Author's note: This little story popped up in my head after watching Prince Philipp's funeral. It is finished and will be posted in four parts.
Prologue
January 1996, near Eton College
As soon as he touched the Portkey Antonin Dolohov knew that something was wrong. His facilities might be severly limited by fourteen years in Azkaban but he knew that Pettigrew had bungled up that Portkey. The handle of the chamberpot they were told to hold on to after an explosion had blown up the outer walls of their cells in the middle of the night had given way and now he was laying in some sort of underbrush with said handle in his right hand. The Death Eater kept still, listening to the sounds around him. A major road must be near but his immediate surroundings were quiet. Dolohov took stock of his body. The right side hurt from being dropped by the Portkey but otherwise he seemed as allright as one could be after such a long incarceration. To his left something glittered, on the other side a rectangular dark shape was visible. A short circuit told him that he had landed next to a boat house on the shore of a small lake. The water was partly frozen. The door appeared sturdy and locked tight. He made his way along the sidewall. The fugitive braced himself, walked into the water breaking the thin crust of ice and ducked under the boards. A short dive brought him inside the boathouse. For a moment he thought his heart might stop but after the time it took to get rid of the wet clothes it calmed down. Dolohov felt himself flagging. Naked he passed by the stowed boats, thinking of sleeping in one of them, when he noticed the stairs towards a gallery. Using his hands and feet he managed the stairs and nearly cried when he saw the bunk bed there. When he found the case of beer and even some packets of crisps he did cry. After half a bottle of beer he was fast asleep under the blankets of the bed and an old sail. It was chilly and the bed was hard but altogether so much better than Azkaban.