Dirt clung onto his skin ferociously, dusting his pale skin with a coating of grime and filth that he wore comfortably as if it were a second layer of skin. His tattered pants hung precariously on his narrow hips, sharp bone threatening to tear the thin layer of flesh that stretched across his sinewy muscles. His eyes were downcast, a vacant expression of helpless melancholy taking the place of the sparks of joy and mischief that had lived there in his youth. If he had the energy, he would have let out a pained chuckle, for he were no longer young nor youthful as he would imagine.

At this point in time, he had spent almost half of his life trapped within these walls. The cold frost seeping into his skin ever so gently, almost giving the illusion of care when in actuality it was slowly killing him. It chapped his lips fiercely, the lack of water he was given not helping the matter, blood collecting in the corner of his grimace as his skin tore again and again. On some days, when the morbid side of his emotions won the deathly battle against his cool logic that had thus far allowed him to retain the slivers of his sanity, he wondered what would eventually kill him: the cold, the hunger, the thirst, or the sheer hopelessness of his situation for surely he would never leave these damp four walls again.

At least Dementors were no longer permitted in Azkaban. The constant threat of having his soul sucked out was perhaps the worst part of his previous stay, so it was better that it was one less thing to worry about. He had enough struggle trying to maintain his sanity within these horrid conditions, at least now the very few happy memories he had somehow collected in his past were not in danger of being forcibly torn from his grip.

He had taken to singing Russian lullabies. There were plenty of reasons that he did so, the first and most obvious being that it connected him to the few scattered memories of joy from his childhood. It was a habit he had developed during his first stint, when the Dementors took sadistic pleasure in a soul as blackened as his. The second was that it annoyed the guards something fierce, which was always a plus for him. He took immense pleasure in being the single most annoying prisoner in this hole filled with murderers and war criminals, he did have a reputation to uphold after all, and even Azkaban couldn't take that from him.

The third reason, and perhaps the most odd considering who exactly it entailed, was that he simply enjoyed it. He had a melodious voice, deep and husky and perfect for the harsh syllables of the Russian language. It was one of the only pleasures he could still derive from his incarceration, and it broke the monotony of prison life. His fellow Death Eaters with cells near his had long ago learned all of the words to his lullabies, and would often join in, adding their various voices to the little harmony they had concocted. It was a way to ease the tug of loneliness that had festered in their hearts from their many many years of solitary confinement.

He was lucky enough to be placed near a cell next to his dearest friend— well, as dear a friend as Death Eaters and former Slytherins could claim to have. Thorfinn Rowle was a brute of a man; tall, blond, with bulging muscles that were larger than his logic. Thorfinn was the emotion and action to his cool logic and apathetic disassociation. It was why they made the perfect partners as Death Eaters.

Not that it were to be of any help to him at this stage of life. The only thing Thorfinn was good for these days was stilted conversation as they had long ago exhausted all topics of consequence. It had been almost twenty years since their first imprisonment, after all.

Antonin Dolohov slammed his head against the wall in aggravation. Years ago, when the small flames of hope were not yet smothered, he had truly believed that it were only a matter of time before he was to be released. He was… well he certainly wasn't innocent— he was perhaps the most notorious mass murderer the modern Wizarding world could boast. He was, however, both powerful and highly intelligent. He had created about half of the deadliest dark curses known to man, and his penchant for creation had received him wide spread praise even after being inked with the dark mark.

Yet that hope had long ago been ripped from his grasp. He had come to realize that the Ministry, in its absolute infinite wisdom, would rather rot in uncertainty than demote themselves to the utter degradation of asking a former Death Eater for assistance.

Slowly, his raspy voice low and oddly beautiful, he began to allow the Russian lullaby to echo off the walls;

"Baby, baby, rock-a-bye

On the edge you mustn't lie

Or the little grey wolf will come

And will nip you on the tum,

Tug you off into the wood

Underneath the willow-root."

Hermione gripped her hair in aggravation, her messy locks wrapping around her fingers as she tried not to yank them in sheer anger. Flipping through yet another book that littered her rather large table, she blinked away the tears of frustration that pooled in the corner of her eyes. The tips of her fingers were covered in minuscule wounds from the various paper cuts she had acquired during these last few weeks of frantic research; cuts she didn't bother healing anymore.

It has been well over a month since Auror Ron Weasley was brought into her emergency room. A month since the seemingly small curse that had hit him during a raid entered his heart, allowing the poisonous tendrils to slowly creep his way through his body. He was dying; pure and simple. What started off as a sheer purple splotch on his neck had spread through most of his skin, covering his body with the unnatural mauve hue. He had fallen into a coma only a week after being hit, and still he laid in St Mungo's. Immovable, unflappable, and barely breathing. By Hermione's calculations, her fiancé didn't have much time left. A week, maybe a week and a half tops. And Hermione, as well as all of the other experts she had contacted across the world, were still no closer to finding a cure.

After all, to find a cure she had to know what ailed him. Dark curses were as eclectic as they were nasty, and without knowing for sure which curse hit him, she had no way to find the counter. Over the course of the last month, she had perused through more dark tomes than she would ever willingly admit too, all in an effort to find the same symptoms Ron had displayed. As of yet, she had no luck. And time was running out. Rapidly.

A familiar grip wrapped around her wrist, the book in her hands being gently torn from her grasp. "Hermione you're going to drive yourself to the brink on insanity at this rate. You have to take a break," the soft and caring voice of Harry Potter interrupted her research.

"Harry, you know I can't. Ron," Hermione forcibly swallowed a cry, "Ron doesn't have much time left. I can't abandon him, Harry— I just can't."

"I'm not telling you to," Harry spoke softly, his green eyes shimmering with a mixture of concern and melancholy, "But you will end up killing yourself if you don't take a break. When was the last time you had a proper meal? Or the last time you slept?"
Hermione clenched her teeth, "I'll sleep after I'm assured that the love of my life won't die within the week."

"Hermione," Harry paused, seemingly bracing himself, "I love Ron. He's my best friend and hopefully my brother-in-law. And Hermione, you're brilliant at your job. So you know as well as I do that most of these nasty curses have never been recorded in literature… meaning—"

"Meaning that I have no hope of finding the counter. Is that what you're trying to say, Harry? Just give up on Ron and let him— let him die as we stand idly by doing nothing?!" Hermione screeched, a painful sob racking her frame.

"Oh Merlin, Hermione," Harry scooped his brunette friend into his arms, letting her nuzzle into his neck as she finally let out the tears she had been bravely holding in, "Hermione we won't be idle. But you will end up hurting yourself if you keep proceeding in this direction. You need to care of yourself."

"What I need is to find the counter, and find it now."

"Ron wouldn't want you to hurt yourself trying to help him," Harry admitted softly, his fingers slowly raking through her untamable curls.

Hermione blinked the tears away, "Well. Ron isn't exactly awake to tell me this himself, now is he?"

"The chances of you finding the spell in a book is—"

"Incredibly low bordering on impossible, I know. But I don't have any other choice, now do I?"

Harry sighed, his green eyes closing in pain, "I just wish there was some way to just ask whichever sick bastard created such a devastating curse."

Hermione's eyes fluttered open in shock. Perhaps there was another way…

The man ran his diagnostic wand over Hermione's entire frame, his grim face set with a serious countenance, "I'm certain that you know the procedure by now, Healer Granger."

Hermione nodded seriously at the Warden, passing over her wand and filling out a waiver, "I am not to antagonize the prisoner lest he experience a form of dangerous accidental magic. I am not to sneak in any contraband for him, nor conspire to do so in the future. I am not to inform him of any of the inner workings of the prison lest he attempt to use the information in an attempt to escape. Lastly, I am to keep my hands to myself and not initiate any physical contact."

The Warden nodded, "Antonin Dolohov is perhaps the deadliest prisoner we currently have incarcerated at Azkaban. He finds pleasure in antagonizing all who pass, and will attempt to manipulate you in any way possible. He is beyond dangerous, and is adept at wandless magic. Do be careful while in his presence."

Hermione let out a small smile, her first in a month, "Thank you, Warden. I'll be sure to take all necessary precautions while I am here on Ministry business."

"We will have the prisoner in a full body bind so that he can not harm you physically," the Warden informed her coldly, "Antonin Dolohov is not the type of wizards you would like to take a risk with."

Hermione shook her head aggressively, "No Warden. With all due respect, I am more than capable of apprehending Mr. Dolohov should he try anything untoward. I need him to be able to move for the duration of my visit."

The Warden took in a deep breath, "Healer Granger, I understand your status as a war hero has offered you a certain amount of liberties in the Wizarding World as of late, however I know what's best for my prison."

"Warden, this was not a request. In my hands I hold a missive from the Minister of Magic himself granting me full access and control of this specific prisoner. He is detrimental to a case for the ministry, and I have full power to do with him as I please. Thus, I will reiterate, Mr. Dolohov will not be placed in a body bind, but will be free to move as he pleases."

"It's your funeral," the Warden muttered angrily under his breath, clearly not liking the idea that this little girl who couldn't be above the age of 22 was taking over his prison.

With an entourage of guards surrounding the pair, wands all forward and ready to strike, clearly having experience with the dour prisoner, they made their way into the conference room where one Antonin Dolohov was leaning back into his chair haphazardly.

He looked… well he looked like a proper prisoner. His tattered clothing hung off his frame loosely, and he seemed to have lost quite a bit of weight since Hermione had last saw in in the Battle of Hogwarts. His face was shaved clean, his cheekbones sharp and perturbing. His black hair was wet and slicked back, it seemed as though he were just permitted a shower, and his cool grey eyes were watching her every movement and practically glittering in amusement as she took a seat opposite him.

"You can leave now," Hermione instructed the guards, her eyes never leaving the dangerous ones of the prisoner before her.

"Healer Granger, I don't think—"

She interrupted the Warden promptly, "Leave. Now. I have sensitive information to discuss with the prisoner, and I will not have you all listening in."

With a scowl and a sharp nod, the Warden gestured for all of the guards to exit the room, leaving Hermione Granger all alone with one of the worlds most dangerous Dark Wizards still alive.

"Well, I must say little Granger, I'm quite surprised to see you here," Antonin drawled, his piercing gaze raking over her form lavishly, "I didn't think the little lioness would be quite brave enough to enter Azkaban willingly."

Hermione growled, "Don't act is if you know me Dolohov. You know nothing about me. I am not here for pleasure—"

"Unfortunately."

Hermione continued on as if she never heard him, "I'm here because I find myself in the odd position of needing your assistance."

Antonin grinned wickedly, his annoyingly straight teeth practically gleaming despite his lack of access oral hygiene, "Tell me, princess. What exactly are you willing to offer me in exchange for my assistance."

Granger swallowed dryly, pushing a file towards him, "To be quite frank, time is of the absolute essence and I'm almost out of it. I don't have time to trade and barter. If you help me, I'll offer you anything within my power."

A spark of amusement and cruelty shined in his eyes, "Hasn't anyone told you, little princess, that offering anything to a man of my disposition is not wise."

Hermione grit her teeth, "I don't have time for this back and forth, Dolohov. Take a look at the pictures in the file, as well as the list of symptoms. I need a counter curse, and I need it now."

Antonin pursed his lips in amusement as he opened the file, his cool grey eyes quickly scanning the dozen photos that littered it, as well as the organized list of ailments. He gave a low appreciative whistle, "Whoever fired this curse at the Weasley must have been either in extremely close proximity to the man, or just ridiculously uncontrolled."

"Proximity," Hermione admitted, "He was only a meter away when the spell was fired."

Antonin nodded seriously as he continued to flip through the photos, "That was my guess as well. Otherwise your little boyfriend shouldn't have fallen into a coma for at least another week."

Hermione sat rigidly in her seat, "You recognize the curse then?"

"Of course I do."

"How? It isn't documented in any book that I have read."

Antonin grinned cruelly, "Well, I invented it of course."

Hermione's eyes darted to meet his own, "Then you know the counter?"

The Russian wizard rolled his eyes, "Do you always ask such obvious questions? I invented the bloody curse, obviously I know its counter. This specific one is fairly nasty, lulls the victim into a false sense of security since the first symptoms don't begin to show until weeks after being hit. At first it's mild, and then progressively worsens as it seeps your life away. The only way to successfully identify it is by the purple poisonous splotch that appears as the first symptoms do."

"Tell me the counter," Hermione demanded, her fingers clutching the metal table before her.

"Tell me what you plan to offer."

"What is it that you want?"

Several seconds of silence ticked by, seconds of pure agony as the wizard before her scanned her in deep contemplation, "Marry me."