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Slivered fragments of moonlight pierced through the once bare conduit of branches, the bones of the trees now obscured by lush, spring flourish. Damp carcasses of last season's leaves littered the forest floor, deafening her steps as Hermione Granger made her way deeper into the thicket.
The boys had blessedly, finally fallen asleep, giving her time to slip away, to decompress. It had been quite the day, barely surviving the Erumpent Horn explosion, only to be swarmed by a horde of Death Eaters.
Xenophilius, the fool.
Hermione could not believe the man dared call HER narrow and closed-minded when HE was the one who’d refused to admit he’d brought a dangerous, highly explosive decoration into his house. Angry as she was over his stupidity and his betrayal, she could at least admit that she did feel a tad bit sorry for him. Hermione had not even considered when she’d approached the Lovegoods to print some real news for a change that Luna would be put in danger because of it.
Luna was the only reason Hermione had allowed the Death Eaters to catch a glimpse of Harry before she’d apparated them to safety. Xenophilius had better be grateful to the painfully limited girl who’d saved him and his daughter’s life.
A twig snapped in the distance, breaking through her irritating reveries and Hermione spun, drawing her wand. She squinted, peering through the immutable dark, not wanting to call attention to herself by casting a lumos.
There could be others than who she sought lurking in the woods.
Hermione sighed, the muscles in her wand arm tensing, struggling to hold the stave steady. Seeing no immediate danger, she turned to continue but slammed into something broad and inflexible. She made to shriek but a quick hand clapped over her mouth, smothering the noise.
“Hush…” a familiar voice purred in her ear and all the panic that had been bubbling up settled.
Hermione was one of the most aware people she knew. Always on her toes, thinking ten steps ahead but when it came to Antonin Dolohov, he was infallibly always on the eleventh, which used to drive her mad, but now, energized her.
“Merlin’s pants Antonin, you scared me!” She said in a playful whisper, swatting him on the shoulder and gazing up into the face of the man who’d at one point starred in her nightmares, but now, unrelentingly plagued her daydreams.
“No need to be scared, umnitsa,” Antonin said, tantalizing pieces of chocolate brown locks falling into his face, the rich color highlighted within stray beams of moonlight. He held out a hand to her. “It is just us and the trees.”
Hermione eagerly took his outstretched hand and followed along, taking two steps for every one of his large sweeping ones as he led her deeper into the forest.
Had someone told her in the days following the Department of Mysteries debacle that there would come a time when the man who had cursed her would soon be not only a steady but wanted presence in her life, she’d have thought them barmy. But it had happened incrementally, akin to the slow struggle of a flower, starting from nothing more than a small seed that needed to be coaxed and tended to until it peaked through the winter-hardened ground, growing stronger day by day until it became a bright, colorful bloom willingly worshiping the sun's prowess.
That Christmas after the incident, Hermione had been outside in her parents' garden attempting to quell the aching and searing keeping her awake most nights. Unwilling to tell her Mum or Dad about the full extent of her injuries, she’d elected to let the cool winter air soothe her wound, and that's when he appeared. Right behind her.
Before she’d even realized she wasn’t alone, she was silenced, disarmed, and yet, Antonin Dolohov did not kill her. He spoke softly, tenderly, though in a language she did not understand, then or now. When he’d raised his wand, she’d closed her eyes, tears slipping out the corners, hoping her parents would not be the ones to find her cold, lifeless body. But, he did not bestow death nor pain, only a cooling sensation that flooded her chest, and when she dared open her eyes, she was still alive, and Antonin was staring at her with a thawed expression.
I am sorry for this, he’d said, it should not pain you anymore.
And then he’d left.
That was the first of dozens of maddening, confusing, and, eventually, exhilarating encounters Hermione had with the Russian Death Eater. Each time he brought with him no one else, only help in the form of books, food, or potions. Never did he ask about Harry, what it was they were doing, where they were going. Not once did he try to interfere.
He seemed fixated on one thing, and one thing only; her survival.
Against her better judgment, Hermione went from loathing him to being intrigued by him to…well…
Antonin led her to the center of a small clearing where a few candles floated in mid-air, casting an alluring orange glow upon the fluffy white blanket laid out over the dark undergrowth.
“We ran into some of your friends today,” Hermione said, watching Antonin intently as he built up additional wards around the space, recognizing the ones he’d taught her that she had added to the normal repertoire of defenses she used around the tent she shared with the boys.
“They are not my friends,” Antonin said curtly, and with a final flick, he stowed his wand in his trouser pocket and Hermione took a deep breath, the stress of the day melting out on the exhale. It was odd to think that the only time she could relax nowadays was when she was with the man that, at the time, she’d thought tried to kill her.
“But I heard nonetheless. What were you doing at the Lovegoods?” Antonin said airily, removing his outer robes and laying down on the blanket.
“Wasting time,” Hermione said with a nettled sigh, kneeling beside Antonin’s lithe, stretched-out frame. She was certain that the Hallows were nothing more than legend. Just a silly story society passed on through the ages to entertain children and give the not-so-bright ones something to focus their energy on. But…perhaps… “Antonin…have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows?”
“This is the children’s story, no?” Antonin said with a scoff.
“That’s what I said!” Hermione chuckled, blinking rapidly and willing her heart to continue its diligent, life-prolonging work because whenever she was near this man, he took her breath away, scrambled her better senses. Deep down she sometimes wondered what it was about her that drew him in, but then he would always manage to say exactly the right thing to quell any of her doubts.
“I am not surprised, umnitsa,” he said, leaning up on an elbow, his sapphire eyes fathomless as they swept across her face. “You know so much. So many books you have read.”
Hermione felt her cheeks flare under his appraisal, his heavily accented praise twisting through her like a spring breeze through a field of swaying Foxgloves.
“What is it they call you, the brightest witch of your age?” Antonin asked, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, pupils swelling, eyes growing darker underneath the flickering candlelight.
“It was…the cleverest witch,” Hermione said, her words bisected by a deep swallow, and she licked her own lips in response to the primal need growing in her belly, triggered by being so close to this captivating man.
Though neither had said the words out loud, Hermione was a big believer in actions speaking louder than words. Antonin protected her, fed her, taught her spells to defend herself when he could not be there, and above all, when she had finally thrown herself at him, the way he touched her, kissed her, tasted her…she was certain that he had fallen for her, just as she had for him. Antonin had not been her first, but he was by far her best; his masterful hands knew exactly which chord to pull and how hard to make her sing the exact notes they both craved, his gifted mouth knowing exactly what to whisper throatily in her ear to render her into a puddle of goo.
“Both, then,” Antonin rasped, unconcealed need ornamented in his eyes.
Unable to wait any longer, Hermione tipped forward first, plating her lips against his. There was a heavy inhale, and then Antonin was kissing down her neck, pulling at her clothes as she yanked on his. When they were both divested of any barrier, Antonin directed her onto her knees, his strong calloused hands gripping brutally at her hips as he knelt behind her. She tensed unwittingly when she felt the thick head of his cock drag between her wet folds, but relaxed when Antonin growled, “That’s it, umnitsa, you want this, don’t you?”
“Yeeessss,” Hermione moaned as he entered her. She wanted this, craved having this man, this Death Eater between her thighs.
These encounters never lasted long, their couplings only able to exist in the scarce moments they could manage to steal away from their respective responsibilities, and that night was no different. As Antonin rutted into her, his thrusts quickly devolving from slow and measured into harried and chaotic, Hermione found herself wishing that they could have more, be more, that she might be able to find a future with Antonin after her quest with Harry was completed and the dark lord was defeated.
Panting heavily, Hermione stretched out her legs, still shaking from her orgasm, and sighed contently when Antonin laid down beside her, placed his hand on her belly, and whispered the agreed-upon contraception spell.
Though she loved the feeling of him inside of her, the moments after their culmination were her favorite. After they had both found release, the normally tight-lipped, rigid specimen would relax as much as a man like him could. He would tell her of the things he was forced to do because of the brand he wore. The lies, the killing, the deception. She was always horrified, and deeply saddened that he hadn’t had a choice in serving the madman, but, Antonin would always assure her that it was nothing, that he would do what was necessary, deceive who he needed to, to protect that which he loved.
Tonight, however, Antonin did not speak. Hermione laid her head on his chest, listening to his heart rate slow, and waited for a conversation that, as the moments passed, she knew would not come. Tonight would be one of the nights that the man of few words remained as such.
An owl hooted in the distance, and Hermione stretched, before slowly sitting up and searching for her clothing. She ought to be getting back to her post before one of the boys woke and found her gone. Her cheeks would inevitably turn redder than a tomato when she attempted to give them excuses as to where she’d been, the evidence of which soaking her knickers as she wove a lie.
Buttoning her jeans, and pulling on her sweater, Hermione looked down at Antonin and tilted her head to the side. The Death Eater remained in the same position, his lightly tanned, muscled frame languishing in apathetic repose, an arm tucked behind his head causing a vein to bulge along his tricep. He had been becoming more distant as of late, and in the few snippets she’d collected over the weeks, Hermione had gathered that whatever mission he was currently performing for his master was a difficult one, but one that was soon coming to an end. She hoped when it did, he would smile again because he was beautiful when he did so.
“Are you going to get up, or have you finally decided to defect?” Hermione asked coyly, dropping to her knees next to his naked form. She placed her hands on his chest as she leaned down to kiss him but he grabbed her wrists, sat up, and her kiss landed on his nose instead.
“I cannot stay, neither of us can, you know this,” Antonin said casually, his gaze boring into hers before it shifted down to her hands in his and then up to something off her left shoulder. Hermione watched the immense tension return to his body, the cords of stress quivering up his neck, jaw tight underneath his earthen beard. Never was the man ever truly relaxed, but tonight, he seemed bothered, more than usual. Perhaps that night, his sins were simply too compounding.
It was a rule between them that they did not ask that which the other could not speak of. Being on opposite sides of the war, Antonin had already taken a great risk to offer Hermione his assistance, and Hermione was not yet ready to elicit Antonin’s help in finding the Horcruxes of his master. Still, she found herself wanting to know what was troubling him. She wanted him to share his burdens with her.
“I know,” Hermione said wistfully. “But…I wish we could.”
“Is that so?” Antonin said dismissively as he reached for his boxer briefs and trousers and began to dress.
“Yes, I do!” Hermione insisted, her long-caged feelings bubbling up, unable to be stamped down any longer. Antonin continued to pull on his clothes, ignoring her heartfelt confession. She grabbed the crook of his arm, stilling his movements. “I want you to be able to stay. I want us to be together. I don’t want you to suffer anymore and…I feel safe when you’re around.”
His trousers half-buttoned, chest still bare, Antonin cupped her cheek, his eyes searching her face and again, darting off to the left.
“I have told you a dozen times, umnitsa…I will never let anyone hurt that which I love.”
Hermione smiled, placing her hand over his, and leaned onto her toes to kiss him. Her other hand tangled within cocoa curls, anchoring him to her as she deepened their kiss. Under her growing need, Hermione almost didn’t feel the imperceptible jolt that moved through Antonin’s body, seeming to originate in his left arm, that caused him to stiffen and he closed his mouth, refusing her advances. She dropped an encouraging kiss on his lips, now pressed thin, and when they refused to part again, she pulled back and stared up into the visage of the man she had unwittingly fallen in love with. His eyes, which just moments before had regarded her tenderly, were now hard, the creases to either side sunken, his brows furrowed.
Then, he swept down onto one knee and bowed his head.
“Here she is, my lord. As requested.”
A shiver that had nothing to do with the cool night breeze wracked through Hermione as a series of muted pops echoed throughout the clearing. Incredulously, she looked down at the kneeling man, the man whose name she had just been moaning in extolment.
Half a dozen masked Death Eaters, their wands raised, quickly surrounded them.
No. This could not be happening.
“Well done my boy, well done,” Voldemort hissed not half a dozen paces behind her.
In a flash, Hermione’s hand flew to her pocket, grasping for her wand but it wasn’t there. She patted down both thighs, the panic rising. It had been there. She had used it just before…
As thick ropes snaked around her body, she spied the end of her Vine wand clutched in the left hand of the man kneeling at her feet, a sight that, up until now, she thought she might enjoy, but currently only induced bile to climb up her throat.
“What is this?” Hermione bellowed, thrashing against the sorcery. “Antonin, what is going on? What have you done?!?”
“Rise, Antonin,” Voldemort said silkily, cutting off Hermione’s desperate screams. The skeletal man in billowing black robes and red slits for eyes walked to Antonin’s side and patted his shoulder “You have done well. You shall be rewarded for these efforts. Now go, procure me the Potter boy."
“Yes, my lord,” Antonin said, swiftly rising. “Their defenses will be easily brought down. The girl has been using my spells as their protection.” He handed over Hermione’s wand to Voldemort, then began to walk away, not even giving her the courtesy of a glance, much less an explanation.
“You invertebrate cad!” Hermione screamed as thick tears broke over her bottom lashes, any remnants of bravery she might have contained evaporating into unfathomable fear. “You liar! You promised! You said you would never let anyone hurt the woman you loved!”
Mid-step, Antonin Dolohov stopped and slowly turned to face her. He fixed her with that deep sapphire gaze she craved, but gone was the man she had come to trust, to love, the man who’d brought her biscuits and books. The man who’d said all the right things.
“Da. I did say these things, umnitsa,” Antonin said, a sarcastic hiss to the endearment. “And I would die before I let anything happen to that which I love.”
He stepped closer, looming and sneering and his last words ghosted across her tear-stained face like the edge of a well-honed knife.
“Fortunately…that which I love...is not you. You were but the assignment. The thing standing in my way.”
And with that, Antonin disappeared into a swirling cloud of obsidian smoke, leaving Hermione there, face to face with Lord Voldemort and contemplating whether Xenophilius Lovegood had been right about her after all.