SIXTY-THREE
Hermione felt a thrill spike through her as she recognized the boundary she'd sensed in her dream. The same strange ebb and flow of magic … pulsing and then shivering back to lash weakly at its environment.
In a flash she understood. Gasping in wonderment, she shook her head, uttering a breathless laugh.
It was the Book. Somehow it had spat out a ward to protect itself.
"Dear Lord," she said, her voice low, barely audible against the ambient sounds filling the night. "The Book really is sentient."
Suddenly aware Antonin wasn't shadowing her steps, she heard him, his words wispy, tired. And entirely too far away.
"Cheeky … cheeky piece of literature, making us go through all this."
Spinning, she spotted him some distance back. His forearm against a tree, he leaned into it, blinking at random intervals as he tried to catch his breath—always a sight on a creature who didn't actually need to breathe.
She glanced back, assuring herself she'd seen the tree from her dream and the scattering of aged and forgotten gravestones that marked the spot, before hurrying to him.
"What is it? What's wrong?!"
He hissed out a silent chuckle, relishing how she stood on her toes to press her forehead to his in a show of concern as she waited for his answer. The upir breathed deep, inhaling the scent of her. Not her blood, her hair, or her skin, simply her.
All of her.
"I'm weak," he replied, an exhausted grin curving his mouth.
"That I can see," she said, refraining from snapping at him. Even some of the sparkle was gone from his ruby eyes. "I don't understand. You fed before we came here."
They shared a crestfallen look. "Unless …" the couple said in unison.
Hermione turned her head, her gaze touching on the Book's location. "The magic's draining you because of what you are." Tears crowded her throat. Didn't the Book know how different Antonin was? Didn't it understand?
How could they use it to help him if he couldn't get near it?
"I don't—" A startled sound tore out of her as he slid down, landing in a heap. Falling to her knees, she struggled to pull him up.
"Antonin? Antonin!" Clutching at his robes, she used a mild levicorpus, just enough to nudge him forward so she could prop him against the tree.
"I'm fine," he said, as though his voice hadn't just spilled out weary and lifeless.
"I've got to get you away from here." Though her own words were a bit frantic, she understood there was only one way to do that without creating a spectacle.
Slipping her hand around the back of his neck, she pulled him closer still, pressing his lips to her throat.
"моя кошеня," he murmured, even as his fangs ached and his thirst raged. "I'm not certain this is a good—"
"You need your strength, now shut it and take my blood, please." She was desperate, but she also trusted completely that despite his weakened state, he would not take too much.
Unable to argue further, he opened his mouth, using what little strength he had left to hold her to him.
She gasped at the feel of his teeth sinking into her flesh. Warmth flooded her at the sensation of him drawing on her blood, slow, careful, deliberate. Familiar.
After only a moment he withdrew, his head against her shoulder as he breathed.
Hermione felt a strange tingling then. A ripple. Turning her head, she looked toward the tree, toward the lost graves. "This was a test," she whispered. "The Book wanted you to prove you wouldn't hurt me."
Just as quickly, the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and a jagged bolt of ice dashed across the pit of her stomach.
"That's not all," Antonin said, his voice low to match hers as he started to climb to his feet, pulling her to stand with him. He glanced toward where the edge of the Book's ward lay.
"We're not alone anymore."
