Chapter Eight

He wasn't certain how it had happened—perhaps the mist was somehow immune—but as he reached the house the witches had entered, where he would've naturally paused to check for a wards, his ephemeral form simply slipped inside. He could feel a small resistance, something that surely would've knocked him back if he were flesh and bone, but nothing more.

Antonin wasn't even certain if his heart still beat, but if it did, he was certain it would've thundered to a stop to find himself standing right before her.

In the darkness of the room, he could see her quite clearly. Sprawled on a bed, one arm over her face, she was clad in a simple cotton shift. Her bare legs draped over the side and before he realized he'd even moved, he found himself stepping closer as his body shifted back from its current misty state.


Hermione had all but hobbled into the spare room of Oksana's sweet, small house. Leaning against the wall, she exhaled and shook her head. "Somehow, I think that was a bit stronger than the hot toddy Minerva taught you to make," she murmured, giggling a little.

Shaking her head, she shrugged out of her billowy white shirt and slipped off the long red skirt. Or, at least trying to slip it off—it was actually a bit of a struggle that resulted in a clumsy leg shaking maneuver that quite reminded Hermione of a cat with a piece of tape stuck to its paw.

Turning with the last shake which had finally freed her foot, she landed on the bed. A bath … yes, she should take a bath before going to sleep.

With a hard blink, she shifted about, removing her knickers and tossing them onto the basket she was using as a hamper. Her shoulders slumped as she merely stared across the room at the basket.

Oh, who was she kidding? She rarely drank, so between the festivities and the alcohol warming her belly, she was worn out. Destined for a good night's sleep, it seemed.

Nodding, she let herself fall back on the bed, her forearm across her eyes to keep her lids closed as she drifted off.

She had no idea how much time had passed, surely she was asleep … dreaming by the time she became aware of presence nearby.

Antonin barely even startled when she lifted her arm. She met his gaze unerringly in the darkness. She smiled, breathing a snicker. "Now what might you be?"

He couldn't spare the thought of what she meant by that. She was staring right at him, why didn't she recognize him?

That didn't matter—couldn't matter. So close to her he could think of nothing more than what her skin might taste like.

And then, impossibly it seemed, she lifted her hand, beckoning to him.