Chapter Fifteen

November 12, 2005

Ministry Program Catching Attention of Other Countries

Due in large part to the overwhelming success of Minister Umbridge's Azkaban breeding program, several foreign Ministries have been in contact with Britain's own Ministry of Magic for details. A worldwide decline in the magical birthrate has been a serious issue for a number of years. Few proposed solutions have…

Talking was all anybody could do on the accursed island. Talk and fuck. At least that was all it seemed to Antonin. What else did they, those who were damned to exist there, have to do? Their lives were meaningless drudgery. Days on end of nothing but boredom, broken up only occasionally by the bureaucratic bastards that swooped in to steal their babies. It was enough to drive a sane man mad and none of them were entirely sane to begin with after so many years in Azkaban.

He felt helpless and useless every single second of every damn day. It was a feeling he'd never appreciated in any of the various phases of his life. Somehow on the island the feeling increased at an exponential rate. As he watched the belly of the woman who shared his bed expand with the life they were forced to create together, he never felt more helpless… or frightened. Nothing he did could change their fate. They were all damned. The most he could hope for was for his children to be placed in families where they would be loved and cherished. Even that seemed terribly unlikely as he was also forced to watch his firstborn grow up in the pages of the Daily Prophet with that monster the one who tucked him in at night.

"Antonin? Antonin, are you even listening?"

Rodolphus' exasperated voice broke thought Antonin's depressing thoughts. Another article had been written about the breeding program in the Daily Prophet that morning. As was often the case, little Henry was trotted out in front of the cameras to serve as an example of the perfection that could be achieved with the program. He truly was a remarkable little boy even if Antonin knew he was a bit biased. The image of his father, he thought it possible that if one compared Henry's picture with one of Antonin at the same age, it would be nearly impossible to tell the difference. Only the shape of his son's nose seemed to prove he was also part Hermione's. Despite being exposed to cameras and nosy press quite literally from the day he was born, Antonin could tell that Henry was shy and uncomfortable with all of the attention. It made his protective nature come out. All he desired was to wrap his son in his arms to keep him shielded and safe.

And he didn't even have the first clue where his daughter ended up. Nor did he even know what she looked like. No one allowed him the courtesy of even a moment's glance at her face when she was being stolen. How much crueler could the arseholes involved in the program get? He worried about his daughter constantly. Was she well cared for? Was she loved? He thought he might be able to endure the torture of the island just a little bit longer if he could know for sure she was safe. At least with Henry he could see he was. The unknown was its own sort of psychological warfare just as destructive as the frequent articles and pictures of his son reminded him how helpless and out of control he was.

"What would it matter if I was listening or not, Rod? Nothing ever changes. All we ever do is sit around and talk about how we're going to get off this island when we all know that's not going to happen."

He'd held his tongue long enough. Since the day his old friend made the suggestion that they try to figure their way off of the island, he'd been frustrated by the lack of any measurable progress. What they wished to do seemed impossible. The Ministry wasn't always competent, but they knew enough about making the place impenetrable and inescapable. None of his former comrades had any idea how to escape. It was maddening and a complete waste of time and energy to keep attending their little gatherings in Rodolphus' cottage.

"Now, now, Antonin. That's not fair."

"Oh, it's not, Gus? Tell me when was the last time someone in this room said something worth listening to?"

A small part, a very small part of Antonin felt guilty for snapping at Augustus Rookwood. They'd known each other for decades and there was a time when he looked up to the former Unspeakable as something of a mentor. He'd certainly been a good friend during trying years and difficult moments. To publicly shame him in a group of mostly old Death Eaters with a few Order members mixed in wasn't kind. He just couldn't sit there for another moment as they pretended like there was something that could be done.

"We are trapped on this island with no way out except death. Either we kill ourselves trying to complete the terms of the program which we all know to be impossible or we take the easy way out like Lucius."

Several of the wizards gathered took a sharp intake of breath at the same time. The suicide of Lucius Malfoy and the subsequent removal of Ginny Weasley from the island was a topic no one dared to speak of. Months had gone by, but still no one spoke of it publicly. Resigned to soft whispers usually in the dark of night, everyone tried to forget it had happened. No word was ever heard about Ginny. For all anyone knew, she was dead. Some things were better left undiscussed for morale. Antonin didn't give a damn.

"We can't keep thinking that way," Rodolphus said in order to break the tension. "If we can get allies on our side off the island, then…"

"'Allies', Rod? Nobody cares about us. Whether we live or die means nothing to any of them. In fact, most would probably prefer that we die and they no longer have to be reminded every time there's an article in the Daily Prophet about this island that we exist."

Antonin was a man of few words… usually. His entire life he'd loathed the obnoxious prats who adored the sound of their own voices. Most days he preferred to keep his thoughts to himself. Seeing Henry that morning and realizing how much he'd grown put him in a funny mood. When the message that they were meeting again at Rodolphus' reached him, he'd been almost hopeful that maybe this time he'd learn that someone came up with an actual plan that might work. To find out he'd been terribly wrong and they were only rehashing all of the discussions they'd already had ad nauseam, he felt the urge to put his fist through a wall or someone's face. He couldn't remain the stoic, taciturn man when he felt so angry.

"What are we doing here? This is all just one big waste of time."

Though he didn't turn his head to confirm for sure, he swore he could see others around the room nod in agreement in his peripheral vision. No one wanted to be the voice of reason in a fantasy world of unrealistic hopes and dreams, but someone had to be. Too much hope could kill a person over time. He didn't want to live like that. He knew he couldn't live like that. Best to come to terms that the hell his existence had turned into wasn't going to change.

"We can't keep deluding ourselves. It's not doing any of us any good. We're stuck here. We need to learn how to live with that."

He expected there to be an uproar and a heated debate from those still clutching to their idealistic fantasies of a life away from the island. Perhaps there would have been if he wasn't interrupted by the front door being thrown violently open. Concerned at first that it was a Ministry raid to keep their prisoners from conspiring, he relaxed when he saw it was only Charlie Weasley. Until he saw the panic in the younger wizard's eyes. Something was wrong. Weasley never came to one of their meetings even though almost every other member of his family had come at least once to check them out.

"Dolohov."

Antonin didn't hesitate to cross the crowded room of the small cottage to follow the wizard he could barely stand the sight of outside. Weasley wouldn't seek him out unless it was an emergency. All sorts of terrible fears and worries filled his mind. Something was wrong with Hermione. Nothing else would put Charlie into such a state. He'd watched at a distance as the two of them cultivated their friendship. At some point he knew it had progressed further to actual feelings. While his own personal feelings toward the witch hadn't taken a turn for the romantic nor did he expect that to ever happen, he couldn't deny to himself that he was the tiniest bit jealous. Maybe their hell would've been worth living if they loved each other. Maybe he'd be more willing to find an impossible way off of the island if he cared for Hermione as the other poor sods cared for their witches.

"What's wrong, Weasley?"

Even cursed as he was with the dreadful Weasley pallor, the former dragonkeeper was unusually pale. No one on the island could boast of a robust complexion when the sun hardly shone and many of them didn't posses the energy or wherewithal to leave their cottages.

"Hermione and I were walking around the square. She was fine, but then…"

A sinking dread in Antonin's stomach made him lose his patience. Why couldn't he just state plainly what happened?

"Then what, Weasley?"

"She started bleeding. She was panicking. I had to carry her back to your cottage. A Healer is with her now."

There was hardly any distance between Rodolphus' cottage and his, but every single step he took at a run seemed to take an eternity. What would he find when he got inside? Without Hermione, he couldn't complete the program. The thought of being dragged back to Azkaban again filled him with a terror he couldn't describe. He would rather be dead. If Hermione didn't make it, he would take drastic measures to ensure the Ministry didn't capture him alive.

Quiet sobs on the other side of their closed bedroom door were a relief. She wasn't dead at least. Not caring that she might have been in the midst of an examination, Antonin pushed the door open with such force that it slammed into the wall with a loud crash. Both of the witches within jumped. As soon as Hermione met his eyes, she rolled over on to her side in the bed to show him her back. He hadn't missed the pain and despair in her face.

Healer Clearwater ignored his intrusion at first to whisper what sounded like soothing words to her distraught patient. Unable to hear them, Antonin didn't think it was necessary. Many of the other poor witches trapped on the island had experienced the same. Stress and fear weren't exactly conducive to healthy pregnancies. Poor Alecto suffered three before she and the youngest Weasley were finally successful. It was perhaps the only time Antonin ever felt sorry for that particular wretched bitch.

"Rest, Hermione. Take this potion and rest." The Healer raised her voice enough for Antonin to hear before turning her full attention to him. "Mr. Dolohov, if I could please have a few minutes outside to speak to you."

He wasn't about to refuse. Not when he wanted to know about Hermione's condition. As much as he'd been able to, he tried to avoid the healer since their uncomfortable exchange right after Hermione gave birth to their daughter. He'd meant every single word he said to her that day even if he regretted how harshly he'd said them. More than once he tried to think of some way to apologize or at least make it so they weren't awkward around each other. She'd only been doing her job. He could've been kinder.

"I'm afraid there was nothing that could be done for the baby."

She didn't waste any time on unnecessary pleasantries once the door was closed again. Perhaps she was concerned that he would verbally attack her for a second time. It bothered him that she might be afraid of him. He didn't know why exactly, only that it did.

Hearing confirmation of Hermione's miscarriage hit him in the gut. Even though he had always known it was a possibility and prepared himself in the moments he ran back to the cottage, it was still hard to hear. So far they'd been one of the lucky ones in the damned program. Even with her high risk pregnancies and his near-fatal heart attack, they'd been successful twice and halfway to their third. A sadness he didn't expect also fell over him. Loss, it seemed, didn't matter if their child was alive and stolen or never born. He felt just as if the cretins from the Ministry had come into his home again to steal another one of his children. In a way, he supposed, that's exactly what happened.

"Please sit down, Mr. Dolohov. You've gone a bit pale."

Her cool hands on his arm as she guided him to a chair at the table brought him back to reality. It was too easy to slip into his own thoughts. He felt his eyes burn with tears he was ashamed to shed in front of the healer. It wasn't right that she see him in such a vulnerable state. He didn't like anyone to see that side of him and was usually good at confining it to moments at the beach when he was alone or when he was in the shower.

"I'm sorry to have to give you such bad news, Mr. Dolohov, but at least Hermione is all right. Physically, at any rate. There's absolutely no reason to believe she won't be fit for the program any longer."

Realizing at once that perhaps she hadn't chosen the right words to say to him in such a sensitive situation yet again, Healer Clearwater busied her hands and her mind with brewing a pot of tea just steps away. Antonin couldn't even find it in himself to get angry. Not when her bluntness actually offered him some comfort. Despite not wishing to own up to it, his first thought when he knew something was wrong was entirely selfish. He feared he was about to be removed from the island just like Ginny Weasley. It gladdened him to know they could keep trying even if he hated himself for thinking only of himself and not his child or the woman carrying it.

"Please call me, Antonin. Mr. Dolohov reminds me of my father and he wasn't exactly an impressive man."

His voice sounded strange and distant in his own ears. He wasn't sure what possessed him to mention his father. Vadim Dolohov was a topic he tried to never think about. The man embarrassed his son. Always had and always would. He'd been a social climber with a dubious, mysterious heritage. Certainly not a Pureblood as his lack of family connections and manners made all too obvious. The most he could ever hope for was to pass himself off as a halfblood, but most, including his own son, suspected even that was too much to hope for.

Because no one could ever verify Vadim's claims of blood purity, Antonin, despite his mother being a member of a Sacred Twenty-Eight family, was always looked down on for being tainted with impure blood. He didn't really care about the blood purity nonsense that so many of his comrades had been fanatic about. Most of the Death Eaters weren't privately. They all had their own individual reasons for following the Dark Lord. It would've surprised a great number of outsiders to learn only a few in their ranks really cared. No, Antonin didn't hate his father because he was most likely the bastard son of a Mudblood or perhaps even a Mudblood himself. He hated him for more reasons than he could count. It was best that that man just disappear from his memories entirely.

Healer Clearwater placed a teacup in front of him on the table. Without invitation, though she really didn't need one, she sat in the chair next to his with her own cup. Neither of them spoke for several minutes as they sipped the warm, fragrant tea. Antonin thought he should say something, but he didn't know where to begin. His day turned out quite a bit differently than he expected when he woke up that morning. It was getting to be harder and harder for him to hold on to even a sliver of hope that his life would ever get better. The shock of their loss hadn't fully hit yet. Later, he knew he would need to deal with it when he was alone.

"I owe you an apology, Mr… Antonin."

Startled out of his thoughts, he didn't even know what to say in response. He wasn't even sure what she meant. Months passed since either of them said a word to the other that wasn't strictly medical.

"After your daughter was born…"

"You have nothing that you need to apologize for, Healer Clearwater. You were simply doing your job."

Antonin didn't really mean what he said. There was still a lingering anger that she could be an eyewitness to the atrocities of the island and remain so detached. It wasn't right. As often as he'd been accused of lacking humanity because of the wizard he followed and the countless people he'd killed, at least he could see what was happening to them was morally wrong.

"Yes, I do. You were right to shame me. Even though I'd seen what was happening, I tried to convince myself that what we are doing wasn't wrong, that we're helping to make the world a better place. We're not. We're only making it worse."

If anyone from the Ministry heard her speaking so candidly, she would be at best fired and at worst thrown into Azkaban. Dissent wasn't allowed. Minister Umbridge did not take kindly to criticism. Antonin suspected that all of the cells that were emptied when they were moved to the island had already been filled again with her critics. He wanted to warn her that she needed to be more careful with what she said even as he couldn't help but admire her for saying it.

"I felt so guilty. I hate that you thought I was so cold and heartless. I'm not."

"I don't really believe you are, Healer Clearwater."

"Penelope, please."

Sighing heavily, he considered what he would say next that wouldn't be a complete lie. Part of him did believe her to be cold even as he mostly tried to convince himself he'd been wrong. Her visits to the cottage were often the only bright spots in his dismal existence. What he wouldn't give to have met her on the outside when he was young and undamaged. His life would've been a lot different if he'd had someone like her by his side.

Before he came up with anything suitable to say, Penelope pushed a photograph across the table. It was a candid shot of the healer holding a chubby baby in her lap. They were looking at each other with big smiles on both of their faces. Antonin didn't understand what he was looking at.

"Her name is Charlotte. My parents named her after my grandmother. She was a powerful Muggle-born just like Hermione. It seemed appropriate."

He continued staring at the baby she held without understanding a word she was saying. She was beautiful. All babies were supposedly beautiful, but Antonin didn't believe that. When his youngest brother was born, he thought he was the ugliest creature he'd ever seen. Mandrakes were cuter, in his opinion. Not so with the baby he couldn't stop staring at. He would strangle anyone with his bare hands who said she wasn't the most beautiful baby that had ever been born. An overwhelming desire to scoop little Charlotte into his arms to protect her from the dangers of the world they were all cursed to live in threatened to overpower him entirely.

"I wanted to adopt her, but I didn't qualify as a suitable mother because I wasn't married."

"I don't understand."

"She's yours, Antonin. Your little girl. I wanted to make sure that she ended up with a family who would adore her and Antonin, we do. My parents didn't even hesitate. They hate this program just as much as I do, especially after I've told them all that I've seen."

He tore his eyes away from his daughter to look Penelope in the face. Still confused and feeling as if he was living in a dream, he didn't dare believe it was possible. Knowing Henry was trapped living with that evil cunt poisoning his mind was enough to keep Antonin from sleeping at times. Since his daughter was taken he'd been afraid to even wonder where she might've ended up.

"I was approved to adopt a baby last week. A friend of mine in the Magical Adoption department of the Ministry has already promised that he will fix it so I can adopt your next baby."

"But you said you weren't approved because…"

The slim band of gold on her ring finger was impossible to miss once he actually looked. Her cheeks flushed again. He couldn't help but think it only made her prettier even as the desire to rip her new husband to pieces entered his mind.

"I suppose I should congratulate you on your marriage."

Again his voice sounded cold and distant. What was wrong with him? He should've been grateful that she'd made such an effort to make sure his children were safe, but all he could think of was how much he resented another man being in her bed every night. It didn't make the least bit of sense. Had his mind become so sick and diseased that he believed he had some sort of claim on the woman? He couldn't touch her even if he wanted to thanks to the silver bracelets on his wrists. No one knew for sure what happened if an inmate violated the terms of the program by touching someone who wasn't their assigned partner. No one wanted to know.

"It's not exactly a real marriage."

"What do you mean?"

"It's just on paper. I'm not exactly his type."

Her soft chuckle at her admission that her husband wasn't attracted to her made as much sense to Antonin as knowing there was a man out there foolish enough to not take advantage of being married to someone like her.

"What sort of idiot did you marry if you aren't his type?"

"The sort whose true lover is trapped on this island forced to make babies with a woman."

"Oh, I see."

He almost felt guilty about his jealousy. As much as he couldn't stand the sight of Hermione some days, he was at least fortunate enough to find her sexually desirable. The damned Ministry of Magic didn't take the sexual preferences and orientations of their inmates into consideration. He knew of at least two wizards and one witch who had to go against their own desires just to complete the program. Likely there were more he didn't know about.

"Marcus and I have been friends since childhood. He begged Oliver not to go to Hogwarts the night of the final battle, but you know Gryffindors. If there's a chance for a little bit of glory, they can think of nothing else."

"And your husband is okay with adopting another man's child?"

"It was his idea actually. We're not the only couple who got married just so we could adopt. There are lots of us. Oliver's older brother swore he would never get married, but he finally did so he could adopt his brother's children."

"But how is that getting approved?"

"Like I told you. We have friends in the Magical Adoption department who've been arranging them. They make sure the right babies get placed with the right families whenever possible. They've even been working on blocking the wrong sort from being approved if you know what I mean."

Antonin felt as if his head was spinning with all of the unbelievable information he was getting. Never would he have guessed there was some sort of resistance to the breeding program. He just assumed that those who remained on the mainland didn't even care. Or, maybe they cared about the prisoners who fought on the other side of the war, but didn't give a damn about the ones who'd been Death Eaters in their former lives. No one would care to lift a finger to aid those who once followed the Dark Lord. Not that he could blame them. Decades had come and gone since he pledged his life to his master and it was harder and harder to remember why.

"But why my child, Penelope?"

He couldn't imagine that someone as lovely as the healer would want to burden herself with children of a known and feared murderer. Wizards, even those in her chosen field, weren't as well-versed in certain scientific principles as they should've been. Genetics, for example, was practically a mystery to even the most brilliant minds in their isolated society. Many still believed that an innocent baby couldn't keep from becoming exactly like their biological parents in all the worst ways. She was taking a risk in her attempt to raise the baby of known criminals. No doubt her social life and possibly her chances for career advancement would be negatively impacted.

"Hermione saved my life when we were in school. This is the least I could do for her."

Another sinking in his gut was hard to ignore. He'd been foolish to hold out any sort of hope that the enchanting creature sitting next to him would wish to willingly tie herself to a monster like him in any way. Of course it would be because of Hermione and not him. He felt ridiculous.

"I see. That makes perfect sense. Life debts are no small matter."

The feel of her slim hand squeezing the top of his surprised Antonin just as if he was some naïve school boy unused to the attention of pretty girls. He was much too old and too damaged by the circumstances and crimes of his past to feel that way. It was embarrassing. What would the witch think of him if she could read his mind?

"That wasn't the only reason."

When she didn't immediately explain herself, the temperature in the room felt like it was rising. As much as he longed to know what she meant, he was scared to find out. Too much isolation afforded him the opportunity to get lost in a fantasy world in his mind. Hope could be dangerous. He had to be careful and he had to be wise. Seeing something that wasn't really there simply because he was lonely and desperate for true companionship was one of his worst mistakes in a lifetime full of them.

Penelope never got the chance to explain what she meant. The front door opened to admit the other two occupants of the cottage, completely spoiling the moment. Realizing she shouldn't linger any longer, the healer stood and the professional persona she always used when they weren't alone returned.

"I'm very sorry for what happened, Dolohov. It was a great disappointment for all of us, but you can and will try again."

Hannah's eyes widened. The sadness on her face was enough to make Antonin want to scream at the woman to leave the room, but he knew that was only asking for trouble with Thorfinn. He was always protective of the woman he loved, especially when she was in a delicate condition. Besides, he actually liked Hannah and even felt a bit protective of her himself. He usually tried to shield her from his foul moods.

Just as he prepared himself to fly out of the cottage to find some solitude to think over the events of the day and all that Penelope told him in confidence, the healer leaned down to whisper in his ear without making it obvious to the couple by the door.

"You haven't been forgotten, Antonin. None of you on this damned island have."

He used the opportunity to sneak out the front door unimpeded while Penelope asked Hannah several questions about her health. Suspecting she did that on purpose, he was grateful. He wasn't ready to talk to anyone else yet. Not about Hermione's miscarriage which still hadn't fully hit him yet nor about his rude behavior at the meeting.

There was a lot his mind needed to unpack and analyze after his private conversation. It all seemed too good to be true. His suspicious nature kept him from fully believing there were potential allies outside the island sympathetic to their plight. It all seemed too implausible. Maybe Penelope was right. Maybe there really were people who cared, but he would wait for proof before he bought into it. He wasn't quite ready to apologize to Rodolphus just yet.