a few years, she still recognized Reina Rowle's angelic tones. Different as night from day she and Thorfinn were. The sweet-natured, statuesque Hufflepuff had been year ahead of Hermione and about the only student versed, and naturally skilled enough, in Charms to assist Hermione Granger in getting a handle on some particularly tricky lessons in the subject.

"You know I've always wanted a personal servant to wait on me hand and foot."

Hermione scowled, but there were worse things to use a prisoner for, she supposed.

"Finnie," Reina said, her tone scolding—the other witch imagined the blonde shaking her head.

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding as though he was speaking around a mouthful of food. "Would you rather I planned on using her to suck—"

"Finnie!" Embarrassed laughter bubbled out of the poor girl as she yelled at him.

Hermione stepped into the room, aware her cheeks were probably bright red from the way Thorfinn's brows rose as he smirked at her. She ignored him and turned to meet Reina's blue eyes.

"Hermione, it's good to see you're all right after . . . everything. Please, sit." The Hufflepuff gestured to a seat at the kitchen table, a small bowl of soup and a cup of tea set before it.

"Oh, God, thank you," Hermione said, her millions of questions currently forgotten as she hurried to the seat and immediately dug into her food.

Reina twisted her fingers anxiously, shrugging as she watched the other witch eat. "I know you've not been eating well—Finnie told me how much weight you've lost—so I kept the portion small. I hope that's all right. But don't worry, I'll have you back to a proper appetite in no time."

Hermione nodded, enjoying the simple warmth of the soup in her belly as she reached to take a sip of tea. There wasn't a lot of food before her, true, but other than the bowl from the pub last night, this was probably the largest meal she'd had in a long while.

Tired and comfortable as she already was, her captor might actually have to carry her away from the table once she finished eating. And she didn't honestly care about that just now, because there was something kind of amusing to think that at least she wouldn't have to worry about climbing those stairs.

She could feel the Rowles watching her as she ate. Lifting her gaze from the bowl, she looked to Thorfinn and then Reina.

"So," she started between bites, "you're going to nurse me back to health?"

"Yes," Reina said, pulling out the chair closest to Hermione's and sitting down.

"And then what?"

Reina didn't answer, dropping her gaze to her hands, clasped before her on the table.

"I heard what he said."

"And I meant it." Thorfinn pushed away the fresh baked loaf of bread he'd been picking at. Dusting off his hands, he folded his arms across his chest. "When you're the you I remember, you're going to be my personal servant."

"You didn't go to all this trouble to have a witch play house elf to you," Hermione said, her eyes holding his.

A smirk curved his mouth.

"So why?"

"You've dealt me a great deal of humiliation, Princess. It's the best way I can think to repay the favor without turning my own sister against me."

Hermione dropped her spoon, straightening up as she shook her head. "Humiliation? This can't be about all those times at Hogwarts."

His broad shoulders shook as he chuckled. Pushing away from the counter, he rounded the table to stand at her shoulder, forcing her to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. "Oh, no. Although, if you like, I can certainly tack all that on. You did make quite a habit of catching me in sordid circumstances."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have kept getting into sordid circumstances for me to find you in!"

"So you did seek me out on purpose to get me in trouble," he said, his brows drawing together—he'd always suspected as much.

"I did not! It's not my fault if you can't keep your voice down when you're shagging some random slag in a broom cupboard."

"I think I'll go check on Uncle," Reina interjected in a small voice as she slipped from her chair and disappeared through the doors.

Hermione didn't have time to ask about their uncle before she found herself alone with Thorfinn.

"You're missing the point. I already said this isn't to do with some nosy little first year ruining my last year at Hogwarts." He set his jaw—if she kept this up, he wasn't going to have the patience to wait for Reina to nurse her back to health. "Maybe you'll recall a tacky little Muggle café. Some infuriating slip of a witch with a bad habit of sticking her nose where it doesn't belong cast memory charms on Dolohov and me."

Her brow furrowed as she stared up at him. Certainly she recalled what he was talking about. "But I don't understand. The only way to break a memory charm is . . . ." A chill ran over her skin as she realized. "Oh, no."

"Torture," he answered for her with a nod. "The only way to break a memory charm is through torture. So if I remember you placing the memory charm on me . . . . Well, put two and two together, Princess."

She lowered her gaze from his then. "I had no idea they would do that to you."

His expression tightened. He didn't like that she sounded genuinely upset about it. How dare she be concerned over the fates of her enemies! Maybe this was why Potter fell after all that fight he'd put up.

"And so now I own you. Legally. You are bound to do what I say, when I say." He visibly attempted to calm himself as she brought her attention back to him. "Don't disobey and I won't cause you further humiliation than that."

"Further humiliation?" She didn't like that sound of that, but she couldn't help the note of doubt in her voice.

"Huh," he uttered the sound with a surprised grin as he shook his head. "I don't know if you've realized it, Princess, but you've got it pretty good for a prisoner of war. My sister to care for you, a roof over your head that's far away from Dementors, even your own warm bed to sleep in. But, if you push me . . . ."

Hermione forced a gulp down her throat at the way he let his voice trail off.

Leaning over her, he sank his fingers into the hair at the back of her head. Thorfinn curled his hand into a fist, holding her tight, as he whispered in her ear, "Push me, and you might find yourself sleeping at the foot of my bed like a proper little pet."

He relinquished his hold on her and turned, exiting the kitchen. "I'll return when you've had enough time to finish eating," he said as he stepped through the door.

Breathing in, deep and shuddering before exhaling slow, Hermione stared into her bowl of soup. She didn't know what was worse, that she absolutely believed him . . . .

Or that she couldn't seem to stop thinking about his warm breath on her throat as he'd whispered his threat.