SIX
Hermione popped out of side-along Apparition, turning from Oksana's side to look around. "The festival lasts until tomorrow evening, why did we leave so soon?" At least the change of scenery would get her mind off—
Her thoughts skittered to a halt as she found herself amid a veritable forest of headstones and mausoleums and statues. "Huh," was all she managed in a hushed breath.
"You'll have to forgive me." Oksana relinquished her hold on the younger witch's hand "These old bones can only handle so much revelry."
Nodding, Hermione pursed her lips. "And we're ending the night with a trip to visit…" Remembering again what Ivana Kupala was, knowing often romantic matches resulted from the festivities, she concluded, "Your husband."
Smiling, Oksana patted Hermione's cheek in a grandmotherly fashion. "Tak." Yes. "Now, come. After this, we go home, get a good night's sleep, and in the morning you make some of that British tea."
The elder witch walked along, her path illuminated only by the waxing crescent moon overhead, she'd know the way blind after all these years. Aware she was just as likely to trip over her own two feet as Oksana was to not miss a single step, Hermione drew her wand from beneath her sleeve. "Lumos."
After following her host for what had to have been at least ten minutes—and growing increasingly certain she couldn't find her way back out on her own if her life depended on it—Hermione permitted herself to realize just how vast this cemetery was. Finally, after a few more turns and loops, Oksana stopped.
Hermione pressed her lips together, respectfully silent as Oksana carefully lower herself to kneel before one grave in particular. Swiping her gnarled hands across the worn stone, she smiled gently.
Looking up, she asked, "Would you grant an old woman a few moments privacy?"
"Of course. I'll just …." Glancing over her shoulder, back toward the rest of the cemetery. "Try not to get lost."
With a laugh, Oksana nodded. "Good girl."
Holding back a sigh, Hermione turned away and started off. She cast her eyes toward that sliver of moon as she wandered. Just a … leisurely stroll. In the dead of night. Through the gravestones, the mausoleums, the statues.
Well, it wasn't the oddest thing she'd ever done.
He'd no idea what woke him, his mind swimming with vague, misty images of the past. Sitting up, Antonin pressed the heels of his palms to his temples. How long had he been out? He had no idea. The red potion'd run out some time ago and the only thing that staved off the thirst was sleep.
He looked toward the doors of the mausoleum—he'd chosen his hiding place wisely. The last member of this family had passed long ago, resulting in few visitors, the doors were designed with small stars poked through the metal, providing a glimpse of the world outside, but the light only reached so far, keeping him safe from the sun.
Now the stars were dark, not that it mattered.
With a groan, he lay back down. The moment his eyes closed, the flashes returned.
Wincing, he focused, trying to make sense of them. The Battle in the DoM, the encounter in that Muggle café he and Rowle had been tortured into recalling. A brief duel during the final battle before he and his opponent got separated.
Then he realized the singular common thread amongst them.
Antonin thought he understood. He ignored the ache in his jaws, the sandpaper rawness of his parched throat. He was accustomed to them by now.
Standing, he dusted off his robes and stretched. One would think sleeping on the cold, hard ground would be miserable, it was surprising how quickly even the most uncomfortable things became routine. Or maybe it just wasn't any worse than the pain and the thirst.
As he neared the doors, he was shocked by how his mouth watered at what he suspected had disturbed his sleep.
Only thing he couldn't understand was what the hell Hermione Granger was doing in Lviv.
