A/N: Hello, everyone. Here we are for another chapter. Thanks to all those who have supported this fic.

The fluctuation in his security wards took Antonin by surprise. There was usually only one reason why someone would approach his cell other than at meal times, but he wasn't expecting her for another few days yet. With a feeling of mild panic, Antonin feared that he was starting to lose track of time: that he was losing his mind just like all the other prisoners holed up in Azkaban. Granger appeared at the door and he tried to hide any evidence of his private concern, but he dutifully glowered as the auror peeked her head into the room and she scowled back at him like normal before shutting the door again.

"I know that this visit is ahead of schedule," Granger said, her voice distorted slightly as she removed her outer robe.

Antonin felt a great sense of relief as her words revealed that he wasn't going crazy, and then his mind puzzled over what could have brought her to him so early. "Has something triggered the curse?" he asked, scrutinising her closely as he walked over to her.

She paused in the folding of her robe to look at him with an odd expression on her face. "No, there's no emergency. I've just come early, that's all. You almost looked concerned, Dolohov."

He scoffed at that comment. "Hardly," he retorted gruffly. "I was intellectually curious about the reason why the curse wasn't following its usual pattern."

Granger simply nodded and laid her folded robe over the back of the armchair like she always did. "Of course. Well, there's nothing unusual to report - it was just more convenient to come today than on Tuesday."

Antonin was aware that there was a lot more behind that reasoning than she was telling him but he knew it was pointless to ask her about it: he'd learned by now that it was easier to get blood from a stone than get the mudblood to divulge something when she didn't want to. Her stubbornness still irked him on occasion but he had simply tried to develop strategies to work around it. "I just wondered in case there was some update that I could add to my research." He indicated the collection of parchment and notebooks that lay in a heap on the rickety desk he'd been provided with.

Her eyes followed his gesture and lingered on the desk for a while. "Unfortunately, I have nothing to add today," she said, "but it will be interesting to see if coming to you for relief before I truly need it will alter the usual ten day wait."

He grunted unenthusiastically though, in truth, that variation in their usual approach to treating the curse could produce something of note.

Granger ignored his grouchy response and passed him the promised sleep potion. "I haven't got anything significant to tell you news-wise, either," she said. "There have been a few low level attacks, Scrimgeour is looking to impose new security measures in the Ministry and there's still no sign of Ollivander or Fortescue." Antonin looked at her suspiciously, wondering if there was something significant that she was holding back from him. Of course, everything she'd told him over the last few weeks could really be nothing but a pack of lies and he'd be none the wiser. Only his belief that she was too fucking noble to actually deceive him made him trust anything that she said. He was aware that she was definitely and intentionally keeping some aspects of the war from him - things she thought were too dangerous for him to know - but there was little he could do about that. He'd had to work very hard to ease the tensions between them and he wasn't prepared to push her for an update that might not exist, especially if it pissed her off and undid all his patient work. Dolohov accepted the large potion vial and levelled her with a flat stare to show his displeasure that she wasn't really keeping up her side of the bargain. She shrugged, correctly interpreting his silent message as she said, "If there's no news, there's no news. What can I do about it?"

He turned away to store his precious potion. "Just tell me about anything then. You've no idea how dull it is within these four walls. Tell me about your week back at school if there's nothing else you can think of."

"School?" she repeated incredulously. "You don't really want to hear about my lessons, do you?"

"Apparently, I am that desperate," he said with a decent dose of self-pity.

When he turned back to her, he saw that she was staring at him, her brows drawn together in confusion. Then she shrugged, "Fine, but you probably won't find it very interesting."

You'd be surprised, Antonin thought to himself. If his little zhar-ptitsa opened up about herself - even if it was just about school - he would be trickling ever deeper into her life. The more he knew, the easier it would make her to control.

"Probably not," he told her instead as he closed the distance between them, and then stopped a couple of feet short of her. Things felt different today. The fact that she didn't need urgent relief had altered the atmosphere in the cell, making the prospect of him touching her feel strangely awkward. He pressed his fingertips to the bare skin just about her wrists and watched her face closely. She was looking down at her arms with a frown on her face. "How does it feel?" he asked curiously.

She considered for a moment, still watching as his fingers began to trace patterns on her skin like they usually did. "It's nowhere near as intense but it's still…" she blushed a little, "pleasant."

He didn't want her to dwell on that so he asked, "How many subjects are you taking this year?"

There was the usual hesitation and then, "Seven." He inclined his head, silently inviting her to talk about them as he continued to dance his fingers across her forearms. She let out a little puff of breath and looked at a spot over his shoulder. "I'm taking most of the core subjects: Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts and Herbology, but I'm also continuing with Arithmancy and Ancient Runes."

"That's a heavy workload," he murmured offhandedly.

Her eyes flashed defiantly at him. "It's nothing I can't handle - I'm used to it."

"I wasn't trying to be antagonistic," he replied lowly, having to try hard to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Merely an acknowledgement that those are all demanding subjects and, if I recall correctly, pupils are advised to only take on five NEWTs."

Her cheeks became redder and she avoided his eyes again. "My mistake," she said, not particularly apologetically, "You're normally quite quick to pick up on any opportunity to insult me."

"Not only that," he continued gruffly, clenching his jaw slightly to fight against the temper she was stirring within him, "those are the same subjects that I studied for my NEWTs so I know from first-hand experience."

He could clearly see that this surprised her. The brown orbs that he was so used to seeing dilated and hazy under his touch were widened and analytical as they returned to his face. Perhaps she had never considered before that they might have something in common, something with which she could relate to him. "You took Defence?" she said eventually, her brows furrowed in confusion.

Antonin rolled his eyes. "Of course I took Defence - don't be so naïve." A flush began to spread across her neck and cheeks at his words and he enjoyed tracking its progress because she was normally already flushed and too swept along by the curse when she came to him. "You think I was so enamoured with the Dark Arts and the Dark Lord's vision for the future that I couldn't see the benefit in taking the class? That it would go against my principles to bother learning how to defend myself against simple jinxes and hexes?"

Her previous embarrassed gaze hardened somewhat. "Being in that class told you exactly which types of spells most witches and wizards would use if they came up against you."

He nodded without remorse. "An insight into the enemy's style of fighting. It proved very helpful. You'd be amazed how many people fell back on the same familiar spells they learnt at school in the heat of battle - even the aurors. They were no match for the spells I had in my repertoire."

She looked annoyed though he couldn't think why - she knew what side of the war he was on and it wasn't as though he'd ever tried to hide it. If she thought that taking Defence so that he could use that knowledge against his foes crossed some sort of ethical line or broke the sanctity of education, then he didn't think he'd heard of anything so pathetic.

"What a pity that you never managed to master blocking a silencing charm though," she said, her voice aggravated and a little snide, her eyes bright with challenge. His previous thoughts on her pitiful perspective meant that it took him a few seconds to catch on to what she was referring to, and his lips curled into a smirk at her attempt to mock him.

"A pity for whom?" he asked her lowly, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "Surely not for you, Granger. If I'd blocked your silencio there would have been nothing to stop my curse from succeeding." He watched as she swallowed thickly, her eyes wide. "As for it being a pity for me…?" He paused and considered how events would have run differently if she hadn't silenced him in the Department of Mysteries. He couldn't say with certainty that their overall aim for entering into the Ministry would have been more successful given the utter fucking fiasco that they had descended into by that point. If he had killed Granger and still been captured, he certainly wouldn't have the benefits he experienced now and it wasn't beyond the realms of possibility that the murder of an underage witch might have seen him sentenced to a Dementor's Kiss. He realised that his gaze had dropped to her chest, to the place where his spell had hit her just below the small swell of her breasts. She was breathing quickly, the pearl-white buttons of her light blue cotton blouse rising and falling rapidly under his stare. He'd never actually seen the point on her skin where his curse had struck her and he was suddenly filled with a great desire to see if anything had been left behind. His hand was suddenly between them, hovering less than an inch from the button that he longed to undo so that the secrets below could be revealed, but Granger's panicked hitch of breath somehow managed to break through the spell of curiosity that was prickling along his skin. He forced his gaze upwards. He wasn't quite sure what to make of what he saw there. She looked nervous, holding her breath and staring at him with those big wide eyes. But she was also flushed and her pupils - though not as dilated as during her usual visits - were blown wide and her bottom lip was snagged slightly between her teeth. He could sense that some part of her wanted him to brush those buttons aside and touch her just there, but he knew he had to tread carefully. As eager as he was to give in to his desire, it would be smarter to leave her wanting more at this point. Leave her to wonder what it would be like to have his fingers dancing patterns over her ribs, so that the next time she was here, when she was burning for his touch, maybe her trepidation wouldn't even show itself.

He looked back down at the hand that hovered between them and tried to remember how they'd gotten to this point. "A pity," he murmured, his fingers faintly tingling from the charged atmosphere he'd unintentionally created between the two of them. "Yes." He raised the offending hand and slid it behind her head to trace along the back of her neck. "You'd think so."

She trembled and closed her eyes, releasing a few shaky breaths as she tried to get herself back under control. All of a sudden, her eyes flew open and her breath seemed to stick in her throat. She pushed his hands off her and staggered a few paces away from him. "No," she gasped, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth as tears formed in her eyes.

What the fuck? Antonin asked himself as he watched her. This reaction had come out of nowhere; he had no idea what had triggered it - it was too delayed to be a response to his fingers' near-touch of her hidden skin, surely? He saw that the colour had drained from her face. "Are you sick? Do you need to leave?" he asked harshly, uncomfortable with seeing her this way. She shuddered at the sound of his voice and she gripped the wood of his work table tightly.

"No," she said quietly, her face turned away from him. "No, I'm not." A tear dropped down onto her cheek and she wiped it away roughly, looking almost angry. "I'm not sick," she said stiffly and then snatched up a book from the table. "I've nearly finished working through my copy of this notebook - I need the next one," she told him brusquely.

The sudden change in topic and demeanour once again took Antonin by surprise. He narrowed his eyes at her. "You've nearly finished," he repeated in open disbelief.

She bristled, standing a little straighter, all evidence of her former emotional state gone. "Yes."

He was still unsettled by her mood swings but he couldn't help but smirk at her defiance. "Why do I find that hard to believe?" he taunted her in Russian.

She glared at his smugness, took a deep breath and then said haltingly, "Because... idiot!" She pointed at him to emphasise her point: it hadn't been eloquently made but it had been said in his native tongue. The words calling him an idiot had sounded strange coming from her lips and not just because of her strong accent. Far from being annoyed at her attempts to understand and unravel his work, he was pleased that she had gone to the trouble to find another way that would only help him connect with her.

He laughed. "You've been learning Russian?" She nodded stiffly. "I should have known. And how are you finding it: easy or difficult?"

He could see that she was concentrating very hard to try and work out what he was saying. "Difficult," she said, stumbling over the word.

"Good," he replied and then switched to English, "I wouldn't want to make things too easy for you - not when you add in the runes and arithmantic charts on top of that."

She shook her head. "The runes and charts have been a cinch compared to the Russian."

"And what do you make of everything that you've read so far?" he asked, taking a seat in his armchair. Whatever had upset her earlier seemed to have flown from her mind and he was keen to keep it that way - a teary and emotional Granger was not one that he was prepared to put up with.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Do you want my honest opinion?" she asked.

He stretched out his legs, resting one foot on top of the other. "Of course. It's not like you usually hold back." Some colour had been creeping back into her face over the last minute and her cheeks flushed at his words.

"Fine," she said stiffly. "They read like the ravings of a madman. It's all nonsense."

"Of course it is," he admitted, a small chuckle in his voice. "Spell creation is very experimental. You can't just wave your wand, say a new incantation and hope for the best. It's an art. Those incomprehensible jottings are like the composer's first disjointed chords of a new symphony; the painter's initial sketches - they give me a feel for what I'm trying to achieve and point me in the right direction."

She frowned. "Why put so much effort into creating something like that?" she asked. "Something so wicked?"

"Because I can." She looked unhappy with his response so he elaborated. "Look, very few people are gifted with the skills necessary to create spells. The art of the new, the unknown, the endless opportunities - it's always called to me."

Her mouth remained firmly pointed downwards as she considered his words. "That only partly answers my question," she said and then shrugged her shoulders. "If creating spells is like your calling, I - I guess I can understand that you would work so hard on it but why…" She stopped short, piercing him with her soulful orbs, and then shook her head.

"What?" he asked.

"Never mind," she muttered, averting her gaze to the notebook she was still clutching in her hand. "Forget it. I guess that I forgot who I was talking to."

He surveyed her, speculating. Did he prod or let her be? What would be the most effective way to force her deeper under his control? He thought back on what she'd said and made an educated guess about what she'd shied away from asking him. "You want to know why I'd specifically choose to create such a dark spell?"

She glanced up, held his gaze, and then nodded.

He kept his expression neutral and his tone matter-of-fact. "Firstly, because the Dark Lord had no need for trifling spells that would help him to tie his bootlaces or make sunflowers sing," he explained. "When I entered into his service, I knew what I getting myself into and what would be asked of me in terms of developing my craft. And before you ask, no, I had no qualms about doing so because, secondly, the sensation of connecting yourself to that sort of power…" he paused and felt a thrill race through his body. The careful neutrality that he'd tried to convey had naturally sunk into something deeper and much more eager. "Well, there's nothing like it." He'd also, without realising it, gotten to his feet and closed the distance between them. His fingers were already brushing patterns along the smooth skin of her inner arms and she was struggling to maintain her grip on his notebook. It suddenly fell to the floor with a clatter. She flinched and ducked down to retrieve it, taking herself away from his touch.

When she stood, she walked towards the table and replaced the book in its former place, keeping her back to him. He'd caught sight of her face as she'd turned from him and he'd noticed that her eyes were watery once more. He didn't know what to do. Sure, he'd upset her during their first few meetings but she'd always responded with fire - never tears. He wasn't even trying to provoke her at the moment so he didn't know how to proceed. Her display of weakness had completely thrown him. A couple of weeks ago, he would have sneered at her without a second's hesitation but it hadn't even occurred to him to do so today. He was more curious to discover where this chink in her armour had come from - not that he expected her to reveal its origin.

Antonin joined her by the table. He didn't fail to notice that she tensed at his closeness but he ignored it. From underneath an assortment of parchment he pulled out another notebook and he held it in her direction. "This is the next one," he said gruffly. "If you have any aptitude for spell creation, my work might start to make more sense in here."

Granger took it from him with a small nod but avoided his gaze. After a few moments of awkward silence, she finally looked up at him. "How old were you?"

Antonin frowned. "What?"

She looked pale again, and he still doubted that she felt quite well, but there was a sharpness to her gaze that was more like her usual self. "When you became one of his followers."

He was surprised but tried not to show it. She had never shown much interest in his past before - at least not anything that didn't directly involve the curse. It was a simple question but his natural instinct was always to avoid any personal discussions with anyone, not just her. It was how he'd been raised at home and that way of life had been cemented through his time in Slytherin. Revelations could expose weaknesses that could be exploited - that was exactly why he was intent on digging into her life, after all. However, these weren't normal circumstances and he had to remember that. He was playing a long game with Granger and different tactics were necessary to ensure that he was successful. Perhaps letting her in was the only way to keep her there.

"I took the Mark just after my fifteenth birthday," he told her stiffly.

Granger gasped softly. "Fifteen?" she said, eyes wide. "That's - that's so young."

"It was a great honour," he replied honestly, feeling himself stand a little taller as echoes of his feelings from that night came back to him. "It was all I'd ever wanted. My father -" He stopped abruptly as his stomach lurched. He wanted to say no more, but to do so would be to show too much weakness. "My father was so proud."

She stared at him for a few seconds. "And there were others like you at Hogwarts? School children wearing the Dark Mark?"

"Some," he replied. "From certain families."

Her mouth settled into a grim line. "I see." She seemed to size him up for a moment before she asked, "Do you think the same thing would happen now?"

"The Dark Lord taking on young followers?"

She nodded.

"I don't see why not if the right candidates presented themselves," Antonin admitted. She didn't look happy with his answer and he laughed. "This is war, zhar-ptitsa. You know more than most that this fight doesn't exclude people on account of their age."

Her eyes narrowed on him, clearly irritated, and he assumed that he was about to be berated for trying to kill a child but instead she said with a slight huff, "Why do you call me zhar-ptitsa?"

He raised a challenging eyebrow. "You know what it means now?"

She nodded. "Firebird."

He smirked. "Firebird," he repeated with a teasing lilt and then he chuckled. "I thought it would be obvious, really."

When he didn't elaborate, she put her hands on her hips. "Well?" she questioned impatiently.

He kept her waiting for a few more seconds, enjoying the control as ever. "Firstly, there's your obvious allegiance to the Order, isn't there? You being one of Dumbledore's baby Phoenixes." There was a slight sneer in his voice that neither of them were surprised to hear. "And when they brought you here to me that first time, you were burning up, flames in your eyes." He reached out suddenly and his hand encircled her wrist. She took a sharp intake of breath. "Not to mention that it's very easy to ruffle your feathers." She glared and tried to shake him off but he held tight. "Look, I know you want to be here about as much as I want you here so stop delaying the inevitable - we both know you haven't had enough relief to last for ten days."

She looked like she wanted to argue but, after a hesitation, the fight drained out of her. Her shoulders slumped a little and she turned her face away from him. "Fine," she muttered. He waited for more but she just stood there like a statue. He started to move his hand up her arm but she grimaced, effectively killing any desire in him to further explore her smooth skin. He thought back to that charged moment when his hand had hovered above her stomach; when he'd looked up at her nervous but wanting face and a red-blooded pulse of desire had raced through his body. How had they gone from that to this? It was intolerable.

Irritated, he pulled her in the direction of his bed. She squawked in alarm, which he found mildly amusing given their recent conversation about her bird-like behaviour. "Stop panicking," he told her, grabbing a book from the table as they passed it. "I'm not just going to stand there with a dead fish. You read your book and I'll read mine until enough time has gone past." He could feel her silent incredulity next to him but he ignored it. Still maintaining a hold on her wrist, he sat himself on the bed, and used his other hand to open the book, propping it up against his raised knee. He pretended to read as she continued to stand and stare at him in shock. He wondered if she would move at all. After a couple of minutes, he felt her shift position but he refused to look her way. With another small huff, he sensed her sit next to him on the bed and the pages of his notebook rustled slightly as she opened it in her lap.

A/N Hooray for the return of Antonin! I know lots of you miss him when I don't include him in a chapter.

Hope you all enjoyed this update - let me know what you thought. Any theories about Hermione's abrupt reaction? It'll be explained next time, no fear.

Love,

Red