"And I pray when I'm gone,
You don't feel I done you wrong.
But if so I will seek my repentance.
A convicted fool I am, chained to the pen in my hand.
And my darling I must serve this sentence."
Andrew Duhon - The Moorings.
The sun was revitalising to his weary mind, and Antonin Dolohov had grown weary of so many things. As the blessed rays warmed his skin his fingers plucked the strings of the guitar resting his arms. The thirty-three year old wizard tilted his head back to bask in the sunlight. His Slavic features were complimented by his long dark hair and short beard, and he knew that objectively he was considered to be quite handsome. Not that he gave such things much thought at all, it had once been something he had taken pride in, never the peacock-like Lucius Malfoy was famous for being, but he could admit to being quite vain in his earlier years. He knew to an onlooker he would appear to be a good looking bloke dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans. He was reclined against a wall enjoying the brief winter sunlight like so many others around him.
Freedom was sweeter than that warmth though, a freedom he had no right to, and yet would kill to preserve. Many of those whom had fought alongside him at the dark lord's bidding were denied freedom and sunlight and even more rotted in forgotten graves. He didn't know who he pitied more, those in Azkaban or the dead. He should technically be among the dead. He had lost a duel with Flitwick, the curse that hit him should have killed him. It had been a sloppy moment, he had defeated Lupin only moments before, ending the werewolf before he could kill Rowle and the dwarven wizard had struck when his back was turned. Flitwick had left him with a crater in his chest and Antonin knew he should have died in that moment. And yet, when the eyes of the combatants in the battle of Hogwarts had turned to observe the ashes that remained of the dark lord he had managed to escape.
He had disappeared into the forbidden forest and healed himself as best he could and had then taken his animagus form to sleep in peace. If death had taken him in that form he at least had the knowledge that those that fought for the light would never find his remains. He would never be desecrated like those whom had fought with him, never displayed like some crude emblem of the lights victory. He would rot and nourish the world into new life as the laws of nature demanded. In the forest not even the centaurs or the acromantula would have tried to kill him in this form. Even predators knew when a meal was more effort than it was worth. He didn't know how long he had stayed there asleep, waking only for food and relief before slumbering once more. He reckoned weeks, but he was so depleted he did not truly know.
It was from that spot that he was awoken by arguing. He opened his tired eyes to see the golden trio trudging right past him without a second glance. His eyes opened to see Ronald Weasley grab the chosen one and pull him to a stop.
"Harry mate, you can't be serious! That's the elder wand, the most powerful wand in existence and you're just…"
"Putting it back where it belongs, Ron. It's done enough damage, look what it did to Hogwarts, just let it rest with Dumbledore". Harry had grumpily snipped back, and Antonin thought the Potter kid looked as awful as he felt.
"Yeah but mate, it's THE elder wand, you know, crafted by death himself. Imagine what you could do with it. You could find the resurrection stone again and maybe even bring back..."
"No, Ronald." The muggleborn witch Hermione had interrupted, spinning to face the angry redhead. "No Ron, I miss Fred too, but we can't. What's dead should stay dead. What if Fred is in heaven, at peace and we ripped him from it? Do you have any idea what that would do to his mind? What would it do to George to get Fred back only to have Fred try and kill himself to get back to paradise? Death is meant to be final Ron, history is littered with stories of it going wrong, so don't think thoughts like that."
"What would you know, Hermione, you think you are so smart, that you know everything." Weasley fumed, towering over the bushy haired witch. When he moved to grab her, Potter intervened.
"Stop it, Ron. You think you're the only one that lost someone? That your family's grief is the only one that matters? Go fuck yourself with that nonsense. Hermione's parents were murdered even though she obliviated them to protect them. My parents died to protect me, Teddy was only days old when Remus and Tonks died. Hundreds died to protect the ones they love, Ron." The two boys were toed to toe glowering at one another, breathing heavily as the fought to suppress the urge to fight.
Hermione's quiet voice had interrupted the pair "Ron, you know he's right. If You-Know-Who's followers ever got wind that Harry had that wand, they would seek him out and start a new war with the terrible power it helped them to wield. Having this wand is a death sentence, you'd have to be desperate or a fool to want it." Her dark eyes had pleaded with him before she turned and got to work repairing the tomb that Antonin had witnessed the dark lord destroy.
The trio's arguing had continued, the redhead had continued to vehemently argue with his companions even as he helped them repair the broken tomb. They spoke as they worked, mentioning getting Bill and Kingsley to seal the tomb from anyone ever opening it again, all three of them agreed that no one but them should wield it at least. Potter finally snapped once more at the incessant redhead to "shut it, Ron" before he had placed the wand inside the tomb. They had paused for a moment looking at the tomb and the almost serene setting for it, before Potter disapparated with his friends.
Antonin had crawled from his hiding place towards the tomb of Dumbledore. Talk of people coming to seal the tomb had filled him with a sense of urgency and he did not want to miss his chance. A walk that should have taken no more than thirty seconds took him close to fifteen minutes to crawl due to his injuries. Opening the sealed tomb had taken a strength he had not been sure he still possessed. He had to pry the wand from the cold, but surprisingly well-preserved fingers of Albus Dumbledore. The effort had torn open some still healing wounds and it was only weary determination that allowed him to crawl back to his hiding place to heal, wand safely in hand.
Hermione had claimed that only the desperate and fools would seek the wand, but she was wrong. The powerless were the ones that sought power. Fools may stumble across it, and the desperate may embrace it, but those who were powerless or feared being so were the ones that sought it. He should know, the pursuit of power was one of the defining traits of his old school house, Slytherin. Slytherins were also cunning enough to know if you found power, you would need to be willing to fight to keep it.
Of course, that had been four years ago and much had changed in the world, but Antonin had not used that wand, other than to heal himself. He had let himself sleep as healed after he had placed the wand inside a magic locket. The locket he wore around his neck to keep it safe and had done what he could to learn about the wand. He visited libraries on the continent, reading everything he could find on the wand, and the other Hallow's he learned would complete the set. Not that he wanted a stone that drove you to suicide or a cloak that hid you from sight, he had no use for either of them. But knowing what they were was something that Antonin knew might come in useful at a later date, so he had taken the information that he could.
When the information he learned from countless books and libraries led to dead ends and fairy-tales he began to seek living sources, but being considered dead meant he could not simply walk into Ollivander's shop to ask about the strange wand. No, Antonin had had to get creative if he wanted to learn the histories of the elder wand. He had to travel and seek out those that knew, but would not be inclined to expose him for what he was.
As Antonin mused on those studies he placed his guitar on the grass beside him as he reached for the coffee offered to him as though it was manna from heaven itself. He still struggled years after the battle to invigorate his mind after spending so long healing in his animagus form. He had spent too long maimed with a festering wound after Flitwick's cowardly attack. Even his magic and the elder wand had struggled to heal the damage the dwarf had inflicted. The fact that it had not been loyal to him yet had probably had something to do with its diminished power, the wand had been still loyal to the Potter brat after all.
He had hard-won its loyalty, not through defeating others, but by repairing its fractured core after the dark lord had almost shattered it by forcing it to work for him against its will. Before he had been drafted and branded into the dark lord's services he had been studying wand lore, training to take over for Gregorovich as a wand maker. It was that training that allowed him to see the damage that so much brute force upon its magic had inflicted, he could hear the whimpers of its fragile core. The thestral hair had been damaged and so Antonin had repaired it by adding a second from the stallion of Hagrid's thestral herd in the forest as a graft. It had taken several tries and more than a few burns before the wand had been usable once more. He had sensed the gratitude from the wand, and though he did not use it anymore, he knew should he need it, the power it held was at his disposal.
In fact Antonin kept it with him wherever he went, tucked inside his boot, occasionally getting a bruise from where it rubbed against his ankle as he walked. After rejoining society wearing a locket drew too many questions than he had any intention of asking and so it was hidden so that even those who knew to look would not see the wand poking from his boot. You'd think that after four years he would have grown used to its presence and yet he was constantly aware of it and just how much power it held. Antonin had done his homework, followed its path from mythical origins to present day and had been disgusted at the number of grizzly deaths the wand was rumoured to be responsible for, mostly that of those who wielded it. Every wizard that had held it and killed with the wand had died horrifically, there were no exceptions to that rule. The death stick hadn't earned its title for nothing, there was no escaping the death that came for those who used the wand to master death.
One could argue that even Dumbledore had fit the bill and so been killed at the wands will, but Antonin found no evidence of the old coot ever actually committing murder. He knew from the papers that had exonerated Snape as a war hero for the light that Dumbledore had orchestrated his death at the hands of Snape to escape a curse that was slowly killing him. He wondered why they never mentioned the curse responsible for his demise, as it would have answered his questions as to whether Dumbledore fit the profile of horrific death at the hands of the elder wand. Either way it seemed the trick to possessing the wand was to avoid situations where death was a likely possibility, which was a laughable concept for a criminal on the run. Even without that conundrum avoiding death was impossible, everyone and everything died, it was the one rule that had no exceptions. If it lived, it died. Nicholas Flamel had come very close to immortality but even he had eventually been thwarted by death.
It was a conundrum that plagued him. After he had healed enough to leave the solace of the forest behind, and learned what he could from the fringes of society he had sought out his family in Iceland. Although natives of Russia his mother's side of the family, the Petrova's, had left the country he had been born in and moved to the volcanic island. They had moved to Iceland when the country fearing the depletion of magic from the land had called out to those from the northern lands, Russia, Norway and the likes to repopulate the lands with magical blood. His Mother's family had answered the call, no doubt taking advantage of the incentives of money and land after losing it all in Russia. They had quickly taken positions of power within the Althing.
There he had run into Thorfinn Rowle, who had likely had the same idea he had, escape to where our bloodlines still ruled and away from the persecution of their kind in Britain. Iceland was one of seven magical nations that still held to the old ways. Those of the old bloodlines would be protected from the laws of other nations in order to preserve the purity of magic. Not of blood like the British wizards promoted but of magic itself, the kind that sang through a witch or wizards soul, and flourished best when it was not bound by small-minded weaker wizards ideals. Antonin had never thought he would witness the decline of the old houses in Britain and yet that is the age that was now rapidly destroying the magical community in Britain.
He and Thorfinn had quickly banded together as they had in their school days, each helping the other adjust to this new land and the freedoms it offered. The blond Viking had done well for himself after the war, his skills in the deciphering of ancient runes had found him in high demand as Iceland's magical community rebuilt itself from the rapid decline of the late 19th century. He had escaped the battle at Hogwarts unscathed and been overjoyed to see Antonin again, alive and well. Antonin still found it amusing when people looked at Thorfinn, expecting that he was Antonin's assistant, there to help him when the truth was that for all of Thorfinn's features his mind was his greatest asset. The dark lord didn't brand idiots with his mark, and he and the Viking had been the last to earn the dark mark.
Antonin had built himself a new life in the frozen nation, at home amongst the frozen tundras and volcanic mountains far more than he had been in Britain. This land was still wild, the land open and untamed and it made his old soul sing. Antonin swore on days like this, you could taste the magic in the air when each breath sent a chill through him set his nerves alight with ancient magics. It was so potent that even the magically blind muggles could feel it in the air, why else would so many of them brave the frigid north to watch a light show in the sky? It certainly wasn't the weather that kept them coming back. No, he had left his life as a death-eater in Britain and had opened his own wand shop, creating new wands for the island nation with the knowledge that he had gained from studying and repairing the elder wand.
The store, located by the Harpa Opera house in Reykjavik was known as the Heathens Magic, Antonin taking inspiration from the mythology of Drangey island and the demon that dwelled there, knowing that admitting his dark nature would intrigue more people than it would rebuff. It also helped that with his Slavic features and short temper meant that he often resembled the demon. His Grandmother Helga, the matriarch of the Petrova family had been amused and he knew relieved. He was her only living grandson, and although she had several granddaughters she considered him to be the future of their family, him setting roots had relieved her worried mind. His father had lost his mind in Azkaban, and the family had moved to quietly take his life rather than risk him attempting to restart the war, and it was move that although he agreed with, did not sit easy with him. His father had been a hard man to love, he had spent the majority of Antonin's life behind bars and yet the idea that should he too be considered a liability his family would end him too, stung.
Antonin shook himself from his musings as he picked up his guitar once more, his coffee was gone and he stared out over the waters of the harbour before him. His fingers found a tune, almost all on their own, and he knew he drew stares playing outside in such frigid temperatures. Thorfinn was talking to a very pretty redhead who he could hear asking him if he played too. He caught her name on the wind, and it seemed Natalya was playing hard to get and Thorfinn was doing his best to keep her attentions on him. Her foot was keeping time with the plucking of the guitar strings even as she flirted. Antonin smirked like the bastard knew he was when she gasped as he sang. Ruining Thorfinn's chances with women was one of the few pleasures in life he still had.
"And I pray when I'm gone,
You don't feel I done you wrong.
But if so I will seek my repentance.
A convicted fool I am, chained to the pen in my hand.
And my darling I must serve this sentence."
Muggles he thought, were easily entertained, whenever he had picked up a guitar and played people had always stopped to listen. Sure it drew attention to him, it drew the eyes of people in his direction and the thrill of knowing it might be the last thing he ever did as free man is what made him keep doing it. Some people would simply listen, eyes half closed as music took them someplace else in their minds. Others would whisper as they watched, unable to listen without saying something as though uncomfortable with the emotions music evoked within them. Then there were the ones that dropped money at his feet, not that he minded, beer money was always welcome, but there was always the slightly insulting feeling that they thought he sang for them.
He didn't.
He sang for that last piece of his soul that was unmarred by his wicked deeds. For the boy, he had been before he had been dragged into a war. Music had been the only thing his father hadn't destroyed for him, that the dark lord had had no interest in and so hadn't found a way to take it from him. Hell, it had been the only thing that had kept him sane. No self-respecting wizard became a musician, but the ability to play was a talent that could earn you respect. When he had played in the common room at school he had soothed ragged tempers stressed from coming exams and made several witches swoon and fall into his bed.
"You're a bastard, you know that?" Rowle groused as he settled on the stone wall next to the dark-haired wizard. "You see the legs on her? Just when I think I am in there you start serenading and all she has eyes for is you."
Antonin winked at the pretty redhead before tilting his head at his friend even as he began to strum his guitar. "You never could compete, if they didn't swoon over your muscles you had no idea how to get them into bed."
"Keep it up, ya Gobshite and I'll go find Alecto Carrow for you. How many times did we find her our dorm, crying because you wouldn't give her the time of day? How many times did she beg you to love her like you did in those songs of yours?"
Antonin snorted, his lip curling in disgust. "That Witch is deranged, touched even before she joined the dark lord's ranks. But sure, you fuck off to Azkaban to rescue Nutty Ally and I'll keep the pretty little redhead company for you. I'll make sure she's not heartbroken when you don't come back too."
"Cunt. Don't talk about that place, not even if my own Mother was locked in there would I go to that hell hole." Rowle shuddered at the thought, going slightly pale. "Not to mention Ally would kill me for leaving you with another woman. As far as she is concerned your pretty Russian arse is hers."
"Your poor Mother, she birthed a coward, won't even brave dementors for her. I should kill you and comfort the poor woman at having birthed such a wretch." He held his hand over his heart and gave Thorfinn a mocking sneer. "Might even become your kid sister's new daddy, because let's face it, your Mum is a fox." He waggled his brows and laughed even as the Viking lookalike thumped his shoulder. He stood from the wall he had been perched upon and began to sing once more, dodging his friend's ire.
"Well that governor's wife was so dawg on pretty
Tell me what's a boy to do
Now it's your life, son
You better leave that city 'cause the word's out
She been getting down with you
You might find that straight and narrow way
But you got to Sidestep your grave".
It was a song his sixteen-year-old self-had written about bedding his best friends Mother and still had the power to annoy his friend every time he sang it. The woman, was in Antonin's opinion, a literal goddess and how she had ever birthed Thorfinn he didn't understand. Every time they would go for Sunday lunch he would flirt with the witch and beg her to admit she found the blond under a rock and took him in.
It was as he was singing he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Ahead of him, clearly on vacation and staring at him in shock, he recognised the know it all witch Hermione Granger. He would recognise those brown eyes and riotous curls fighting for freedom from beneath her woolen hat anywhere. The remains of his curse still held some of his magic and it called to him, instantly making her easy to hunt and find in any crowd to him like a neon sign. That curse had been designed to kill by attacking their magical cores with his own, in invasion of foreign magic being something so destructive that most witches and wizards were burned alive from it and yet she had survived. He held her gaze, and she stood still like a deer caught in the hunters gaze as he sang and as the song ended he saw it was like adrenaline finally set it and she spun and fled, her terror having been clear in her eyes.
"Was that…?" Thorfinn began before Antonin interrupted. "Yeah that was Granger, guess we've been found, mate."
Thorfinn looked amused "You mean you've been found jackass, she didn't see anything but you. Guess you won't be sidestepping your grave after all."
"Get fucked Rowle". Antonin groused.
"Stop fucking singing and distracting the women and I just might Dolohov". Thorfinn threw back casually before he returned his attentions to Natalya once more.