Note: A gift story for my bestie and fellow author, Almanera. It explores the background of the Dolohov family. Antonin's father, Ivan, is a delightful Slytherin Almanera has created for her chronicles of the Black family, The Darkness in my Veins. Ivan's wife is a beautiful pure-blood lady from Bulgaria.

Many thanks to Almanera for her time and advice, to blue artemis for the beta, and to M. T. for her help with Bulgarian language and references.

Warning: violence, explicit sexual content, dub-con

The curtain rippled as the door swung closed with a thump. The sounds of festivity died away. All that remained was the orange glow of the ornate candle lamps, and the whirl of a thousand emotions in her heart.

Faint with trepidation, Ghergana unwittingly sank her hands into her hair. It was back, her silly fear of the unknown, her concern not to lose face in front of her loved ones. For as long as the wedding reception had lasted, she had retained the respectable composure she had learned to assume so naturally, acting as the modest pure-blood maiden her parents had raised her to be. As soon, however, as the silvery walls of her nuptial bedroom had come into view, her piece had shattered. Her brother, Grigor, could not comfort her this time, and he would be loath to do so even if he could.

She approached the mirror, more anxious to busy her mind than embellish her appearance, for she could not bear to look at her bloodless face, to see her terrified eyes rove over her figure. The long nightgown she was wearing was of the gentlest violet silk; her young cousin, who had insisted the shade would flatter the bride's creamy complexion, had selected it. Ghergana's black hair undulated around her half-bare shoulders, and her eyes stood out against her pallor, dark and immense like the eyes of a trapped doe.

But she should not entertain such distressing ideas. If she were given the chance to change the course of the events, she would not seize it. She had chosen to marry Ivan Dolohov of her own will.

Heir of an old and honorable pure-blood family of Bulgarian origin, he had been born in England, where he lived in a grand manor house. Five years before, in the summer of 1944, he had graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Now he had briefly returned to his homeland to find himself a wife.

Ghergana had encountered him for the first time in a lively wizarding street in Sofia, where she had gone shopping with her mother and brother. Looking away from Quidditch Supplies she considered as dull as a misty morning, but which Grigor had literally stormed on their way to Apothecary, she had glimpsed a young man standing by the bank entrance with two finely dressed gentlemen she had recognized as Ministry officials. His gray eyes had been scanning the crowd. For an instant, they had locked gazes. He was tall and sturdy; his suit fit his frame closely. His features were sharp and proud, and his hair was as dark and wavy as her own. Something in his stare had almost driven her to recoil, but then it had been gone, and all she had seen in his eyes was attention. A few seconds later, her mother had motioned for her to leave, and Ghergana had never glanced back at the uncanny wizard. She had all but forgotten him. To her great surprise, however, he had soon come to her family house, and after the conventional courtesies, he had proposed to her. Thus had the marriage negotiations begun.

Her parents had immediately been charmed by the charismatic youth. The Markovski family had been pure-blood for only three generations, and none of their ancestors had ever attained a post in the Ministry of Magic. Most wizards who had courted Ghergana were half-bloods with neither influence nor wealth. Her father had not expected to find her a suitor so noble, a Bulgarian well established and respected in England.

Ghergana had felt ineffably touched. Witty and spirited, fearless and ambitious, Ivan resembled no one she knew. There was a subtle accent to his Bulgarian, a touch of superiority in his manners, and indisputable English taste in the way he dressed. He used to be one of the Quidditch Captains at Hogwarts, and he presently longed for an illustrious career within the Ministry.

When she had first realized what his proposal implied, she had been certain her heart would burst with delight. As Ivan's wife, she would live at his estate in Wiltshire. She, who had never gone beyond the borders of Bulgaria and had spent the nineteen years of her life dreaming of distant lands and faraway cities, would see the beauties of London and meet elite British society: the Blacks, the Malfoys, the Lestranges she had so much heard of. She could not believe it.

Yet her happiness was far from complete. Her brother's unyielding disapproval of the marriage afflicted her more than she could express. Grigor had detested Ivan at first sight, and to Ghergana's ever-lasting shame, he made no attempt to conceal his aversion. He ignored the suitor's pleasantries, declined all his invites, and constantly asserted to anyone who would listen that the Englishman could not be trusted. He pointed out the Dolohovs' spotless reputation was ill-deserved, the family having left Bulgaria by the end of the nineteenth century under rather suspicious circumstances, and in great haste. More regrettably yet, he had nothing but distaste for Ivan's personality. However cheerful the newcomer was, Grigor esteemed him warped. However respectful Ivan's declarations of love to his bride were, Grigor, absurdly worried for her safety, could not bear to see them together.

Once, he had surprised them in the garden. It had been one of those rare occasions when Ghergana could converse with her fiancé on her own. He had been telling her stories of Hogwarts before their discussion had imperceptibly shifted to their aspirations. In the midst of this exchange, time had seemed to come to a halt. They had gazed at each other, neither able to turn their eyes away, their hands joined of their own accord. With her heart racing wildly and the blood drumming in her ears, Ghergana had watched as if transfixed as his face approached hers, the look upon his features both fervent and possessive in a troubling, thrilling way. Their lips had nearly touched when Grigor had dashed into the alley, livid with outrage. She had half feared he would challenge Ivan to a duel. The incident had resulted in the first earnest argument the siblings had endured in years. Ghergana could no longer tolerate the threat he posed to a marriage agreement she had come to anticipate with joy. As for her brother, he had retreated with an expression of pain, claiming he had nothing but her best interests in mind.

The wedding day had been a day of liberation in more than one way. Ghergana and Grigor had finally reconciled. Sad and subdued, he had embraced her fondly, crushing the flowers on her white gown, and then had said he wished her all the happiness in the world. It was the most precious gift she had received on this remarkable day.

All doubt and guilt were now gone as she contemplated the delicate ring of white gold on her left hand. Centuries ago, the Dolohov family had taken the Granian – the swift and majestic Winged Horse of a gray as intense as their eyes – as their heraldic beast. She had expected her wedding ring to be related to Ivan's coat of arms, secretly sure it would be shaped as a wing or would contain a gray pearl. Instead, it held a single purple spinel enclosed by a diamond-encrusted scorpion's tail. In spite of its intimidating allure, the ring was undoubtedly lovely. Its mysterious symbolism had only kindled her interest. Perhaps her husband would explain its significance later tonight; if he forgot, it might please him if she asked him to do so.

On a sudden inspiration, Ghergana pulled a vial of perfume out of the top drawer and sprinkled a few more drops of fragrance on the crook of her neck. He had often told her she was beautiful. Some of his compliments had made her dream; others had made her blush with her head spinning in a sweet daze. But would he judge her worthy of his love once he came to truly know her?

She hid the tiny bottle and rested her palms on the polished surface of the dresser, struggling to master her unease. Then she heard it: the creak of wood.

Frozen on the spot, she listened to the door swinging open. A distant sound of a celebration crept into the room before being banished by a new, more pronounced thud. There ensued a brief silence, punctuated by light vibrations and whispers of magic. She raised her head, curious as to which spell he would use in such a situation. Maybe the Soundproof Charm.

It was time. She summoned all her courage and slowly turned. Ivan was standing by the door, tall and imposing. He had divested himself of his dress robes and was clad in his shirt, trousers and shoes. He was indeed holding his wand, but put it at once at the nearest table. His eyes embraced her.

Oh, this was no good. Her knees were going to give out with a heady mixture of dread, excitement and embarrassment. A minute ago, her breathing had been so wild and uncontrolled; now it had slowed to the point of stillness. It was so difficult. Why did it have to feel this way?

In a few feline steps, Ivan approached her and laid his arms around her waist. A soft waft of cologne pervaded her senses.

"Ghergana." Even his whisper was feline, close to a purr.

She lowered her eyes, unable to inhale, let alone answer. To her supreme annoyance, she had begun to tremble.

He lifted his hands to her face to cup her cheeks. His breath was like a burning breeze on her skin. Their lips drew closer and closer together… until they joined. This kiss was very different from the one that had sealed their wedding ceremony several hours ago. It was equally chaste, but there was an undeniable sensuality to it, a casualness insinuating they had an entire night before them.

"Shhh."

His arms closed tight around her. She was shaking. This was becoming ridiculous.

"Relax. I won't bite."

She forced out a giggle before her mouth was captured again. His lips were firm, warm, avid. Ghergana brought herself to do as he said and leaned into the kiss. As if in response, his mouth parted, inciting hers to do the same. Her heart missed a beat. She felt exposed as though she were sharing her very essence with him. Kissing elicited peculiar sensations: mild discomfiture, a sense of intimacy, and also a hint of desire. Once he pulled away, she was so flustered that she clutched at his shoulders to regain balance – only to understand his embrace would not allow her to fall if she tried.

He chuckled with amusement. His eyes were glittering in the orange light.

"There is nothing to be afraid of, darling."

He kissed her again. Little by little, Ghergana's tension started to subside. She willed her hands to remain on his shoulders and suppressed her shiver of alarm at the stroking motion of his fingers, which were clamping her even nearer to his chest. As the moment flowed by, his kiss deepened. For a frantic second, she would have sworn something had leapt in the depths of her loins.

One of Ivan's hands went to his collar. He was unfastening his shirt. As soon as their lips broke apart, Ghergana wavered, then reached out to help, hoping he would not deem her gesture daring. She reckoned she ought to give him a token of goodwill. When he realized she was assisting him, he let his hand return to her hip. Her face blazed crimson under his gaze. She disregarded his inquisitive hands on her buttocks as best she could and focused on the small buttons she attempted to push through even smaller holes. Too late did it occur to her how foolish her intent was: her fingers were quivering so badly she could not unhook a single button. Resigned, wondering how many more ways she would humiliate herself in the hour to come, she cast a spell. The buttons yielded readily, and the shirt slipped open to reveal a broad chest covered with dark hair. Ghergana's startled eyes slid to his belt and the zip of his trousers. She would not unfasten those.

Ivan said nothing at her confusion, but unless her intuition was mistaken, he was not offended. He merely studied her features, caressed her skin with his eyes. In a wink, he undid the buttons on his wrists and tossed the shirt on an armchair. He had not lied about his passion for Quidditch: his torso was well sculpted, and his shoulders strong. As he took her in his arms for the second time, she gasped at the friction of their flesh – her nightgown was so thin it almost did not count.

His mouth descended onto the top of her head. He planted a hard, possessive kiss on her locks, then kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her nose and her lips as though applying a seal to hot wax. Finally, he bent to her throat. At the same instant, his right hand settled on her breast, tracing curves through the silk. Ghergana's eyes closed. She could not tell which was more enjoyable, his fingers fondling her nipple, or his lips – tongue – teasing her neck, but she knew she had never felt anything alike. It was so powerful and… sweet.

"Do you like it?" she heard him murmur.

"Yes," she confessed bashfully.

He responded by pressing voluptuous kisses into her shoulders while his arms encircled her securely. Her nipples stood pointed and aching against his chest. Ivan's lips found the most sensitive spot on her throat, and she furtively thought she would never get her fill of this wonderful sensation.

And then pain, searing like a fiery lightning, shot through her veins. She screamed. Her neck was aflame: he had sunk his teeth into her skin. His arms suddenly resembled steel – they did not protect her, they imprisoned her. He bit her again. White sparks erupted before her eyes.

"No! Stop!"

Instinctively, she fought, flailing with all her might. His grip slackened, and she promptly extricated herself to rush toward the door. She had only taken two steps when he snatched a fistful of her hair and unceremoniously yanked her back, causing her eyes to water in pain.

"Now, now, what's your hurry? You said you liked my attentions."

She was flung against the wall. For an endless minute, her sight was lost in a black haze. From this gloom emerged his face, altered with a frightening sneer. His eyes shone with dark passions she would have never associated with him: cruelty, glee, malevolence, and something else she dared not dwell upon. He was leaning in, one forearm resting on the wall and the opposite hand playing with a lock of her hair. Ghergana panted in terror, desperate to escape, but before she could so much as stir, a finger landed gently on her throat. All blood drained from her features. For a man of his build, it would no doubt be easy to snap another person's neck.

"W-what… are you… d-doing?" Her voice was but a shaky whisper.

"Why, consummating our marriage, of course." He tucked a black curl behind her ear, smiling.

She darted an imploring glance at the door. Despite her cries, no one was coming. As she had suspected earlier, he must have cast the Soundproof Charm at the entrance.

"The door has been warded," he commented, noting the direction of her look. "No one can hear us. No one can enter… or leave. But by all means, scream. Call for help. I don't mind."

The mocking, quietly exhilarated inflexion of his tone was as chilling to her as his words.

Her wand. It was on the dresser, mere feet away. If she could seize it… But he was blocking her passage, keeping her trapped with a restrictive arm.

"Why are you… hurting me?" she inquired timidly.

"It's nothing personal, I assure you. I simply like it this way. I always have."

Ghergana gaped at him. He calmly stared back, his eyes imbued with malice.

This did not make sense. This just could not be. It had to be a misunderstanding, a dream, a jest.

She swallowed and flattened herself against the wall. If there were no way to approach the dresser, she would use magic. Accio wand!

"Easy, my little duck."

Her shoulder howled in pain. She was wrenched forward, and Ivan shoved her toward the armchair with such force that she fell over the backrest, her body bent in two like a long shawl, her bottom thrust up. Before she could do more than whimper at the sharp wooden edges of the antique piece of furniture cutting into her stomach, his hips ground against hers, and vicious fingers forced her to a standing position by her hair.

"Your brother was right to think I was dangerous," he whispered in her ear. "I have killed. Some of the curses I've used would have earned me a life sentence in Azkaban, had the authorities known. I have tortured people and enjoyed it. And I shall do so again."

He spun her around and ripped the front of her nightgown. A werewolf's eyes would have appeared kindly next to his.

"You're insane."

The nightgown flitted to the floor, torn and useless. Ghergana, however, could not flinch, much less cover herself. She felt benumbed.

"Do you think so?"

Strangely, his question did not sound rhetorical. As if impatient for an answer, Ivan lifted her face by the chin.

"You don't know anything about me. Not even my name."

She blinked, striving to grasp the meaning of his words.

"Which is?" she breathed.

"Terpigor."

Terpigor. The name still struck fear in the hearts of Bulgarian witches and wizards. This ancient pure-blood house had had no equal in nobility and power – a power which had been abused in the most abominable ways known to humankind. From this family had descended Chavdar Terpigor, the Darkest wizard of the seventeenth century. He had invented a myriad of curses, including the infamous purple flame designed to make its victims' organs split open – a spell nearly as deadly as the Killing Curse. Bиолетовaтa Cмърт, they called it: the Purple Death. The Terpigors had terrorized the Silistra region for centuries, reveling in the blood of both wizards and Muggles. But they were gone. Everyone was aware the line existed no more.

"Impossible," she said flatly. "They died out sixty years ago."

"That's what people say, isn't it?" He snorted. "They're eager to believe my ancestors were weak enough to perish in an accident a bloody toddler could avoid."

Ghergana shook her head in utter perplexity.

"Are you implying they… staged their own death?"

"Perhaps I am." He began pacing around the room, prompting her to cower against the armchair.

"Then… why would you call yourself Dolohov?"

Ivan gave her a scathing glance.

"Think," he commanded. "Do you suppose it was safe for my fathers to keep a name the whole Central Europe loathed? Do you suppose they would be welcome in any part of the world with the reputation of sadists and degenerates? They weren't foolish enough to take their chances. They arrived to England with a new identity. Obviously, certain sacrifices had to be made in the process: fortune, social position, prestige, and most importantly, a fellow pure-blood house."

The Dolohovs. An old family of excellent renown.

He nodded as if she had uttered this statement aloud.

"My great-grandfather killed the Dolohov heir and married his sister to take her name for his own. My family never expired – the Dolohovs did us the favor of dying off in our place."

Horror and nausea overwhelmed her. She braced herself with both hands on the rim of the backrest. Grigor had been right. He had been right all along. What was she going to do?

He was coming toward her again. Panic-stricken, Ghergana lunged for the door, forgetting it had been enchanted. Whether or not his tale was true was of no consequence. She only wished to put as much distance between them as she could.

Almost at once, a whooshing noise pierced the air, and sinister purple fire sprang to life in front of her, glowing and high. She halted, her heart in frenzy. Wherever she turned, the flames magically extended themselves, obstructing her way. She looked back in time to see him pass through the fire as though it were mist. He was holding her wand – her wand! – in his right hand.

"There is no way back, Ghergana. You might as well deal with it."

She wanted to back away, but there was nowhere to run. She could hear the Dark flames twist behind her. They exuded a terrible force, hissing like snakes, glinting like thousands dragon eyes, throbbing like blood.

And the protective charms of her family did nothing to alert the feasters to the presence of such magic. Merlin save them.

It was true, then. The House of Terpigor had survived in disguise, silently plotting from the confines of England. She could now easily interpret the symbol on her wedding ring: the diamond-set scorpion tail belonged to the beast from the Terpigors' coat of arms – a roaring black Manticore represented on an ornate purple background.

"You are my wife, the new lady Dolohov," Ivan said, his enunciation deliberately clear. He had stopped a mere foot away and gazed down at her. "I will not give you up. You will bear my heirs, live in my house, and carry out all the duties your rank prescribes. But I promise you this: I will treat you with respect. Not only will I never harm you the way I did tonight, but I will also fulfill all your dreams and expectations to my best ability. You will be one of the most respected witches in England. Can you keep the secret of my heritage?"

Purple shapes were dancing on his black pupils. It was so difficult to comprehend the fact she was not an indolent spectator at a play, that this was truly happening to her. The illusion she was not there was unspeakably tempting.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Yes. And so do I."

A threat. And she had naively believed the stories about Salazar Slytherin and his Hogwarts House to be an exaggeration.

She nodded, unconsciously biting her lip.

"Swear it."

He held out a hand. With a gush of relief, she divined he was not referring to the Unbreakable Vow but to a simple magical oath wizards underwent to settle a deal. If one of the parties breached the agreement, the other would be free of their word. A Binder was not required.

Gingerly, Ghergana put her hand in his, wincing as he squeezed it.

"I swear," Ivan intoned, "to treat you with all the love and consideration your status as my wife entitles you to. So long as you stay loyal and discreet, you will be cherished like no other."

Tears of humiliation prickled in her eyes. She could sense a silver stream of magic wind itself around their hands to form a loop. Taking this oath gave her the impression of forfeiting her life.

"I swear to protect your secrets and never betray your confidence," she replied dejectedly.

A wordless incantation, and a new, scarlet ribbon of magic materialized, tightening in a knot across the first one. Both rapidly dissipated. Like a dim echo, the purple fire vanished.

Ivan released her hand. He was eyeing her tear-streaked cheeks – it had taken this to crumble her courage. Carefully, he wiped her tears with a finger, his expression unreadable. After a tiny pause, he kissed her on the mouth, both his hands immersed in her hair; it did not seem to faze him her lips were inert like the petals of a dead flower. His chest came in contact with her bare breasts, and at last it dawned on her she was fully nude.

The following instant, she was scooped in his arms and carried to the bed – a carved four-poster equipped with fluffy duvets and a cloud of pillows her mother and house-elf had lovingly arranged. Ivan laid her onto the sheets and removed the last of his clothes while she watched, sniffling softly. There was a dark line of hair trailing from his navel... downwards.

The weight shifted on the mattress. She would twitch away if only she had the strength to move.

"Shall I call Donka to fetch you some Calming Draught?"

His voice rang with genuine concern. Ghergana shook her head, trying not to meet his eye. He did not insist. His next kiss was long and lingering: he invaded her mouth, exploring and seeking response, though none was to be found. She felt oddly detached from both her body and emotions, yet lucidly aware of everything that was taking place.

He fondled her, kissed every inch of her skin, suckled on her neck, on her earlobe, on her nipples. He was every bit as tender as she would have wished him to be. At one point, a horrible sensation of pressure jolted her out of her reverie, and pain filled her loins. More tears flowed, and Ivan kissed them away, murmuring words she could not remember.

The rest of the night was but a blur in the back of her mind. Fragments of memories swirled before her eyes as though she were examining them from the silvery depths of a Pensieve. She was being taken in various positions: nestled on her side in front of him; sitting on his lap while he supported her by her waist; waiting on her hands and knees as he pounded into her – the latter being the most scandalous of them all. She even recalled having moaned once, presumably in pleasure.

When the sunrise tinged the sheer white curtains with gold, the room was dormant. Ivan was drowsing, his muscled arm draped over his wife's waist. Ghergana was facing the wall. Her eyes were open wide; all she could see, however, was her inner image of Grigor – his chiseled traits, his sparkling black eyes many girls deemed irresistible, his unruly raven hair, so similar to her own glossy locks. In the end, his assessments always proved accurate. He had told her rashness and naivety were her greatest vice, and that she would remain a dreamer… until life taught her a lesson. She would laugh his remarks off. The truth hurt.

Nothing would have made her happier than to hug him and beg for his forgiveness. But she should have listened to him in the first place. If she let slip the faintest hint of complaint or apology, he would immediately know something was very wrong. It would be the end of the magical agreement which protected her. Ivan had produced a cleft in their once perfect relationship – a cleft that could not be sutured.

She was henceforth entirely isolated. Married to the descendant of the Darkest wizard in Bulgarian history, she would be forced to endure his violent temper and see him sate his bloodlust on innocent victims without the solace of ever being able to confide in a living soul. She felt tricked, trapped, deceived. The man she had fallen in love with did not exist.

But if she could not disclose his secret, she would have her revenge the only way that mattered. She would never give him an heir. Never. The Dolohovs were long since dead, their sole legacy being a misappropriated name, a family crest, and the gray eyes Ivan's misfortunate great-grandmother had transmitted to her son. It would be an odious insult to their memory to prolong the lineage of their murderers. She would not give birth to another male of this evil house. It should die out with Ivan. She would learn to accept her fate if her sacrifice could save a human's life.

His hand suddenly jerked. He awoke with a deep sigh, slowly returning to consciousness. Propped on one elbow, he leaned over her and peered at her face, putting a kiss on her neck.

"I love you, Ghergana."

She closed her eyes.

Note: Despite Ghergana's resolution, she will give birth to a son, Antonin Dolohov. A sinister little "sequel" should follow this one-shot.

Happy Halloween!