"Trust me, you shouldn't want anyone like me on your back."
"Maybe I don't want anyone like you on my back," His eyes darkened as he stepped closer, confining me tighter into barely any space as my back pressed against the wall.
"Maybe I want you. U...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
"MON DIEU," DOMINIQUE GRINDELWALD UTTERED UNDER her breath, her facial skin feeling slightly damp with hot perspiration as a vein jutted out in her fair jaw—all her self strength at work to resist the infuriating pain that enslaved her all her limbs and the fiber of her person, as she crumpled slightly to a knee, with József Kelemen—the performer of the dreaded apparation—covered her form with his from the confused scrutiny of the other Red Shrikes.
"It feels as though it will tear me apart the next time," Dominique managed, her throat clogging up as she met the Hungarian wizard's dark eyes and clasped onto the secure hand he offered her, trying to shakily pull herself up while the wizard rested his other hand on the side of her waist, assisting her to her full form gently.
"We have to find out what the matter is," József spoke then, his tone hard and eyes narrowed with concern as he stood near her, unwilling to part lest she stumble.
"Else you won't be able to travel anymore."
Dominique-the pain of her weak form threading into her consciousness-focused on the wizard's rich Hungarian accent lacing the French words he spoke. Had she ever been grateful to him for this small feat that he contributed to her without her asking? In private, when they were outside of The Dark Lord's court and his designated court language—the curt and abrupt sounding throes of British English—József spoke to Dominique in her mother tongue, French. He spoke it with visible effort in his Hungarian accent, though over the past two years his French had become as flawless as it could be for someone like him. He never spoke it with anybody else, for there was nobody else in the Red Shrikes, or perhaps in Voldemort's court, who was familiarly French to Dominique. And she wasn't much in favor of fraternizing with just anyone holding a coveted position at Lord Voldemort's court, French or not.
Perhaps, when a little less than two years ago, Voldemort had brought her out to meet the rest of the Shrikes and József had come up to her amidst training and introduced himself in broken French—perhaps that was when she had started her reliance on him, her trust in him. Language was a powerful barrier, yet a powerful bridge at the same time.
