The owl was most insistent. Usually post came once in the morning and once in the early evening, but this one had come at a little past noon, tapping violently at the window until Prewitt finally opened the damn thing. It fluttered to Elena's desk and dropped a rolled parchment there. It perched on her In tray and hooted irritably.
"Whose blasted owl is that, Elle?" Iggy demanded. "Damn thing almost cut my eye out!"
"I don't know." She eyed it speculatively. "I've got your letter, you can go." It danced anxiously from one leg to another. "Fine, I'll read it." She unrolled it, skimming down the short message and the world closed in around her.
She couldn't quite breathe right and there was an odd sort of ringing in her ears. It muffled out everything around her so she existed in this tight little bubble that felt something like the squeeze of apparition, but her stomach had fallen just like a Portkey. Her body and mind were being pulled apart and the drop of consciousness in it all that was her was somewhere in between.
"Elle!" The hand on her shoulder jarred her out of that strange place and she wheezed in a breath as the world became real again. "You alright, love?"
"Hm?" The paper was sitting there tauntingly on her desk, her hands flat on either side of it.
"I asked if you're alright." He turned her chair and she was suddenly staring at him from far too close. "What's happened?"
She shook her head.
"Elle?" When she didn't respond, Ignatius reached past and took the paper from her desk. His brows furrowed as he scanned it, then softened. "Oh. I'm so sorry, Elle. I didn't think—"
"What's all this?" Edgar Bones had no doubt heard her name called and decided to see what the fuss was about. He froze when he saw one of his apprentices kneeling in front of the other.
Ignatius stood. "Elle's father passed."
"Elle?" asked the big man. He approached her slowly, laying his hand against her back like she would shy away from him. "Are you alright?"
She blinked slowly and craned her head to look up at him. "Um. I'm. I'm fine."
"I don't think you are, dear. Is there anything, perhaps someone I could call?" When she shook her head and kept staring blankly, he frowned. "Prewitt, floo call Borgin and Burkes."
If she'd been able to process his words, she may have spoken up. As it was, Elle sat perfectly still, only the slight stirring of her chest as she breathed and the rare blinks indicating she was still there. Her hands were now curled loosely in her lap, neck bowed. She didn't move even as the whooshing of the fire proclaimed someone had stepped through.
"Elena?"
Tom filled her sight and she focused on him briefly, then went back to staring into nothingness.
"I think I should take her home," he said after a moment. Edgar must have agreed because the next thing she knew, he'd plucked her out of her seat and set off. Within minutes, he was unlocking her door wandlessly. He laid her on her bed and she stayed there, retreating back to that place between worlds and the apathy it provided.
At some point the next afternoon, Elena slowly came back to reality. She wasn't sure whether she'd been awake or asleep, her eyes opened or closed, but she was aware now as she hadn't been since before the letter. She sat up, body protesting after staying still so long, and realized she was in a night gown. She pulled herself out of the blankets, legs up to curl under her, sitting back against her mound of pillows, and looked around her bedroom. Everything was exactly as she remembered it.
Nothing felt the same.
Her bedroom door was ajar, and it creaked open, Dolohov's dark curls coming into view.
"You're up." He seemed surprised. "Can I get you anything?"
She shook her head. "Why are you here?"
"Tom's had Nott and I take turns watching you while he's busy." He sat on the edge of her bed, studying her. "Are you alright, love?"
Whereas yesterday she'd been in a state of shock, now the question struck something raw. Her eyes swam with hot tears and Elena drew her arms around herself. "My da's dead," she choked out, folding her knees to her chest and collapsing into them.
"I'm so sorry, Elena," Antonin murmured, arms enveloping her to pull her to his chest. He worked his way further onto the bed, back against the headboard so he could surround her with his presence, rocking her soothingly. "Shh, love. It'll be alright. Shh." He hummed platitudes to her over and over as he rocked, hands seeking to do nothing more than comfort. But as he told her again things would be alright, she broke her arms apart, forcing his off with her sudden force.
"It won't. You don't understand; it'll never be alright." Her face was puffy and red, still spilling over with tears. "My da was everything to me. He was all I had, my reason to live."
"You're strong, Elena, you can—"
"I am not strong," she cut in. "I endured, that's all. I endured because I couldn't stand the thought of losing him. He was the one, the only person who loved me. Who never hurt me or stood back while someone else did. All he wanted to do was be with me and I with him and now he's gone and there's nothing." Her voice was thick with her accent and sorrow both and at the last word, she collapsed into sobs again. "I've nothing. I'm nothing."
"I could love you, Elena," the man holding her said carefully.
"Oh, I'm sure. Love me like a treasured possession." Her laugh was also a sob. "Damn your love. I don't want it. I don't want to be owned."
He sighed but continued smoothing his hands over her arms and hair, rocking her. "I know," he said at last. "I'm sorry."
She cried herself asleep like that and Dolohov couldn't stomach waking her, so he continued holding her, smoothing her hair from her face and stroking her gently.
Tom found the pair of them like that, Antonin stirring from a drowse as he heard footsteps across the floor.
"Isn't this touching," the dark lord said.
"She woke up inconsolable earlier," Dolohov explained. "I've only tried comforting her."
Tom's dark eyes roved over them. His pet's head was laid against one of Dolohov's arms, this one in her matted hair. His other was on her knee but sought to go no further. Elena was still in the gown Tom had changed her into the previous day and Antonin was dressed as he normally would be in someone else's home. After careful scrutiny he nodded, and the other man relaxed.
"Has she only woken once?"
"That I know of; Nott didn't say anything about it when I took over." Dolohov looked down at the small creature in his arms with something soft in his eyes, tender even. Tom had known his servant was fond of the girl, found her attractive, wanted to do to her the things he himself did. This was akin to the lovesick glances he'd seen between teenagers at Hogwarts. How Dolohov could possess cruelty as sharp as Tom's own, take pleasure in it, and still harbor genuine affection was beyond him. The dark streak in him wanted to rip her away and force the man to help break her down so she could learn to fear them both, so she would cry and bleed and remain broken and Dolohov would be reminded every time he looked at her that she could never love him the way he craved.
It was almost enough to make him groan, his vision hazing over with crimson.
Tom sat on the bed beside them and combed his hands through her hair. His fingers snagged on a tangle and she flinched while still asleep. "She's pretty when she cries, isn't she?" he asked.
Dolohov nodded, but said nothing.
Tom studied the other young man's face, which was now curiously blank of anything; he didn't want to show weakness. It made Tom smile, a slow, cruel baring of his teeth. He kept his gaze locked with Antonin's as he fisted his pet's hair, wrenching her face away from the other's chest. Her eyes popped open as she hissed, staring up at him. His other hand crept up her throat and tightened there just enough that her sleepy pulse sped up.
"What—"
Tom tugged sharply and she fell silent, pain contorting her features. She knew better than to struggle against him, though he could see the curious fear in her eyes.
"Look at her, Dolohov." Antonin did as he was commanded and Tom watched as his pupils dilated, though he held control over himself otherwise. Tom dropped his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, intimate and warm. "You know how she bites her bottom lip? Sometimes I can taste how much she's worried at it. I like to run my tongue over it, suck it into my mouth, sink my teeth in until I can taste her blood at the surface." The hand on her throat moved up, thumb tugging at her bottom lip. She was trembling, but Antonin was entranced as his eyes flitted from her own wide orbs to her softly quivering mouth. "She's delicious, Antonin. She plays afraid, but I always find her so wet when I hurt her. And she kisses so softly, pliantly, like she's begging." Antonin swallowed thickly, lips parting, tongue darting across the parted seam. "Try for yourself."
His head sprang up, staring at Tom incredulously. "My lord?"
"Go on." Tom's voice lowered further as he said, "I know you want her. Take a taste; you've been good. You deserve a reward."
Dolohov looked back down at the girl whose face had gone still, as though hoping her lack of motion would make her invisible. With one questioning glance at Tom, the man lowered his mouth to hers. He was desperate and possessive, one of his large hands cradling the nape of her neck below where Tom's own held her hair. His tongue forced its way into her much smaller mouth and Elena made a small sound in her throat, Dolohov moaning into her in response.
Her lashes were wet, eyes shut once more. She sobbed again, a wonderfully broken little sound. And Tom chuckled as her saw Antonin try to roll his hips against hers, fingers digging into her soft flesh. The girl's hands fluttered urgently around her.
Dolohov tore his mouth from hers, dark eyes feral as he stared down at her. He blinked and something seemed to click. "Elena…"
The girl was crying softly, huddling into her knees as the men's hands removed themselves from her body. She didn't respond to his voice but stiffened when the man she'd thought might be a friend laid a hand on her back.
Tom smirked. "Leave us."
Dolohov couldn't seem to get away fast enough.