A/N Apologies for the slight delay with this one. Honestly, I lost a little bit of motivation to write when I posted the last chapter because I knew that lots of you didn't get the email notifications (apparently you have to check up on them every six months!) and I knew so many of you were looking forward to seeing Antonin's daydream. If you missed that, go back and check the last chapter.

Thank you, as ever, to all of you who are supporting this story. It means so much to me.

"You're here earlier than I was expecting."

Hermione frowned at Dolohov, not prepared for him to speak Russian to her the moment she stepped through the door. It was surprising that he'd used the language at all because he only made a few rare comments every now and then. "Could you repeat that, please?" she requested, which was a phrase she was very familiar with from using it so often in her language lessons with her tutor.

"You're early," he simplified and then gave her an appraising look that she didn't enjoy. "I thought your Russian would be better than this by now."

"You surprised me," she retorted, a little indignant. She pulled out the vial of dreamless potion from her pocket and tossed it lightly at him. He only just caught it. "It's Sunday. I can come early with no lessons."

He only gave a slight grunt in reply and moved to store the potion away. Hermione watched him go, taking advantage of one of the few opportunities she had to observe Dolohov without him gazing straight back at her. Her eyes swept over him from head to toe and then back up to his face again upon seeing that nothing appeared out of place. She ignored the small thrill she experienced at the glimpse of his handsome profile before he ducked out of sight with the potion. What did it matter that she found him attractive? She could never act on her unwanted desires. She must deny herself, always.

With a start, she realised that her gaze had lingered too long - Dolohov had straightened and was staring intently back at her. A heat swept through her that she knew had nothing to do with the curse. Yet despite her mortification at being caught staring, she just couldn't tear her eyes away from him. She expected him to make some sort of sneering or belittling comment, perhaps even a more lighthearted tease - but he merely continued to meet her gaze in silence. The embarrassed heat suffused into something that curled and itched within her. She could sense his desire too, her conflicting emotions at that knowledge making her want to squirm. She wanted his touch and yet she didn't. She wanted to bask in what he could give her but she knew she couldn't. She wanted to lose herself but it was too big of a risk. He was too big of a risk - well, not Dolohov himself, but rather the sensations his touch awoke in her if she didn't close her mental barriers to him. Dolohov was just the vessel, the conduit through which the potent bliss was bestowed on her, but it was the man inside that posed the risk, that would use any advantage offered to him.

Hermione had been making visits to this cell for over six months now. Relations between them were certainly more favourable than their earlier encounters. They had come a long way, but Hermione knew that just because he wasn't openly insulting or engaging in a hostile battle with her anymore, it didn't make him any less dangerous. Those early attacks had been obvious and were easy to bat away. Yet some of the words exchanged and moments shared over the last couple of months had been much harder to dismiss. The most troublesome part was her uncertainty over how much was Dolohov's attempts at manipulation compared to whether he was being genuine. Back in June, she wouldn't have believed a single word he said, but things had changed both inside and outside his cell since then: Hermione wasn't the same girl as the one in the Department of Mysteries nor (did she suspect) was Dolohov the same man. Not completely. The blatant desire in his eyes was evidence enough of that.

But there were more possible examples of change within him that she didn't think he was faking: his jealousy when he'd thought she was dating Harry, his angry but slightly-panicked retorts when she'd challenged him about his life choices, the surprisingly friendly atmosphere during their carromancy readings and, most of all, his reaction to receiving the Christmas gift from her.

She had been prepared for him to tear the present up, to throw it back in her face or some other angry display in response, and he'd certainly been a bit defensive and suspicious at first. But she'd seen it - in his body language and behind the eyes, in his tone of voice - how affected he was by the gesture. Hermione could well imagine that it had been a very long time since he'd last been given a gift, and the significance of his reaction wasn't lost on her. He had felt something, something beyond hate, scorn, anger or any other negative emotion. She'd spent weeks half-hoping that it was impossible (despite Professor Snape's gentle urgings over the last few months) but her gesture had touched something inside Dolohov. He wasn't completely unreachable.

And she had struggled with that knowledge ever since.

Had she ever really believed he was truly, irredeemably evil? She'd certainly told herself so a few times. But deep down she'd known that wasn't the case even if she hadn't wanted to admit it. Now it was undeniable. And because she didn't know what to think about the evident humanity inside Dolohov, she'd chosen instead to try and ignore it. That was easy enough to do with the large workload she had at school, and all subsequent visits to Azkaban had seen her retreat behind her Occlumency defences.

But she hadn't been able to block out thoughts of Dolohov completely. Not even close.

She partly blamed her first Occlumency session of the new year for that. Not only had Snape impressed upon her the importance of not relying on the shields to keep real life and its thoughts and emotions at bay, her professor had also confirmed Dolohov's accusation against the Prewetts and the Order itself. Her shock and dismay at the Order sanctioning the murder of a Death Eater and his family far outweighed her surprise that Dolohov had actually been honest with her (but, then again, she wasn't surprised - she'd sensed the truth in him, seen it). And his warnings about watching her back? Obviously, she didn't trust him. He wasn't trying to warn her out of any sense of fondness for her, she knew that, and he could simply be trying to sow seeds of mistrust between her and those she relied on, but she couldn't dismiss his words quite as easily as she'd attempted to before. Not when the heart of the Order wasn't as pure as she'd thought it was.

She'd struggled to sleep that night. Despite what Snape said about there being people who wanted to support her if she would let them, she'd never felt more alone, more isolated. Keeping her shields in place had been the only way to keep the tears at bay. So she had simply lain there in the dark, blocking everything out and counting down the hours until she could get up and go to breakfast.

The next couple of nights were not much better, and she'd had to resort to drinking a dose from one of Dolohov's dreamless sleep potions that she had stored away to ensure that she actually got some rest. It took her many days to wean herself off of automatically raising her shields (be it day or night) whenever she felt anxious or unsettled, or when her mind strayed to uncomfortable or distressing thoughts. There were still some evenings when she felt the need to take more sleep potion though, just to put her at ease, because it was at night when she tended to think of Dolohov more.

Who was he?

The more she found out about him, the less she felt like she knew the answer to that question. Yes, he was still a Death Eater, still a murderer, still the caster of her curse, but she had never before considered what had led him down that path, how life had shaped him to make those choices.

The brief insights into his childhood bothered her. She didn't believe that humans were born with a predetermined hatred of those who were different - sexism, racism and other forms of bigotry - that behaviour was learned. For the first time in her life, Hermione pitied the pureblood children being raised in houses that championed their supremacy. She had been taught from a young age to show respect and compassion to all, no matter who they were. Her parents had brought her up with love in everything they did. Their affection wasn't conditional on her behaving a certain way or mixing with the right sorts of people. Her mother and father wanted the best for her and worked hard to give her opportunities, but they had never put restrictions on her choices.

But that didn't seem as though it was the same for Dolohov. She shouldn't be surprised - both of the Malfoys seemed to have a strong grasp on Draco's life, and therefore it was likely that many blood-focused families behaved similarly - but it was the way Dolohov had said it that had struck a chord in her. My parents both had very high expectations for me that I wasn't allowed to fall short of. They had my whole life planned out for me before I was even born. Perhaps all his time in Azkaban had given him the chance to reflect on his life. She'd mocked him for his choices a few months ago but it had never occurred to her that Dolohov might have had little say in where his life led. He'd probably been groomed from birth to enter the Death Eaters. Voldemort had been gathering strength for many years as Dolohov had grown up, and the books and reports Hermione had read of that time had expected his forces to overthrow the country within a couple of years. Perhaps Dolohov's only alternative to joining the Death Eaters was death itself. What choice had that been for a boy of fifteen? A boy whose parents had brought him up to believe that pledging his life to a monster like Voldemort was everything that he wanted in life. It didn't sound like there had ever been a choice at all.

Hermione felt sick every time she thought about it.

And it broke her heart.

She had glimpsed the little boy in him when he'd spoken of his parents. Despite the hate he'd been brought up around, it was obvious that there'd still been affection there, perhaps even genuine love. And Hermione had seen a hint of that little boy again when he had accepted her gift, her kindness.

It's what Snape wanted from her - to open Dolohov up, to allow him to become close to her so that she could manipulate or gain an advantage over him in some way. The idea had so repulsed her at the time because of her hatred for the man and her wish to have as little to do with him as possible. Hermione didn't hate him anymore but now Snape's suggestion made her uneasy in a different way. Antonin Dolohov had been used by Voldemort, possibly by his parents since birth, too, and it would make her feel dirty to exploit whatever humanity she found still existed inside him for her own ends.

There is no such thing as a good war, she could hear her Defence professor telling her and maybe that was true. Hermione couldn't control anybody else's actions over the coming weeks, months or - Merlin forbid - years, but she did have to be able to accept her own. If she pried into Dolohov's life and found a way to exploit any weaknesses or vulnerabilities to hers or the Order's benefit, she would have to live with the choices she made beyond that. Maybe it would come down to her actual life in the end, but she wasn't ready to make that decision yet, which was why she had withdrawn from him in her latest visits.

The problem was she wanted to help him.

Call her a naive moron, a bleeding-heart or a self-righteous sucker who'd fight anyone's battles for them, Hermione couldn't help it. She'd had time to think about it (even though she'd tried very hard not to) and as far as she was concerned, Dolohov had been a victim of grooming and, to an extent, child abuse. That in no way excused the suffering he had caused her and many others. It just showed that he needed help - and she suspected that she was the only one in a position to give it to him. But she didn't really know how to help him no matter if she was willing. Nor was there any guarantee that he even wanted her help. There had only ever been his angry retorts when she had tried to point out to him how he'd wasted his life in the service of Voldemort. It would take a small miracle to get him to turn his back on his 'Lord' after all these years.

But for that little boy she had glimpsed within she had to try, didn't she?

Not yet though. She wasn't ready. She needed more time to think and study - though she doubted the library would have the books she needed on this matter. And she didn't exactly have the time to figure out her Dolohov problem on top of all her other work too.

All those rapid thoughts (mulled over repeatedly during the last month) were expressed in a complicated swelling of emotion in her chest that she was only just able to suppress in order to maintain her shields. Yet she still couldn't look away. Nor did Dolohov seem inclined to. Hermione wasn't sure if she was more intrigued or nervous about what might be going through his mind.

At that moment, his tongue wetted his lips and then his teeth tugged on his bottom lip. Her gaze was drawn to the movements, her breath hitching in her throat and her heart racing. Feeling her shield wavering, Hermione finally looked away as another non-curse related heat flared across her face.

To her embarrassment, other thoughts in relation to Dolohov had haunted her lately no matter how much she had tried to push them away. Of course, she'd been plagued for months with the awareness that she found herself physically attracted to Dolohov and he stirred within her feelings and desires she was helpless to prevent, and she'd come to a place of grudging acceptance. But it wasn't until her Orthodox Christmas visit that she'd actually wondered what it would feel like for him to kiss her lips.

He'd wanted to, she'd seen it written all over his face as his gaze lingered heavily on her mouth. He'd spent the preceding minutes kissing along her arms, using his mouth and touch to work her into a state of euphoria that had forced her troubles to the very recesses of her mind, but the prospect of feeling his mouth against hers had scared her. Despite the desire already coursing through her, she knew that she didn't want to kiss Dolohov. It was an intimacy too far. A line not to be crossed between them.

To his credit, Dolohov had retreated immediately, neither showing nor voicing any disappointment at her reaction, and the moment had passed without a mention that evening and ever since.

But Hermione had thought about it. Oh, had she thought about it. The memory would pop into her head at any time during the day when she wasn't concentrating on her work: brushing her teeth, eating her dinner, laying in bed trying to get to sleep, catching sight of a snogging couple (unfortunately, usually Ron and Lavender), seeing someone sucking on their quill while they were thinking, washing her arms in the bath - there were many, many things that could bring the thought of being kissed by Dolohov to her mind. She'd even dreamt about it a couple of times - the kiss merely being a precursor to greater intimacy between them that Hermione wished she could forget about (both the lewd content of the dream and the way her body had thrummed with desire upon groggily waking from it). Subsequently, and much to her consternation, the fear of being kissed by Dolohov had been diminished. It wasn't gone completely - and she hoped it never would - but intrigue, desire and nervous excitement tended to dominate her emotions instead no matter how much she chastised herself - how could she want to kiss a Death Eater?! It was absurd and more than a little humiliating, and she just hoped to Merlin that nobody ever found out - least of all Dolohov himself because no matter how much she knew that she had to be strong and deny herself, she wasn't sure how she'd react if he actually tried to kiss her.

And that was another reason why she felt safer hiding behind her Occlumency shields for the time being. With her gaze now averted, she was able to suppress any feelings he'd produced in her and she quickly shored up her defences. She removed her cloak to give her an excuse not to look at him. "I've got news," she said, placing it on the chair as always. Thankfully, the tone of her voice was steady and only a little hoarse.

"I don't want news today," he said, persisting with the use of Russian.

Hermione looked at him in surprise. "You don't?" She saw that the intense, heated look was gone from his face, replaced with something much milder. She shrugged and glanced down, muttering, "Suit yourself," as she pulled off the lightweight cardigan to reveal her bare arms.

She felt him close the gap between them but focused her mind on her shields, ready for his touch. "I was hoping for something else instead," he said, his words accompanied by the ghost of a touch along her upper arm from his knuckles. She clamped down on the combined effect of his words and action and glanced up at him. Of course he wanted something. He didn't look like he was up to a vindictive manipulative game, not like in their early days, but why else would he turn down information of the outside world?

"What do you want, Dolohov?" she asked suspiciously. She felt she had a right to be wary - nothing he'd ever asked of her, no, demanded from her, had been beneficial to her. Their arrangement with the potion and the news had been cordially exchanged for months. Why did he want to change things now?

There was amusement in his gaze at her curt tone and the unsavoury expression she was undoubtedly sporting. He chuckled. "Now, now, zhar-ptitsa," he teased and she was sure that he spoke the first two words in English to make the Russian moniker stand out. "No need to be so defensive."

That didn't improve her mood. "Dolohov…" she said, voice low but he cut her off.

"Actually, I have two requests."

The fact that he termed them as requests rather than demands was interesting and possibly a further indication of the growth between them, though that was dependent on whether she would actually have a choice about agreeing to them or not.

"Firstly, from now on I would prefer you to call me Antonin."

Hermione stared at him in surprise at such an odd request. Well, it wouldn't be an odd request if they were friends but that certainly wasn't the nature of their relationship. There was absolutely no word in existence that could describe her relationship with him. Antonin. The word on its own felt strange even in her head. Intimate. Surely he had only ever been called that by his friends and family - and mostly in childhood too. Had some of their recent discussions brought a longing for that name, a wish to associate it with better times? Her eyes wanted to glance towards the cabinet where she had seen him stow away the daydream charms. Had he used them yet? Had he used them to create moments of happiness with people he cared about? Had he heard that name being used again? She couldn't ask him even though she was curious about where his faux-freedom would take him. No, she'd never know the why, she just had to decide whether it was something she could and would do.

She had only ever heard Professor Snape yell before when he'd accused her and Harry of helping Sirius escape from Hogwarts back in her third year, but she could practically hear him screaming at her to take advantage of the situation that had been gifted to her. Yes, it would feel intimate to call him Antonin, but given her unwillingness to actively pursue a closer relationship with him yet it was an acceptable step should she find the courage and hard-heartedness to try and reach the man inside in the coming weeks and months.

She nodded slowly but her heart was thundering in her chest. "Antonin."

He let the word hang in the air between them. The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly into what looked like a tiny, genuine smile but his gaze was alight once more with an intensity that made her want to fidget. He reached out, his fingertips grazing across her cheek and down her neck. "Beautiful," he murmured, and his hand travelled down to bring the fingers of her left hand to his lips. "Thank you, milaya," he whispered before kissing the back of them.

Even though she was suppressing her thoughts and emotions very hard at that moment, it crossed her mind to tell him not to call her zhar-ptitsa or milaya anymore but the prospect of him calling her Hermione was something she wasn't ready for.

She tugged her hand from his grasp even though she knew the curse needed relief from him. "What else do you want?"

"A conversation."

"We're already having a conversation," she pointed out but there was an uneasiness growing in her stomach.

"It's hardly a conversation when the person I'm talking to is hiding behind mental shields of some sort," he replied. "I might as well talk to a doll that has been enchanted to speak certain phrases over again."

Once more Hermione stared at him in surprise. They had never talked about her defences before and she had tried to be discreet in her use of them, but she should've known that he'd be able to spot it - he was probably skilled in Occlumency himself. The far more shocking part of what he'd said was his wish to actually converse with her.

"When we talked about carromancy and did our readings…" He hesitated, looked a little annoyed, then muttered, "It wasn't the worst thing in the world."

What was going on? Was he admitting (in a roundabout way) that he had enjoyed spending time with her beyond touching her? What had happened to him since her last visit to bring these shocking admissions and requests from him? Again, her gaze wanted to flick towards the concealed daydream charms but she resisted. Besides, she had no idea whether they were responsible or not. (Afterall, an imprisonment like his was bound to bring forth some strange side effects eventually.)

Instead, she cast her mind back a month ago to when she had last intentionally let her shields down around him, when she had dripped candle wax into water and told him what she could see. She had found his perspective on divination interesting, his knowledge of the symbols impressive and his company…not the worst after a particularly depressing Christmas break. "No," she agreed tentatively. "It wasn't."

He showed no reaction to her words. "I thought maybe we could talk about one of the subjects you're studying. The curriculum might have changed since my days - one of us might learn something new," he suggested. "Though I doubt there's anything new about Ancient Runes."

"Was that supposed to be a joke?" she asked.

"Did you find it amusing?"

"Not particularly."

"That's because you've still got your shields up. It stops you from feeling things properly," he stated.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. "I can still talk about my lessons with you while they're in place."

His expression soured in distaste. "You're different with them up. Distant. Quieter. Less."

"Less what?"

He shrugged. "Just less in every way that matters. You're not really you."

Hermione watched him closely. Was he being genuine or was this purely manipulation? She had no idea but months of wariness around him had her far more inclined to believe the latter (and it made her much more comfortable to believe he wasn't being genuine).

If she did drop her shields, what was the worst that could happen? She could bring them back up in a millisecond after all. Unless… "You won't touch me?" she checked. That was the main worry: that she wouldn't be able to block the effects of his touch out enough if she felt overwhelmed and therefore couldn't raise her shields again.

"Not while we're talking," he replied then shrugged, a glint appearing in his gaze. "Not if you don't want me to."

And that was always the biggest problem. It was why she had worked so hard on her Occlumency, why she made sure her shields were in place before she even entered his cell and tried her damndest to keep them intact: she always wanted Dol- Antonin to touch her. Her defences wavered at the very thought, her mouth running dry, her hands itching to reach out and bring his wonderful soothing touch against her heated, burning skin.

No, no, no! She knew she must always deny herself.

It was on the tip of her tongue to turn him down and tell him they could talk with her shields up or not at all, but Professor Snape's voice reared up once again, reminding her to fight for her life. Hermione knew he was right. Not only would intentionally letting her shields down for a few minutes around Antonin before resurrecting them be a good test of her strength of will and emotional control, the Death Eater had expressed a disliking of talking to her with her shields in place. If Hermione were to ever take the plunge and attempt to connect with Antonin's humanity, those moments would now more than likely have to be without her Occlumency shields present. Better to practise today with a safe topic like her school subjects rather than dive in with something potentially more emotionally charged.

"Alright," she agreed, not bothering to hide the wariness in her tone or body language. "But I'm not sure my Russian is good enough to talk about schoolwork yet."

"What - you haven't memorised your entire syllabus in Russian yet?" he teased, but in English, thankfully.

"I'm still trying to put together grammatically correct sentences with more than one clause," she answered. "I know I made a lot of mistakes and I'm so slow. It sounds like I'm talking with ten toffees in my mouth."

"The more you use it, the easier it'll become," he said. "Now that I know you can understand the basics, I'll speak it more often."

Hermione couldn't find it within herself to be grateful - it was Antonin's fault she was having to learn it in the first place. Him and his blasted curse and ridiculously difficult to decipher notebooks. That reminded her about a couple of questions she had about his notes. "I've been meaning to ask you about some of the arithmancy equations I've seen in your notebook."

Antonin raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you forgetting something, milaya?"

She resisted the urge to frown. Was it really that blatant her shields were still up? She'd need to talk to Professor Snape about that. After a slight pause to ready herself, she let the Occlumency barriers drop. "Gone," she told Antonin. "Happy? Can I show you the equations I was talking about now?"

"Go right ahead," he said, gesturing to the table where ink, quill and parchment were always kept.

Just as before, it wasn't the worst thing spending time with Antonin talking over academic matters. Once he'd explained the significance of his equations (something he hadn't bothered with in his notes), they talked about arithmancy more widely and she showed him some theories that had recently been brought into her syllabus for NEWT level. He solved them with relative ease and then tested her on some he'd picked up in his advanced studies beyond Hogwarts. He blinked in surprise when she threw down the quill and turned to him in triumph. He pulled the parchment towards him and glanced over her work. "You solved that quicker than I was expecting, zhar-ptitsa."

She shrugged. "Arithmancy is my favourite subject. I love the satisfaction of doing all that work to find the right answer. Writing essays just isn't the same."

He folded the parchment. "Keep it. Show it to your professor - might get you some extra credit." He held it out to her, being careful not to risk their fingers touching. He'd been diligent throughout, unobtrusively making sure there was no chance of accidental skin contact.

"Thanks," she replied, taking it from him and rising from the chair to tuck it into the pocket of her cloak. "I guess we should probably get on with the real reason I'm here," she said, turning to look at him. What she'd assumed would be no more than an awkward ten minute discussion about her latest Potions lesson had actually turned into nearly half an hour exchanging knowledge and challenges about her favourite subject. She felt a strange sadness at the realisation that she'd never experienced anything like that before. Learning was the last thing any of her friends wanted to talk about. "I wouldn't hate doing that again though." The words rushed out of her before she could stop them, and she felt herself flush over the heat that was already coursing through her body.

"Me neither." Again, there was the smallest hint of a smile on his face that she didn't know how to process. But also - his smile, his lips, his mouth, what would it feel like…? " -ou ready?"

Antonin was suddenly before her, easily within arm's reach. She'd been so distracted by thoughts of him kissing her that she hadn't noticed his approach and had barely heard his question, and only let out an inarticulate sound in response.

"Are your shields in place?" he asked.

He was so close. He completely dominated her view. She could just reach out and…

No.

But she was nearly ready to start using the false memories strategy that she'd been working on with Professor Snape. What if it didn't work properly while he was touching her? She had to know that she could still resist Antonin's touch if she needed to.

Only a few seconds wouldn't hurt, surely?

Maybe.

She was strong. She'd worked so hard. She wanted to prove to herself that she could let herself feel the potency of his soothing touch and then build her defences back up.

She could do this.

"T-ten seconds," she said breathlessly. The untreated heat from the curse and the anticipation of his touch was driving her body wild. "I just want to feel you for ten seconds."

His gaze narrowed. "Where?" Was she imagining that his voice sounded huskier? "Where do you want me?"

She swallowed thickly. "Just my arms, with your hands." She did not think she would be able to push him away if he tried to kiss his way along her skin like last time. Hermione shut her eyes but was presented with the mental image of him using his blasted mouth on her, so she quickly opened them again and jerked her arms upwards. "I'm ready."

"O-one." The number came out in a choking voice, overwhelmed as she was by the sheer pleasure she felt at his touch. It rippled through her, sending wave upon wave of bliss over her body. She shakily continued to count, stuttering over the numbers, aware that she was taking longer than ten seconds but unable to move any faster. She stared over Antonin's shoulder, determined not to make eye contact because she knew that his gaze was fixed on her face.

"T-ten!" The number was ripped from her throat and she stumbled backwards, bumping into the armchair as she attempted to get a hold of both her breathing and her senses. She'd never been in such a fraught state of mind whilst attempting to erect her Occlumency shields and it took all her months of training and discipline to get herself under control. Less than a minute later, she returned her gaze to Antonin and nodded that she was ready to continue.

Hermione had expected him to look disappointed at the return of her mental shields, but she could've sworn instead that he'd looked momentarily pleased before his expression had smoothed into something less expressive.

What a strange visit it had been.

A/N It's been a long time story-wise since we've heard from Hermione's POV - almost a month and a half - so there was a lot to hear about from her thoughts. I hope you enjoyed it. As ever, things continue to evolve between them and I'd love to know what you think.

Hopefully you've all been notified about this update and I don't get sad/frustrated about again! :D Fingers crossed I will back to the approx seven week update schedule again. Take care, everyone.