Dolohov must have slept the day through as it was dark again when he woke up. It took some moments for him to distinguish the truth from his distorted dreams. Again the fugitive used his senses to take stock. Drawing the tattered remains of his mind together he attempted some meditation. Having been an accomplished Occlumens before his incarceration he had held on to his sanity better than most but he knew that he was far from well mentally. Physically it could have been worse but he had difficulties drawing breath. A potion would cure the budding pneumonia easily, he just had to hold on until he could make contact with someone who would not rat him out to the ministry as soon as he saw him. He had two more bottles of beer and three packets of crisps – slightly stale but heavenly after the fare in Azkaban – and fell asleep again.
The following day it was light outside but even colder than before. Dolohov drew the blanket around his shoulders and searched the boathouse methodically. There was a row of lockers and downstairs a cabinet with tools. He tried a wandless Alohomora but got no results safe a headache. With a piece of wire from downstairs he tried to pick the locks. The first took him nearly half an hour – his fine motor skills had suffered, too – but the fifth he had open in under a minute. By that time he was truly exhausted. Rationally it would be best to take as much as possible and find another hiding place – keeping on the move was one of the most important things for successfully evading capture – but he simply could not motivate himself. Dolohov ate the last of the crisps and went to sleep again after two more beers.
On the third day since his botched Portkey he felt stronger even if his lung still rattled. He took stock of everything he had at his disposal. The clothes from the lockers fit more or less, in one there had even been some canvas shoes. The print on some of the t-shirts – he wore everything that fit in layers – told him that he must be in the boat-house of Eton College. A faint memory of the school's location – one of his fellow Ravenclaws, a half-blood, had been down for it before the arrival of his Hogwarts letter - suggested that he was near London, a definite plus. In the lockers besides the clothes he found some shockingly lewed magazines, chewing gum, a razor, some condoms, two penknifes, more crisps, a bottle of shampoo and chocolate bars and altogether, scattered in various pockets, seven pounds and fortythree cents. Quite satisfied with this bounty he had his usual lunch of beer and crisps, topped up with desert, a chocolate bar. Afterwards he had a nap. Downstairs he found scissors and, screwed to the wall, a first aid kit. He took some pills whose packets said that they would battle infections and braced himself for a bath. Dolohov knew enough about the Muggle world that he could not go outside looking and smelling like this. Washing in water that cold would likely make his pneumonia worse but looking like the Count of Monte Christo he would not make it as far as central London.
Thankfully with his locks a haircut needed no finesse. Getting rid of the tangled beard was relieving, too. After shampooing, washing and scrubbing down three times in the brackish water between the moors his skin tone was more white than grey. Dolohov did not feel his toes anymore and his teeth were chattering uncontrollably. What would he give for a cup of tea right now. He put some disinfectant on the sores and scratches now visible on his skin and dressed as quickly as possible before burrowing down under everything remotely usable he'd found in the boathouse. He forced himself to stay awake long enough to eat the rest of the chocolate bar.
The next morning the Death Eater shaved and then put everything he wanted to take with him in a discarded old backpack. The remaining two bottles of beer he packed as well. After fourteen years of no alcohol they gave him a nice buzz that helped with falling asleep, besides the nutritional value. He had no intention to leave by diving under the boards again but there was a window over the tools cabinet on the right side of the building that looked promising. Carefully listening for sounds outside he decided to wait until dusk. A whistle and childish shouts could be heard, Dolohov thought there might be a playing field nearby.
When the near surroundings grew quieter while the faint buzz of the road got louder, indicating evening traffic, he pried the window open and climbed onto the tools cabinet. He used an oar to lower the backpack carefully to the ground before hanging on the sill and dropping down. Drawing the hood of one of his sweaters over his forehead he started to walk away.
Hardly ten paces further the Death Eater heard a crack and a shout from the pond. He stopped and listened. There were no other voices, only trashing sounds. Some foolish child must have been imbecilic enough to go unto the ice alone. Dolohov dropped his backpack and ran to the shore. The child was struggling some thirty yards away, the movements increasingly sluggish. He walked into the pond, the ice cracking under his greater weight at first. Some ten yards before the fugitive reached the child, a boy of about twelve or thirteen, the ice was thick enough not to break easily, slowing him down considerably, even more as he could no longer reach the bottom of the pond.
"Hold on, boy, just hold on!"
The child turned around. Even in the little light Dolohov could see his lips were blue, the cheeks ghostly white. Rescuer in sight the boy's movements stopped and his eyes closed slowly, too long had his lithe figure been in the freezing water. The Death Eater swore helplessly as the child sank down. He had do decide quickly. Taking a deep breath that hurt like hell he dove down. With three strokes he had reached the sinking body. Grabbing an arm he turned around. He got the swath he'd crashed into the sheet of ice on the second try, now already feeling the cold deep in his bones. It took all of Dolohov's willpower to tune out the voice in his head that told him to let go, to let himself float. Feeling ground again under his feet helped and he half dragged, half carried the still corpse of the child towards the shore. The boy expelled some water during the process but when his rescuer felt for a pulse he found none. Frantically trying to remember some Muggle rescusciating techniques Yaxley had made fun of decades ago Dolohov felt the futility of his actions. He could hear some shouts but they were too far away. No Muggle would be here quickly enough, the child would die if he did not manage to get him breathing again. He put his hands on the boy's sternum, centered all of his magic, let it build and then said the incantation for the Water Expelling Charm. It worked but the child's heart was still not beating. Feeling already terribly weak Dolohov made a desperate last ditch effort with a wandless Renervate! before fainting.