I know, this one wasn't supposed to start until I completed Yes, Professor, but now that that fic is in the homestretch (meaning only a handful of chapters until it's complete), this one has been nipping at me, again.

Author's Notes:

1) No one will be surprised that this idea was inspired by watching The Haunting of Hill House with Michiel Huisman. This story is not based on the series, or even the novel, it was simply "Hey, look, Antonin's in a haunted house story! There should be an Antonin haunted house story. *two minutes later* Dammit, there's going to be an Antonin haunted house story." So, don't expect the two stories to be similar, other than that they take place in big, spooky properties, are ghost stories, and, well, there's a planned character arc for Antonin that is direct homage to a subplot from the series. There is also a time jump-back in the opening, but that is the only place it happens, so the story will not jump back and forth in time periods, either.

2) We will be harkening back to my horror story roots with this one (some of my fics dabble in it, but I haven't gone at a good, spooky-for-spooky's sake story in a while [those of you who remember The Scavengers know what I'm talking about]). So while it will have romance (and smut for those of you who are checking in because this is me writing Antomione, and you're hoping for the smutty-smutties 😉 ) it will also [hopefully] have you looking over your shoulder, feeling like you're suddenly 'not alone', or wanting to turn the lights on before reading updates.

Fancasts: Michiel Huisman as Antonin Dolohov; Chris Hemsworth as Thorfinn Rowle [brief appearance]; Idris Elba as Kingsley Shacklebolt (any characters not listed in the fancast roster are assumed to be portrayed by their film-canon actors).

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit in any form from this work.

Chapter One

Her breath rattled in her lungs as she looked about. Gripping her wand tight, she crept along the night-darkened corridor. Another crack of thunder had her pressing her lips together to keep in a startled sound.

The air, itself, seemed to have weight to it . . . seemed to press, thick and heavy, against her skin while she waited for some noise, some glimpse. Anything.

Anything that might tell her—

Hermione!

Jumping, she whirled in the direction of his voice, her wand out, ready to strike. "Antonin?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath of sound.

Nothing. Even as she gaped around at precisely where she thought she'd just heard his voice. Even as she could swear she felt someone standing right there before her.

A shadow slipped around one of the far corridors, and she didn't spare the burst of jittery fear that wound through her gut time to take hold. Gripping her wand tighter, still, she ran after the silhouetted figure.

Around darkened bends, through echoing passages, she followed, her heartbeat and her footfalls ringing in her ears. The further along she went trailing the shadow, the more certain she was where it was leading her.

And the more rapid that beating in her ears became.

Dashing around a corner, she came to a skittering halt. The shadow was nowhere to be seen, yet there at the end of the corridor, the ancient, Muggle-rendered portrait of Selyce Avery stared back at her.

Hermione swallowed hard, untrusting of her own eyes. She started toward the portrait at a measured pace, her wand at the ready. Nothing here, not even her own senses, was to be trusted.

As she reached the dead end of the corridor, gazing up at the beautiful, cold visage of that long-dead witch, she felt the toe of her shoe slip against the tile floor. Her face falling, she backpedaled a step and looked down.

"Lumos."

The small puddle glinted crimson in the light from her wand. There was nothing else—no droplets leading away, no smudges anywhere, just that lone puddle. Just that echo of Selyce, mocking her fear. Her heart thundered behind her ribcage as she looked up at the painting, once more.

Barely aware of her own words, her voice spilled out in a hushed murmur. "Give him back to me."

"No."

The toneless whisper in her ear, the feel of cold lips brushing her skin, had her spinning around. As she faced the empty corridor behind her, she heard the clatter of wood against tile.

Dropping her gaze, she saw the wand there. The one he'd been issued solely to assist him with his work, so he could hope to harm her with it. The one he'd refused to use under any circumstances.

That could only mean whatever had happened, it had been awful enough that he'd grabbed a weapon he had wanted nothing to do with.

She knelt down, slipping the fingers of her free hand around the provisionary wand. Her heart went cold in her chest. He'd held it, she could feel it. Wherever he was, whatever was happening to him, he'd been so fearful of it, he'd tried for the one thing he swore he never wanted to do again.

Now, he had no way to protect himself against the hidden things here and whatever torments they were inflicting upon him this very moment.

And she wasn't sure she had any way to find him.

Three Months Earlier

"I'm serious, Minister Shacklebolt," she said, her voice stern. "Give me the job."

Kingsley arched a brow, the expression markedly severe as he clasped his hands atop his desk. She only addressed his so formally when she was signaling that she was already geared up for an argument. "Miss Granger, you despise Antonin Dolohov. Why on earth should I allow you to be his probation officer?"

"But Kings, please, that's exactly why it should be me!" The moment she saw Antonin Dolohov's name on the list of prospective prisoners for rehabilitation work, she knew she had to volunteer herself for the post. "I don't hate him. I am rightfully wary and afraid of him, yes, but those are not the same thing."

"You're really not winning this argument at the rate you're going."

Her shoulders slumped and her expression soured. "That's because I'm not finished, yet. Look, we all know how charismatic a Death Eater can be when they chose to. Anyone who doesn't have the sort of history with him that I do might be convinced by half-efforts. We can't afford that. I am the perfect person for this because I'll be especially critical of everything he says and does. I'll be hyper-vigilant in my observations and reports on how I think he's faring with his rehabilitation. I am the one person you can be sure will not sign off on Antonin Dolohov being released back into society unless he's truly no longer a threat to anyone."

Kingsley was quiet for a long while, merely holding her gaze in silence. Then, he sighed and swiped a hand down his face. "Bollocks, I should know better than to give you time to construct an argument. All right, the post is yours."

Hermione thanked the Minister and left, taking with her directions, a copy of the keys to the property Antonin Dolohov was to rebuild and renovate for his work-release probation, and a preset package of provisional supplies. She just barely managed to hide her smile. She hated lying to Kingsley, but it was only a partial lie. She was the best person to oversee his rehabilitation due to her past with Antonin Dolohov.

Because she was perfectly aware that Antonin Dolohov was beyond redemption, and this way, she would personally be able to ensure he was never let back out into the world as a free man.

"Merlin's fucking beard," Rowle groused after he was ushered into his cell, the door locked behind him.

From the cell beside his, Antonin looked up. "You're chipper as usual."

The hulking blond collapsed onto his back on the cold stone floor to glare up at the dank, drippy ceiling. "You were right. They offered me some ruddy work-release probation."

"You don't sound happy."

"It's the bloody Gaunt house. The place is a disaster. The floor will probably cave under me as soon as I set foot inside the door, and I'll die, right there, just like that. No traditional Viking funeral for me. Nope, gonna be killed by a shitty old building burying me alive."

"I's a bit dramatic, don't you think?" Antonin arched a brow. "And oddly specific."

Thorfinn shrugged against the floor, his expression as bleak as their surroundings. "What can I say? It's just not me to do anything in half-measures. What about you?"

"Avery Manse."

Turning his head, Thorfinn pinned his fellow Death Eater with a curious gaze. "Who's that?"

Antonin snickered, kicking back on his broken down little cot and folding his arms across his chest. "Not a who, a what. It's the old Avery property. You wouldn't have heard of it; Ministry seized it during the First War, and only now they're getting around to dealing with it."

"Manse?" Thorfinn nodded to himself as he repeated the unfamiliar term a few times. "Manse. Manse. Nope, don't like the sound of it. Estate. Manor. Hall. . . . Anything sounds better than calling a house 'manse'."

"How quickly you remind me Durmstrang doesn't offer Muggle Studies. Manse is just what they call the house a church grants to it's minister. See, long time ago, I think after the Statute was enacted, the Averies thought it would be a kick to have power over Muggles by becoming 'of the cloth', as they say, since overt use of magic to intimidate them had become a crime. But, after they left the church, they refused to give the property back, claimed it was haunted, and they were really protecting the souls of any future ministers."

"Oh, please." Thorfinn snorted a chuckle. "Show me one place older than a decade that's not got a ghost or two."

Antonin shrugged and shook his head. "Muggles don't know that. Rumor has it that the Averies at the time used charms to make the house seem active if any of the clergy members ever visited. So, when the family insisted on keeping the place—for 'the sake of protecting the congregation'—the new minister was more than happy to let them keep it."

"Always thought that family was a bunch of slippery bastards."

"What are you gonna do? Take the offer to fix up the Gaunt place?"

Thorfinn sighed. "Don't know. I guess I'll just have to resign myself to not having a Viking funeral because a stupid house kills me. You gonna take the offer on Avery Manse?"

Closing his eyes, Antonin let out a sigh of his own. If the Ministry was trying to show they'd been the 'better side all along' by offering Death Eaters some from of probation, who was he to argue? "I suppose. I mean, I've never minded hard work, and the chance at freedom once the job is done instead of rotting in here 'til I die? I'm trying to find a downside, but I'm not sure there is one."

He looked at the property through the rusted gates as the Auror escorting him—fucked if Antonin could remember the bloke's name—removed the manacles from his wrists. The sight made him wonder if there was a chance to swap with Thorfinn for the house that might kill him with its crumbly floors.

Those rusted gates stood open onto an aged cobblestone path that had once probably been quite stunning but was now cracked and pitted in a most unattractive way. The house beyond was enormous, far larger of a property than he'd anticipated, with yawning windows boarded up long ago, their once splendid shutters hanging half off their hinges. A vaulted stone awning over the front doors had visible fractures and he felt as though he could already hear the way those doors would whine when he opened them.

"The Auror overseeing your probation is already inside, setting things up for your stay. The moment I close these gates behind you, a ward will be enacted which will keep you from leaving the property. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Your probation officer will be free to come and go as, and when, she wishes—"

"She?" Antonin couldn't stop himself from asking with an arched brow.

The wizard beside him snickered and shook his head. "Yes, and she'll have a field day with it if she thinks you judge whether or not someone can be an Auror based on their genitals, so you might want to watch that."

Antonin winced and nodded. "Don't be a chauvinist. Think I can manage that."

"You'd be surprised what she considers chauvinistic. As I was saying, she can come and go as, and when, she pleases, so you might want to do yourself a favor and not get too comfortable at any given time."

Narrowing his eyes, Antonin leaned back a little, getting a better look at the other man. "You're being awfully helpful."

"Not especially. Just . . . she's a bit of a handful, that one. Can't help but pity you."

That did not sound good. Not. At. All. Nodding once more, Antonin stepped through the gates and listened, waiting for them to close and lock behind him. He could feel the quick, static ripple of energy as that ward the Auror had mentioned kicked on.

With a deep breath, he started along the cracked and pitted path toward the house. He could see structures in the distance within the line of the property's fence. Fantastic, even more for him to do. He'd known this was going to be more work than even the Ministry imagined—given what he would, or would not do to accomplish the necessary tasks—but he hadn't expected to glimpse a broken down barn and a greenhouse that seemed to have every pane shattered.

As he reached the rundown front porch under that fractured stone awning, he noticed the front doors were open ajar. Frowning, he wondered if his probation officer could really be so terrible if the woman was scatterbrained enough to forget to properly close a door behind her.

Slipping inside, he turned, soundly closing the doors and then faced into the house. Merlin's fucking beard, the place was a mess. Though, if he were wholly honest, the structural integrity of the house's interior appeared in remarkable condition after all this time, but there was clear weathering and aging, layers upon layers of dust, cracked moldings, chipped sills . . . . He prayed by some miracle that at least the plumbing worked.

"In here," a female voice rang out, clearly having heard the doors shutting through the quiet of the house.

Antonin arched a brow. Was it his imagination that she sounded a bit familiar? Not someone he knew well. A passing acquaintance?Perhaps someone he's simply held a conversation with once?

Darting his gaze about the main floor as he crossed to the doorway where he'd heard her, he peeked in to find a study. Most of the furniture was draped by cloth, but she'd removed the one that had covered the desk. Her back to him, she sorted through a box before her.

She didn't appear all that familiar. Her long, golden-brown hair was pulled into a tight braid down her back, and her petite frame didn't seem to remind him of anyone he knew. If anything, she seemed far too diminutive to be as frightful as the other Auror had indicated.

"Hullo?" he said, that singular word cautious.

She turned to face him, her chestnut eyes mirthful as a smirk curved her lips. That was when he realized who this was. Harry Potter's Mudblood. The one who'd survived his curse that night at the Department of Mysteries, the one he'd been tortured into remembering after that disastrous effort at that tacky Muggle café. Twice she'd failed to die at his hand.

And now . . . .

"Good afternoon, Mr. Dolohov. My name is Hermione Granger, and I'll be the probation officer overseeing your work here."

He was unable to keep his jaw from going slack as he stared back at her. Oh, downside, there you are, he thought in a sour tone.