Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
Antonin
First, there was a loud crack.
Then, there was that nauseating feeling of having your intestines rearranged.
Then…
Then, there was her weight, pressed against his chest.
Her long unruly hair tickled his neck even more now that the petite witch curled into him like a kitten.
Antonin walked on, carrying the unconscious Hermione Granger in his arms.
This was not the way he imagined coming back.
The trees stood tall and quiet, a gentle breeze rustling through their autumn leaves that were already turning golden. He half expected to hear fairies tinkling about with their laughter.
For one fraction of a moment, a memory floated to the forefront of his mind. Vague and bittersweet and so awfully innocent.
Nothing special, he would think later. Just another small moment of catching the autumn sun glinting through the branches of a tree he climbed, a book clamped between his teeth.
Back then, all Antonin hoped to become was a researcher, an explorer. A man of knowledge.
He never dreamed he'd return as a war criminal.
A traitor.
Hermione stirred in his arms and pulled him out of his daze.
His feet suddenly felt heavier as he trudged on through the mud and the tall unkempt grass.
The cottage shimmered into existence before his eyes, overgrown with ivy and wild roses his grandmother loved.
It was almost eery in its untouched visage.
The thatched roof, the thick walls panelled with wood, the washed out vivid paint on window panes. Antonin didn't know whether he felt angry or relieved that the roof didn't collapse in all the decades he had been away.
Too exhausted to try and piece together his torn up thoughts upon his homecoming, Antonin walked straight through the wards and kicked the door open. His boots were beyond dirty, but all he could think was – they made it to safety.
Wooden floorboards creaked under his feet. He tried to make his way upstairs without letting go of the girl and only barely managed to limp to the largest bed in the house before he felt his injuries subdue him.
His hands may have shook while he tucked her under covers, but Antonin still had enough of his sanity left to admire the beauty of the witch he captured. To admire and to wonder if this beauty was what drove knights to slay dragons in order to win the princess.
Darkness began to creep over his vision, his knees gave way and he swayed in place before sliding down at the footboard.
Antonin pointed his thick wand at the door, sealing it with what was left of his depleted magic.
“I guess I am the dragon now, milaya.” He whispered, and passed out.
Antonin
“Rennervate!” a female voice commanded.
Antonin felt reluctant to open his eyes.
The world was better in his dreamland.
He wanted to pretend the smell of his grandmother’s cottage in Siberia was not just a vague figment of imagination, that the creaking hardwood floor would still be there to meet his bare feet.
“Damnit, I know I did the spell right. Wake up!” The gentle voice filled with urgency and he could feel a hesitant touch of a woman’s hand on his cheek. That voice…he couldn’t tie it to a name.
Curiosity got the better of him and at last, Antonin squinted at the sunlight peeking through the windows.
The soft hand at his cheek flinched.
Antonin stared into the eyes the color of his beloved firewhiskey for a moment.
What beautiful eyes they were.
Perhaps waking up wasn’t so bad after all.
“Dolohov?” she asked.
The reality hit his head like a loose roof slate.
He was in his babushka’s cottage.
That worn out hardwood floor was digging into the flesh of his back. And he, the great Death Eater, laid upon it like a captured boar, his wrists and hands bound together with thick magical ropes.
Memories of last night’s events trickled through his sluggish mind.
Voldemort, triumphant in his victory over the Ministry for Magic.
Voldemort, telling him to stay back from attacking the wedding at the Burrow.
Voldemort, finally hissing at him and Thorfinn to check the taboo alert.
The little coffee shop at the corner of a square, where they found Potter and Weasley.
She was there, the girl he duelled at the Department of Mysteries.
She was older now, more feminine.
Hermione Granger - with her wand pressed against his throat and his own wand under her chin.
The flashes of memory turned into a vivid recollection.
Her thoughts, loudly protesting to ever using an obliviation spell again.
Her shuddering voice, when she whispered his name like a quiet plea.
“Dolohov.” she said, momentarily wavering in her decision to fight him.
His own realisation that she would obliterate any knowledge of her own existence from his mind if he’d let her.
Her struggle to discern what was right from what she was capable of.
A heartbeat passed when they stared at each other.
The internal turmoil it caused formed a tear in the corner of the little witch’s eye.
Somehow, after everything he had been through, that tear was all it took for Antonin to switch sides.
A silent wandless incantation coiled from his mind all the way down to his fingertips and the ropes around him dissolved into nothing.
The pretty little witch yelped in surprise, when his arms came up and he rolled them over, so she was pinned under him in only a fraction of a moment.
“You thought casting incarcerous with my own wand will keep you safe, hm?” Antonin didn’t know why, but there was laughter in his voice he couldn’t hold back.
“Maybe I should remind you I am not one of your school boys, umnitsa.” He smirked.
Hermione tried to buck him off, but it got her nowhere, so she had to settle for staring him down with disdain.
“Let go of me!” she protested loudly.
“You insolent brute! Where the hell are we? Why -” her beration was cut short by another one of her attempts to kick him off.
Antonin chuckled, an elation of being home, being free at last rolled through him on a wave of heady euphoria.
“You can’t keep me here! I refuse to stay here against my will!” she protested.
Antonin backed off enough to enjoy her pouting expression, the storm brewing in her eyes.
“You think manhandling me is funny, do you?”
Adding a little more weight to the press of his hips, Antonin decided a different sort of warning will probably render her quiet.
“I wouldn’t writhe so much, if I were you.” he said in a voice laced with both - promise and warning.
“It could be mistaken for an invitation.”
A shocked gasp escaped her lips, but the words hit their mark with enough precision she stopped trying to escape him.
“Now…”
Antonin deliberately softened his grip on Hermione’s wrists.
“Can I let go of you so I can answer your questions without acting like a…brute? Or will you try to hex me with my own wand again?”
“I would hex you with my wand if you’d be so kind to let me know where it is.” she hissed.
Dolohov’s expression momentarily changed into a grimace. Hermione wasn't getting her wand back any time soon and they both knew it.
Antonin released her without another word, albeit a bit reluctantly.
He got up slowly, testing his body and realized Hermione must have healed him prior to the wake up call.
Was that why she had him bound, he wondered. Was she afraid he’d flail or wake up and panic?
“You healed me.” he began.
“I am a Death Eater who knocked you out and stole you away…and the first thing you do is heal me?”
Hermione sat up, rubbing at her wrists. She didn’t look him in the eyes.
“Well, I caused most of the damage, so why not fix it.” she replied simply.
“Boys are easier to deal with when they’re not in pain.”
There was something in the way she said it that set Antonin’s teeth on edge.
“And I thought I was the crazy one.” he murmured, hoping the words got caught in his beard.
The look she sent him though, one that was both scalding and amused, made him believe she heard it all.
“Well, I am no boy.” he said more loudly, and stretched to his full height. He was a tall man, with a good deal of muscles, a mane of dark brown hair and a beard to match it.
Antonin enjoyed the way Hermione’s eyes widened at the sight of him, towering above her like a predator he was.
“Up you go, umnitsa. We can’t have you catching a cold from rolling around on the floor.”
Hermione hesitantly took the offered hand.
If she felt the sparks dancing between their palms when they touched, she didn’t show.
Antonin could barely hide his own reaction.
“Moy Bog…” he murmured despite himself, retracting his hand.
It was just his luck that the Dolohov family ghosts would approve of this witch as his mate.
A true Dolohov only fell once, his grandfather told him repeatedly.
And Antonin could already feel himself slipping.
Hermione
Hermione stared after her captor, who seemed to be in a habit of talking to himself in Russian, and wondered how she came to be here.
Alone, in this strange house, with a man who by all means should be evil incarnate - but somehow wasn’t.
Where were they, even?
Why wasn’t there any talk of Harry or Voldemort?
Why did he act as though she was his guest and not his captive?
Where were the boys?
Were they still alive?
She saw Dolohov grimace.
“Your thoughts are very…loud, milaya.” he said a bit gruffly.
Hermione saw his hands move slightly and the pans and pots flew to the ancient kitchen stove. He had nice hands, broad palms and long, elegant fingers.
Biting down on her lip, she berated herself for even noticing.
“You’re a legillimens.” she stated blandly, not even searching for confirmation. The fire sparked to life and began to lick at the pans. Their contents sizzled.
“Da.”
Hermione tried desperately to look somewhere else - to focus.
If her captor had overheard her thoughts, she might finally get some answers.
“And this is your home?” Hermione pried further.
A sideway glance he sent her way told Hermione the answer was a bit trickier this time, but all she got was a nod.
Staring at the beautiful nature through the small kitchen window, she noticed the trees looked somewhat different. The smells in the kitchen were spicier, the sky a vivid slate of blue.
It slowly began to dawn on her that the home of one Russian Death Eater was most likely in…
“Where are we, exactly?” she said in a voice so small, she could barely recognise it as her own.
Panic began to rise in her chest.
All the little thoughts of escaping and finding the boys seemed to hang suspended over her head.
The man looked at her, those intense stormy eyes full of pride and passion. Yet he remained quiet, like a teacher patiently waiting for the students to answer their own question.
“Dolohov!” Hermione felt her chest tighten, fighting every word of what she feared was true.
“Are we…fuck!”
The death eater’s eyebrow twitched at her cursing.
“Are we in Russia?”
Amused.
The bastard dared to look amused.
“Yes, we are indeed.”
Now, he came closer again, backing her against the wall. She really ought to tell him something about respecting personal space.
“In fact, ved’mochka, we are not simply ‘in Russia’ as you’ve said. We are at the very heart of it. Far away from any cities or … civilisation.” he smirked, and Hermione saw pride seep from his eyes to color his entire expression.
“We are deep, deep in the forests of Siberia.”
His voice grew softer, lower. It was filled with wonder and adoration.
One of the hands she reluctantly admired earlier came up to grip her chin, gently forcing her to look into his eyes.
“No one will ever find us here.”
Hermione felt the world tilt under her legs. She couldn’t breathe.
Dolohov snaked an arm around her waist to support her limp body.
“Don’t you go fainting on me now, umnitsa. Focus on your breathing. Slowly…slowly…tak. Da, vse budet khorosho. Ne volnuytes'. Ty v bezopasnosti, malen'kaya ved'ma.” **
“You didn’t take me into captivity to please your master, did you?” Hermione finally managed to get her legs back in check.
In fact, she could hardly imagine the wild man in front of her ever bowing to anyone.
“You took me as a captive for your own reasons.”
Breathless.
The pretty cottage around her was spinning.
All she could think of was Harry. And Ron. And horcruxes. All the people fleeing from the wedding.
It was all miles away now. Dead or alive, they were out of her reach.
“Look at me, umnitsa.”
His voice was soft and deep. The melody of it so rich she could almost paint its texture. And the way he spoke to her felt oddly reassuring.
“I will not harm you. You are safe here.”
Was the Death Eater trying to soothe her?
“The war?! I can’t just turn my back on it because you decided to … to…”
Out of breath, Hermione fought the truth.
“The war?!” Dolohov spat. “It fucking ceased to exist the moment we entered these woods.”
“I am not going back, milaya. Not for you, not for anyone.”
“What do you mean? Aren’t you bound to that … that…”
Hermione had to think of a suitable phrase.
“... noseless psychopath?”
Once on roll, her sharp mind and quick mouth ran away on her without caution.
“The dark mark is well known to have you leashed to his every whim.”
Stop it, a silent voice in the back of her mind warned.
“Why aren’t we surrounded? Why didn’t you turn me in? Am I meant to be some sort of insurance? A bargaining chip in your pocket?”
If the man’s stormy eyes could thunder, the ground beneath their feet would be shaking.
“Yes, that’s it.” He said through gritted teeth, his face so close to her own she could almost feel the heat of his skin.
“I brought you here because I need you to keep me safe from the bad people when they come calling.”
Nostrils flaring, he looked dangerous for the first time since he woke up. The sight of him made Hermione wonder if being in Russia granted some leeway to compare rattling a stray dark wizard to rattling a sleeping bear.
“You’re my fucking lucky charm, aren’t you, umnitsa? As the English men often say - spot on.”
He huffed in indignation and leaning only slightly away from her face, rolled up his sleeve to show her something.
Hermione barely dared to look down, afraid something bad would happen if she’d let go of his gaze.
Instead of inky and vivid, the dark mark above his wrist was faded.
There was no trace of its nefarious origin, the dark magic coiled into it.
It was simply a discolored echo of a bad decision.
“How did you…?”
Hermione hated her own inability to finish the sentences leaving her lips.
Almost as much as she hated her own curiosity getting the better of her.
If this man was truly capable of such intricate magic, he must be a completely different wizard then what she took him for.
Dolohov moved another step back and the space between their bodies made Hermione feel colder. His warmth and smell, Hermione was reluctant to admit, made her feel safe and…protected.
Fucking Merlin and his fuzzy slippers.
Was she developing Stockholm's syndrome already?
Tugging at the collar of his black robes, Dolohov exposed another faded tattoo on his neck.
“Azkaban used the same kind of magic to bind prisoners to their cells. If I didn’t find a way to counter the curse, my own magic would slowly cause me so much pain I would lose my mind.”
Hermione gasped. To think the Ministry would use the same kind of black magic to control people as they’ve so loudly prohibited because of Voldemort…it was unthinkable.
Her heartbeat spiked when he traced a finger over the runes.
“I wasn’t going to give them the pleasure. They stole my freedom. I wasn’t giving them my sanity as well.”
“But why return to the Dark Lord, if you knew how to free yourself?”
The look he sent her way spoke of the war between the urge to shut her up and laugh at her endless stream of questions.
His lips, which Hermione reluctantly noticed, were just as gorgeous as the rest of the Russian mage, remained sealed.
The wooden dinner table in the corner of the room jumped to life. Invisible tendrils of magic plated the food and prepared a neat seating for two.
Dolohov waved in its direction, inviting her to take a seat.
“I do need answers, you know.” Hermione said quietly, following his lead.
It seemed she wouldn't need to fight him on a physical level.
The mental plane of their new coexistence however, remained to be seen.
“What answers, umnitsa?”
His tone was so reasonable and calm and it made Hermione question her own sanity.
Because somehow, she was here, in the forests of Siberia, sitting across the table from one of the most notorious dark wizards, having a conversation over breakfast.
“Harry. Ron. Where are they?Are they safe?” she began.
“Am I free or not?”
Taking a deep breath, desperate urge to get a grip on this weird situation pushed her to keep talking.
“Where is my wand? How long will you keep me here? What do you even want from me?”
A dimple winked from the crease in his beard, when the wizard heroically held back his laughter.
“Oh, Hermione. Moya malen'kaya umnitsa…” he said instead, an odd sort of fondness embellishing the way he spoke in Russian.
Hermione, deflated by his reaction, carried a spoon full of steaming soup to her lips.
“Mh. What does that even mean? Umnitsa?”
A playful twinkle blinked from the corner of his indigo eyes.
She knew he wouldn’t answer truthfully, and the pregnant pause before he spoke up made her want to squirm in her seat.
“A person who asks too many questions.” he said at last, an echo of what would surely be a deep throaty laughter seeping into his voice.
Hermione blinked in surprise.
Despite the desperation that wanted to lick at her insides, despite her urge to get some answers and run, she laughed, too.
Translation:
**“...tak. Da, vse budet khorosho. Ne volnuytes'. Ty v bezopasnosti, malen'kaya ved'ma.” ................"So. Yes, everything will be fine. Don't worry. You're safe, little witch." **