The manor was originally the family's country estate according to Antonin, a dacha. Hermione had no idea what that meant as she hadn't studied Russian history or culture overly-much. She wasn't certain if she cared to know at this moment. The space to which she was confined was well-appointed enough; too well-appointed considering the bassinet not far from a lovely little four poster bed.
It, like everything else in the manor, had the air of something abandoned long ago and used to the dust that had limned its surface, now made stark by its cleanliness.
At least this room wasn't quite as dreary in its color palette. Whoever had decorated it used cream for the main color and splashes of peach and rose and sage to liven it up. Hermione was sure it had looked lovely before it became this faded background suitable for ghost brides and squalling phantom infants.
She was being morbid, but there was little else to do at the moment. Since he'd locked her in, Hermione had scoured the room twice and attempted no fewer than three spells and two attempts to shatter the windows despite being on the third floor.
Nothing had worked, and the majority of the books available for perusal were written in Russian.
She sighed and fell back on the musty linens. The generations of men who had jealously locked away their wives had all added to the enchantments against escape, but some of those must be old, others weak, and there were always things that slipped through the cracks.
I escaped him before, and I will again. She needed to keep reminding herself of that. She was still a Gryffindor, a being of courage. Antonin had not stripped her of herself, only submerged bits and pieces. Hermione had baled out a good bit of herself now, and she would not let him flood it all again.
What did she know for certain?
Theodore Nott betrayed her. Why? He was never unkind to her and seemed to enjoy her presence as a coo-worker. Moreover, as she thought about his behavior before the portkey took her, he was antsy, perhaps even guilty. He hadn't wanted to send her to Antonin. Did he even know that was the portkey's destination?
No, he knew.
Lucius would notice she was gone sooner rather than later, and he'd immediately suspect Antonin. They'd spoken about what the Russian man might do if he got her and secreting her away to his homeland was one of the higher probabilities.
Antonin wanted her pregnant.
Despite her jab at him, Hermione was not pregnant. She took the potion and tracked her cycle. Ordinary sex wasn't enough to counteract that.
The Spring equinox was approaching. He'd used All Hallows as a conduit for overcoming whatever inhibited her from conceiving, but he hadn't counted on the women of her lineage, which was nearer than his own excepting recent ancestors, breathing magic into her. Here, she could not call upon them. They were distant, and his power here would be great.
He was not taking her liaisons with Lucius well. Considering the way he hoarded her attention like a dragon, that was not surprising. While her relationship with Lucius ran deep in content, they were not a couple, and he was lighthearted about it out of play. If she wanted to have another lover, he'd be fine with it, hope for details, perhaps watch or direct or join.
Antonin considered her his wife. He was possessive and jealous of any love she might give another. He thought himself in love with her and tried to force her feelings for him.
It's a weakness.
Yes, but is it a helpful weakness considering his hyperfocus is always on me.
It might be. You've used it before; why not now?
She didn't have connections now. There was no Snape, no Malfoy, no—
There was no one.
Except the house elf and Theordore Nott. She doubted her former classmates visited the man. It was odd that they were connected at all.
Then again, she had heard of his father, Theodorus Nott. He was considerably older than most parents of those her age. Perhaps he and Antonin knew each other of old.
She would have to figure out that connection.
There was so little, in the end. Hermione laid like a corpse in a coffin, hands on her stomach as she stared at the cream ceiling. He would keep her locked up here and fading like his mother had in England. Would she also have a little row of graves to remind her of her losses? What was the cemetery here like? Perhaps his mother had gotten the idea from one of her husband's forebears' wives.
Hermione would ask to see their graves. No doubt Antonin would be thrilled to share more family history with her.
She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing.
The man's face when he spoke of family, or the history of his land, of the home, took on a certain excitement. He felt he was sharing something precious with her since, to him, it would also be the history of their children.
Their children… how the idea terrified her to her marrow and she was once more grateful to Severus Snape for the contraceptives he'd provided her with over the course of her captivity.
"Kitten, you are supposed to be out of bed at this hour." The man who occupied her thoughts was in the doorway now. He wore a pale blue button-down, a sign that he was attempting to seem disarming, not that it worked. With his wide shoulders and dark eyes, there was always a brooding intimidation factor about him.
Still, she supposed it was good that he made the effort; it meant he was still trying. As long as that was the case, she was somewhat safe from the monster that lurked in the hollows of his soul. He wanted her to love him, to play along with the charade that they could be a family.
He'd have had better luck with the girl he'd pined after before, whoever she was. Hermione was not her and would never be.
"I have little else to do," she said from her repose on the bed. "I cleaned as much as I could, but it still smells like mothballs in here."
Antonin hummed and lifted his wand. The scent lifted to be replaced with something vaguely pine and fresh. She wrinkled her nose in irritation but didn't comment. "I shall have a bookshelf relocated for you. My ancestors did not care much for a well-read woman, but I have no such objections."
"Gee, thanks," she bit out before she could help herself.
He smirked. "You're welcome, my love. Is there anything else I could get for you?"
"My wand," she tried. "Or better yet, my freedom."
Antonin chuckled and the bed sank beneath him as he sat. "You are too amusing, love. Of course, you know I will provide neither. I can, however, accompany you on the grounds whenever you'd like a walk. Or perhaps you want to cook for me? Do you cook, katyonok ?"
Hermione snorted. "Only if you like your food unevenly cooked and black on the edges."
"Yet you can make potions," he countered.
"I can follow a recipe as long as it's exact," she said, "but I lack the art that creates flavor or has any flare." It was galling to admit, but lessened slightly by the fact that she didn't care for kitchen arts and had never learned the basics. How long did it take to boil an egg? She didn't care. Nor did she care how to make a rue or craft gravy from fowl drippings or what temperature cooked which meat to perfection.
"I see." He whisked back a curl fallen over her cheek and she flinched; he pretended not to notice. "We have a house elf for that, so no need to worry yourself with that particular triviality."
Hermione turned to stare at the sage-and-rose curtain hanging down the poster of the bed. She didn't want him touching her, but knew it was only a matter of time before he forced himself on her again. "A walk would be nice," she said at last.
She could hear the smile in his voice as he said, "Alright, we will take a walk. It is cold outside, so you must dress warmly." He summoned robes for her, thick and velvety in a faded burgundy. The cut was strange to her and she realized belatedly it must have been Russian and old.
That wasn't the only strange thing she noticed.
"You have an accent," Hermione commented as she slides her arms into the thick, warm sleeves.
His scruffy cheeks twitched with his amusement. "It only comes out when I've been in the ancestral home long enough, but yes. My parents both spoke Russian to me more than English. You could call it my milk tongue."
"Oh." She stood from the bed and buttoned the front of the robes, then gestured to her feet. "I need shoes, Antonin."
Leather-soled boots popped into her vision and she bent to lace them over her feet.
"You're so beautiful, katyonok." There was a softness in his grey eyes when she next looked up. It sent shivers down her spine like someone had just walked over her grave.
She supposed she was about to do just that.