Chapter Seven – "What now?"
Antonin watched as the young witch took a sip of her tea. He had made it to her exact standards – one sugar, a splash of milk, and the milk had to go in last. The mug was bright orange with white spots, something that she had smirked at. He knew she wanted to make some kind of comment about it being so colourful, considering he had been a Death Eater, but she had kept her tongue in her head. He opened his mouth several times to make the joke himself, but it sounded so stupid in his head.
When he draped his coat over her shivering body, she had murmured her thanks, and continued to sip the hot drink. She was still holding onto the mug when her eyes started to close as she sat on the sofa. Stuffing the auction collar underneath the battered wooden coffee table, Antonin gently took her hand. It was small and fragile beneath his own, but at least she didn't flinch away from him.
They sat like that for a short time as Hermione's eyes fully closed, her head sinking lower towards her chest. A light snore escaped her lips, something that surprised the older man. Carefully, as if she were a child, he lifted her from the sofa. He jerked his head towards his bedroom door, Thorfinn rushing to open it for him.
Antonin settled the young witch in the centre of the double bed. He made sure the pillow supported her neck, her hair spreading out around her like a fan. The quilt he tucked around her, making sure that she was warm. He had seen her clearly when she had been thrust into the spotlight – she was much thin, unkempt. There had been a cage when he had collected her, and he had no doubt that she had been kept as a prisoner. He took his wand from his drawer, sliding it up his sleeve.
In time, she would be back to herself. He drew the thin curtains, letting the darkness carry Hermione into the land of sleep.
Backing out of the room as quietly as possible, he pulled the door shut. Leaning against the door, he let out a breath that he hadn't realised that he was holding. She was here.
Thorfinn was fiddling with the television set, until a Muggle comedy programme flicked on. A woman in tracksuit bottoms was smoking a cigarette, whilst her curly haired friend flicking through a magazine. Another girl, a girl with an incredibly squeaky voice like a House Elf clutched a plastic handbag to her chest. Thorfinn turned down the volume, letting the people talk to themselves.
The wizard sighed and crossed his arms. "What now?"
"What do you mean, what now?"
"There isn't much more I can add to the question mate. What are you going to do now? You got the girl, you can satisfy that inquisitive nature, and if you're not careful, you're going to end up back in Azkaban."
Antonin pushed himself away from the door, content that Hermione was still sleeping. Her soft snores were testament to that.
"If you're referring to the Galleons, I arranged it with Borgin when I signed the paperwork."
"For the Master's sake, Antonin, if I had known that you had so much money stashed somewhere, I'd try and move someplace better than here!" Thorfinn tried to sound jovial, but it fell flat. Instead, he hit the thin wall behind him. "How did you get it?"
"Babushka," Antonin answered, running a hand over his stubble. Yes, he definitely need to shave now. "She would put so much money in during birthdays and holidays. She called it a rainy day fund. There is a lot there."
"And how the hell are you getting that to Borgin?"
"It's all arranged. The goblins from the Moscow branch of Gringotts will make the transfer directly to Borgin. The papers I signed give him access to send the relevant forms and complete it in my name. The goblins in Moscow will keep the paperwork under the table. My parents are still respected in the country, at least."
Thorfinn sighed, kicking at the horrid beige carpet. "I just hope they keep their word. You know what goblins are like. Look at that bloody Grimsnuck-"
"Griphook," Antonin corrected.
"Whatever! You saw how that ended up – that Mudblood in there ended up in the Lestrange family vault, and then those bloody goblins turned the tables on us. You've survived for so long, that I'd hate for everything to go down downhill for you."
"Spasibo, moy drug." Antonin smiled, turning the conversation away. "Did you recognise the Portkey wizard at all? I know sometimes they let you clean in the Ministry."
Thorfinn shook his head. "That pig headed Weasley is head of the division, I know that. Name begins with a P, something pompous. It must be someone in the Portkey Offices themselves though, no one else would be able to organise something on this scale. Wonder if the Prophet's managed to get hold of this story yet."
"Curious," Antonin said, settling himself on the sofa. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Hermione's discarded mug. He bent down and took it, staring into its empty depths. A few grains of sugar remained stuck to the bottom.
"Everything is curious to you, Ant. You should have been put in Ravenclaw."
Antonin couldn't argue with that comment. It was why he had been so valuable to his Master, always able to turn his mind to any task at hand. He had always been a keen researcher. In his early years at school, when choosing his new subjects for the third year, he had been considering working for curse breakers. He had enjoyed Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, and so took those subjects, revelling in the long quiet hours he could spend reading textbooks. And then he had been introduced to the Dark Arts.
His education seemed pitiful in comparison.
Thorfinn held a hand to his mouth, trying to stop his yawn. "Ant, mate, it's late. You should think about getting some sleep yourself."
"Soon," he said softly. There was no way he could sleep deeply knowing that Hermione Granger was in the next room.
Babushka - grandmother
Spasibo, moy drug - thank you, my friend
