Chapter Text
Antonin
Antonin Dolohov sat on the wooden bench in front of his babushka’s cottage, watching the first light of the day peek through the trees of Siberian taiga.
Somewhere far in the distance, he could hear the relentless tumbling of the water over the rapids. Birds were already chirping, a choir of different tones and melodies filling the summer morning with their endless symphonies.
The sweet song of survival.
A scruffy dog laid at his feet, with his heart as big as his mountain of a body. They got the caucasian shepherd two years after their first child was born. Hermione named him Maly, since he was anything but.
A little bundle in Antonin’s arms moved, pressing her little nose against the front of his shirt. He smiled, holding back his urge to smother his youngest baby daughter with kisses. Anastasia Dolohov slept peacefully, even if Antonin could not.
He never slept well on this particular night.
It was exactly ten years since he came back to Siberia, carrying an unconscious Hermione in his hands.
And in his lack of sleep, he usually found himself reminiscing on all the things that followed, little memories of everything that helped him build this incredible life he now led.
Antonin Dolohov was no longer known as a notorious Death Eater.
The redemption that followed the Dark Lord’s defeat was neither smooth nor easy, but his sweet wife stood proudly by his side and championed for the pardon of the Death Eaters who had joined him in that final act of betrayal.
But it wasn’t the public opinion that helped him wash away the final stains both wars left on his life, it wasn’t returning home as a hero.
It was the ghosts.
He could still see them, clear as day - how they awaited their return to the Dolohov cottage in Siberia. There were oh, so many of them, their faint translucent bodies casting an eerie sort of halo around the area.
They weren’t old, or silent, or still.
Instead, they danced.
They sang, chanting ancient Russian melodies while they spun in circles hand in hand.
Hermione took his hand and pulled him forward, pulled him towards the centre of the celebration, and that was when he realised it; so many husbands and wives rejoiced in their own reunion. Right there, in the middle stood two couples, waiting eagerly.
The first couple - Konstantin and Ekaterina.
The last couple, his babushka Olga and her husband Grigory.
They smiled at them, knowingly.
“I can see you clearly, now,” Antonin said to them, reverently.
“You have paid the debts of this bloodline.”
Konstantin reached for him, placing a firm hand on Antonin’s shoulder.
“You have redeemed all of us through your suffering,” Grigory added, placing another hand on Antonin.
Olga and Ekaterina joined, placing their hands on Hermione in a similar pose.
“You have freely given your innocence and your love to the last one in our family,” they said.
“You carry new life under your heart. New dawn, new hope…”
Their voices merged, lilting with slavic melody.
Somehow, they managed to envelop them both, an unbreakable circle of magic formed from joined hands.
Hermione could feel the immense power coursing through her. This magic, it was ancient and potent and so incredibly light. Completely different from anything she had felt before.
“The sins of our men, they have stolen the light of this bloodline,” Olga stated at last.
“And we have returned the stolen light to you?” Hermione asked, smiling wistfully.
“You have, child.”
Her eyes glistened with tears of joy. Her voice cracked with emotions.
“Spasibo.”
Spasibo. Spasibo. Spasibo.
The word echoed and rippled from mouth to mouth, like a wave, swaying back and forth through the crowd of Antonin’s ancestors.
“Please, stay,” Hermione said, tears in her eyes.
“Some of us,” Olga grinned in response, winking to her husband.
“I want to spend some time with your babies!”
“And some of us have waited for eons to finally rest in peace,” Konstantin smiled at his wife.
“Zhivi v dostatke, beregi svoyu semyu i lyubi bezuslovno, syn moego syna.”
And with that said, the glow of what seemed to be at least a hundred bodies began to fade, until they were completely translucent. The morning light spilled over the trees. As the new day arrived, Antonin and Hermione found themselves alone in the meadow, embracing the brightest of sunrises they had ever seen.
Antonin said nothing as he gathered Hermione into his arms, and carried her upstairs. The way he made love to her before they collapsed into sleep spoke louder than a thousand words.
With each kiss, he pressed confessions of a sinner into her skin, seeking repentance. For whatever the ghosts might have said, he knew better.
Maybe, he had restored the light to the Dolohov family.
But he had stolen it, too.
For there was pure light in his lovely wife, pure sunshine in her soul.
Ten years later, he still thought exactly that as he waited for the rest of his family to greet the new day. Ten years later, the world was fooled, believing him a hero. Antonin smiled mischievously, whispering to his sleeping baby daughter.
“I have stolen her away, you know…” he rasped quietly.
“My solnishko, my dearest, loveliest sunlight. I am the greatest thief in the world!”
Hermione
Hermione watched Antonin through the kitchen window. Her husband had changed in the ten years they shared; his blue eyes rarely held a storm these days, and despite the silver that threaded his mane of hair and beard, Antonin Dolohov had never looked better.
When he walked, he walked with the confidence of a man who faced the unspeakable and kept standing.
When he laughed, he laughed with the gusto of a man whose heart was filled with a thousand little joys.
Later, he would take care of the animals with their oldest children, then disappear into his workshop above the shed. These days, he was one of the most sought-after wandmakers in the entire wizarding community of Europe.
Hermione made sure of that.
First, she flaunted her wand during the post-war efforts in Britain. Even as a long-distance student, she made sure the main subject of her mastery was dedicated to researching the effect of adding healing crystals to the magic of a wand.
Then, she maneuvered Antonin into offering to make new wands for all those who lost theirs to the war. It wasn’t long until he was forced to hire an assistant, of course. Then train a few apprentices.
Now, the Dolohov wandmakers were the approved, high quality business and even with Hermione’s involvement in its internal structure, she never forgot her passion for researching.
In her study up in the attic of the cottage, thousands of books waited for her to crack them open at any hour. After years of publishing articles and advising the wizarding society across Europe in their efforts to reconnect, Hermione finally founded the Siberian institute for magical research.
It was early days yet, but it allowed her to begin publishing books on spellcraft she and Antonin had devised in many, many late nights of heated discussions.
She loved her husband for many things, she thought as she watched him cradle their baby daughter, while the rest of their children still slept. She loved him for his stubborn and protective nature, she loved him for his sharp and creative mind.
But most of all, she loved seeing him as a father.
He was the kind of father that didn’t need to yell or intimidate to pose as an authority. He was kind, and playful and always made sure that the bickering didn’t boil over into nasty arguments.
He never left her alone with the burden of parenthood.
If she spent the night breastfeeding, he would pamper her during the day, taking over the household without making her ever feel guilty for needing to rest. He enthusiastically comforted her through her pregnancies, held her hand through every labor and heroically navigated her hormonal mood swings that followed.
Their flexible working schedules allowed them to spend real time with the family they have created. Four children so far, and Hermione quietly wondered if they’d someday decide on the fifth.
They were all growing up so quickly.
Konstantin, named after his infamous ancestor, was their firstborn. He was nine, and already twice as tall as it was usual for his age. In every way, he was a spitting image of his father; every way, except his eyes. Those, he got from her. He would always follow Antonin around the cottage, helping him tend to the goats or to the fences, but he left the garden and the chickens to his younger siblings. Only when he was mad or sad, he’d come up into the study and seek comfort at his mother’s side, diving into a book rather than the conversation.
His two little sisters arrived three years after him. Anastasiya and Katarina turned six this summer, and loved to cook with Hermione in the kitchen, or drag a blanket into the orchard and play with dolls under the big old trees. Antonin chased them around and played the king or the knight, whatever the occasion demanded. Late in the night, he’d worry he wasn’t giving them the best example of a man they would someday seek for themselves. And Hermione found a hundred ways to ease his worries, giving him endless reassurance. Ivana was their youngest, the baby of the family. Konstantin protected her fiercely, while the girls were always eager to cuddle the baby. She had her father’s stormy blue eyes and a mass of unruly curls that surpassed anything Hermione had ever experienced with her own. They crackled with magic anytime the baby girl became too agitated, and made Antonin swing her up in the air, proclaiming the whole Siberia should beware her wrath.
Harry and Ron came to visit whenever they could; the two doting uncles. After ten years, they have all accepted the truth - Antonin might have stolen her away from Britain, but he had given her a place to shine.
Hermione thrived in Siberia in the way she never imagined she could. Antonin gave her new roots to grow from, and their life was blossoming spectacularly.
She hummed to herself quietly, cradling the tea Olga had left steaming on the table just for her.
In a few weeks, the morning chill will dampen the windows, forcing the fire into their hearths. On Halloween, they’d travel to the Burrow, visiting their friends for a celebration. The tenth anniversary of Voldemort’s downfall was going to be a spectacle, if Fred and George had their way.
Antonin came inside, walking quietly as a thief not to wake the sleeping baby that nuzzled her little nose against the plain of his chest.
His other hand came around his wife, fingers playing with that mass of curls he adored so much.
“Dobroye utro, solnyshko,” he whispered, then kissed her softly.
So much passion lived between them still, even ten years later. Hermione cupped his unshaved cheeks as she leaned into the kiss, deepening it. The baby between them stirred. They smiled with their lips still pressed together, savouring the moment.
The sun glinted off the damp window.
It painted the room golden.
Antonin and Hermione knew the days of gloom would come and they would pass, but moments like this one; small, almost insignificant little memories of warmth and softness; they held enough sun to see them through it all.
Olga smiled at the family her beloved Antonin had created. She and her husband Grigory were one of the few ghosts left at the cottage. Someday, Hermione and Antonin would become ghosts just like them, and see their children grow old.
Seasons turned and turned, and Olga’s soul was happy for the peace in their bloodline had never been so deep.
Hermione glanced up over Antonin’s shoulder, catching her eyes. The two women smiled at each other.
It might have been a decade or a hundred years - they both faced enough darkness to know that this golden sunlight; fleeting moments of summer tranquility, were the greatest treasure of all.