I want to thank everyone who reached out to wish me well, it was wonderful to see such an outpouring of concern and support. I would like to thank all readers of this fic for being so patient with this unexpected break. I'll try not to let it happen again during the run of this fic.
FORTY-TWO
Antonin led the way and while Hermione was aware she might have bristled at anyone else insisting on being first into a situation that could have dangers—as though she needed anyone to guard her—she did not feel that way just now. She wasn't certain if it was because of whatever disturbing outside force seemed to have a say in their emotions toward one another, or if perhaps it was simpler than that.
She heard the creak of the door opening, a sound slow and cautious.
Perhaps the fact that he seemed well aware of how true it was that she could defend herself but took the lead so any terrible waiting thing would befall him rather than her.
His hand tightened ever so slightly around hers. The press of his cool flesh against hers reflexive, gentle. An instinctive protectiveness.
Then again, maybe she was choosing to be touched rather than insulted to keep herself distracted from the constant, looming understanding in the back of her mind about how this simple act of selflessness he probably hadn't even thought twice about reflected how much he'd changed. If she permitted herself a moment to consider it, really—though probably not just now, given the odd effect of their whatever-it-was—she might have the presence of mind to recognize how jarring a change it was.
They crossed the threshold, the wood of the floorboards beneath their footfalls echoing dully in her ears.
Certainly, for him it had been years alone in darkness and suffering burdened by this painful, burning thirst, a passage of time that while blunted by stints of slumber, he couldn't escape. But for her? Her last memory of him before the last few days was such a different image than how she thought of him now—perhaps impossibly different.
The fingers of her free hand tightened around her wand, the gesture equally reflexive. She did not sense anything dangerous…
The interior of the abandoned little house felt quiet … but not just quiet. Still, lifeless. As though it were not merely abandoned, but as though it had never held life within its walls at all.
Perhaps that was why she had yet to look about, her gaze fixed firmly on the set of Dolohov's broad shoulders ahead of her.
Though she was watching him, she was only vaguely cognizant of him turning to face her, those now so familiar eyes glittering like rubies against the darkness.
Only vaguely heard the rumble of his voice as he whispered, "моя кошеня?"
