TWO
An elderly witch stared up at him, unfazed by his threatening gesture. Tsking, she slapped aside the weapon. "Come."
That she spoke English to him, her accent so thick it was evident in that single syllable, proved he wasn't easily recognized, but there was no time for the small relief this confirmation might have brought otherwise. The burning deepened, causing a tense, pounding ache behind his eyes and his stomach to churn.
The witch'd already turned away, hobbling off without checking if he followed.
Tugging his robes up as cover, Antonin looked about again. Still no one was near enough to notice him, and the old woman had crossed through the treeline to head down a side road.
Nodding, he swallowed hard, the shielding effect of the fabric offering barely any comfort. He hurried after her, but kept his wand drawn—for all he knew, she was leading him to something worse than whatever was causing this accursed sensation.
Through the trees, behind houses, into a cellar and up a flight of steps into a positively medieval kitchen that reminded him of his grandmother's he followed her. He watched her shutter the windows with a flick of her wand, ensuring none of the fading light of day entered.
Sooner than he could react—he'd blame his painful skin—she pivoted to face him. She tsk'ed again at the way he was still covering himself and made a waving gesture in his direction.
"Stop," she said with a shake of her head. "The sun can't hurt you here."
She didn't sound comfortable with English, so he asked in Ukrainian as he righted his robes, "You know what's happening?"
The old woman gave a start but immediately relaxed and nodded before bustling toward a standing cupboard tucked into a corner of the room. Despite his understanding, she spoke English still. "It's good practice. You sound like you're from here, boy."
Antonin snorted a chuckle—when was the last time he'd been called boy?— and immediately winced. Damn, even his nasal passages stung from what he'd just experienced. "I am, but I haven't been home in some time."
Throwing open the doors, she rummaged about and he could hear glass jars and bottles clacking against each other. "You're from here yet you don't know what you've become?" She shook her head, muttering to herself, "Why are the young always stupid?"
"I really don't." He ignored her insult. "As I said, I've been away a while." The villages here were far enough removed from events in the larger Wizarding world that he supposed it shouldn't be a surprise she couldn't guess what he might have been away doing for so long.
She groused quietly as she continued rummaging. After a moment she shuffled back, holding out some bottles to him.
Antonin arched a brow, loathing how the minimal expression hurt his face. "What're these?"
Exhaling a weary sigh through her nostrils, she said, "You want help?"
He nodded.
"Then take." She tapped each potion bottle with the tip of her finger. "Green to heal your burns. Red to ease the thirst."
Pausing in his reach for them, he asked, "Thirst?"
She pushed them into his outstretched hand. "You still don't know? Huh. Sun's not all the way down yet, then."
The sun … thirst … the weight of his crimes. He began getting a terrible, sinking feeling about what had become of him. But those were only stories! Even amongst magical folk!
His expression must've given something away, because the old woman sucked her teeth and nodded. "You came here to escape something terrible you did, yes?"
Antonin's heart fell into his stomach and his eyes refused to focus as he realized… even if he'd gotten back through the gate, it wouldn't matter. The curse had struck the moment he'd crossed and there was no escaping it.
Not if the old tales could be believed.
"Upir," he whispered, numb, breathless, and aware deep in his bones that the sun had set just as the word escaped his lips.
