Disclaimer: Even in my wildest dreams, Harry Potter isn't mine.

Summary: If she intends to leave, he shan't protest. Inspired (not written for, so it doesn't explicitly adhere to prompt requirements) by Challenge 40 on the Bellatrix Lestrange: The Dark Lord's Most Faithful Forum.

Author's Note: Once upon a time, I solemnly swore to write happier stories. After my semi-joyful "Hopeless Romantics," I've determined the jovial route isn't for me.

"…You ain't ever gonna change;

You got a gypsy soul to blame,

And you were born for leavin'

Born for leavin…"

Zac Brown Band, "Colder Weather"

~Whilst In Russia~

Darkness becomes light as brown eyes penetrate despair.

"Hi. I'm Andromeda Black." Beautiful and bold, she has trod across the dance floor to greet him. He is taken aback, eyes shifting between piercing orbs and the pale hand. His father has always said females should be seen and not heard, and boldness is an unattractive quality.

His skull connects, aggressively, with the headboard. It barely registers.

"And you are?" She presses, an eyebrow cocked, clearly, in annoyance, perturbed by his fidgeting.

She tastes of firewhiskey and cherry wine and hisses as the blouse is ripped from her lithe body. The earrings nearly rip though her flesh. But he cannot apologize for his haste, for being inconsiderate. He's waited far too long.

He gapes at the scene behind her; a petite, blonde girl of about six, wails as she chases a much taller raven haired girl who is waving a porcelain doll above her head.

"Antonin." He says, finally, looking deep within Andromeda's eyes as he firmly grasps her hand. "Antonin Dolohov."

"Please," she begs. Begging is something she is not accustomed to. As a Black, she's been afforded every luxury. Her heart's desires have literally been only a fingertip away. But tonight is different. Tonight, she has to.

"Please what?" He grunts, in between thrusts. If this is their last time together, as cordial acquaintances, he afford her the privilege of feeling like she's in control on this, their time as proper lovers.

Beneath him, she writhes. Her breathing is labored. When she speaks, her voice trembles. "Please…don't stop."

"Pleased to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Dolohov."

Neither acknowledge the two troublemakers protesting as they are led from the merriment.

She curtsies and he seizes her hand, pressing his lips to it as he bows.

"I certainly look forward to seeing more of you, Ms. Black."

Together, they cry out. "Lumos," he moans throatily, just as she collapses onto him. "That—that was…"

"I know what it was. I don't need to hear."

Antonin blanches, absorbing her every detail as she slides towards the bed's edge. His conscious warned him that Andromeda was hiding something. Enamored so, he disregarded all feelings of uncertainty.

His mouth practically drops to the floor as she flicks her wand, her clothes folding and depositing themselves into burgundy suitcases.

"How much longer must you insult me with your presence?" He snipes, recoiling as though she has struck him, and draws the sheet to his bare chest. His cheeks burn with shame, as though he is responsible for taking her virtue. He heart yearns to shout, "Are you really leaving?" But as a man—a Dolohov man at that—he knows better.

Andromeda pauses, eyes scanning the area almost timidly before she momentarily places her wand on the armoire. Antonin's stomach churns as she considers him. Her doe eyes reflect emptiness. It sickens him, makes him feel as large as a Cornish pixie.

"I shan't dawdle, Antonin." Andromeda's brown eyes are void, communicating her lack of remorse. "I do thank you for…" She pauses, contemplating the proper manner in which to convey her sentiments. Vulgarity is simply not an option. Her lip curls into an cruel, amused grin. "...your entertainment."

Domestic abuse is wrong. It is a crime against pureblood society. No respectable pureblood man shall place a hand on she who he fancies or, more commonly, is bound to. But this isn't a relationship and no genuine feelings of love are harbored—only acrimonious sentiments, and even then, they're one sided. If apprehended, it's not as if an alibi would be absent. But Antonin Dolohov is a man with dignity and regardless of how much of a dog Andromeda Black has morphed into, he won't engage in her little games. An overwhelming majority of him approves the agony he wishes to bestow upon her. The choking, the slapping, the beating pummeling would be fair less painful than what he is experiencing.

He comprises by giving a noncommittal grunt, glowering as she dresses.

"Well, I guess this is the end." Andromeda says casually—so casually that Antonin claws at the sheets to keep from snapping her long neck in half. She nods, conducting a visual once-over.

"Oh, please. Don't tarry." The words erupt angrily before he can stop them. "I'm sure your whereabouts are of the upmost importance."

His words are light rain, washing over her without leaving true, definitive residue. He scoots off the bed, opens the wooden door, and looks back expectedly. Antonin's patience has worn thin and the time allotted for Andromeda's welcome has expired. If Andromeda is the least bit troubled by his brashness, she doesn't show it. Transfiguring her suitcases into much smaller objects, she places them within her cloak pockets. Their eyes meet, one final time.

"Be careful not to shut your dick in the door." She says spitefully. "Merlin knows the world will collapse without God's gift to women."

"I haven't come to kill, you swine." The pale man speaks, red eyes narrowing in disgust as the Russian snivels at his feet.

His front oak door, the entrance to the historic mansion, obliterated. Brutalized beyond description, Antonin doesn't know what else to think.

"You are quite g-gracious, my L-Lord—"

"And still," Voldemort continues, leisurely, unmindful of Antonin having spoken. If he is aware, recognition of petty words obviously isn't a priority. "Those preferring to ignore my summoning generally endure what muggles refer to as…capital punishment."

Death. That is the blunt, less theatrical word. But the Dark Lord seems rather strange today, almost playing with his victims. This is sick, twisted, even for him. This is the "Bellatrix effect."

"Y-yes, my Lord." Antonin mumbles pathetically into the marble floor. Nothing the Dark Lord deems the servant worthy of rivals the hell within the servant's soul. When all the illusions are removed, the Dark Lord knows nothing about capital punishment. Absolutely nothing.

Antonin lie on his bedroom floor in a fetal position, lamenting so profusely that his tears threaten to surpass the Black Lake's volume. How pitiful is he? Sobbing over a woman when are more pressing issues at hand. If the Dark Lord chooses to descend upon him now, Antonin will be shown no mercy.

Not that she'd show him any either.

Andromeda Black is, had always been, and will always be an anomaly.

Demure as Narcissa, yet passionate as Bellatrix, she made a spectacle of herself and her family.

But most importantly, she has made a spectacle of him.

"It's not you, it's me," Andromeda rushes, frantically, hitting his back to dislodge baked hen from his throat.

"A mudblood?" He exclaims, rounding on her in disbelief. "Am I worth so little in your eyes?"

"Shhh!"

His ears deceive him. A Black daughter revealing treacherous ways to her fiancée as they sit in a Moscow eatery? He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, hoping to awaken from this nightmare.

"Shit, Antonin, I'm serious!" Andromeda swears, looking around in a panic. "Listen…"

Antonin turns, startled, for no ounce of regret shines on her features. This is probably Andromeda's idea of "letting him down easy."

Heartless. She doesn't shed a single tear. She doesn't care about him, only her own ends.

"What is our relationship, really, but fleeting, falsified thirst?" Andromeda pleads, once in the comfort of his abode.

Antonin slams the newly purchased bottle of wine down. The glass shatters, spilling wine on their engagement photograph.

It looks like blood. It could be his. That explains why none circulates through his heart.

Ridiculous. Dinner ruined, all because her perspective has changed. And now she is speaking in riddles.

"You'd leave my arms for his?" He inquired, his voice trembling at the injustice of the scandal. Maybe his expectations for Andromeda had been too high. Her uniqueness is on the basis of her genuine love of politics and family. Vastly different from her sisters—miles ahead of Bellatrix, as far as sanity goes; light-years ahead of Narcissa, as far as astuteness is concerned. Antonin is a fool. Andromeda publicly molested his fairytale and is now poised to leave him out in the cold.

Antonin kicks his legs, blubbers senselessly, flops like a fish on land, all the while spouting obscenities. This is utterly deplorable. He is eighteen years old, behaving like an infant not yet reached his eighteen month.

"This must cease."

He sits upright and draws his knees up to his chest—so much for improvement. He's probably being unfair. Andromeda is a free spirit, fated to be revolutionary. Inspirational. Iconic, in her own right. It was Antonin who took a liking to her and Andromeda never once hinted that the feeling was mutual. Druella, more interested in betrothals than her daughters themselves, readily tossed the pair together, believing there was chemistry and promise.

Last he heard, Andromeda's news resulted in Druella Black being taken to St. Mungo's for suicide prevention.

Should temptation prompt Antonin to surrender, he could be likewise humiliated.

And that simply can't happen.

He hoists himself from the floor, using the backs of his hands to wipe away the wetness. Many of nights he's spent in this room, inches away from a nervous breakdown. Many of nights he's been enticed by the snow covering the grounds. If jumping through the bedroom window wasn't enough to kill him, the precipitation may bury him, shield him from the snickers of the purebloods ignorant of how it feels to cope during the cycle of loss.

The New Year is callous. It has given no warning of its objectives, for yesterday was frigid, white, and quiet. Today is glacial, wet, and tumultuous. The thunder, rumbling before Antonin entered the shower, still rages as he exits. He dries off, slips into a robe and reclines in an armchair.

A foreign noise, eerily reminiscent of knocking, plagued him as he bathed and was born again, apparently. He dismisses the thought as nonsense, as few darken his doorstep nowadays. But, for the third time in thirty seconds, his ears perk up.

He sighs, disgruntled, and rushes to the front door, whisking it open.

"What?" He screams at the smaller figure, vexed at who could possibly be indecent enough to call upon him as the midnight hour approaches. Lightning illuminates the stranger as rain continues and thunder roars overhead. Antonin's hand tightens around the doorknob. "Andromeda…" He blinks, looking closely. No—this couldn't be Andromeda. This person looked like…hell. Andromeda would never leave journey in such disarray.

"Come in," he requests, upholding his manners.

Uncertain for a second, the woman purses her lips and enters. She knows better than to request a seat—his eyes caution her of this. Antonin takes in the sight of her, as she lowers her hood. Lord knows, she is a sight.

"So, what can I do for you?" Her hair, of light mahogany and chestnut, has split ends. Her brown eyes are bloodshot, from alcohol, from crying, or both; dark circles besmirch patrician features.

Andromeda opens her mouth, then collapses to the floor, and pulls at her hair. She looks much like a tormented Azkaban prisoner. "He..he…he s-said…" The words are catch in her throat and she weeps, hands covering ruby lips, rocking back and forth. It's a wretched sight, true enough, and though he is all too familiar with the position, Antonin cannot bring himself to comfort this traitor.

"Andromeda," He speaks coldly, tired of the shenanigans, "What happened? Who is 'he'?"

"Ted!" She screams passionately, glancing up, as if he is familiar with the person. "He thinks I'm repulsive, said he w-wanted a v-virgin…"

It serves the tramp right. But who in the hell knew mudbloods have standards, preferences even, as they bed women? As much as he wishes to verbalize his jubilation at her misery, prying is essential.

"I see. So Mr. Muddyboy didn't want a whore for a housewife." He raises a hand to silence her, for she shows every sign of interrupting. His eyes are trained on the imprint the cheap ring has left on her finger. "Why've you returned?"

She yelps, sorrow etched onto her features. "Oh, for the love of..." Antonin steadies Andromeda as she throws herself upon him, seizing his robe, face so close that their noses are centimeters away. Flames blaze as the wood crackles behind them.

"Forgiveness, of course!" She cries and he clutches her suddenly, for she has stumbled. He kneels to the ground, Andromeda cradled in his arms. She strokes his face. "I was so young, so foolish, so stupid, so naïve," she whimpers hurriedly, fearing he might not care and reject her. She's can't bear rejection again. It is the worst feeling in the world. "Forgive me, Antonin. I've missed you."

He glances down at her, weak, for a moment. This is precisely why the Black sisters are envied. Rodolphus tolerates deranged Bellatrix because she's stunning. Lucius endures dense Narcissa because she's striking. And he—Antonin almost accepts her—Andromeda-because she's dazzling.

Unfortunately for Andromeda, Antonin has learned to trust his intuition, his gut feeling—his common sense. This is the same broad who, not four weeks ago, all but declared their love 'plebeian.' She has returned not out of devotion, but selfishness.

The Black sisters carry selfishness in bundles.

"It sounds like you've gone through a lot." He says tenderly, kissing her fingers.

She fights back tears and nods in confirmation.

"Well, so have I, Andromeda." Antonin scowls, letting her drop to the floor. "And quite frankly, I can't take on any more worthless baggage."

Andromeda gawks at him as she picks herself from the floor. "What? What does all of that mean, Antonin?"

"Do you have any idea how I felt when you left? Do you have any—" He shouts from the opposite side of the room, but stops, looking at her intently. Andromeda's distressed face is the result of own suffering, not his. He's sure she's not even listening to what he has to say. Why should she care that he went without food for days, that he was tortured for hours on end, that he was suicidal? Andromeda made it clear that she never loved him. She popped up now only for protection. "You were lonely." He declares, knowingly, fists clenching.

She perceives his wisdom. Ashamed, she turns her attention to the grandfather clock just as it chimes, signaling the birth of the midnight hour.

"Well," Antonin smiles, rubbing his hands together, excitedly. He smiles, genuinely, for the first time in a long time. "I do thank you for…your entertainment."

Andromeda gasps, viciously assaulting his back with her fists as Antonin places her on his doorstep. "You—you—you can't do this!" She argues, waving a finger in his face. "I'm Andromeda Black, goddammit!"

"Really?" He snorts. "Because your aunt has given me the impression that her brother has but two daughters."

Her face contorts and she screams, literally stomping on the steps. The Englishwoman inhales deeply. "Weren't you the one who always said blood is thicker than water?" She asks softly.

The Russian cocks his head to the side, pretending to be swayed by her gentleness. "Yes. And it was also I who said, 'It's my love you for you, not my blood, which courses through my veins."

Andromeda's eyelids flutter and she runs a hand through water logged hair. "I'm sorry," she tries in vain, knowing the battle is lost.

"You damn sure are. Cry me a river, Andromeda. Love doesn't live here anymore."

Dolohov heirlooms ricochet on their respective shelves in response to the ferocity in which the door has been shut, banishing the intruder from the home.

If Antonin knows Andromeda, she's kneeling against the door, thinking he's weak enough to sense she's there and retrieve her.

But Antonin Dolohov trusts the storm to take care of Andromeda Black. It is irrelevant whether nature drags her to hell, just as long as his country is no longer stored in her directory.

Fin.

Reviews are gold, people. Gold!