A/N Thanks for all your support, everyone. Just another reminder to make sure you have changed your settings about receiving email alerts - you have to opt in now.
Time to reveal the significance of 7th January. Well done to the one reviewer who already knew. Enjoy!
The day that Granger's next visit was due, Antonin waited restlessly for her arrival. That was fairly standard behaviour from him once that ninth day rolled around, but he was more unsettled about her upcoming visit than normal. He was both eager to have her before him yet somewhat wary.
The last time they'd been together she had stirred up unwanted memories that he'd had to live with ever since. Her dreamless sleep potions had come to good use in the following nights but he couldn't hide from the spirits that haunted his thoughts when he was awake. The Prewetts didn't bother him - like he'd told Granger, they'd had it coming - but his mother and father were more difficult to cast aside.
In his previous stint in Azkaban when there had been no way to keep the dementors at bay, he was endlessly tortured with memories of their lifeless bodies. He had struggled to keep hold of his sanity through his ordeal and now the constant flashbacks, both to that night and his years of suffering, had left him more mentally fragile than he'd been since securing his warded cell.
Any anger he felt towards Granger for instigating this weakness within him was soon tempered because he knew it hadn't been her intention - her reaction to his truth showed she clearly hadn't anticipated where her question would lead. Antonin wasn't even sure that she believed him but she was affected. He hated the idea of her pitying him but he did need her to think more kindly of him, to become emotionally attached, to become hooked on him in a way that was more than a physical craving to the way he soothed the curse. The soft-hearted little Gryffindor had wilted at his story, just like he'd known she would. She had already started to treat him differently that night and he wondered whether she would continue to do so - imagining a softness and vulnerability within him that wasn't really there. (It wasn't fucking there. He was strong. He hadn't survived all those years in Azkaban without having the ultimate resilience and mental fortitude.)
He had thought about Granger a lot. Filling his head with thoughts of her was the best way to block other, unwanted, things rearing up in his mind. And, much to his delight, not all of her previous visit had been doom and gloom: if any proof was needed to show how far he had progressed with his zhar-ptitsa, her being comfortable enough to fall asleep in his arms was certainly it.
Antonin had barely believed it at the time. He'd watched in fascination as her breathing became deeper and steadier, felt her body weight completely transfer to his supporting arm, but the look of contentment didn't leave her face. He hadn't risked moving her for a few minutes, wanting to be certain that she was truly asleep. He'd maintained his touch at her throat as he carried her to the chair, and she didn't even let out a murmur at the change. For some time he had just revelled in his success; savoured the sensation of having such complete power over her. Her weight grounded the belief that she was truly his. It wasn't just some far off fantasy. She was there, in his arms. He could hold her, touch her at will. His fingers freely traced patterns over her face, neck and everywhere else that her skin peeked out at him. The parts of her that were covered excited him - not because he wanted to touch them (well, he did, but not at that moment) - but because he now knew with absolute certainty that one day he would. The anticipation of what would come to pass was more than enough to satisfy him for now, imagining the look on her face when she finally gave herself to him.
He'd thought about it a lot over the last few days, his mind happily giving way to fantasies instead of horrors. He knew that moment was probably still a lengthy way off, but this had always been a long game and every day that passed he was getting closer. Antonin was going to make Granger his beyond all doubt.
He'd given her a lot to think about and he was curious to see what her state of mind would be when she arrived. If he were to make a prediction, he expected her to be protected by her mental shields this time. To get two occasions in a row where she'd been undefended had been fortunate and more than a little surprising. Upon arrival, it had been clear that she hadn't been herself for those visits but she hadn't appeared to be at an overly emotional point that would've made entering into a suitable mental state impossible. Antonin had gotten the impression that she had chosen to come to him unprotected. Why? He didn't know - she had always been so careful previously - but it had very much been to his advantage. However much he wished that she would again be defenceless, he knew that it was unlikely because she tended to retreat whenever a new barrier had been eroded between them, and her embarrassment at falling asleep on him would be more than enough to justify distancing herself in her view.
Plus, he doubted that she'd be in a conversational mood. Not after his warning that she wasn't safe from her own side had so alarmed her that she'd had trouble breathing.
Antonin didn't really know whether she was truly in danger of being betrayed - how could he when he was stuck in this fucking cell? But he had experienced for himself that not everyone on her side was as concerned about being virtuous, law-abiding and noble as she was. In comparison, if someone in the Dark Lord's camp proved themselves to be such a liability, there was absolutely no question of that person being left to survive another day. It only made sense. Now, Antonin knew that the Order's leaders were not as ruthless as that, but someone was surely thinking of the practicalities of how they hoped to win the war. There had to be one smart thinker amongst those light-blasted fools, but whether they had the guts to see it through was another matter. For his own sake and sanity, Antonin hoped it never came to pass because he'd be tossed into his old cell to rot the moment her death was confirmed - but there was no harm in making his zhar-ptitsa aware of the dangerous possibility. Even if he was wrong about the moral standings of the Order of the Phoenix, having Granger watch her back and doubt the intentions of everyone around her, of isolating herself from those she should trust, would serve Antonin very well and only make her more susceptible to his own manipulations.
And if it distanced her from that cunt, Potter, all the better.
Honestly, his fantasies about the different ways he'd like to murder Potter occupied almost as much of his time as his more pleasurable ones about Granger.
Perhaps, one day, both things would come to be - though he'd have to hide the killing from her because he knew she wouldn't think fondly of him ever again after that, no matter how much of his soul he forced himself to bear for her.
Unless Antonin had mistaken the days, classes at Hogwarts would have resumed today after the holidays and they'd be together now - Potter and Granger. Assuming, of course, that they'd ever been apart over the break. The thought had him clenching his teeth together so tightly that his jaw ached.
The day passed in slow agony until finally - fucking finally - he sensed the wards shift and Granger entered the room. He watched her keenly, looking for any clue as to her mood or mental state. She briefly met his gaze a couple of times but couldn't hold it, her eyes darting away. She looked unsure of herself, nervous. Interesting. That would suggest that she had once again come to him with her mental shields unprepared, but it was too soon to be sure.
"It's snowing, I see," he murmured, rising from his armchair to come closer to her. Small white flakes of snow had settled on her head and shoulders and she darted her head back as he made to remove one from her curls. She roughly brushed it away herself and sidestepped him so that she could take off her cloak, but he'd caught the high colour on her cheeks. Obviously, it could just be a result of the frigid temperature or the curse (she was usually flushed when she came to see him), but her demeanour was uncharacteristically shy. It left him feeling somewhat wrong-footed. His bold and defiant zhar-ptitsa he knew how to handle, this softer and more timid version had him second-guessing how to approach her.
From within her cloak pocket she withdrew the familiar potion, but as she handed it over to him she said, "I haven't brought you news this week." Antonin was ready to make a caustic remark in response but her eyes lifted up to his. Something in her gaze had the words dying in his throat and before he could even think about why, she was already speaking again. "But there's a reason."
She turned towards her cloak once more and Antonin could only stare at her back in puzzlement. What the fuck was going on with her today?
"I only realised the date that this visit would fall on a few days ago," she said. "Before my studies, the significance of it would have passed me by."
Antonin frowned. What was special about today's date? He couldn't even remember what it was beyond it being a Monday.
"I don't know if you even celebrated it but…" She turned around and said in a somewhat faltering accent, "Schastlivogo Rozhdestva."
Merry Christmas.
And in her hand was a rather small, neatly wrapped package.
It even had a fucking bow on top.
Antonin stared at it in complete disbelief. "You got me a Christmas present," he stated hoarsely because perhaps saying it out loud would take away some of his astonishment.
She was trying to look emotionless and guarded, but he could detect a defensiveness in her eyes, a tightness in her mouth, and her posture was braced for scorn and rejection. "I read that they celebrate Christmas on the seventh of January in Russia because they still adhere to the Julian calendar." She looked down and the present in her outstretched hand lowered slightly as doubt crept into her voice. "Like I said, I wasn't sure if your family marked the occasion in any way. I'm sor- "
"My mother did," he interrupted, a flood of memories surging through his mind. "We mostly celebrated on the twenty-fifth of December like everyone else here. Mother only moved to this country to marry my father. She liked to keep her traditions alive." Instead of the nightmares he'd been experiencing lately at the thought of his parents, recollections of happier times swam in front of his eyes. "I was normally back at school by the seventh but she'd always send me a few gifts to mark the day."
A red flush had crept up Granger's neck at his words and she was still having trouble meeting his gaze for more than a couple of seconds at a time. "Oh, um, good. This is… it's only a small thing." She raised the gift up again, the flickering light of the room's candles reflected in its shiny wrappings.
Antonin knew that he should be internally gloating over her softhearted gesture, at how his revelations had brought out this ridiculously sentimental offering from her, but the scorn and triumph didn't come. Apart from the enduring numbed surprise there was a flicker of… gratitude?
At once, something within him railed against the realisation, replacing it with anger. "Is this pity?" he growled, gesturing at the present. "You feel sorry for me?"
She didn't look at all surprised by the flaring of his temper. "No," she said bluntly. "Believe it or not, I can do something nice for you and still think that you deserve to be here."
He stared at her for a moment, eyes narrowed. Deserved to be here, did he?
"You still killed people," she said, like she could read his thoughts. "I know there were others, not only the Prewetts - they were just the killings the Ministry were able to convict you for. And you tried to kill me. You're not an innocent man."
He glowered at her. "I never said I was, milaya."
"Well then," she said matter-of-factly, holding out the present even closer to him. He still didn't take it. Was it really as simple as that? She was just being nice with no pity? With no ulterior motive?
"You're just going to give a present to your attempted murderer?" he asked suspiciously. "You hate me. You hate everything about me."
The redness in her cheeks intensified and her eyes briefly darted away. "I don't hate you," she murmured.
He regarded her with genuine shock, and then mistrust. She'd literally screamed her hatred of him a few weeks ago. "Since when?"
Granger sighed and the arm holding out the present finally dropped to her side. "Well, I've had a lot of time to think lately and one of the things I found myself thinking about was that night, in the Department of Mysteries."
Antonin said nothing. He didn't see how that would lead to the supposed loss of her hatred for him.
"I've come to the realisation that it was my fault that I got hurt," she said, looking at him with apparent sincerity. "When Harry told us that he'd dreamt that Sirius had been captured, I knew it was a trap. I knew it and I tried everything I could to convince him." Her lips twisted wryly and she shook her head, "But circumstances went against us. So, even though I was sure that it was a trap, that there would be immense unknown danger waiting there, I still made the choice to go. Harry tried to stop us, and it doesn't matter that I felt like I couldn't let Harry go without me, I've got to take responsibility for that decision. No one forced me to. I made my choice. I've accepted that I can't go into a dangerous situation like that and not expect to face consequences. I can't expect an enemy to not treat me like their enemy. If you play with fire, expect to get burnt, right?"
Antonin had to resist dropping his gaze to her stomach, where his curse flared across her skin so beautifully. It had been so long since he had felt its power and he discreetly clenched his hands into fists to combat the sudden itch at his fingers. "So they say," he said, voice gruff with desire.
"Obviously, what you did was wrong and I haven't forgiven you for it," she continued, still very matter-of-fact. (Forgive him? Well, he wasn't the least bit sorry because cursing Granger had brought her to him and he'd never be remorseful about that.) "But you're facing your own consequences now and that's enough for me. I'm tired of hating you, of moping around with self-pity about the effects of this curse these last six months. I'm done."
It was a very mature little speech. Antonin could understand what she was getting at but if he'd been in her shoes, he'd have hated the fucker who cursed him until the day he died - and probably tried to haunt them afterwards, if possible. He couldn't even blame this on her Gryffindor tendencies because everyone he'd had the misfortune of meeting from her house had been hot-headed, stubborn little pricks, so this was uniquely his zhar-ptitsa.
She didn't hate him.
So she claimed.
And yet he had no reason to disbelieve her: he hadn't known Granger to lie to him before. This new milestone in their relationship only played further into his hands. How much easier would she be able to mold and manipulate now? He couldn't fucking wait to find out.
"So, do you want this or not?" she asked impatiently, holding out the gift once more.
"I never said I didn't want it," he replied, plucking it out of her hand. He made short work of the spellotape and wrappings and was left holding a very light, nondescript box about the size of his hand. He arched an eyebrow at her questioningly.
"It's not empty," she said in response, her lips twitching into something that looked suspiciously like a smile. "It contains a set of charms. My friends run a joke shop and I adapted one of their products for you to use."
He lifted his gaze from the box lid to look at her. "You've given me a joke gift? Forgive me if I don't feel like laughing."
She rolled her eyes. "It's not a puking pastille or a punching telescope," she answered. "They sell other things too. These are Patented Daydream Charms. They let you enter into a highly realistic daydream for a set amount of time."
Antonin's heart absolutely thundered in his chest but he made sure to show no outward emotion.
"The ones that are sold in the shop are for bored students to use during classes," she continued, managing to look disapproving as she shook her head. "You wouldn't like most of their scenarios so I asked my friends about the theory and spellwork involved in the charms. When I understood how everything pieced together, I started playing around and adapting them for your purpose. I've extended them so that they last an hour instead of thirty minutes, and changed how you initiate them because the real ones require an incantation with a wand."
"You've been tinkering with spell creation," he murmured, lifting the lid to peer inside and discovering three sealed paper packets.
"Not really," she denied, but she sounded pleased. "I never would have had the imagination to create something like this. It was interesting though, and very different to the way you create spells."
He plucked out one of the packets with his fingers. It was the colour of parchment and only had a number one stamped on the front. "How exactly do they work?"
"You just open the packet and the charm is released," she replied. "The ones in the shop all follow a more-structured narrative and involve set fictional characters, but I didn't know what you'd enjoy daydreaming about so I made yours more open. It'll take you to a starting location but then it's up to you what you do and where you go. It'll respond to your wants."
Antonin tried not to grip the packet too tightly in his fingers. …up to you what you do and where you go… It sounded too good to be true even though it wasn't actually going to be real.
She could have gotten him anything - a boring book, a shitty knitted scarf, some stale chocolates - and he would have grudgingly appreciated the gesture. But this? Of her own volition, she had striven to give him the one thing he wanted the most: freedom. Well, the closest thing to it when he faced a lifetime of imprisonment. It was beyond a gesture. It was fucking unbelievable. In the circumstances, it was unquestionably the greatest gift he'd ever been given. Quite something when he hadn't received a Christmas present in sixteen years.
His heart was still beating wildly as a torrent of emotions and thoughts whirled within him. The packet started to tremble in his fingers and he dropped it back into the box and replaced the lid. He forced himself to meet her gaze because to avoid it would be an unacceptable display of weakness. "Thank you." His voice was gruff but, judging by the tentative smile she was giving him, she didn't seem to care.
"You're welcome," she told him. "Schastlivogo Rozhdestva." Her accent was much closer this time, reminding him of times that had once been happy but now mostly evoked pain.
"Schastlivogo Rozhdestva," he murmured in reply, grabbing the potion vial as well and turning from her so that he could store them away. The emotions she was awakening in him made him feel vulnerable and exposed. He wanted to bring her closer, that was the whole point of what he was doing, but right now he felt the need to push her back. "What did you get your boyfriend for Christmas?" he asked, enjoying both the sneer that coated his tongue and the mental image he conjured up of Potter's death. Lining himself with hate had always been the easiest way to protect himself.
"Boyfriend?" came the voice behind him.
To Antonin's ears, it sounded confused. He briefly glanced over his shoulder at her and saw that she was frowning. "Potter," he said, the sneer even more pronounced that time.
Her confusion cleared. "Oh, I got him a book on Quidditch strategies - he's the Gryffindor captain."
Hearing that put Antonin in a sufficiently bad mood. Potter's present wasn't anywhere near as thoughtful as Antonin's had been, but unfortunately it wasn't shit either.
"He's not my boyfriend."
Antonin paused in the act of closing the cabinet door, not convinced that he'd heard that right. He straightened and turned back to her. "What?"
She wasn't looking at him, but fiddling with the end of her school tie where it peeked out between her school robes. "Harry, he's not my boyfriend." Her eyes momentarily darted up to meet his, the connection further igniting the desire that was starting to engulf him.
"But you attended the party together," he pointed out, seeking clarification before he allowed himself to feel fully triumphant. Perhaps relationships were conducted differently in these times.
She allowed her tie to slip through her fingers and shook her head. "Only as friends," she revealed, her gaze climbing up to his but remaining there this time. "He's like a brother to me."
Heart pounding for an entirely different reason now, Antonin walked back towards her with each footstep carefully weighted. He was so close to getting confirmation of his complete ownership of her. "The Weasley boy?"
She shook her head but her gaze didn't stray from his approach. "Also like a brother to me." He saw her throat shift as she swallowed. "I don't have a boyfriend."
His.
She was unquestionably his.
Euphoria swept through him at the news, his blood practically singing with it. Gone were the thoughts of keeping her away: he wanted to feel her submit to his touch, craved the feeling of power over her, needed her to understand that she belonged to him. She wouldn't admit it out loud, he knew her better than that, but he could still let it seep into her flesh and choke up her senses until there could be no doubt. It was already working because she'd wanted him to know that he was the only one who touched her. She could have easily hidden that but instead she'd been explicit. There was only Antonin. She wanted no one else.
He'd closed the gap between them to barely a foot, making note of all the glorious signs from her body that proved her desire for him. His fingers followed the path that her own had traced, running down the length of her silky tie until their skin met for the first time that evening. She whimpered beautifully. He'd been so taken aback by her present that it had almost slipped his mind that she was burning for him.
"Well, milaya," he said huskily, pulling her hands towards him and tracing patterns over her palms. "You've left me with a bit of a quandary."
"I have?" she asked breathlessly, dilated pupils searching his face.
"Mhmm," he hummed in confirmation. He deftly plucked at the fabric of her robe, right over her scar, and she flinched. "Is this coming off, by the way?"
"Oh." She snatched her hands away and immediately began sliding the material off her shoulders, her cheeks flushing. "Yes. Um, you were talking about a, er, quandary?"
"Yes - how to give you a Christmas present in return."
She shook her head at once. "I never expected you to get me anything, that's not why I did it."
"Regardless, your gift leaves me indebted to you," he replied smoothly.
"Dolohov, honestly -"
"Now, my resources are somewhat limited," he interrupted, gesturing around the cell.
"Exactly, please don't -"
"But I'm sure there's something you want from me, milaya," he persisted, the fingers of one hand reaching out to slide down her tie again while the others tugged at the cuff button of her sleeve.
She swallowed thickly but shook her head. "That doesn't count," she argued, giving him a surprisingly bold look. "You can't pretend it's a present if you have to give me your touch anyway."
He chuckled, genuinely amused by her argument. He reached for her hands again but this time brought them up towards his face. She sucked in a breath and then her mouth dropped open when he gently pressed his lips to the backs of her fingers. "That's a fair point," he murmured. His fingers got to work on her cuffs. "I guess I'll have to give it some more thought. But for now…" He pushed the sleeves up her forearms and she shuddered underneath him. " … let's get down to business."
A business transaction it might be but it was also a great pleasure. Antonin had greatly enjoyed her previous visit because of the way it epitomised his dominance over her, but she had fallen asleep within minutes of receiving his touch, and he always preferred witnessing her body's responses. The occasion before that - intense as it was with her watching him - had been a day earlier than the curse required and she hadn't been as desperate for his balm. But tonight he was going to make it an occasion to savour: Granger's mental walls were down, she was burning for him, she had made a compassionate gesture beyond Antonin's wildest expectations, and he'd found out that Potter had no claim on her after all. He was determined to give her the best fucking night of her life - as far as she'd let him.
He stroked his fingers up and down her forearms for a few minutes, massaging into the flesh. Her eyes alternated between watching him and fluttering shut to savour the pleasure. When she was lost in her bliss, he raised her hand towards his mouth again and kissed over the spot where he'd delivered the lovebite. Her eyes flew open in alarm but before she could voice any protest, he adjusted his mouth sideways, delivering kisses in a path around her wrist with the gentlest pressure. Granger's gaze was still fixed on him, her breathing ragged, but she was only letting out slight whines at his ministrations. Emboldened, he inched his mouth down her arm, kissing every inch of skin he could find. She had tugged her lip between her teeth, like she knew what he was doing was risky but she couldn't bring herself to stop him. Instead, her fingers slid along the stubble of his jaw until they settled in his hair, gripping tightly in a way that had him growling into her skin. He started experimenting with small touches of his tongue and grazes with his teeth but nothing strong enough that she'd object. After a few minutes, he switched to the other arm and lavished it with the same attention, eliciting a response from her that was just as enthusiastic. With his free hand, he started stroking and massaging the skin available to him at her neck, wondering whether she would let him use his mouth there as well.
Fuck, would she even let him kiss her properly?
Fiery lust swept through him at the thought and his gaze was instinctively drawn to her lips. Their blush colour had been heightened from the pressure and biting she'd put them through. He longed to capture them for himself, to get his first proper taste of her, but a glance upward told him that it wouldn't be happening tonight. His intentions must have been written plainly on his face because there was clear fear in Granger's expression, and not the sort he was willing to push. Besides, he would always choose to leave her wanting more, rather than cross a line that she wasn't ready for and have to rebuild any trust that was slowly forming between them. To waylay her concerns, he ceased his attention with his mouth and instead refocused on using his touch effectively on her neck and shoulders. After a couple of minutes, the tension he'd found there had melted away and one of her hands had worked its way back into his hair again.
The answer came to him out of nowhere a short while before they would normally wind their session down.
"Milaya," he murmured gruffly, brushing his fingers along her jaw when she didn't respond. "I know what to give you."
Her eyelids fluttered. "Give me?" she repeated breathlessly.
"For Christmas," he explained, dropping his hands from her to give her the chance of greater clarity. "I should have thought of it sooner - I used to do it every year."
Her disappointed expression morphed into one of confusion.
"Carromancy. It's a traditional Christmas event in my mother's country - even the muggles there do it," he said with only a slight roll of his eyes. "Mother taught it to me. I used to do it for my friends if we were back at Hogwarts by then."
"Carromancy?" she repeated. "I don't know what that is."
"A branch of Divination using candle wax," he explained, and her confusion gave way to disbelief.
"You seriously believe in Divination?" she scoffed.
"You don't?" he countered, genuinely surprised. "After risking your life for that prophecy last summer?"
She tempered her expression. "That was different, I'll grant you, but from what I've witnessed most acts of Divination - tea leaves, crystal balls and the like - are incredibly imprecise."
"But that's the point," he replied. "Actually divining the certain future is impossible. No amount of magic can determine the infinite possibilities that could lead to something definitely coming to pass. Of all the prophecies in that hall, how many do you think have really foretold the future?"
She frowned. "I don't know."
"No one does, but the number is probably very small, just like all forms of Divination - they predict possibilities, nothing more. That's part of the fun. Whatever is foretold, it is up to the individual how much they take from the reading. You'll never divine a potential glimpse of the future and all its possibilities if you keep your mind closed to them, milaya." He delivered a light tap to her forehead and she scowled at him and swatted his hand away.
"That… makes a sort of sense, I suppose," she admitted grudgingly. "You actually explained it better than my Divination teacher did before I dropped the class."
"I told you, my mother taught me," he replied. "She knew what she was doing, particularly when it came to reading the wax on Christmas night. It's said that foretelling is more accurate on this date than any other, that's why even the muggles practise it."
"So your Christmas gift is to give me a Divination reading?" she asked, but he could tell that she was intrigued.
"No, you have to do the reading yourself," he replied. "I can't tell you what to see - I merely tell you the meaning of any forms you do see."
She chewed her lip for a couple of seconds and then nodded. "Alright. What do I have to do exactly?"
He glanced around his cell. "Mother would do things a bit differently but we don't really have a choice. I'm going to get some water. You need to choose a candle from the room that speaks to you the most."
Antonin grabbed his pewter goblet from the table and filled it with some ice-cold water from his sink. When he turned back, Granger was still looking around at the various flickering candles attached to the walls. Upon seeing that he was watching her, she let out a frustrated huff. "I don't know. They all look the same. That one," she said unenthusiastically, pointing to a candlestick halfway along the rear wall.
"Bring it here," he instructed, replacing the goblet on the table and moving various pieces of parchment and books out of the way to make space. She returned, carefully holding the candle and looking very dubious. "I'll go first so you can see how it works." She held out the candle to him but he shook his head. "That's your choice. I have to make my own."
After careful consideration, he made his decision and picked the candle closest to the door. "These are thinner than the ones I used to use," he said. "Normally there would be enough wax in a single casting to give a good reading. We will have to do multiple castings to reach the right number of figures."
"And what number is that?" she asked.
"Seven." He stood in front of the goblet, just beside her. "At this point, most people try to conjure an impression of the future by thinking of a question they want to know the answer to, of a person they want to know something about, aspects of their life that concern them, big events they are worried about or any other matter that pertains to the future. Others just try to attune the candle to their magical aura." When he caught sight of her unimpressed expression, he added, "And some just try to keep their mind open."
Looking a little chastised, she nodded and then watched him closely. Antonin closed his eyes and focused on his future. He had questions, many of them, but some aspects loomed larger than others: his stint in Azkaban, the war, the Dark Lord, and the woman standing next to him. They held the key to any answers that he sought. Eyes open, he lowered the candle towards the water and then poured the wax in one quick action to form a singular linear mass. "Then we wait a minute for it to dry."
They stood together in silence until Antonin used his free hand to scoop the casting out and he held it flat on his palm so that she could see it clearly too. "You read from top to bottom, or left to right," he explained and began his reading. "At the top, that shape to me is a diamond. It represents creativity."
Granger tilted her head, peering at the wax casting. She used her little finger to point at the figure and gave him a questioning look. He nodded. "I suppose," she murmured.
"Below it, I see a cloud." Then he frowned. "It means doubts." That didn't have to mean he had doubts about anything. It could refer to a number of scenarios in his future.
"Oh, yes, I can kind of see that," she said. "I don't think I would have thought of either of those figures myself."
"That doesn't matter," he replied, placing the casting down on the table. "It's whatever you read, nobody else. You go next, I haven't got enough wax to create another casting yet."
Granger made to pour her wax straight away and then appeared to remember that she was supposed to think about her future first. With a slight sigh, she closed her eyes for a few seconds then made her casting. Again, they waited in silence until she retrieved the wax and held it out. Antonin immediately picked out the figures that he could see even though they were meaningless, but Granger stared down at the casting for some time. "I think I can see a mushroom."
"An unexpected event."
"Well, that could mean anything."
He shrugged. "That's what a mushroom symbolises." It wasn't what Antonin had seen but he could make out what she meant.
"The bottom one just looks like a worm to me," she sighed.
"That means to be more serious," he revealed.
"It does?"
He nodded.
"There's not many who'd offer that as advice for me," she muttered.
Antonin made his next casting and was able to discern three figures. "A pigeon represents someone honest. An axe means a near-impossible task. The knife is a traitor."
He pondered his readings as they waited for Granger's wax to cool, his head spinning with possibilities as he tried to keep an open mind about their meaning.
Someone honest. His first thought was of the woman standing next to him. It was possible. There weren't many others he expected to encounter in his future who were likely to be honest.
A near-impossible task. That could mean his strategy with Granger, but he liked to think it wasn't going to be that hard to win her over. Maybe his escape from Azkaban? It had happened once, why not again? Particularly when the Dark Lord had surely grown in strength since then.
The traitor. Would Antonin be the one being betrayed or inspiring someone else into traitorous activity? There was no way that he would be a traitor - not unless desiring his mudblood zhar-ptitsa counted, and he could think of plenty of people who'd think so.
Granger was quicker in picking out the figures this time. "I only see two."
"That's alright."
"A person."
"Can you tell me what they're doing?" he asked.
She squinted, her mouth twisting in thought. "Dancing?"
Antonin smirked. "You are surrounded by frivolous people."
She scoffed. "You're making that up."
"My pigeon indicated someone honest," he reminded her and she rolled her eyes in response.
"Well, it obviously wasn't referring to you," she muttered. "I can also see a tower."
"An upcoming wedding."
"Oh, I know what that would be," she replied confidently. "It's scheduled for this summer."
"Not so sceptical now, hmm?" he commented and she shrugged her shoulders.
As he waited for his final casting to cool, it suddenly came to him that he was fucking enjoying himself - just being with Granger, discussing the figures and the meanings, with no grand manipulation in play. He blocked the disturbing thought out, blaming it on the date resurrecting old memories and weaknesses.
Antonin's first figure appeared to him as a broom.
"Let me guess, you get to go flying?" Granger guessed at his lengthy silence.
"No," he said shortly, staring down at the wax in disapproval. The castings were certainly having their say tonight. "It signifies a reassessment of life values."
"Oh."
He could feel her staring at him so he glanced at the lower part of the wax mass. "I also see an eagle," he said, his spirits lifting at the sight. "Victory over enemies."
She said nothing in response but her mouth was pressed into an unhappy line. With a sniff, she poured another offering of wax into the water.
"How can you remember all the meanings?" she said as they waited. "There must be hundreds."
"Mother was a very strict teacher," he replied, staring unseeingly at the wax as it hardened. "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."
He again became suddenly aware of the weight of her stare. He hadn't meant to tell her that, it had just slipped out. Fucking Christmas. He cleared his throat. "It's ready."
She picked it up and ran her eyes over it. "I've got three. A shoe."
"A long trip ahead."
Her face creased in momentary confusion and she shook her head, apparently unable to see its relevance. "Some rope."
"Troubles," he revealed, knowing that she would be displeased with that answer.
She frowned. "Not exactly surprising during a war but…" She sighed. "The last one looks like a butterfly to me. There's nothing ominous in that, surely?"
Antonin fought to keep his face still. "A butterfly," he repeated. "You're sure?"
"Yes." She briefly glanced down to her casting and then back up to him suspiciously. "Why? What does it mean?"
Oh, if this wasn't the best fucking possible premonition (providing it related to him, of course). Antonin couldn't hold back the smirk any longer. He beckoned her forward and she tentatively bent her head towards him. Mouth next to her ear, he whispered sensually, "Carnal pleasures."
She let out a squeak of mortification and dropped the casting back into the water. "You're making that up!" she accused, her face flushing. "A butterfly wouldn't mean that."
Enjoying seeing her so flustered, he pointed out, "They're adults at that stage, aren't they? They need to find a mate."
She stared at him speechlessly, the flush spreading up her neck as well.
"If you don't believe me, there might be a book on Carromancy in the school library but I doubt the symbols will have the traditional meanings of my mother's society," he said to fill the silence. He fished her dropped casting out of the goblet along the other two. She gave a start as he tugged one of her hands open and placed the wax on her palm. "These are for you to keep," he said, folding her fingers over them and then kissing the back of her hand. "Schastlivogo Rozhdestva, milaya."
A/N I really hope you guys enjoyed this one. There was a lot going on here. Would love to know your thoughts about any of it. It was fun to play around with the wax readings. I did some myself just to see what they might look like! I used a website's guide for the interpretations so they symbols they see match the meanings I gave them. The question is: are they all accurate to the plot of this story, only some or none? Time will tell.
Part of the next chapter should be about Antonin using his first daydream charm. Any predictions about where his mind will take him?
Until then, take care.
Red