Note: I owe huge thanks to my dear friend, almanera, for her help in writing and editing this story and for her priceless advice.
Warning: This story is a darkfic styled as a piece of Gothic horror. It contains the use of the three Unforgivable curses, non-con, implied spell and potion abuse, cynical and contemptuous attitude towards Muggles, and the death of a character.
I
When the two figures entered the dark house, it was eerily silent, not unlike a mansion one could have imagined in one of Edgar Allan Poe's stories.
"We call it Plamen's Parlour," the man explained, beckoning for his companion to enter, "in honour of my grandfather, Plamen Dolohov, who obtained this house when he was a young man, a stranger in this country."
The young woman graced him with a warm smile. Mr Dolohov was her sponsor and friend. She already knew the Dolohovs belonged to ancient Bulgarian aristocracy and had left their country in the nineteenth century, choosing London as their new home; he had told her so. This notion was nothing less than fascinating to her, for she was merely an aspiring singer of a modest origin, who made a living dancing in a cabaret, and Mr Dolohov was, without exaggeration, the closest thing to nobility she had ever encountered. She felt humbled at the fact that such a respectful gentleman appreciated her so much as to invite her to his home and introduce her to his family.
Taking advantage of his brief absence as he carried her coat and hat away with the promise of fetching his wife and son, the young woman looked around her. His house was far from ordinary.
Indeed, its original disposition seemed to have been maintained out of the Dolohovs' respect for tradition, for most of the furniture and decorations clearly belonged to the previous century. A thick carpet covered the floor of the elegant living room, which had been painted in purple shades and lit with nothing but a candle chandelier and a monumental fireplace. And yet, despite this absence of artificial light, the room was illuminated with steady and bright light, quite sufficient for reading and devoid of flickering.
It made her instantly curious, for as far as she knew, it was impossible to achieve such an effect. Taking a glance over her shoulder for any sign of her host, the young woman proceeded towards the fire. The hearth was made from dark marble, and the mantelpiece was decorated with flowers, candles and framed pictures. It was impolite to touch anything without permission, and she would not presume to do so, yet there was something so compelling about this room that she could not resist at least examining it.
One of the framed photographs drew her attention at once, and she leaned in for a closer look. A moment later, her smile morphed into a gasp of horror, and she recoiled. The black and white picture was the portrait of a teenage boy in a peculiar long robe riding a broom. What was more, his figure was moving, zooming in and out of the picture; it was as though a short scene had been cut out of a film and placed inside this small frame to play over and over. Breathing heavily, the girl glanced at the other pictures—the wedding photograph of a younger Mr Dolohov, a family portrait, the picture of a lady holding a baby—and saw the same inexplicable moving mechanism at work.
Once again, she twisted around to check whether her host was coming. Now that her senses were more alert, her attention was drawn to something equally uncanny. Not far from the fireplace, a display case held a selection of macabre curiosities: a long animal skull, which she would have assumed to have belonged to a horse, were it not for the long horn protruding from its forehead; a set of antique family rings and heavy pendants from solid engraved gold; an ornate dagger; a thin and clearly very old stick of wood with several Cyrillic letters carved on it; an equally ancient book bound in leather; and something that closely resembled a riding crop. A shiver ran down her spine as she bent lower to examine the book, and when she straightened up, her heart was beating wildly. Had she imagined it, or did a faint whisper emanate from those old yellow pages?
The second she had voiced her inner fears, understanding dawned on her. This house was alive.
Growing frantic, the young woman turned on the spot, desperate for any assurance that she was not imagining it. She approached the nearest mirror, her black court shoes sinking into the carpet without a sound. Her reflection was slightly dishevelled from the wind and the use of her hat, her large blue eyes wider than usual. She opened her clutch purse and retrieved a comb to smooth her black hair fixed in soft curls around her cheeks. Everything else was in order, from her modest makeup and red lipstick to her deep red satin dress, gathered at her small waist and flaring down to her knees. It used to be her mother's dress reserved for special occasions, and while it was no longer considered as fashionable as it had been ten years earlier, she knew it suited her and was imposing enough for this visit. The comb slid back beside the chocolate that was filling most of her handbag—the most elegant and costly box she had been able to find.
Turning her back on the mirror, she looked up and froze. Something had moved in her peripheral vision, and it seemed to have come from one of the many paintings on the walls. Gingerly, she came nearer, scrutinising the picture, which hang directly opposite her and showed a beautiful albeit perfectly ordinary landscape: a cliff covered with thick and dark trees. The riff ended abruptly, and by its other side, the bright moon was perfectly reflected in the glass-still water. Serene as the picture was enthralling, it called to her like a siren song. And yet, just like with a siren song, something felt not right about it. If she looked closely, she could fancy the trees trembled as if fresh wind were bending their branches, and clouds drifted lazily, obscuring the moon, only to release it and let it shine on.
She halted and closed her eyes, struggling to clear her head. What was the matter with her? Due to a trick of the candle light, coupled with her recent tiredness, her mind had conjured an optical illusion, and now she fancied the painting was breathing.
No. Between this painting and the moving family photographs, she was definitely not imagining it.
She did not want to be here; this house was filled with frightening and disturbing objects, and she could have sworn it was draining all the happiness out of her. She had to leave now, or something dangerous might happen; she could feel it. Her coat did not matter; if she could just reach the front door—
"Betsy?"
Mr Dolohov was back, and he was no longer alone. The teenager from the moving picture was walking by his side.
Even though they were father and son, the boy had apparently taken after his mother, for his wavy hair was several shades darker, and his eyes were large and black, not grey. His nose was thinner as well, and while he could be no older than sixteen, she could tell he was tall for his age and already shaping up to be taller than his father.
Unlike Ivan Dolohov, who was clad in a suit, the boy wore a gilet over his shirt. But the most pronounced difference of all was in their expressions. The boy did not appear half as pleased to see her as his father—his face was sneering and contemptuous.
"Our apologies for keeping you waiting, Betsy," Ivan Dolohov said with his usual disarming smile.
Young Antonin said nothing. He had been told why the Muggle had come, and although satisfied with the general plan, he perceived her presence in their living quarters as an insult. The sight of her face alone made him furious, and as far as he was concerned, they could discard the pleasantries right there and then. A Muggle whore hardly had any business strutting around their ancestors' house.
"It's all right, Mr Dolohov" she replied, lending herself a natural smile despite her nervousness. "I was just admiring your… your lovely choice of décor."
"Ah, a little traditional, I'm afraid," he said. "But of course, we must uphold our customs."
His hand descended on the boy's shoulder. "Betsy, allow me to introduce you to my son and heir, Antonin. Antonin, meet Betsy Walker, an exceptional young lady and the most accomplished jazz singer I have heard in many years."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Antonin," she said, beaming.
The boy looked at her extended hand with the same expression of sneering contempt, as though offered a disgusting old branch. He neither moved nor replied.
"I… um, I've heard a lot about you," the Muggle went on, her cheeks reddening, as she pulled her hand back. "Your father is one of the best benefactors Café de Paris has ever had; he is very generous and a true connoisseur of music. Indeed, he helped me raise funds for my first concert, which was the best evening of my life. You are very lucky to have him."
Another pause followed her compliment, and this time, the elder Dolohov gave his son a sharp look.
"Antonin!"
"Nice to meet you," the boy drawled coldly, looking her straight in the eye.
His father shook his head in exasperation. "Behave yourself, will you? I will tolerate no disrespect towards our guest."
The teenager gave a dry nod, his eyes fixed on the Muggle. He was impatient. And now that he could observe her at his leisure, a new emotion had risen inside him: he felt offended on his mother's behalf. This filthy woman should never have set foot in their home.
"Stay with Miss Walker for a few minutes while I call your mother, and make sure she is comfortable," Ivan instructed, interpreting the minute twitch of his son's lips and the look in his eyes correctly.
As such, his words carried a warning: Antonin was not to start without him.
The Muggle, stupid as she was, remained oblivious to those subtle signs, and his father addressed her next. "Ghergana has been feeling unwell recently, but I dare say she will be delighted to join us for dinner. Excuse me for just a moment; I will bring her shortly."
She frowned in concern.
"Mrs Dolohov is feeling poorly?" she echoed, as though his wording had not been clear enough. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear this. Perhaps I have come at a wrong time—if she needs rest, I shouldn't—"
"Not at all, Betsy; don't worry yourself." With another charming smile, Ivan walked out, leaving her in the company of his very hostile son.
When he was gone, uncomfortable silence settled in the living room. Without a glance in Betsy's direction, Antonin let himself fall into the nearest armchair.
Betsy stared at him. Were it not for her mounting alarm, she would have felt indignant at his rudeness and would have left at once. Leaving was exactly what she ought to do now, if for a much graver reason.
"I feel it's wrong of me to intrude when Mrs Dolohov is feeling poorly," she said in what she hoped was a steady voice. "It was nice meeting you, and I hope we can meet again another time when your mother gets well."
No sound came from him. If she could see his expression, she would have felt alarmed at the smirk that curved his lips. He wanted her to try and walk out, aware that it was impossible.
Making her decision on the spot, Betsy walked swiftly into the hall and straight towards the entrance. Her heart was hammering in her chest as she pushed against the door. It did not budge. What was more, there was no lock in it, only an ornate doorknob. Nothing was holding it locked, and yet it was locked. Her mouth went dry. With an enormous effort, she brought herself to return to the living room.
"Could you please unlock the door?" she said to the back of the armchair where the boy was sitting.
"You can't leave, stupid Muggle," Antonin drawled.
Waiting quietly for his father's return was taking all his self-control. He knew the latter had gone upstairs to check on mother, who had been surreptitiously fed Dreamless Sleep at dinner and was now—hopefully—asleep. She disapproved of what was about to happen, and father had taken measures to ensure she would not interfere. After all, Antonin was almost seventeen, almost a man, and he wanted to do this. And by Salazar, was that Muggle stupid. He understood perfectly well what had transpired between her and Ivan Dolohov, and while he had never minded his father's affairs, he could not stand the idea of this Muggle disgracing their home. She clearly thought herself to be special while she was not—there were thousands ordinary Muggle tarts like her in London alone. She did not deserve this honour, not even for the sake of the ritual, to say nothing of the fact that her presence was like a slap to his mother's face.
He heard her take a shaky breath—it was evident she was close to fainting.
"What... did you call me?" she uttered.
"I called you a Muggle." He rolled eyes at being forced to repeat himself. "That's what you are—a filthy Muggle."
Although she appeared to have no idea what the word Muggle meant, the tone of his voice left no doubt he intended to insult her. When she spoke next, anger and fear were equally prominent in her voice.
"I demand to be let out at once."
At this, Antonin actually turned around in his armchair to face her. His face betrayed mild amusement.
"You can't make any demands, you stupid Muggle whore," he sneered. "Or what, did you really think father brought you here for dinner?"
Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open in furious—yet fearful—indignation, and she was about to answer when Ivan Dolohov entered the room, his blank gaze darting from his son to his guest. Both fell silent.
"That was uncalled for, Antonin," he admonished, causing Betsy to feel a fraction better. "You should apologise for your poor behaviour. Muggle or not, Miss Walker is our guest, and we must treat her with respect."
Antonin held his look, sensing his father was displeased with him. Yet even so, he was not actually being ordered to apologise, not truly.
As if sensing this, the girl's expression went from relief to a new wave of fear. And with a good reason too. Without offering her any further explanation, Ivan pulled out his wand and shot a Stunning Spell at her. The Muggle collapsed in a flash of red light.
II
Her body felt heavy; heavier than lead. It was pressing into a soft yet slightly rough surface, which tickled her bare arms and neck. She rolled her head to one side with a small moan, her eyes still closed and her limbs too stiff to move of their own accord. The back of her hand brushed a harsh spot and rubbed it with dull curiosity. Then her lashes fluttered open, letting in blurry light.
She was resting on a carpet the shade of a prune. Her arms were sprawled on either side of her head, ivory white against the ground. The bodice and the deployed voluminous skirts of her satin dress created an intense fiery halo around her. Her hand touched the hard spot once again, and she raised her eyes to look at it. It was a dark stain on the carpet, produced by something sticky that had dried long ago. She could glimpse several similar gruff spots on the carpet at her eye level. Her mind still slow, she fingered it, frowning a little. Then something clicked in, and she understood. A cry of fright rose inside her throat before she could stifle it, and she was suddenly sitting up straight, her heart thumping. The stains on the carpet were dried blood.
Lifting her gaze, she felt her jaw go slack at the sight of a dozen candles floating in the air—floating as though they were suspended from invisible cords. Their lights flickered vivaciously, even though there was no draught in the windowless room.
The wall she was facing was entirely covered in a peculiar black and purple coat of arms. The ornate name written at its base, ТEРПИГОР, was surmounted by a menacing beast that had doubtless been taken from mythology: it possessed a lion's body, a roaring humanoid head, and an enormous, deadly-looking scorpion's tail. Weapons—notably a sword and a long stick—were crossed above the monster, and a ribbon wove around them in an elaborate pattern, bearing more words in the Cyrillic script she could not read. Below the coat of arms, a composed Mr Dolohov and his gleeful-looking son were sitting in armchairs. The latter was holding a long, slim piece of wood in his hand and was tapping it against the side of his seat in a mockingly threatening way.
Her insides clenched with fear. She took a breath to speak, but a heartbeat later, all the words died on her lips. She had noticed the paintings. The remaining three walls were literally crowded with them: old canvas portraits of men wearing old-fashioned clothes of high society and robes glittering with golden embroideries. Their expressions were, save for a few exceptions, almost identical and exuded hungry curiosity.
The most terrifying part, however, was that they all were looking at her. She blinked several times, attempting to dispel this impression, but to no avail: this was no optical illusion a skilled artist could create to make the onlookers believe the eyes of a portrait were following them—those painted men were truly staring at her. She fixed her eyes on the most prominent painting showing a tall, dark-haired man with piercing black eyes and a short beard, dressed in a black attire that might have been suitable for a Shakespearean character. The man returned her look, and there was something shrewd about his upturned lips, the wrinkles at the corners of his narrowed eyes. He seemed to be breathing.
It had to be a nightmare, she thought desperately, it could not be real. It was a bad, a horrible dream, or else her eyes were deceiving her… unless it was her mind she had lost.
But her situation was going from bad to worse. One of the portraits—a greying man with a twisted, grumpy face—actually spoke, causing her to jump several inches and cover her mouth, which had released a scream of terror. The shrewd man responded without taking his eyes off Betsy, and while she could not understand a single word of this exchange, it was the last thing that worried her. Automatically, she clutched the little gold cross on her neck—a necklace her first love had given her and which she wore more often than any other. Her inert lips finally moved in a whisper addressed to the entire room.
"Who are you?"
"Who do you think we are?"
It was Mr Dolohov's voice. At his side, Antonin snorted.
Her spooked mind quickly wandered to the scary films she had watched in Lichfield cinema. Only one of them stood out clearly in her memory—Dracula: Prince of Darkness. She had seen it two years earlier, on a chilling January night of 1966. It had left a decidedly dark, unpleasant aftertaste, though she had tried to laugh it off and had even giggled at her friends' appreciation of Christopher Lee's looks.
But surely this was impossible. Mr Dolohov could not be… such a creature. She had met him numerous times, she had spoken to him, and never had he come across as any different—any less human—than herself. For instance, sunlight brought him no discomfort. And yet… There were blood stains on the carpet. The room was full of surreal illusions. And even his origin spoke against him.
"Vampires?" she breathed, clutching her cross even harder.
Antonin let out another snort, one of indignation.
"Now, Betsy, this is insulting." Mr Dolohov sounded mildly disappointed. "Vampires are filthy and dumb beings—only a step away from hags, if you ask me. And my family is from Bulgaria, not Romania."
"We're wizards," the boy threw out. "PURE-blood wizards."
Betsy's grip on her necklace went slack as her mind reeled, attempting to sort out everything she had just seen and heard. It was an unfeasible task: her thoughts were petrified.
Dimly, she registered Mr Dolohov reaching into the inner pocket of his vest and bringing out a metal case, from which he retrieved a cigar. After fumbling a little with the long roll and putting the case back, he flicked a finger, and the tip of the cigar fell off, vanishing before it even hit the floor. Another flick of his hand, and the tobacco ignited of its own accord. He pulled on it deeply and expelled a massive twirl of smoke, his eyes glinting as he looked at Betsy's dumbfounded face. His lips curled in a smile.
"Are you surprised, Betsy? You shouldn't be, not this much. As Muggles go, you have seen and experienced much more magic than most girls from your world."
His words reached Betsy as though through an invisible curtain, and she did not immediately register them. Truth was dawning on her like a bucketful of icy water. She had walked into the trap of devil-worshippers. If Mr Dolohov and his family were devoted to Satan, it explained everything, starting with their harsh welcome and ending with the disturbing signs of witchcraft in the house.
How could it have happened? Mr Dolohov had seemed to be an impeccable gentleman; it boggled the mind to think he belonged to an unholy sect and was capable of tricking people so cruelly. On the contrary, he had been kind to her: kinder and more helpful than any other—
And then it hit her. He had been too kind to her. He had supported her with copious amounts of money and advice without asking for anything in return. And she had allowed herself to believe he had been doing this out of sheer charity; she had been foolish enough to take for granted what was too good to be true. All she had gone through in the last year had taught her that no act of kindness came free of charge in society, and she had promptly forgotten this lesson. It all had been a plot designed to… to…
Her hand gripped at the carpet, oblivious to the blood stains. She had to think, and quickly, or it might be too late to save her life.
"What do you want?" she asked as bravely as she could manage.
Mr Dolohov raised his eyebrows with a thoughtful drag on his cigar. "That is a complicated question, Betsy. You see, what I would like to do is let you go and keep seeing you as before. What I want to do is keep you here for a few months—or for as long as it would take us to explore all the imaginable ways of having fun. However, my ancestors achieved their greatness because they would always do what they had to do, and I cannot fail their expectations. My duty, I'm afraid, goes against my wishes."
"I know what you consider your duty. You intend to sacrifice me for a dark magical ritual," she shot out daringly, sounding much calmer than she felt.
He gave her a smile of appreciation. "Funnily enough, I do. It's a pity, Betsy, and I'm the first one to admit it. You are a clever girl, and a beautiful girl, too." He waved his cigar in the direction of the portraits. "As you have surely gathered by now, these are my and Antonin's ancestors. Six centuries ago, they established a particular custom, requiring every male who was born into the family and was about to come of age to prove himself in the eyes of his fathers. It usually took the form of a duel against a much older and more experienced wizard. Those combats were never mortal, mind you, and the duellists submitted to them of their own free will. The son who displayed the greatest prowess became the heir of the generation and was entrusted with the knowledge of the secret spells of the family."
Mr Dolohov paused for an instant, taking in and exhaling a lungful of smoke. His eyes shifted to the portrait of the tall shrewd man. "It all changed when Chavdar"—he indicated the painting, making sure her attention stayed focused—"entered adulthood in the 1670s. He was fascinated and obsessed with the Dark Arts. His meddling with the most obscure and forbidden domains of magic resulted in his accidental death and a curse upon our House. And just as my ancestors grew violent and bloodthirsty, the customary tests of our young heirs morphed from the usual benign duels to ritual murders, where the youngsters displayed their skill for Dark magic in order to be taught Chavdar's secret curses."
His gaze returned to Betsy, now more serious than before. "And this is how it's been ever since. We were prosecuted and forced to flee, to abandon our lands and take refuge in England, to change our name and hide our true identity, yet this old custom was never interrupted. It is now Antonin's turn to prove his worth. And I've chosen you, Betsy, to serve this purpose. He will perform the three Unforgivable Curses on you, after which, our fathers will judge whether he is fit to be revealed their teachings."
He looked at his son, who beamed at him. As far as Antonin was concerned, the filthy Muggle was utterly unimportant. It was a family matter, and his father was showing him trust, which he greatly appreciated. And a good thing it was too. Old custom or not, he had to be ready now that the Dark Lord Voldemort was taking over England, and his father was making sure he would be.
Betsy, on her part, was kneading her cross with such force that the little pendant was cutting painfully into her fingers. She had listened as carefully as she could, certain that her survival depended on her attention and sharpness, but a great deal of his speech made no sense to her. She had no idea what the 'three Unforgivable Curses' were, though the tone of his voice had left a sinister imprint in her chest.
Of devil-worshippers, she knew virtually nothing. Several months earlier, her closest friend, Cheryl, had persuaded her to read the bestselling Rosemary's Baby, a sad but extraordinary novel about a young woman fallen victim to a Satanic coven that seemed intent on stealing her unborn child. She had heard that a film was being created and ought to be released later in the year; still uncertain whether she truly wished to watch it, she had been anticipating the news with a hint of fearful excitement. But this was all. A novel could not have prepared her for this nightmare.
"You cannot use me for your… ritual," she started in a quivering voice. Her mouth was dry, so dry. "I was baptised at my birth. I… I believe in our Lord and Saviour. Your witchcraft cannot harm me because my soul belongs to my Father and Creator and will never deny him."
These words did not seem to have impressed her host—if anything, he looked amused. Without a word in her direction, he leaned towards his son and whispered something. The boy instantly raised the slim piece of wood in his hand, his smirk widening. There was a second when his wrist traced a small circular movement, and an absurd thought flashed through Betsy's mind: it was a magic wand he was holding! Then she cried out in horror.
She was rising in the air like a balloon, as though lifted by invisible hands. Her skirts were in disarray, and she swiftly pulled them down her legs, looking wildly around her. The boy had not budged from his place, but his stick was pointed straight at her, tracing tiny trajectories that her body followed obediently in the air. He was laughing.
Suddenly, a cloud of smoke blew into her face, causing her to cough and her eyes to water at the strong reek of tobacco. Mr Dolohov was standing beside her, his head level with her struggling body, which hovered in the horizontal position, though she did not cease twisting to regain control.
"You are deluding yourself, Betsy," he said softly. And this time, it was not the smoke that touched her but his hand, landing on her stomach and trailing lower, where she could not slap it away. "Your religious beliefs won't stop us any more than a drift of wind… or the rumble of a thunderstorm." The hand reached the hem of her dress, slid beneath it and trailed up her calf clad in a thin stocking. She attempted to shake it away, and the fingers dug into her flesh, vicious like vice. "Then again, if it makes your ordeal any easier, pray all you want."
Silence followed, during which he kept trailing his hand up and down under her petticoat, gazing into her eyes, which were wide and bright with shock.
"Please stop it," she gasped, breathless. "Please, stop it. Please…"
And indeed, something seemed to move in his blank, emotionless and terrifying gaze; something that could be compassion. A second later, she realized she was mistaken. This man had hardly ever experienced the feeling of compassion in his life.
"Hold it," he ordered, and Antonin stilled, his wand aloft.
It was her petticoat. The elder Dolohov had always liked the way she moved in that undergarment, as though it had been designed precisely for her body. Determined to never succumb to her charms again, he had promised himself to not take her that night, to never touch her again. But one look at her twisting and struggling body with the voluminous red petticoat shifting around her legs had his resolve crumbling like a sandcastle. It certainly did not help that from his position, he was afforded a perfect view into her appetising cleavage. Come to think of it, one last time would hurt no one.
He turned on his heels and walked back to his armchair, conjuring a small ashtray for his cigar.
"Do you want her?" he asked his son matter-of-factly.
Antonin looked at him, his mind still on the Hover Charm he was applying to Betsy.
"What?" He glanced at the Muggle. "No! I am certainly not soiling myself with that filth."
"Don't be ridiculous. What do you think Muggles are for?" His father frowned as he took off his jacket. "Are you telling me you sleep only with pure-bloods?"
"Well, no. But…" Flustered, Antonin pierced Betsy with a dark look. "She is an insult to mother. And she is a slut—you can't deny it."
Ivan sighed in frustration. Antonin was too stubborn. It was his wife's fault. If it continued like this, his boy would grow up into a short-tempered man with no patience, known for carrying his heart on the hem of his sleeve and applying the Cruciatus curse where it was uncalled for.
"Let me make this plain," he said firmly. "I do not particularly care who you sleep with, so long as you remember your obligations. Those include being vigilant, taking care of the proper contraception, and keeping our reputation intact. Whatever blood status your partner belongs to, you are not to leave her with a child. And if she happens to be… reluctant, I expect you to resort to the Memory Charm or one of its variations. That being said, you are not to touch a pure-blood against her will."
"I already know—," the boy started, looking supremely unhappy at being preached.
"Because I have no intention of letting some paterfamilias blackmail me or arrange deals that would discredit our House, all because you've deflowered or knocked up their daughters. Pure-blood women are for marriage. If you need a one-time distraction, aim lower."
"I'm not an idiot, father!"
Ivan smirked at the boy's indignation and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. "Good. Lower her a few feet."
Antonin obliged, watching his father pull out his wand. "How can you do it with them watching?"
He meant the portraits. Ivan shrugged before turning towards the singer. "They're only portraits—objects, Tony. And they've been locked in this house for decades."
The girl was now hovering at the level of his waist, rising and dropping rhythmically as though floating on rippling waters. Her eyes were so wide they resembled two blue pebbles. She watched him approach with an alert expression, but there was hardly anything she could do except tense in anticipation of his touch, ready to strike or kick.
"Don't move, Betsy, or I could accidentally hurt you."
With a gasp, she obeyed, tense like a stone. His wand sliced the air in a few sharp flicks.
"Diffindo."
The fabric of her dress disintegrated. The stiff bodice ripped in several places, the large belt popped open, and the skirts flitted in shreds to the ground, similar to wisps of blood-red mist. One look at his handiwork caused him to become painfully hard. The tatters of the dress now lay beneath her like an artistically modelled pool of blood while she lingered in the air in the most delightful set of Muggle undergarments he had ever seen. A tight gold-black corselet enclosed her torso from the shapely breasts to the perfect round thighs. It ended in garters, which held in place a pair of delicate stockings. He could make out a glimpse of light knickers between her closed legs.
If wearing lingerie was a skill, then Betsy was the best among the best. He had been amused at the way Muggle women (for witches did not wear them) had tortured themselves with restrictive underwear in the previous decade. The rubber belt called girdle certainly allowed them to achieve the slim waist and the flat stomach they so fervently desired, but the sight of constricted hips, of flesh bulging from around the top hem of this corset-like device, and of the trapped legs that could not be pulled apart unless the undergarment had been removed—leaving deep marks all around the lady's torso—had been mildly disgusting at best of times. Betsy, however, wore girdles, brassières and corselets as gracefully as though they were the most comfortable clothes in the world; not an ounce of flesh protruded from the wrong place, and she was singularly adept at moving and even dancing in them. While the underwear had been modernised since then and many women had abandoned the use of the most rigid pieces, she kept wearing them, cultivating her appearance for the stage performance.
"Muggles have certainly had enough time to perfect the chastity belt," Ognyan commented in Bulgarian, and the other portraits chuckled. Even Antonin cracked a smile.
Betsy, who had understood what was coming, started resisting again. Ivan, growing more aroused with every moment, flicked his wand in a Freezing Charm, which left her voice soundless and her entire body immobile
"Don't be a tease, my dear." He took off her shoes to toss them away before unclasping her garters and pulling down her stockings, his movements slow and suggestive, his nails grating against her smooth calves. "What good is beauty if there is no one to pluck it? Besides, it wouldn't be the first time."
Antonin watched the Muggle's eyes widen and knew that even without the magic at work, she would not have moved at that moment if she could.
"Oh, yes," Ivan pressed on, unfazed by his son's presence, his hand absently caressing the girl's inner thigh, "I chose you a long time ago, my dear. Why else do you think I've wasted so much time and effort on you? I'll admit, though, your resistance to my magic took me aback—it's quite unusual for Muggles. Then again, there is a fair amount of pride in you. But you are a Muggle anyway, and fighting couldn't help you; you succumbed to me eventually. And you enjoyed it too, I assure you—not that you remembered once I altered your memory."
She was hyperventilating, but it was obvious she did not believe him. Her eyes were fixed on him, wide and questioning, as if wondering why he was saying such things. She was too startled even to cry.
He smiled down at her and pulled her feet open, positioning himself between them. Now they would see just how comfortable she felt in that "perfected chastity belt", as his ancestor had put it. He took slow steps forward, pulling her legs wider and wider apart despite her restrictive corselet until she finally let out a gasp of pain.
"Shhh." His right hand rose to the bottom of the undergarment, a light Severing Charm at the tip of his fingers, and trailed upwards. The boned fabric ripped open where he touched it, and after pulling her legs as wide as they would go, he positioned himself at her crotch, which was now only covered with a few inches of lace. Another spell, and it joined the crimson tatters on the floor.
There were droplets of sweat on her forehead and tears of humiliation in her eyes; her fear was now mingled with anger and frustration. She looked strikingly beautiful.
"You know, if I were to judge the way you've dressed up for tonight," he said in response to her wordless plea, his hand working on his trousers, "I should think you've been hoping for this. It's a delightful set of lingerie. My personal favourite on you, however, is the midnight blue one with the silver embroidery."
And as realisation and horror reflected in her gaze, he drove himself inside her.
The room became quiet except for the sounds of friction caused by the act of intimacy. The portraits watched with a well-masked eagerness, Antonin with an increasing sense of annoyance. It did not take Ivan long to find satisfaction. He released her bruised hips and adjusted himself, panting for breath. Then he walked back to his armchair and retrieved his cigar, on which he took several deep drags.
"May I let her down now?" his son asked sullenly.
"Hmm."
"Finite Incantatem."
The Muggle fell to the floor with a dull thud and a whimper, but Antonin paid her no mind; her mere presence was now grating on his nerves to no end. In fact, he would gladly kick her right now like the worthless bitch she was, except his father would not take kindly to it.
It was high time they got on with the ritual.
"Why are you so taken with her?" Antonin demanded.
Ivan leered at him. "I'm not taken with her. Otherwise I wouldn't let you kill her, now would I?"
"Yes, you would." Antonin's voice was unflinching. "You are letting me kill her precisely because you are taken with her. My question is, why? What is so fascinating about her?"
Ivan blew out smoke, wondering yet again who the boy had inherited his brutal honesty from. His wife's simpleton of a brother, that was who. This trait did not come from his own side of the family—they were Slytherins to boot. His wife and her brother, on the other hand, would surely have been sorted to Hufflepuff if they had attended Hogwarts.
"It doesn't matter, Antonin," he explained wearily. "One day, you will understand. Your mother is my wife—I respect her, and I have responsibilities towards her, but she doesn't understand our ways. If I hadn't put her to sleep tonight, what do you think would have happened?"
"You keep baiting her," Antonin protested. "She wouldn't be like this if you didn't bait her all the time."
"You love your mother, Tony," his father said, his voice impassive. "But she doesn't understand how important it is for you to succeed in the Dark Lord's eyes. Or you would rather perform the Unforgivable Curses for the first time in his presence?"
"No," Antonin said quickly. "But why did you have to choose her? Why are you so taken with her? She's a filthy Muggle whore!"
"She is," Ivan agreed, "but an enjoyable Muggle whore. You are almost a man, Tony; you will soon understand how important it is to enjoy life when there is a chance."
Antonin stared at him, his dark eyes accusing. The older man could tell what he was thinking. His boy did have the same tendency to bare his emotions as Ghergana.
"I am not cheating on your mother. That"—the elder Dolohov motioned towards the crying mess of a Muggle—"is nothing to be jealous of, I assure you. Or else, I wouldn't have brought her here."
His son kept frowning, not entirely convinced. "But you enjoy her; you just admitted it."
On a certain level, he was feeling as though his father had betrayed both his mother and him.
"Enjoyed," Ivan corrected him, stressing the past tense. "You will soon understand. But at the end of the day, only our family matters. And now, let's begin."
Antonin sighed and nodded.
"All right then. So I'm supposed to perform the Imperius, the Cruciatus, and the Killing Curse?"
"Yes."
The teenager looked at the whimpering woman with disdain. Maybe he would understand one day, though for now, he could not see that day coming any time soon. Still, it was refreshing to speak to his father this way, man to man. Besides, the hurt and the hatred he was feeling towards the Muggle would only urge his blood lust. He wanted her to suffer.
"Shall I start?"
III
Betsy backed away against the wall. Her midsection was on fire, but she could barely sense the pain. Sweat was trickling down her nude skin, and both her breath and her heartbeat were out of control. She saw the boy stand up, the wood stick firmly clenched in his hand, and take a few steps towards her. He was moving so slowly that watching him was agony in itself. Behind him, Mr Dolohov was smoking, his gaze one of detached interest.
The stick rose in the air, and she instinctively pressed her back further against the wall, knowing well there was nowhere to escape. She did not know what was about to happen, but she was certain it would bring pain beyond endurance, or worse. Her eyes widened at the imperceptible pulsation around her, at the second of silence in which the air seemed to tighten and curl in anticipation of something unspeakable as the boy's lips moved and the tip of the stick ignited.
"Imperio."
But she was not ready for the end... Just one more minute, one more second to allow her to calm her pounding heart and accept her fate. What would she not give to die with dignity.
She let out a shaky breath, and her shivering body seemed to deflate and relax, as though resigned. Then, miraculously, her wish came true. A wave of peace rolled over her, and little by little, her fear subsided. Nothing mattered any more, neither life nor death.
Toss your cross away.
The words crept into her mind quite spontaneously. They carried a peculiar yet enthralling sense of ease about them. Of its own accord, her hand moved to her chest, brushing the little pendant. She looked up. Antonin was still pointing the stick at her, his eyes gleaming with malice that was frightening even in the light of her sudden indolence. Her fingers closed on the cross.
Toss that ridiculous thing away.
Why should she obey this voice, though? If she were to die, she would do so properly, with her Lord's sacred symbol in her hands. No one could take this privilege away from her.
Toss it away.
No!
The words of prayer were ready on her lips, and she closed her eyes to feel them embrace and comfort her, to let them chase this deceptive feeling or euphoria out of her mind.
REMOVE IT!
In the wink of an eye, the voice had transformed from cajoling to threatening, but she stood her ground. Struggling to never pause in her litany, she could feel the menacing presence thrash and snarl inside her. It took all her crumbling willpower to hold on to her cross and her prayer.
The portraits' faint whisper now joined those alien commands, and Mr Dolohov's voice suddenly rang out as though from afar.
"Concentrate! She can resist because she's focused. You have to break her self-control."
A pause, another second of quiet. The evil voice withdrew from her mind. And then, before she could do so much as gasp, it slammed inside her like a battering ram.
TOSS IT AWAY.
Her fingers were now convulsing around the cross, half-torn between the malicious injection and her will to hold on to the pendant for all she was worth. To drown the voice away, she started to sing her prayer aloud. Every note and word cost her conscious effort, and she had the impression of walking against a windstorm while her hand trembled, as though charged with electricity.
And then, just when she felt she could not hold on for any longer, the threat was gone again. A caressing euphoria had once more settled in its place.
Toss your cross away like a good girl.
Taken aback by this change, her hand obeyed before she could realise what she was doing. The fingers yanked at the chain, breaking it open, and threw the little jewel away. The following second, the voice died away, and she was left gasping and shuddering in her own mind, pale with exertion and humiliation.
A few feet away, Antonin was panting as well, though his face looked rather flushed and annoyed. The portraits kept muttering to each other.
"Did you know she was like this?" he rounded petulantly on his father. "Couldn't you bring someone less stubborn—or… or less religious? Now they'll think I'm a fool who can't Imperius a girl." He gestured towards the paintings.
"Why, it will teach you to not underestimate Muggles," Mr Dolohov returned smoothly from his cloud of smoke. "They're inferior, yes, but this doesn't make them weak. And never underestimate women; it's the stupidest thing you could possibly do."
"I know. But they'll think—"
"Tony, unlike you, your ancestors have experience. They can tell a difficult target from an easy one. Besides, any idiot can Imperius a weakling. Are you an idiot, or are you a Terpigor? Remember: it's defeating a strong opponent that will get you anywhere."
Antonin had nothing to answer to this, so he contented himself with a furtive glance at the shrewd man's portrait before gripping the stick more tightly and facing Betsy once again. She saw his hand rise in the air and his eyes adopt the detached, focused look that was so disturbing to see, and she pressed herself into the wall.
What was this power they possessed? What was that frightening wooden stick? Did it have something to do with the magic wands mentioned in the fairy tales? Or were they drawing their power from her, using her life force and energy to fuel their unholy ritual?
And if they could trick her mind into betraying her will, what else could their witchcraft achieve? Oh, she longed to get out of this hell house before she could find out. If only they told her what it was they wanted and let her—
"Crucio," he hissed.
She had been expecting pain—pain beyond endurance even—but never would she have believed such agony was possible. It was as though streams upon streams of electricity where rolling through her body, thrashing it from side to side, making breathing impossible and causing her heart to go so frantic that it threatened to explode in her chest. At the same time, her skin was on fire: or rather, there was no skin, for it felt as though she were being skinned alive, her flesh and muscles raw and bare and burning in the light. Her hair was being ripped out of her scalp, and so were her eyes and nails. Through a haze of convulsions, she could dimly make out a continuous scream, which eerily resembled her own, though she could not be screaming: there was no air in her bursting lungs, no voice in her throat.
When it was gone—just as suddenly as it had hit her—she did not register it at once. Her body kept shaking, and she fought for breath while her aching lungs struggled to pull in a little air. It took her watering, unfocused eyes a moment to see through the misty muddle. When they finally took in the sight before her, she was terrified, though not entirely surprised, to see she was lying in a huge pool of blood. Her face was buried in blood, and there was blood on her arms and fingers. A scream fought its way up her throat, but all that left her lips was a gasp—her voice was lost. She scrambled away as quickly as she could, shaking her hands, and the wisps of red detached themselves from her skin and fluttered to the ground under her shocked eyes. She wildly glanced around, and slowly, reality dawned on her: it was no blood but the remains of her dress—she had been writhing in the fabric. To her utter confusion, her skin looked intact, and her head seemed uninjured under her fingers, her hair all in place. How?
She looked up, only to lock gazes with Mr Dolohov, whose eyes gleamed at her. His cigar was almost at its end.
"Again," he said softly.
She wanted to plead, to get away, but could not. Pain took hold of her once more, possessing her, and she broke down in spasms. It felt as though her veins were exploding and inundating her muscles, brain and cavities with blood. Her heart was about to burst in its frantic gallop while her bones were being crushed to powder. And in the blur of her agony, she thought she could glimpse something bright just beyond her vision, something light at the end of the darkness. Then it died away, and darkness was all she saw.
A hand was caressing her, brushing hair from her forehead, wiping her tears. She would have leaned into the touch if her body still obeyed her. Yet despite its gentleness, and however tempting the illusion was, she knew that hand was not friendly. She remembered where she was and that she still was alive. Her heart was bumping, her body ached, and there was wetness on her face and around her crotch.
Her eyes opened to look once again into Mr Dolohov's face. He was crouching beside her broken figure, stroking her head.
"It's all right, Betsy," he said with a bizarre air of tenderness, though his eyes remained as hard as stones. "The pain is over."
There was no ambiguity in those words, and she felt it, knew what it meant. Tears flowed out of her eyes, and she blinked through them to see him more clearly.
"Could you," she started, her whisper raspy and barely audible, "could you… please… give my… my body… back to my parents?"
Her poor mother. And her father—her father, who had first sworn he would never consent to her singing career but had relented in the light of her determination.
"Of course," he assured her. "It's the least I can do."
He gave her one last focused, thorough stare, and then seemed to withdraw into himself, his face becoming impenetrable.
"Goodbye, Betsy."
He stood up and, turning his back on her, walked back towards his armchair. Antonin was revealed to be still standing with his stick in hand, tense as he waited. Betsy turned her head away, too weak to do anything else. It was impossible to stop the tears, and she did her best to no longer pay the men attention. In her mind, she could see the cathedral of Lichfield, imposing and magnificent as she had perceived it as a five-year old girl when her parents had taken her to attend her first mass, clad in her little Sunday dress. She could see the poor play she had gone to on her very first date, after which she and her suitor had merrily criticised its interpretation and she had boldly sung on their way home to prove she could perform the cult song from the play better than the leading actress, to the young man's cheers. She could even see her first evening in London when, cold and exhausted, she was walking to her small and then bare flat and had noticed the way the setting sun tinged the sky and the rooftops a pinkish orange in the chilly air, and had thought how beautiful the city was, no matter how lonely and clueless she was feeling at that moment.
Meanwhile, voices argued at the background of her hearing like buzzing flies.
"Does it really have to be the Killing Curse?"
"Yes, it does. What's the matter? Are you feeling sorry for her?"
"No. It's just… I heard the Killing Curse can be dangerous to the caster. If not done properly, it can… drive you insane."
"Yes, it can. That's why you have to be concentrated. Believe me, you want your first time to take place at home, not in front of the Dark Lord. It would be much, much more difficult to do it in public with all his followers watching you."
A minute of silence followed, stretching to an eternity. It was filled with the sound of breathing, which appeared to be coming from every side. Then, even more terrible than this silence, there was the sound of the boy clearing his throat. His voice, however, was firm and cold when it rang out.
"Avada Kedavra."
Green light flooded the room, reflecting in the shiny surfaces of the portraits. When it faded, it was as though the room had absorbed its glow.
Antonin lowered his wand. To his credit, his hands were not shaking, though he looked paler than usual; he even seemed to have become oblivious to the portraits and their sudden, solemn silence. The elder Dolohov eyed Betsy's lifeless body, which was still beautiful despite the curses that had broken it. Such a shame; she had had it in her to grow into an influential singer. But perhaps it was for the best after all: she had only been a Muggle, and she had had no business distracting him. Yet he could not suppress a stab of regret as he recalled her twirling in a glittering dress, her flawless face beaming. He would never touch her again or listen to her playful pleasantries.
He allowed himself one short instant of reminiscence—Betsy singing in the dark cabaret; Betsy sighing in pleasure in his arms, her eyes glazed with magic; Betsy hurrying away in the street, her skirts flying around her slim and lively hips—and then pushed the memories into the back of his mind. This part of his life was over. It would have led nowhere, for Betsy would have moved on eventually to marry a Muggle man, and he could not accept it. She had been his—his conquest, his to do with as he pleased. In the end, he had meant what he had said: his family came first, and sacrificing her for their old custom had been the right decision.
Looking over at his son, he saw the boy glance up at him expectantly, as though he needed reassurance he had done well, or else he would collapse.
"Excellent," he said. "It was a clean, strong curse. But you're not done yet."
"No?" Antonin turned back towards the body, panic clear in his voice.
"You have to get rid of the remains. It's extremely important—on certain occasions, you might not be required to dispose of them yourself, but when you work on your own, you have to make absolutely sure no evidence is left."
"Oh." His son kept staring at the dead Muggle. "Right. How… how do I do that?"
Ivan pulled on the last inches of his cigar before discarding it. "Well, the ideal way would involve Vanishing the body, along with all her possessions. But human body is too complex to be Vanished, which leaves you with two options. You can Transfigure it into something simple, something that can be Vanished, or divide it into small parts and Vanish those one by one. And if you are not very good at Transfiguration, I would suggest dismembering it and hiding the limbs in different locations."
At this, Antonin's face went from ashen pale to sickly green. Ivan found himself hoping the boy would not ruin his decent performance by throwing up—the portraits did not take kindly to it. One last effort, and it would be over.
To his surprise, his son showed more self-control than he appeared to be capable of. Taking a few deep breaths, he raised his wand and muttered a spell, his brows furrowed in concentration. Slowly, the body began to morph, as though the process of decomposition had been sped up to the extreme. First vanished the skin, then, little by little, the flesh grew thinner and thinner until nothing but the bones remained. Those gradually faded into nothingness as well.
"Нетрадиционно," the portrait of Plamen commented.
He was not mistaken: the solution was clever and resourceful.
Antonin jerked, wiping sweat off his forehead. It took him another moment to clean the room of the pieces of Betsy's clothes. When he finished, he was visibly on the verge of passing out, yet his hands still did not tremble. He raised his gaze and looked Chavdar straight in the eye, inquisitive—no, demanding. At that moment, the physical resemblance between the patriarch and his youngest descendant was startling: ironically, the obsidian eyes and the jet-black hair Antonin had inherited from his mother had made his true lineage come to the surface.
The bearded man gazed back in his usual sly manner; unlike many portraits, he had been watching the boy the entire time, not sparing the victim a glance. He could recognise a strong Dark wizard better than anyone Ivan Dolohov knew.
At last, his deep voice rang out. "Teach him. He is a worthy Terpigor."
The teenager's figure sagged in relief. Chavdar's voice carried more weight than those of a dozen other ancestors put together—and come to it, few dared contradict him. One by one, they expressed their approval with a nod or a few words of praise. As usual, one or two of them did not deprive themselves of a biting remark on Antonin's reluctance to use the Killing Curse. The portrait of Todor cut the argument short, pointing out they had no need for brainless puppets in the family and that the boy's hesitation proved he was level-headed in his endeavours.
When it was over, Ivan allowed himself to put an affectionate arm over the boy's shoulders.
"Well done, son. You will be an asset to both your House and the Dark Lord."
Antonin looked up with dazed eyes. "So… what does it mean? They're accepting me as their heir?"
"It means you can be taught our family magic. Only the heirs who prove themselves worthy and capable of decent Dark magic are considered for becoming the keepers of the family secret knowledge."
"What kind of magic? Curses?"
"Curses, enchantments—dozens of them. The Purple Death is the most famous one."
And he had the distinct impression this was what his boy would excel at. His use of the Unforgivables had been more than decent, but he did not seem to possess a natural affinity for any of them, the way Ivan himself had a predisposition for the Imperius. He was a different sort of wizard, and most plausibly, his best talents lay in the family magic. Perhaps this was the reason Chavdar had been studying him so intently.
"Is it weak to want a drink?" Antonin mumbled.
"Of course not. I need one too."
Ivan led the way out and closed the door onto the candle-lit room. Unlike the portraits at Hogwarts, his ancestors never seemed to sleep.
His son looked at him with a slight frown. His question was not unexpected, yet the firmness in his tone surprised the older man. "Do you think mother won't talk to us for a long time when she finds out?"
"Your mother adores you, Tony; she'd never stop talking to you."
Antonin's frown deepened. "What about you? Will she stop talking to you?"
"For a short while, perhaps." He had never deemed it right to lie to his son, no matter what sensitive souls preached.
"I don't want her to talk to us just because she's got no choice." Antonin paused drearily. "Do you know when was the last time I saw her laugh? Half a year ago when she was playing with her canary."
She had set it free a month later; Ivan remembered it well. He looked at his son carefully.
"You and I are different from your mother or anyone else. Our blood is special. It comes at a price. We always have been and always will be alone, given our past. Keep it in mind. But despite all the conflicts, your mother loves us as much as we love her, and that's what matters most. We'll get through all this."
Antonin nodded.
"Good. Let's get that drink. You can tell me who you fancy at Hogwarts."
An hour later, he was walking up the stairs to his bedroom. With two shots of firewhisky and a small dose of Dreamless Sleep inside him, Antonin was certain to have the calm night he needed. Without it, he would get no sleep if he tried. All that time, his father had been listening to his stories from Hogwarts. Perhaps it was odd, but Antonin now felt closer to his father than ever before. Something had changed that night. He had become a man.
Note: Ages ago, I posted a short story called The Purple Plight on my profile. It was about the wedding night of Ivan Dolohov and his bride, Ghergana. I promised that story would be followed by another sinister one-shot. This is the story I had in mind. I apologise for the extremely long wait-I could not bring myself to post it until it felt completely right and polished. Besides, killing a character like Betsy proved to be incredibly difficult. I hope, however, this story was interesting to discover, and I thank you for reading it.