A/N: Just quickly, before we continue—a thousand hugs to my reviewers, who have made me squeal at an embarrassingly high pitch every time they bless me with their thoughts and predictions. If you'd like me to respond to your comments, please sign in! Much love xx
Aleksei Dolohov's study was a place of dual refuge and torment for Antonin.
Before escaping Malfoy Manor the night before he hadn't returned to his estate in many weeks; the Dark Lord wasn't keen on allowing him to leave the Manor lest a breach of security come to pass. Despite being in control of the Ministry of Magic and expanding his borders of influence across Europe, the reptilian mage harbored intense fantasies of being overthrown by the dwindling Order of the Phoenix. At first Antonin had thought the precautionary measures to be overzealous. Now, after the fantastic escape of the Manor's prisoners via house elf, Antonin conceded that maybe there were facets of the situation he had overlooked in favor of convenience—the Dark Lord, for all of his paranoia and madness, had been scarily quick to punish him for the oversight.
The potions Severus gave him to calm his overstimulated nerves from the aftershocks of the Cruciatus only took the edge off Antonin's tremoring hands.
With quaking fingers Antonin perused the scant collection of books stacked on the shelves in his father's study. Aleksei had never allowed his son inside the small, dark room when he had been a boy—occasionally, usually sometime after somber family dinners when his father would take to his cups, Antonin would creep along the hallway outside and catch glimpses of his father's desk through the half-open door. On even rarer occasions his mother's voice would filter in from beyond the cracked entrance and fill the corridor with her light, musical tones in contrast to his father's harsh laugh. His parents did not get along often, but such stolen moments when they did Antonin treasured in some forgotten chamber of his cold, black heart. He had no siblings. His mother spent most of her time in France. His father Aleksei, a stern disciplinarian and master of charms, had taken it upon himself to oversee Antonin's education and dole out punishments whenever his lofty standards weren't met. In Azkaban Antonin would turn his palms to the weak light shining in from the bars of his cell and inspect the faint lines of scars crossing haphazardly over his palms; something about the memory of his father lashing his wand against his hands in chastisement had been comforting, then. Now, as Antonin stood a man in the sanctuary his father had sought to avoid him, the memory of the marks left a sour taste in his mouth.
Not many books of Aleksei's once-vast collection had survived the move from Russia. The witch trials of the sixties had seen countless magical villages and dwellings razed to the earth, and the Dolohov library somewhere in the magical sectors of Novosibirsk had been one of the first buildings to perish in the flames. Antonin surveyed the titles of the remaining tomes and tried to swallow back the irritation knotting at the base of his tongue—my father has to have a book about this somewhere, he thought.
The circumstances surrounding Aleksei and Kira's rocky marriage hadn't been a secret in Pureblood circles, but Antonin could remember being shocked, despite everything he had witnessed, that his parents hadn't loved one another how he suspected those of his schoolmates did. The ritual blood bond forged between them—forced at the behest of their families when they were young—was meant to ensure the continuation of the Dolohov family line and to secure a better way of life for Kira, who had been the Pureblood daughter of a poor drunkard. Aleksei had spent much of Antonin's childhood researching a way to break the bond for good. Kira had gone about the matter with far more practicality: she simply traveled as much as she was able.
Kira died when Antonin was in Hogwarts, and his father, a naturally paranoid man who was far too brilliant to be losing his mind in such a way, had folded to his vices and conceded that, yes, maybe the Dolohov line was cursed. The books in his study, though few, represented the culmination of his research throughout Antonin's childhood about his own marriage bond. More modern betrothal bonds were known to be breakable under certain circumstances; the one between Antonin's parents had been a forgotten remnant of the Old Way, a most final promise that what was said to happen, did. It was bitter irony that Antonin found himself in a warped mirror image of what his parents struggled through all those decades before.
Antonin selected a volume off the shelf at random and set about finding a solution to his own forced blood bond. Kira had died before Aleksei had found a way to sever the tie between them; Hermione, the fiery girl whose magic tethered his, was still very much alive. There was hope, if scant. There has to be something useful in here somewhere.
The room Dessy ushered her into was presumably on the same hall as the room she woke up in, but this one, much dustier and smaller than the last, looked as if it hadn't been entered in decades. White sheets covered the scattered collection of furniture and there was no window. The attached bathroom, while appreciated, was in dire need of a good scrubbing before it could be considered even the least bit usable. Once again Hermione found herself in a cozier version of a dank prison cell, but the sentiment behind it remained the same. All the lush fabrics and thick carpet could have been mold and stone for all the good it did her.
Dessy waddled in, snapped her gnarled fingers, and the room cleaned itself before Hermione's eyes.
"Master wants Young Miss to stay here and not leave. Dessy will bring meals. Healing potions taken before bed. Master wants Dessy to use force if Young Miss doesn't listen," the elf squeaked. Hermione peered down at the elf; she was wearing what appeared to be a tied black pillowcase as a dress, and her comically large eyes were milky-white over brown irises. The elf was old. Possibly older than Dolohov. Even though there was no resemblance between this elf and Dobby, Hermione couldn't help the awful curl of hope that pooled in her gut. If Dobby had been able to help Harry and Ron escape, perhaps this elf—
"Dessy?" Hermione started, mindful to keep her voice light. "Do you know why I am here?"
The elf, busy turning down the freshly-made bed and stoking the fire in the small grate in the corner, didn't turn to look at her as she responded. "Master wants Young Miss here and that is all Dessy knows."
The curl of hope was an oscillating whirl, now, and excitement colored her voice without thought. "Your master has hurt me, Dessy, and I don't belong here. I have to get out—"
The elf whirled around and held up a single, long-fingered hand in the motion for stop. "Dessy does not care about what Young Miss Mudblood has to say. Dessy helps Master and Miss Mudblood obeys." The maniacal narrowing of Dessy's eyes disturbingly mirrored that of her master and Hermione found herself at a loss of words. "Now," Dessy continued, her demeanor relaxing quickly, "Dessy brings dinner at six." With that, she disappeared with a sharp crack, leaving Hermione alone and dumbfounded in the locked—and surely warded—room.
Hermione was no stranger to the phenomenon of elves taking on the prejudices of their masters; Kreacher, the ugly, ineffective elf at Grimmauld Place, had never passed an opportunity to spew vulgar words at her when they crossed paths. Even some of the Hogwarts elves treated her with a certain frostiness—and that was before her misguided intentions with SPEW. All of that accounted for, there was something uniquely horrible about Dessy calling her a mudblood. Just like her master, Hermione thought bitterly. She sat unblinkingly on the end of the bed and tried not to let the well of stinging tears fall down her face. The jagged scar on her arm, though smartly covered with her sleeve, seemed to pulse in time with Hermione's humiliation as she was once again reminded of her place in Voldemort's new society. Dessy was a product of her environment but it didn't take the sting away from her sure words.
Perhaps it wasn't the elf's behavior that troubled her—it was Dolohov's.
The dreadful predictability she had painted him with back at the Manor—knowing certain that he lusted for her death above all else—was gone with the addition of their blood bond. The man was hot and cold, resting his actions towards her on the razor's edge of brutality and civility. One minute he was sharing a meal with her as if she were an equal, and the next he was locking her in a room and letting her know they were only "playing house" for as long as it took him to break the bond between them. Since she had awoken he hadn't so much as raised his voice at her, and she had been prepared for so much worse. The memory of his torture was a dizzying blur that she mentally fortified into a seldom-ventured corner of her mind. Don't think about it not now not ever don't you dare, she admonished herself frantically.
She flopped onto her back with her arms spread wide, her curls knocking back to form a crooked halo around her head as she considered the stone ceiling. She hated the part of herself that missed waking up in Dolohov's bed, despite everything. Even without confirmation she knew it had been his. His lingering magical signature and heady scent was all over the sheets, and that bed had been miles more comfortable than this one. There was something perversely familiar about his bedroom, just knowing that it was his, and she knew him—familiarity was a comfort that she hadn't had in many months, not since apparating away from the Burrow at Bill and Fleur's crashed wedding. Even the tent she shared with Ron and Harry lacked the specific kind of warmth and sameness that other, physical places did.
There was time to reminisce and feel sorry for herself, she decided, but now wasn't it. With gritted teeth she pushed off the bed and began to catalog every nook and cranny of the room, intent on finding something to help her escape. You're going to survive this, she assured herself. Her bones were tired, her pride bruised, and she felt as scared as a little girl wailing for her mother. You're also Hermione-fucking-Granger.
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, the blood bond throbbed quietly to remind her she wasn't alone, her senses not yet honed enough to pick up on its omnipresent pulse.
Dolohov roused from sleep with a sharp jolt of tensed shoulders and blurry eyes; he hadn't meant to drift off, but given the tax his magic had been running the past few days on little sleep, he wasn't surprised he had nodded off right at his father's desk in the now-dark study, his forehead pressing to the pages of an open book with heavy exhaustion. His left hand had knocked over a well of ink and a tower of ripped, balled parchment now sported inky blotches and stuck wetly to the blotter—his previous attempts to write a sensible letter to Severus Snape had failed spectacularly. He wanted to send something concise and unaffected. To his mounting vexation all he could manage were rough, all-capital renditions of I AM GOING TO COMMIT SUICIDE BY KILLING THE MUDBLOOD and I'M TRAPPED I'M TRAPPED I'M TRAPPED. His father's book collection now laid scattered about the small room (some with ripped pages, torn binding, and torch marks from his enraged wand) and not a damned one had anything helpful to tell him.
He had managed to confirm several things he already suspected, but there was no hint that such a bond he now held could be broken to any degree. The curse he cast on the girl in the Department of Mysteries complicated things immensely, too; he warded her death as something only he could claim, and by doing so, he fulfilled the contract prerequisite of making a vow to her. Magically speaking, the girl had managed to forge a blood bond by tethering her need for survival to his deadly intent. Ancient, testy magic. His mind kept returning to that room at Malfoy Manor, her body sprawled broken on the floor and her bright eyes glinting dully through rings of bruises. Even half-dead and tortured delirious, the girl had been magnificent. She smiled at him—all razors and spite—through clots of blood and damned him straight to hell. Gods, his wand responded to her touch without a second thought when she cast the incantation, the damned treacherous slip of wood.
He remembered thinking she was so delightfully pretty like that, damaged and angry and defiant to her core. Antonin understood the language of violence as fluently as he did his mother tongue. Her refusal to cooperate—and subsequently forcing him to rip his own soul apart with Dark Magic to punish her—had been as sweet as the honeyed words of a lover. When she spoke the incantation to invoke the blood bond, she could have been telling him she loved him: "Nos unum sumos, est en sanguinem!" He had lied to her in the dining room when he suggested she didn't cast the spell correctly. He, master of charms and cursebreaker, could sense a strong ward when he came across one. His bright solnyshko had cast a veritable fucking fortress.
Dolohov vanished the aborted letter attempts with his wand and tapped his fingers in the wet pool of ink staining the desktop. He knew he had to summon Severus to take the girl, now. He didn't strictly want to visit his proposed contact—not after nearly two decades of radio silence—but he was quickly running out of options. The Dark Mark on his left forearm was constantly burning now, the flesh feeling like it was boiling with the roll of the Dark Lord's anger. Dolohov strongly suspected he didn't have long before the Dark Lord began searching for him personally, and when that began, the limits of the Fidelius charm cast over his home would be put to the ultimate test. There were no other books on blood bonds or ancient protection rites in the Keep. His father's journals had been burned years before. The expansive library at Malfoy Manor might have something useful on the subject, but he was smart enough to know that he wouldn't be able to sneak back onto the property without being killed, not after leaving with the girl in tow like he did.
There was nothing left to do. Dolohov summoned another sheet of parchment and began quilling a new missive to Severus, his fingers leaving inky, careless prints in the margins. Severus would take the girl for the time being—and he would travel to Novosibirsk and visit his father.
With any luck, Aleksei wouldn't curse him immediately on sight.
Severus didn't have time for this.
Nearly eighteen years before, Severus had fallen to his knees before Albus Dumbledore and confessed his sins. He was a Death Eater, he followed the orders of Lord Voldemort, and he had sold out his beloved Lily accidentally by telling the Dark Lord about Sybil Trelawney's prophecy. Save her, he had sobbed, his heart breaking for the first—and last—time in his sorry life. Albus was a shrewd man, but he was also a compassionate one. He had offered Severus protection and a role in defeating Voldemort in return for his unwavering loyalty and actions as a spy. Severus was used to taking orders on a moment's notice and making things work when there seemed to be no possible means to do so. He was known to juggle countless projects, intentions, and tasks at once. He was lauded as one of Europe's premier Potions Masters. As he stepped through Antonin Dolohov's fireplace for the second fucking time in forty-eight hours he felt a very real stab of regret for agreeing to Dumbledore's terms at all. If he had been smarter he would have paid some wretch in Knockturn Alley to Obliviate his memories of Lily Evans. He would have found some horrid spell to blast the Dark Mark off his arm. He would have cast aside his masters, his duties, and everything else in the world that demanded his energy. Severus Snape was tired at being at the call of others.
Least of all, he thought with venom, the Dark Lord's favorite sociopath.
Dolohov's messy letter was still clutched in his fist—childish ink prints and all—and his fingers sported new cuts from the Russian wizard's sorry excuse for an owl. Ares had shit on his desk before escaping through the open window. Severus had half a mind to summon the bird back and force the awful creature to eat it. The first letter that had hinted at Dolohov's "possible contact" had been thrown immediately into the fire and disregarded. He hadn't believed Dolohov to be so desperate.
The object of his ire was on the study's couch where he left him the time before. "What in Merlin's name is this?" he hissed, brandishing the fisted letter and flinging it at Dolohov's feet. "I cannot take the girl to Hogwarts. It's—"
"Severus," Dolohov interrupted. The man's voice was so low and soft it stopped the irate professor in his tracks. "I can't take her before my father. You know what will happen."
Snape refused to fall victim to the heavy silence that threatened to suffocate his anger. He had heard many things—mostly gossip from the Inner Circle—about Aleksei Dolohov. The man's marriage was a source of intrigue for many Purebloods that participated in high society. Despite the logic allowing Antonin time to talk to him would represent, Severus still resented that he had been roped into the plot in the first place. His role was to bide his time and placate the Dark Lord until the horcruxes could be destroyed. Nothing more, nothing less. The minute Lily's son defeated Lord Voldemort Snape planned on a bottle of firewhiskey and a quiet suicide. His debts were almost paid and he didn't want to give a single metaphorical cent more than he had to.
Severus poured himself a drink from the sideboard and downed it with a snarl. "I have half a mind to kill you myself, the Granger girl be damned," he muttered. The crystalline glass nearly shattered when he planted it back down with a forceful slam. "I am not a babysitter." How the hell was he supposed to go about his duties as Headmaster—and Lord Voldemort's blasted favorite Death Eater—with the Potter brat's best friend right under his nose?
Dolohov's snort made his spine crawl; even after all these years, Severus still had a lingering sensitivity to being mocked. "I beg to differ," Dolohov drawled, leaning back and crossing his ankle over his knee. "You wait on children all day every day, no?"
"I cannot take one more," was his cold reply. His protestations were token, at this point. He would take the girl, drug her into a Dreamless Sleep, and allow Dolohov to gallop back home to question his dear father. Severus knew enough about blood bonds to know they were unbreakable—Dolohov would never successfully break it, and the Granger girl would remain safe. If anything, this development was fortuitous. Dolohov would have made a formidable opponent if they ever had the need to clash wand-to-wand in combat, should Severus's true loyalties be revealed to Voldemort and retribution for his betrayal be demanded. Him being bound to Harry Potter's best friend simply took him out of the greater fight altogether. All the easier to defeat the Dark Lord, Severus knew.
Dolohov didn't say another word, his dark eyes tracking the brooding Headmaster as he paced the length of the study. When Severus spoke, his voice was as honey-deadly as Dolohov had ever heard it. "Where is the girl, Antonin?"
Dolohov's answering smile was vicious, victorious at Severus's concession. He was pleased he could travel unimpeded. "Dessy will show you."
The house elf popped into the study—disgusting Severus with her milky eyes and slightly deranged expression—and the plan was set in motion at last.
A/N: I decided to cut the chapter before Draco made an appearance! I'm averaging around 3000 words a chapter—is that a good length? Harry and Ron are still on the horizon, too. All my headcanons about Dolohov's family are coming out with this one…on the nature vs. nurture debate, I'm firmly middle-road that both played into him becoming a dark wizard. So tasty to explore.
Next Up: Hermione and Dolohov experience their first separation since the bond was forged. How will it affect them? What is going on at Hogwarts?
Take care, y'all :)
