Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hermione was confused. She was in a dark, cold, room, with an eerie fog that nipped at her ankles. Her breath hitched, every instinct on edge. Was she in the right place? Or had she mistakenly picked the wrong door? No, this had to be right. It didn’t make sense for this space to belong to anyone but him, especially given the intricate dragon carving that guarded the portal. 

Her mind was racing, but one thought cut through the unease: Antonin. She needed to find him—needed to understand what he had overheard in the hallway that afternoon, when Tom had her pinned in the hallway, his hand wound tight around her throat. Her pulse quickened at the memory, the phantom ache still fresh on her skin. 

And yet, against all reason, a small glimmer of hope clung stubbornly to her. Antonin had saved her—distracted Tom when she had been on the brink of blacking out—even after learning the truth of her blood status. Could that act have meant something more? Could he, in this nest of serpents, somehow continue to be an ally?

She didn’t know, but she had to try. 

“Scared, Hermione?” Antonin’s voice cut through the oppressive silence, its familiar playfulness washing over her like a balm. Though his tone teased, it also carried a peculiar warmth—a reassurance that her presence, despite the late hour and the risk it posed, wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

Her nerves began to settle, the tension in her shoulders easing as her feet carried her closer toward him. The fog seemed less ominous now, the darkness less suffocating. While her mind whispered caution, warning her against trusting anyone so easily—especially so soon after her misplaced trust in Tom—her heart betrayed her. In Antonin’s presence, she felt an inexplicable sense of safety.

When Hermione turned the corner, her breath hitched, and her hand flew to her mouth in a startled reflex. She hadn’t expected to find Antonin so... comfortable. He lounged casually on his bed, his tone, lean frame on display in an air of nonchalance. He was shirtless. His pale skin glinted faintly in the dim light, and his pajama pants hung low on his hips, doing very little to maintain propriety between the two.

For a moment, she was frozen, caught off guard by the unexpected intimacy of the scene. It wasn’t fear that rooted her to the spot, but something far more confusing, something she couldn’t name but burned hot beneath her skin.

"You should be scared," Antonin said, a mischievous grin playing on his lips as he leaned back further, resting his hands behind his head in a display of deliberate ease. The posture only emphasized his carefree temperament; he owned the room including every moment unfolding within it. His dark eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and warning. "You shouldn’t be here."

The words hung in the air, laced with playful menace, but not enough to drive her away. If anything, his tone dared her to stay. Dared her to cross the invisible line drawn between them. It was a challenge, one that sent a spark through her. Antonin’s words carried a double-edged meaning—a warning and an invitation.

Hermione squared her shoulders, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter. "Why's that?" she replied, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her chest.

"You know why," Antonin chuckled darkly, a shadow of danger flickering in his expression. "Did you decide you want me dead?"

"I thought I could count on you," Hermione said, crossing her arms, her voice steadier now as she reminded him of the promise he'd made. In truth, she wouldn’t blame him if he wanted nothing to do with her now that he fully understood the consequences of being associated with her. Her connection with Tom was perilous enough, but the revelation of her blood status only increased the risk. It was a lose-lose situation to be her friend, and deep down, she knew it.

His grin faltered, replaced by an expression of earnest concern. "How can I help you, Hermione?" he asked, his tone softening as he slid off the bed. He grabbed a robe, loosely draping it around his shoulders, and took a few steps closer. Though he kept a respectable distance, she found herself wishing he wouldn’t.

Her cheeks burned, the heat creeping down her neck, and she cursed the unwelcome thought. Where had that come from? She had never considered Antonin as more than a friend, but now, with him standing before her like this, she couldn’t ignore how attractive he was. It didn’t help that her mind often drifted to a certain moment by the Blake Lake. While it might not have been him who she sacrificed her virginity to, it was certainly his body—his lips—that had her panting and writhing in a sweaty mess of emotions, which was clearly what had the spot between her thighs so confused at the moment. 

"Ehm," Hermione cleared her throat, trying to push through the awkwardness. "Sorry to catch you by surprise."

She had lived this moment before. Antonin would make a joke about knowing it was her, but wanting to see her reaction, and she would swat at his arm even though she was secretly pleased with his flirtation. Shortly after, she’d find herself distracted by the acromantula he secretly kept as a pet, its presence equal parts unsettling and fascinating. It was as if she knew what would happen seconds before the scene played out. 

Each moment that passed only served to solidify what Hermione had suspected all along: Antonin wasn’t the irredeemable villain she had initially pigeonholed him as. No, he was complicated—someone who, like her, sought validation and acceptance in a world that often demanded conformity. This was the moment when it dawned on her, more now than ever, how precariously he balanced on the edge of two paths. The people he surrounded himself with, the choices he made—they would either nurture him toward something greater or cement him in the shadows.

Every word, ever feeling, it was all too familiar, like a move she had watched before, up until their conversation grew heated. 

“Do you hate me now?” Hermione’s voice wavered as she posed the question, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor. She didn’t dare look up, afraid of the answer she might see in his eyes. Deep down, she didn’t think he hated her—not truly—but the doubt gnawed at her all the same.  

Hermione was met with silence as Antonin stared at her with an indecipherable look, so she continued. “Because I’m a muggleborn?” She took a few steps away from him as the weight of her vulnerability became too much, intentionally placing a distance between them. He did the same, retreating back to his bed to make himself comfortable again. 

Antonin’s voice carried a dry amusement, but there was something searching in the way his gaze lingered on her. “You care if I hate you, Hermione? And why would you care what I think?” He let out a humorless laugh, his tone sharp but not cruel, as if testing her. His posture was relaxed, though the robe draped loosely over him only served to emphasize the defined musculature beneath. Each word he spoke seemed to draw attention to the subtle shifts of his body, the flex of muscle, the quiet intensity that surrounded him.

Hermione swallowed hard, perched stiffly on the edge of his bed. She felt exposed, fragile, and yet she didn’t shy away. “We’re friends,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Admitting it felt like peeling back a layer of armor. “It’s only natural for one to care about what their friends think.”

But as she tried to remember what happened next, something was wrong—a ripple at the edges of her awareness made it hard to stay anchored, and the entire scene nearly faded away. Ithe next frame, before it could dissolve into static. She clung to the clarity, desperate for the scene to unfold as it had before, even as a faint sense of wrongness tugged at the edges of her mind. Something didn’t quite fit, as though the memory was straining against the weight of her intrusion. Yet she couldn’t let go—not now, not when she needed to know how it ended. 

Antonin scoffed, though his expression softened into something more complicated—a sad smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He rose slowly, a predator’s grace in the way he moved toward her, his shadow falling over her as he stalked her way. “You want to know what I think?” he murmured, his voice low and edged with resentment.

Hermione's eyes shut tightly, bracing herself for the sting she knew was coming. Her nerves frayed at the edges, her chest tightening with anticipation of his rejection. She could already hear the venom in his voice as he cast her aside, the serpent reminding her she would never belong. She remembered the moment vividly, the crushing weight of his dismissal—but it never came.

Instead, she felt the warmth of his hand under her chin, his thumb grazing her cheek with a tenderness she hadn't expected. Gooseflesh rippled across her skin, and her eyes snapped open in shock. He was too close, far closer than he should be, his breath brushing against her lips. The tension between them thickened, the proximity between them more perilous than anything she had anticipated.

“I think…you’re brilliant,” he said softly, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

The words stunned her, dissolving the knot in her chest. They weren’t the rejection she had prepared for—they were the opposite. Relief and quiet triumph spread within her. Her Antonin—sweet, loyal Antonin—had chosen her, accepted her, despite the weight of his lineage, his alliances, and the expectations of a world that had already condemned her.

“I think you’re courageous,” Antonin whispered, his voice low and reverent as his hand cradled her face with gentle firmness.

Her fingers instinctively curled around his wrist, holding him in place, grounding herself in the warmth of his touch. She leaned into it, her armor softening as her heart swelled. Despite everything—his upbringing in a country that condemned people like her simply for their blood status, the harsh ideologies forced upon him in his formative years—Antonin saw her. Not her lineage, not her ranking in society, but her.

Her throat tightened, a lump forming as she swallowed back tears. His words struck her deeply, unraveling the walls she had so carefully built to protect herself.

“You’re too good for this world, Hermione,” he continued, his tone filled with quiet anguish. “And you deserve better. You deserve better than to live in fear. You deserve better than to be dragged into Tom’s rubbish. YYou deserve better than to risk everything—your safety, your sanity—just to see me and ask me what I think of you.”

His forehead lowered to hers, a tender intimacy in the way his nose brushed against hers. The contact was electric, a delicate charge in the air that left her breathless. “You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. His lips hovered just above hers, close enough that her breath hitched, the tension between them thick with unspoken longing. 

Every nerve in her body screamed for her to close the distance, to give in to the moment, and she“But I’m so glad you are,” he added with a soft chuckle, his eyes fluttering closed as if savoring the closeness between them. The moment felt impossibly tender, the kind of vulnerability that left her breathless.

Hermione’s heart was at war with itself. One part of her craved this—wanted Antonin to close the gap, to claim her with a kiss that would prove she was wanted, that she could carve out a place in this timeline by his side. But guilt clawed at her, sharp and relentless. Yes, she was furious with Tom, and he didn’t deserve a second thought from her, but the idea of seeking comfort in anyone else felt… wrong. And yet, the pull toward Antonin was undeniable, overwhelming.

“Kiss me,” she murmured, the words slipping out like a plea. She wasn’t sure if she had spoken them aloud until she saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes, followed by something deeper—something that made her knees weak. She needed this. Needed him. To feel his warmth. To know that this Antonin, the real Antonin, could anchor her in the chaos.

"We shouldn’t, Hermione," Antonin responded softly, the words barely audible, his breaths ragged. Yet, he didn’t pull away. His proximity lingered, his resolve wavering as his lips hovered just a breath away from hers. His desire for her was unmistakable, apparent in the tension of his jaw and the flicker of hesitation in his dark eyes. But she could feel it—his instinct to protect her battling fiercely with the longing that sparked between them.

"I don’t care," she said, her voice sharp and resolute, the words spilling out before she could second-guess herself. In a rush of desperation, she pulled him to her, capturing his mouth with hers in a fervent kiss.

His lips were soft, but his kiss was anything but. It was hard, raw, and full of a yearning that sent shivers down her spine. There was no hesitation, no restraint now that they had reached the point of no return, just the intensity of their shared recklessness. Hermione knew this was a line they shouldn’t cross, but at that moment, she didn’t care about rules or consequences. Whatever came next would be worth it—worth feeling this alive, worth being seen, worth being wanted.

Antonin’s tongue slipped past her lips, tickling hers expertly with his piercing. She moaned, a sound she couldn’t suppress, as a delicious ache built inside her. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, her mind wandering to that tongue ring and the sinful possibilities it suggested.

He nipped at her bottom lip, the cool metal of his piercings teasing her and sending a chill cascading down her spine. The kiss was intoxicating, his intensity sweeping her away until she was gripping him tightly, her arms looped around his neck, her body molding against his. She pressed her chest to his, seeking more, drowning in the way his hands explored her back before tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. His fingers gripped her there possessively, pulling just firm enough to make her gasp.

And just like that, her stomach sank. The kiss, as thrilling and consuming as it was, came with an anchor of reality. She broke away, her breathing erratic as she took a step back, the high of the moment crashing down on her.

There was only one wizard—no matter the timeline, no matter how intense this moment with Antonin had been—who truly held her heart. As incredible as this was, he wasn’t the one that called to her soul. She and Antonin had both betrayed Tom, and even as she told herself it was Tom who had driven her into this, the sting of Tom’s rejection cut through her anew.

Antonin’s gaze searched hers, his expression caught between satisfaction and confusion, but she couldn’t let herself linger in his arms any longer. Tom had pushed her away, and refused to let her in. And yet, it didn’t change the truth—she still belonged to Tom. She always had. She always would.

"Forgive me, Hermione," Antonin murmured, pulling her closer once again, his face buried in her neck. His breath was rapid, his chest rising and falling, clearly affected by the moment they shared. 

She could feel it—the shame that radiated off him in waves, almost suffocating in its intensity. And it was her fault. Hermione couldn’t deny that she was still thinking of Tom, still mourning what she had lost with him while clinging to Antonin, who could feel her thoughts as loud as day. The guilt that churned within her only deepened, twisting her insides into knots. Antonin wasn’t the one that needed to be pleading for forgiveness—she was. 

“Forgive me,” Antonin repeated, his voice strained, and before Hermione could comfort him or offer any sort of reassurance, he cut her off.

“For wha—” she began to speak, but they were never allowed to leave her lips.

" Obliviate ."

The spell was clumsy, the words not fully formed, but its impact was undeniable. The magic cracked against her mind, searing through her like fire licking the edge of paper, erasing the last remnants of their shared moments. Every feeling, every sensation, every fragment of her thoughts about what had just passed between them—gone.

The burn of the spell left a cold, hollow void in its wake, and for a moment, Hermione didn’t know where she was. What had happened? Why did everything feel so… distant?

Suddenly, everything seemed to unfold in reverse, as if the universe had decided to rewind their entire conversation. The moments played out in fast-forward then pulled back, each action reversing its course until she found herself standing before Antonin once more, her breath caught in her throat, waiting for his response. She needed his validation, needed to know whether their friendship was still intact, whether his view of her had changed so drastically after the revelation of her blood status. She couldn’t breathe under the weight of the uncertainty, every second of silence stretching out, feeding the flickering hope she’d tried to protect from the harsh winds of reality. But that hope was fading—dimmed with every heartbeat that passed without a word.

“We’re friends,” she said quietly, her voice betraying her uncertainty. The words slipped from her mouth, but they felt hollow—like a half-truth she was forcing herself to believe. “It’s only natural for one to care about what their friends think.” The words seemed almost rehearsed, familiar. Had she said them before?

The unease twisting in her stomach grew, spreading outwards like an illness until it seeped into her entire being, poisoning her thoughts, her heart. Antonin’s eyes—those eyes she once trusted—turned cold, hard, and distant, a look she hadn’t seen for a long time, a look that reminded her all too well of the deadly venom he had aimed at her during their confrontation in the Department of Mysteries. The same look, the same expression, now cast toward her, and in that moment, she knew. The discovery of her blood status had changed everything between them.

“You want to know what I think?” His voice dripped with venom. “I think… you don’t belong here. In Slytherin. At Hogwarts. Your mere existence disgusts me, Hermione.” Antonin's words struck like a physical blow, and Hermione felt the sting deep within her chest. His smile was cruel, twisted with an almost malicious pleasure as he spoke.

Antonin didn’t just hate her. 

He wanted her gone, eradicated from this world.

He wanted her dead. 

Hermione’s mouth went dry, her eyes brimming with tears. She expected this kind of reaction. How could she not? In the 1990’s she had experienced a lifetime of prejudice, but in the 1940’s? People like her were being exterminated, just for their blood status. Hermione was just another mark for the world to erase. In Antonin’s country, her very existence was an offense, a reason to be killed, discarded, and extinguished from the world’s memory.

It only made sense for Antonin to feel this way. He had been raised in a world that taught him to loathe everything she represented, to despise her very essence. She couldn’t even blame him, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. She had expected more.

“Has so much changed all because of my blood status?” she asked, as she fought to maintain her composure. Hermione stood tall. She was done with being pushed around by people like him, and by anyone who thought they could diminish her for something she had no control over. “You said you would be here for me.”

Antonin's gripped onto her hair, yanking her backward toward the door. Hermione’s scalp burned with the force of his pull, and her body trembled as she fought to maintain her balance. He wasn’t going to give her the space she needed, not when she refused to move on her own.

“Stay away from me,” he spat, his words laced with malice, each syllable cutting deeper than the last. The pain from his fingers tightening in her hair intensified as he tugged harder. “Stay away from Tom. You’re unfit to breathe the same air as us, and everyone else in the Slytherin house.”

She didn’t cry out in pain, but the sting inside her was worse than any physical blow. Hermione pushed back against his chest, refusing to let him break her. His cruelty wasn’t going to get the best of her—not this time. No, this time, she was done. Done with him. Done with the false promises and the lies. Just like Tom had done, Antonin had let her down. She’d given him the benefit of the doubt, trusted him, and now she was left with nothing but betrayal.

“That is what I think of you. Do you understand?” His words were cruel and cold, as if she hadn’t already suffered enough. Before she could respond, she was shoved backwards with a sudden force. She tripped, her body crashing to the stone floor with an unceremonious thud. The impact rattled her skull, sending a sharp pain shooting through her head. Blood trickled over her brow where a small cut had formed. 

The air seemed to still for a moment. Antonin’s eyes widened in shock, but Hermione didn’t care. She could see the confusion, the guilt in his gaze, but it didn’t matter anymore. The hurt he caused was too deep, the wound too fresh to care. She lay there, in the mess of pain and blood, knowing that this was the end. He had done what he set out to do—turned her against him completely.

Antonin’s eyes flashed, a dangerous yellow glow piercing through the calm facade. A feral snarl twisted his lips as his voice became a low, guttural growl. “Get the fuck out.” The words were laced with fury, raw and inhuman, as if something dark inside him was clawing to break free. 

Finally, something they could agree on…

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she bolted upright, her heart pounding in a panic. 

Where was she? 

Her eyes moved frantically for a second, until they settled on the familiar walls of the Room of Requirement. Tom's Horcrux lay beside her, his dark green eyes glimmering with a wicked gleam, studying her with unnerving focus.

What had just happened? 

Her fingers instinctively reached to her forehead, expecting to find it damp or stained with blood. But when she pulled her hand back, there was nothing—no blood, no crimson to mark the violence of the scene that had just played in her mind. Just the slight moisture of sweat from the remnants of the nightmare.

It was only a dream. An oddly realistic, extremely questionable dream. Her breathing began to slow as the panic slowly dissolved, but there was an uncomfortable nagging feeling she couldn’t shake. The lines between dream and reality had been too blurred. What had she really experienced? 

“I fell asleep?” 

“You tend to wear yourself out when you’re around me,” the Horcrux’s voice cut through her thoughts, smooth and dripping with satisfaction. “If I were in my human form, I imagine I’d be just as tired.” 

The room felt stifling as Hermione’s fingers curled around herself, her thoughts swirling with uncertainty.

Yes, Hermione remembered now. She had returned to the Horcrux after class, just as she had been doing the past week. It had become her refuge, the one constant in her life as she distanced herself from everyone else—Tom, Antonin, and the rest of the world she couldn’t bear to face. But in seeking solace, she had found herself teetering on the edge of something dangerous. The Horcrux, in its dark, sinister way, had begun to influence her thoughts, her actions, until she crossed lines she knew she shouldn’t have. Which is how she ended up using his ethereal body… twice… before passing out in the middle of the day. And now, in the aftermath, she could barely distinguish the true nature of her feelings or actions from the haze of confusion clouding her mind.

“Tom, if someone obliviates you, is it possible to eventually remember?” She was afraid of the answer, afraid that whatever had just played out in her mind wasn’t a dream after all. Or perhaps the constant proximity to the Horcrux was simply driving her mad. 

The Horcrux's frown deepened as he responded, his voice dripping with that same calculated indifference. “I suppose, if the person who casts the spell is truly incompetent,” he mused, his words cool but tinged with a hint of something darker. “Or if, perhaps, their decision wavered as it was cast. Memory manipulation is never an exact science, Hermione. Why, what’s wrong?”

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, but quickly regained her composure. "Oh, nothing," Hermione replied too quickly, her voice sharp with the forced lightness of someone desperately trying to mask the nagging worry pressing on their mind. She smiled, a thin, hollow thing. "I think I need to eat something though. I’m a bit light-headed."

The lie sat heavily in the air between them. She wasn’t hungry. In fact, she had no appetite at all. The vivid, haunting fragments of her dream—or memory—about Antonin had twisted her insides into knots, leaving her lost in a fog of confusion. She could feel the implication of those images still pressing on her chest, and yet, she couldn't bring herself to confide in Tom’s Horcrux about it. Something about the Horcrux's presence, the way it resembled Tom yet wasn’t him, made her wary. She didn’t want to feed into whatever strange attachment it might be forming.

The Horcrux didn’t let it go. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with subtle suspicion. "I would get you something," he said, his frown only deepening. "If you let me beyond these walls."

Hermione scoffed, the sound sharp and biting. "Yeah," she said, rolling her eyes. "The first thing you’d do if you gained your freedom would be to feed me."

She could feel his gaze on her, intense and unwavering, as his eyes narrowed further, his lips curling in the familiar way they did whenever her words displeased him. It didn’t matter that he was technically a fragment of Tom’s soul—his presence, his power, still affected her, just as Tom did. He wasn’t Tom, yet he was so like him in so many ways.

“I’ll be waiting for you when you get back,” he sighed, as if nothing had changed, his voice heavy with a hint of something that might have been impatience. The moment felt almost too intimate as his fingers moved without hesitation, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger with that practiced ease.

“I’ll be back soon,” she promised, giving him a soft kiss before tumbling out of bed and heading for the door. 

The Forbidden Forest loomed ahead, its dark, sprawling trees creating an intimidating yet oddly inviting backdrop. In the past, Hermione had kept her distance from the forest, always wary of the dangers it hid. But now, there was something soothing about it. The melody of the wind rustling through the trees, the chirping of birds high in the branches, and the soft buzz of insects weaving through the underbrush—it was all strangely calming. It was as though the forest, with all its mysteries, had become a sanctuary of sorts for her troubled mind.

She had resorted to foraging her own food the last seven days, ever since the last incident in the Dining Hall. And although the activity should trigger bad memories—of a past on the run—it became a time for her to reflect. Bilberries had become her go-to snack, easily found and rich in nutrients, but today she was on the search for something more substantial. 

When her eyes caught sight of a cluster of mushrooms, her heart gave a small, triumphant leap. They looked safe enough to eat—no toxic markings or signs to suggest danger. It wasn’t meat, but it was close enough. Unfortunately, her glee didn’t last long. Without the distraction of a task, her success was quickly overshadowed by the nagging thoughts that had begun to surface again.

Antonin. His face. His words. The scene of him performing the Obliviate spell on her, the way he had seemed torn, like he was doing it out of some twisted sense of care. Could it be true? Was it truly for her protection? Or was her mind creating a story, a convenient lie to explain away his cruelty, to make it bearable? Her heart wanted to believe in the kindness he had shown her, the tenderness hidden behind his rough exterior. But her mind—the one that had spent years learning to analyze and assess—warned her to stay cautious, to keep her guard up.

In the end, her heart won the fight, already seeming to have made its decision. It had already forgiven him. Maybe it was foolish, but there was something about the way he had looked at her, something that made her hope that what she saw in his eyes was real. 

But then again, she had been wrong before. She had been wrong about Tom. Her chest tightened at the thought. Would she be wrong again? Would her heart lead her astray, blinded by a need for affection that had become so scarce in her life?

Hermione pushed the worries away, focusing again on the mushrooms she was collecting, a temporary distraction from the storm raging inside her. One step at a time. She couldn’t afford to get ahead of herself, not yet. She would figure it all out. Eventually.

Suddenly, a pained, inhuman groan broke through the forest’s otherwise peaceful atmosphere, sending a shiver down Hermione’s spine. It was quickly followed by another, more desperate, more agonizing. The sound was unmistakable, raw with suffering, and though her instincts screamed at her to stay away, she couldn't find it in herself to ignore its pleas. The calls pulled at something deep inside her, compelling her to move toward the noise.

"Not here..." The moan was faint, a whisper carried by the wind, but it was enough to stop Hermione in her tracks. "Not... yet."

She froze. Her blood ran cold as recognition hit her all at once.

Antonin.

She didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate. She simply ran, her heart pounding as she pushed herself through the underbrush, desperate to reach him. In mere moments, she found him, crumpled on the forest floor, writhing in agony. His body trembled with pain, and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she dropped to her knees beside him. The mushrooms she had gathered lay scattered, forgotten, as her entire focus shifted to the man before her.

His face was twisted in pain, his once playful self reduced to a vulnerable heap on the forest floor. She reached for him cautiously, brushing the damp strands of hair away from his forehead with a gentleness that felt foreign in the moment.

Antonin was burning up—his skin was impossibly hot, as if a fever had overtaken him in an instant. She could feel the heat radiating off him, even from a distance. She pressed her hand against his forehead, her palm aching with how blistering his skin was to the touch.

His body was marked with burns, the angry, red patches of his skin telling the story of some brutal spell or curse. Her gaze drifted to his lips, pale and bloodied, and then to the purple bruise blooming across his cheek. It was unmistakable—the evidence of Tom's dark magic. The cruelty of it was palpable, the lingering aura of Tom’s presence like a suffocating weight in the air around them.

Hermione’s heart clenched painfully.

This was Tom’s doing. The same Tom who had abandoned her, rejected her, and now… now he was tormenting Antonin in a way that felt so cruel, so personal. She could feel the remnants of Tom's magic hovering in the air around Antonin, mocking her—proudly flaunting his power, his dark, depraved capabilities.

She knew she shouldn’t interfere, but how could she not? 

"You’re here," Antonin managed to rasp, his voice hoarse with pain, but there was an unmistakable glimmer of relief in his eyes. He stared at her, almost in disbelief. "He led me to you."

He?

She didn’t know what “he” Antonin was talking about, but she needed to help him. Any questions of his potential wrongdoings faded away. She didn’t know what was happening, or what truly happened the last she spoke to him—but it didn’t matter. 

The only thing she cared about was making sure Antonin was okay.