Chapter Four

Hermione was not looking forward to dinner that evening, but then Antonin Dolohov did something that—after the actions of his cohorts—surprised her. He ignored her.

She was grateful but also confused by this. With the way he'd looked at her during Voldemort's troubling visit, she'd thought sure he'd catch hold of her to see her response, as Orias and Thorfinn had. But he did not lay a finger on her, nor did he so much as glance in her direction.

It crossed her mind that perhaps he was expecting her to do something in the wake of the other incidents. That maybe he thought she would act in preemptive measure to whatever she believed he might do.

She considered that she should feel relieved by his apparent lack of interest for being in her company. Yet, she wasn't certain how she felt about it.

Over the next week, she couldn't be sure if everyone who kept close proximity to her was behaving odd or if it were her imagination. After all, she'd deliberately avoided paying attention to them these long four months.

There was a relief in that the night the students returned was the last time Amycus and Nott, Sr. had pestered her, though she did still feel the latter watching her like a hawk whenever they were in eyeline of one another. She didn't know if their absence from the library was due to her ability to best them in verbal sparring that she'd only just displayed for them that night, or because they were actually busy with their duties as teachers.

That was a mildly amusing thought ... Then she became vexed with herself for that realization, because she had not been amused by anything at all, not even mildly, since before Harry had died.

Oh! This was all that great oaf Orias Mulciber's fault. If he hadn't been so insistent on testing her wounds that night ...

Now, he still didn't speak to her when he escorted her about, but ... He did walk closer to her. And there was something about the nearness of his towering figure that caused her pulse to quicken just a little. Every now and again he would accidentally brush against forearms, right where he knew her cuts were. He seemed to enjoy the small gasp she would utter at the contact.

Every meal time, his gaze would skitter over to lock on hers when no one else was looking. The strange part was not that he would do this, but that she only noticed he would do this because she was watching him first.

Thorfinn hadn't changed much during his time escorting her, though now that he knew the little spitfire he remembered was still in there somewhere, he made more attempts to engage her in discussion. However, she'd catch him smirking or winking at her every so often when they traversed an empty corridor.

Just as with Mulciber, the strange part was her, as she found herself wanting to smile, just a tiny smile, in response. She thought she even might have once or twice without realizing, because then he would seem to notice what he was doing—that he was getting her to show that she was still alive in there—and his brightened expression would shut down.

She tried to ignore this. He could not possibly care that he might be endangering her should Voldemort learn from one of his other followers that someone—anyone—had gotten a laugh or a smile out of her. To even consider such was madness.

Voldemort was the oddest change of all. Since the afternoon he'd discovered her pouring so intently over that photograph of his old—pretty—self, he'd become reticent while they had their tea, but she was aware of him watching her the entire time. He did not engage her in conversation during meals, but she was more than aware of him casting a glance in her direction from the corner of his eye every few minutes.

Finally, tea time one week following that afternoon she found herself anxious at his continued silence. She hadn't felt anxious in so long and she hated the quiet sense of jagged ice stealing through the pit of her stomach.

She recalled Antonin Dolohov's expression of surprise when she'd pondered aloud in his presence—and his alone—about needing undergarments. If she wanted to ensure she cemented her lifeless façade to Voldemort, and said something that prompted him to break his discomforting silence, that would probably do the trick.

Hermione was so unnerved by his mute gaze she had nearly forgotten all three of her escorts were in the headmaster's office with them. She did not take into account that her words might have some affect them as she opened mouth and prepared the lackluster tone she'd mastered.

"My Lord?" Her voice spilled out, low but steady. She thought she could sense a flicker of interest from him in her regarding him so. She tried to never address him directly if she could help it.

She certainly didn't make a habit of calling him My Lord, and now she dreaded that the choice had been a mistake.

When she lifted her gaze from her tea cup, she noticed he, indeed, was watching her with an arched brow.

"Yes, Mudblood?"

Hermione tipped her head ever so slightly to one side, allowing herself to appear puzzled by his interest. "I have a request, not for the library but for myself, if I may?"

Setting aside his cup, Voldemort rested his elbows upon his desk and folded his bony hands beneath his chin, the picture of undivided attention. "Go on."

"Undergarments." She could feel the ripple of surprise through the three Death Eaters stationed behind her.

The Dark Lord's naked brows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"Knickers? Brassieres?" she clarified, enjoying that she kept her face blank with such ease. "They are not a necessity I understand, but they are things to which I am accustomed, and I have had none. To be frank, My Lord, washing and reusing the same pair repeatedly for four months—well, needless to say, I have been forced to make do with nothing but my robes."

Now it was Voldemort's turn to tip his head to one side. Was she trying to garner a response from him? That seemed unlikely as she was just as lifeless as usual, but this request in the wake of finding her so fascinated with his former appearance?

Oh, yes. He knew how to proceed now.

He ignored the uneasy tutting of his followers in the room at her seemingly brazen topic of discussion. Clearly they were concerned her words would anger or irritate him.

"If they are not a necessity then why should I bother with providing you any?"

Hermione lifted her tea cup for a quick sip, hiding the sudden need to force a gulp down her throat. Setting it back down with renewed listlessness in her demeanor, she said, "As stated they are something to which I am accustomed, therefore the absence of them is a bit uncomfortable for me and may distract from my duties as librarian."

Truth be told, she rather liked being braless, but the lack of knickers was more confining than freeing with wizards like Nott and Carrow watching her so intently. Consideration of that awareness sparked another idea.

"Also," she went on before he could respond, though he did seem to be weighing her request, "I believe there may be a Death Eater or two who watch me so closely they may have noticed my ... lack of binding, shall we say?"

"Oh?"

She ignored the sudden shifting in place she was certain must be going on behind her. But as the ones who were keeping her secret, they had nothing to worry about. The entire line of thought was strangely empowering.

"I tried to make them leave me alone with just words, but one of them threatened me. I think he may eventually try to harm me." God, she hoped he didn't make her clarify what she meant by harm.

There was a flicker of anger in Voldemort's serpentine face. "Who?"

"Theodore Nott, Sr. and Amycus Carrow."

The Dark Lord shot his gaze over the top of her head as he said, "Rowle, Mulciber ... go collect your brothers-in-arms and bring them here. Dolohov, you will escort her back to the library."

Hermione stood from her seat, but remembered her own insistence at the last moment. "About the undergarments, My Lord?"

"I will task Narcissa and Alecto with seeing to that once I have dealt with the two you have named."

As she turned away, following Antonin from the room, she realized something. After their first few times trying to get a rise out of her, Amycus and Nott must've realized she'd not reported their antics to the Dark Lord.

Then again had she done so at the time, she suspected Voldemort would have only cared that there were not actively attempting to harm her.

A smile curved her lips as she was marched from the headmaster's office and down the corridor. She might not be happy about Voldemort's new, seeming fascination with her, but that did not mean she should not use it to her advantage.

They traveled in silence, but then it was no more or less than she'd come to expect from Antonin Dolohov's company.

Upon entering the library, Hermione was disappointed to find it empty. Not that it had exactly been flooded with students under these new educational policies, but still, to find not a single student making use of the knowledge stored there ...

It was so still, the swinging shut of the library doors behind them seemed to echo through the vast space.

"I can't tell if what you just did up there was motiveless or the most sly bit of thinking I've ever witnessed."

Swallowing hard before sparing a moment to school her features, Hermione turned on her heel. She lifted her gaze to his. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"We can drop the act, witch," he said, allowing his attention to flicker from her face to touch on her forearms—just long enough that she knew he was looking toward her wounds. "Exactly how long have you been playing the lot of us?"

She frowned, but it was a bland expression, and shook her head. "I have not been playing anyone. If you've been speaking to Mulciber and Rowle, you might understand why I've become the way I am."

A smirk curved his lips as he nodded. "I have and I do ... but I also seem to see your precious little mask slipping. You might want to see to that."

Hermione tilted her head, unaware if that was true, or if he was trying to get a response out of her. Perhaps a glimmer of apprehension, maybe a plea to not tell Voldemort.

"I am afraid I don't know what you mean," she said again.

"You took joy just now from tattling on Nott and Carrow, didn't you?"

"I just think those who tempt fate as they do should be taught how unwise it is."

She was good at this, he'd give her that. After a few solid moments of staring at one another, her demeanor and the dullness of her eyes did not falter.

Antonin reached for her arm, but as quickly as she braced herself for his grip, he stopped, his fingers hovering in the air. "You know, they talk about you—Thorfinn and Orias. They talk about how much you must like pain. About how it must arouse you."

His deliberate choice of words forced a small gasp from her, which only caused his smirk to widen a bit.

With a barely perceptible shake of her head, she said, "I do not wound myself for any such reason."

Tsking, he gave a headshake of his own as he took a step closer, towering over her. "They were not talking of your cuts, at all. They meant the contact—the press of a hand against your torn skin." He lowered his head, bringing his face close to hers. "The rush of sensation through your lifeless little body that first time Mulciber grabbed you must have been a most exquisite surprise."

Hermione wanted to hang onto her lifeless façade, but with how he'd lowered his voice, practically growling the words, and the way his dark eyes burned into hers, she instead forced a gulp down her throat. They talked about her? The three of them talked about her like this?

"Then you sit in front of us and casually throw out that you've got nothing on beneath your robes." Again he tsked and shook his head. "Rowle and Mulciber must be beside themselves with troubling hindsights."

"Enough. You are wearing on me, Dolohov," she said, her voice low and steady. She was unbelievably grateful she could sound so dead just now, because his tone and his closeness were doing the same thing to her that Mulciber's sneaked brushes did.

"Am I, now?"

"If you want to test me for yourself, go ahead and do it." She sighed and held up her arm, waiting. "Then maybe you can leave me in peace as I think I'd like a nap before dinner."

Antonin looked at the offered limb. So she was inviting him to see how she responded to a little pain, was she?

"You'll find that I do things a bit differently, I'm afraid."

"What do you—?"

Before she could even finish the question, he sank his fingers into her hair and clenched them into an unforgiving fist at the back of her head. Oh, yes, she snapped to life fast then. Color flooding her cheeks, her chestnut eyes glittering, and her mouth falling open in a gasp.

This side of her was what had Mulciber and Rowle so fascinated with her ... And what a precious thing it was, a hidden gem, really.

Hermione didn't know if she liked or hated the sweet thrill that ran through her as he gripped her like this. "What are you doing?"

Biting into his bottom lip, he leaned closer still. Allowing her to feel the warmth of his breath against her skin, he said, "You invited me to test you. You did not specify how."

Against her better judgement, she flicked her gaze down from his to trace over his mouth before shooting back up to his eyes.

"I dare say that look is inviting me again."

He closed the distance, his mouth pressing to hers and his tongue plunging between her lips. Antonin used his hand on her to draw her closer, pulling her body against his as he kissed her.

Whether out of instinct or reflex, he found her returning his kiss. The witch caressed his tongue with her own, scraped at it with the edge of her teeth in teasing nips, drawing a pained groan from him.

But it was the pleading sound that worked out its way out of her throat—a sound of wanting more—that called him to pull back.

She appeared quite dazed as he released her, but she quickly collected herself. Even with that flare of color still in her cheeks, she regained as much of her lifeless façade as she could manage as she lifted her gaze to his once more. "Why did you do that?"

"I saw in you the same thing they did." He smirked one final time. "And you really are quite something."

With that, he turned on his heel and exited the library.

Hermione drew in a calming breath and shook her head. Turning away herself, she retreated to the librarian's quarters for that nap she'd mentioned. She tried to put Antonin Dolohov's kiss out of her head with every step.

Thorfinn's brows shot up as he opened his mouth to demand Antonin repeat himself, but it was Orias Mulciber's booming voice that cut through the quiet of the faculty quarters the three shared.

"You did what?!"

Antonin turned to face the other wizard, his dark brows shooting upward. Certainly, Orias Mulciber was the only person he—or even Thorfinn—found physically intimidating, but he did not see the point in how riled up he was just now.

If he'd wanted them to stay away from her, he should've kept what he'd discovered about her to himself.

"Kissed her. Sorry, does that upset you? Or is it that she kissed me back that has you all knotted up?"

Orias scowled, a downright frightening expression as he stomped toward the door. "I'll take the liberty of seeing her to the Great Hall for dinner."

After he stepped into the corridor, the door slamming in his wake, Thorfinn turned a speculative look on Antonin.

"What?"

"You knew he was going to get all territorial, didn't you?"

Glancing back toward the door, Antonin cracked a grin. "Yes, I did. But she's not his territory."

A smile of his own playing on his lips, Thorfinn nodded. "You are right about that." After all, Mulciber's little tantrum just now had done nothing to deter his own thoughts about the witch, either.

With said tantrum, and Antonin already having taken a liberty of his own ... Well, Thorfinn was going to have to start throwing more than winks and smirks her way, wasn't he?