SEVEN
"Come, home now."
Hermione jumped a little, turning to meet Oksana's gaze. "Um, what?"
A thoughtful frown tugging at her lips, the old woman asked, "I said we're going home now." She glanced about as she stepped closer, taking one of the other witch's hands in her own. "What has you so distracted?"
Shaking her head, Hermione looked back over her shoulder. She scanned the night-darkened depths of the cemetery, her attention touching on shadowy leaves and the silhouettes of graves. What had that been just now?
"I …" Her voice trailing off, she shrugged and looked at Oksana once more. "You know, I've no idea. I just … for the briefest moment I could've sworn there was someone else here. Watching me, maybe."
"Ah." Oksana nodded in understanding, patting her free hand over her young guest's, and started walking back toward the gates. "Yes. I understand completely. All those statues and the dead, themselves. This place never really feels like one's alone."
Nodding, Hermione considered that. Strange as it sounded to her, that probably offered Oksana great comfort on her visits. Imagining her husband might still be able to be with her in any form at all was likely a very soothing thing, indeed.
The train of thought—the bizarre notion of being able to love someone so entirely like that that even after all this time she could be content with no more than her memories and a place to visit—hit a bit harder than she was expecting. Hermione found herself blinking to keep her eyes from watering. She didn't know if Oksana was wildly fortunate or woefully unfortunate to experience such a thing.
When they reached the gates, Hermione braced for another side-along trip, but Oksana only kept walking. "Home isn't far. You'll learn your way around soon."
Smiling, Hermione nodded. "Of course." Oksana was probably right, after all, who knew how long this search might take?
Antonin watched as they left the cemetery, his gaze locked on the younger witch all the while. Before he was even aware of his movements, he found himself moving to follow them.
How could he only realize now that he'd come away from their confrontations fascinated with the woman? He'd never been much of a believer in fate, but he'd always wondered how, or perhaps why, she'd survived his curse.
And now, against all logic, here she was. Probable years and half a world away since they'd last crossed paths, yet somehow she was right in front of him.
Catching himself, he tried to stop, but his body would not listen. There was simply too much just at seeing her. The ache in his jaw had given way to his canine teeth elongating, sharpening. The raw sensation in his throat had spread as his gaze had trailed her movements, seeping into his limbs and his …
Well, that was a surprising reaction.
Biting hard into his lower lip, Antonin willed himself to focus around his … his suddenly raging appetites. He closed his eyes, breathing deep, hoping the rich, earthy foliage so invasive within the cemetery grounds would snap him back to his senses.
Yet, as he inhaled, beneath that scent of leaves and grass and bark, there was her. Just as surely as if she stood before him.
Shutting his eyes tight, he shook his head. Could he really hear the hammering of her pulse beneath her skin or did he simply imagine he could? Did the blood in her veins really smell this sinfully decadent or was that some trick of his mind brought on by the thirst?
When Antonin opened his eyes again, something was … different.
Looking down at himself, he saw nothing. No, not nothing. Mist. He'd changed forms, just like in some of the old tales, and he'd done it without even trying. Without even thinking.
Let's hope I can figure out how to change back, he thought despite that he was already moving.
Already drifting out of the cemetery and down the road to follow the scent of Hermione Granger's blood.
