the magpie // tomione

xiii.

"And tears are water, blood is water,

a woman always washes in blood and tears."

― Marina Tsvetaeva

There is an unease that Hermione can't shake. She feels it in the air, pulsating like an electrical current. (Like the jolt of magic produced when Tom had touched her cheek.)

The uneasiness manifests itself into a sort of anticipation. Hermione doesn't know what to call it other than that. Perhaps an overwhelming sense of doom, or a fear for the worst yet to come. Restlessness, agitation. It builds by the day, like an ulcer growing. She fears the moment she will no longer be able to ignore it.

On a particularly dreary day, the sense of anticipation comes to a point of suppuration.

A man arrives through the fireplace, bathed in green flame and drenched by a foreign storm. He takes longer than needed to charm himself dry, allowing the rainwater weighing down his thick woolen robes to drip onto the pristine flooring.

His heavy boots squelch and squeak as he moves. It takes him a moment to notice her, seated across the room. She slowly lowers her legs, lounged across the arm of a chair, and shivers as his eyes follow her. He clumsily drags his gaze up her body, smiling when he finally meets her eyes and finds disgust. The man is surprisingly young, likely no older than Marion herself. And yet, he carries such a distinct presence of death. The hair along her forearm begins to herripulate, erect with fear.

"Dolohov," Magnus greets him with a tight smile. "You weren't supposed to arrive for another hour."

The older Lestrange gives her an apologetic look, as if acknowledging she was not meant to face their visitor alone. This is Antonin Dolohov. She pales at the revelation.

He continues to watch her. There's something in his gaze, either recognition or amusement. Or both. She wonders if he has met Marion before, but knows better than to learn that answer. Before she can dwell further, Magnus takes their guest into his office.

Hermione leaves for Marion's room, unable to risk being alone with him again. Druella arrives later and fusses over her, pulling various gowns from her closet. She lets Druella treat her like a doll, tugging at her hair and experimenting with various cosmetic potions.

"You hardly try anymore, Marion," Druella frowns, holding up two different gowns. One, a beautiful silver silk and the other an equally beautiful black velvet. "Can you imagine when I looked in your closet and found trousers? "

She laughs at the disparaging look twisting across the blonde's features.

"That's not fair, Dru." She smiles softly, reaching for the silver gown. It has an empire waist and Grecian details, with a low back. It's buttery soft under her fingers. "I may own trousers, but I also own this."

"Yes." She sniffs, letting Hermione take the silver gown from her hands. "Yes, it's a bit old-fashioned but this will do."

She's disappointed but not surprised that Antonin Dolohov is present at dinner. He sits beside Nott and Avery at the far end of the table, sparing her only a brief glance before busying himself speaking to the two men for the rest of the evening. Hermione is thankful for her position near the center, seated beside Bilquis. The arrangement strikes her as odd at first, until Magnus, seated across from them, stands to make a toast.

She meets eyes with Tom and her face falls into a frown. He lets out an amused exhale, chuckling lightly at her reaction. For once she doesn't care about being an open book.