Be Selfish

Chapter 4

Two Days Later

Healer Smirnov joyfully spoke to Afon Dolohov nee Romanov for nearly all of the forty-eight hours he'd been here. Leaving only to check on his patient or give him his required potions. It might just be a portrait, with the real man dead and buried over a decade ago. However, it was more than Smirnov had, had in years, and he truly enjoyed catching up with him even if Afon had nothing to say regarding the passing of time and any new memories. A good part of that time was spent catching the wizard up to date on everything. Including what his grandson had been up to. It became clear that Antonin had only used this location for the truce, and hadn't been here since long before he ended up in Azkaban for following the Dark Lord Voldemort.

"Is he still up?" Antonin asked mostly to himself, as he entered the room to see Smirnov sitting in a comfortable chair, a half empty vodka bottle on the table, the tumbler empty. Then he noticed that the elder wizard was actually asleep, head cocked just a little posture entirely relaxed. He bit back whatever he wanted to say.

"He is, I've been told you were in Azkaban," Afon scrutinized his grandson, worry clearly displayed along with a soft love that had not faded, not even in portrait form. "He also told me how long, which I'm having trouble believing unless they've removed the Dementors from Azkaban." Speaking in his natural tongue, which Antonin had learned along with English growing up, a polyglot before he was five.

"The Dementors are still there," Antonin informed him, replying in Afon's first language.

"You've been ignoring me, why?" Afon asked, his tone barely making any effort to hide the hurt he felt.

"You warned me not to get involved, you were right, is that what you want to hear?" Antonin grumbled, not even able to snap at the portrait of the person he'd loved the most of all his family members.

"Not at all, Antonin," Afon chided, "But nobody changes that much without some risky magic being performed. The darkest of arts that only fools dare to dabble in."

"He did," Antonin confessed dryly, crossing his arms, staring at Afon, his grandfather, whom he knew was very rarely ever wrong about anything. He had four different Masteries by the time he was sixty, mostly to give the middle finger (crude as it was) to anyone that dared to think he was lesser because he was a carrier. Something rampant in the UK, the prejudice was unlike anything any they could describe. Whereas in other countries, they were revered, anyone that was a carrier in the UK likely kept their mouths shut to stem off the prejudice. Anything not 'normal' was considered as such. Just like being able to speak Parselmouth and even liking snakes, or anything deemed 'freakish'. Everything had to be cookie cutter perfect, the Mudbloods and Dumbledore were destroying everything.

"And Azkaban?" Afon asked quietly, speaking English in return when Antonin did. It was easy as breathing switching between the languages.

"Fourteen years," Antonin confessed, "Fortunately, the House-elf remained loyal, I was able to sustain a healthy diet, and anything I desired to read at my leisure. Lori placed some sort of ward up that made the Dementors largely…uninterested in me." Unfortunately, he couldn't have risked using Lori to help all his brethren. For if they had been caught…he would have paid the price as well. Which he'd refused to do, especially considering they'd been imprisoned for life. With no hope of ever seeing the outside again.

"And you're still wanted," Afon asked, worry suffusing his voice.

"I'm safe here, they can't get me while I'm living here." Antonin reassured his grandfather.

"How sure are you…" Afon said, clearly wishing to jump out the portrait and protect his grandchild.

"Leave him be," Anton grunted out, "He doesn't need babied." Antonin very heavily resembled his grandfather and father who had all been very tall and on the muscular side. Afon had come up to his husband's chin if he stood on the tip of his toes. He also had the same type of personality, Afon would suffer fools gladly looking for something decent underneath. While Anton would rather kill than suffer any type of fool. Antonin though had charm and was quite happy to interact with others, and sit with friends for days on end, Anton wouldn't have tolerated that.

"You're never told of for guidance from family," Afon protested with an impish grin, "I recall you needing my guidance a few times after insulting the wrong people."

Anton cleared his throat, "Not the same thing," he said gruffly, but his gaze was one of wonder, he always wondered how he'd managed to ensnare such a wonderful wizard. He could have had anyone he wanted in the world. Absolutely anyone, sheikhs would have paid their fortunes to have him, Kings giving up their crowns and jewels for a night with him.

Antonin watched them with a fond smile on his face. It still hurt, their death, but he had a little piece of them back. It was better than nothing, really. His parents hadn't made portraits, the first of the Dolohov's in generations to opt out so to speak. He reckoned he wouldn't either, but then again, it was likely he'd be the last Dolohov. There wasn't even a cousin branch to take over, at least none that he was aware of.

"We can talk later," Afon insisted, turning back to his grandchild, the only one he had, his other children hadn't had babies of their own. It was perhaps why he'd cherished Antonin so much. "Did you take the potion to help the after effects of exposure to Dementors?"

"I did," Antonin reassured him, despite his worries that had prevailed for the past few days.

"And the others? Your friends?" Afon queried.

Antonin grimaced, there were only a few of his generation left, some had managed to elude capture. Others had died within the confines of Azkaban Prison and were buried in a pit instead of giving a proper burial. "I'll send them to the Dark Lord, as soon as they're made." The potion took seven months to brew. The steps for it were very complex. Only Masters of their craft could brew this and give it the concentration it requires. It was a very hefty sum but considering he hadn't touched his vaults in over a decade he had more than enough with his investments and all. He had two different accounts, estates, Romanov after his grandfather, kept those accounts separate, and in separate countries, so he had money if the Ministry succeeded in gaining control over the Dolohov estate.

Not that they would, if they did, they would face a civil war with the likes they'd never seen before. It wouldn't be against goblins; it would be literally everyone against the Ministry. Regardless of their side against the so called 'light' or 'dark' which was utter nonsense really, it didn't exist. It was just Mudbloods getting their wires crossed when someone has a light or grey (most people called it dark) cores. Magical cores which gave indication of which magic they will find easier. That's if they could force the goblins to relinquish their control. Which they wouldn't, not without a fight.

It wasn't something that was found out until third or fourth year now. That's if Hogwarts even still did the class where you learnt about it. Given the decline of the education (where a sixteen-year-old boy who was nearly a man didn't know about vows and oaths) he doubted it.

Something else to enquire about with Potter, if the boy ever woke up before the week was up. Better or not, he was oathbound to return him to that blasted park in Surry. Admittedly there was nothing saying he couldn't leave with him again but Parley only worked once between two wizards.

He wouldn't abduct the boy, sighing softly, terribly frustrated and worried against his better judgement.

"Antonin? What's the matter?" Afon questioned, "Tell me and let me see if I can help." Pressing his hand against his husband's mouth to stop the words he knew instinctively that would come. He was always getting on at him for smothering their children and their grandson. He didn't mean it, Afon knew, since Anton had secretly moved being fussed over at least by him.

"Does it have anything to do with the kid that's here?" Anton asked, giving his grandson a knowing look. Antonin was more like him than his own sons and daughters had been. It's perhaps why they got on so well.

"What did you hear?" Afon asked, entirely befuddled, "And when?"

"I overheard the initial consultation between Antonin and the healer as well as the kid, who might I add was unconscious for the duration." Anton explained.

"Antonin?" Afon demanded, he'd never tolerate anyone harming a child, he'd raised his children and grandchildren to have the same ethics. "Did you have a child out of wedlock?" unlike normal reactions, Afon looked so hopeful that Antonin hated dashing his hopes.

"I did not," Antonin declared, he couldn't do the family disservice of having a bastard child. Never mind a bastard child raised away from the Dolohov family. The blood bound family tree would have informed him if anyone of his blood had been born and he unaware. It was nowhere near as impressive as the Black's used to be. Mostly since the Dolohov family had always been rather small. "He is Heir Harry Potter; we were meant to be parlaying."

"The boy barely looks a day over thirteen, fourteen at a push, not sixteen he's been abused." Anton declared, a scowl that ended all scowls on his face. He abhorred abuse, his own parents had abused him and his sister. They'd both turned out vastly different. He'd never forget turning his parents' ire onto him to save his little sister again and again and again. The second he'd been of age he was gone and he'd taken his sister with him. To this day he'd never spoken to them, or their portraits. Abuse was rare, especially in the magical world (likely because their community was vastly smaller) but it does happen. At least once every generation, but for the most part, magical children were revered.

Antonin scowled darkly, "Yes," in agreement, the evidence could not be refuted. He was still reeling over that information and baffled to the core. Why the hell would the boy want to save the Muggles who abused him? Who didn't notice the signs and do something about it? The boy truly was a mystery, but one never really knows what the other is thinking. He did notice that the boy hadn't even taken on his heirship. Potter Senior had that this point, bragging to everyone who would listen if Abraxas' natters could be remembered properly.

"You take care of him, you hear me?" Anton declared firmly, a look in his eye that screamed trauma plain and simple. Relaxing into his husband's hold, the memories were something he'd long ago learned to live with. It was likely not the best of ways to deal with trauma, but it's the only way he knew how. Not even his husband knew everything his parents had done to him and his sister, who hadn't had children too afraid of turning out like her parents and a squib so often ignored as his sister in society. His husband though, his sheer presence helped him in ways he'd never be able to explain to another person.

It was what it was.

"That will be up to him," Antonin said, shrugging his shoulders in an almost helpless manner. He couldn't force someone to change sides or become neutral. Which he considered unlikely, given all he'd heard about the boy. His grandparents wouldn't know a single thing about Potter, other than Charlus and Fleamont of course. Not James and definitely not Harry Potter.

"He just needs someone to take his side, to be with him, and that loyalty…is unbreakable." Afon told Antonin. "Use it well." The Slytherin in him coming to the fore.

Antonin smirked wryly, "Doubtful, the damage has likely already been done. He likely considers me nothing but a dirty rotten 'Death Eater'." Sneering the words in distaste, he hated the damn words, he could strangle the damn journalists for coming up with it. It had been done to make them seem worse than they were and they'd succeeded. He doubted a lot of people even remembered their original name, Knights of the Walpurgis. He wouldn't be surprised if Dumbledore had his hand in that too.

"Then try again," Anton told him, solemn, "But don't use it against him, for once that loyalty is lost, it's lost forever. We do not forgive and forget, at least most of us don't." acknowledging he didn't know the boy, or every single child abused.

Antonin's gaze flickered to his grandfather, or more accurately grandpa, Anton had always been grandpa and Afon grandfather. His eyes darkening as he remembered the Mudbloods words or derision about them. It was pure luck he hadn't been expelled, Dumbledore hadn't had the power he had and he'd received detention before even attending a single class. That had truly begun his very real, and very vehement hatred of Mudbloods.

"I'll do my best," Antonin but he didn't hold out much hope. He didn't blame his grandparents for not realizing, after all they didn't know the current situation in the UK at the moment. It was his fault for not revealing everything, he'd been too caught up in just how damn sick Potter was…with watchers in the area.

Watchers that hadn't noticed him at that.

Antonin's gave moved back to Smirnov, and he silently decided to leave him there instead of waking him up. He did wave his hand a beam of magic shot into the chair, and that slowly and meticulously began to shift form, until Smirnov was lying down on a bed. He was much too old to be sitting on a chair, he'd wake up (especially after drinking) with a hangover as it is without the full body ache of sleeping in the chair.

He waved his hand again as he left the room, and a cover floated over to the sleeping wizard and lay across him.

Antonin rolled his shoulders, relaxing his body, tiredness beginning to make itself known. He'd not stopped moving for the past two days, finding out everything he could about Heir Harry Potter. Everything, even the most absurd rumours, in the Muggle world he was detested and feared by children in the magical world he was revered and surprisingly there were no rumours about Potter. There were about the teachers, Quirrell had an open missing person case, Lockhart was in St. Mungo's. The students that had attended Hogwarts with Potter had a lot of rumours to tell him. However, he knew how rumours could get within Hogwarts walls, so distorted like a game of Chinese whispers. In other words, by the time they made their way around the school it was entirely obfuscated.

There was only one person who could confirm or deny what had happened.

Also, he'd been getting the Daily Prophet, and keeping his ear to the ground, there wasn't even a single hint about Potter being missing.

Some watchers he had; Antonin had thought derisively.

He moved through the property, which was an old monastery, fifteenth century. Everything inside had been changed to suit the family's desires, except the frescos. Which were, he had to admit, were one of a kind. The property was more of a compound, but the outer buildings hadn't been used for a long time. The weather was freezing here, 2 degrees compared to how sunny it was at the moment in London (30 degrees) but the cold weather never touched the inside of the property which was always warm.

While he was making his way to the Master quarters, he heard small sounds coming from the purple room. Which was just a few doors down from his own sleeping quarters. Or more accurately two doors from his own there were two 'heir' rooms and then it went on to family rooms then guest rooms and so on and so forth.

Antonin opened the door, and found the boy was still asleep, but shifting uneasily in his sleep. The covers had been kicked off since he was last checked on. No surprise, Harry had quite the fever, and the potions he was on likely didn't help matters. It wasn't dangerous levels but it was concerning enough. Sighing softly, Antonin sat himself down on the chair next to the bed, reaching over he took the cloth and dunked it into the ice-cold water, partially wrung it out, before pressing it against his forehead.

Fatigued and glazed green eyes blinked open, staring at Antonin in a particularly baffled manner. "How are you feeling, Potter?" Antonin asked the boy, it rung of repetition. Which was true, he had asked the boy that every time he opened his eyes, he'd yet to get an answer. He doubted very much one would be given this time.

"Hurts," the boy grunted, turning a little clearly uncomfortable and in pain.

"It will," Antonin told him, "The Healer removed seventy-nine of your bones which are currently being regrown with Skele-grow." They could give him nothing for the pain, so the Healer had put the strongest sleeping spell he knew on the boy. Just to try and keep him asleep through the agony of having his bones regrown.

"Didn't hurt this much 'fore," came Harry's garbled reply.

"You've had Skele-grow before?" Antonin asked, Healer Smirnov may have a complete history of Harry's medical health. It didn't mean he had any knowledge of it, which he didn't, Potter hadn't given permission. All he knew was how many bones were currently being repaired and that he hadn't had all his inoculations as a child. Not even the Muggle ones (which he knew were free in the UK) so it was sheer malice and spite that his relatives hadn't ensured his safety.

"S'nd year," Harry fuzzily informed him, "Lockhart removed my bones…" sniggering softly, recalling what happened. "Arm flopped around like a dying fish." Feeling too lazy to demonstrate. It was funny now, but it hadn't been at the time.

Antonin's lips twitched, "I can imagine." Genuinely amused, "Why did he remove your bones?" a demonstration gone wrong? But he was the Defence teacher not a healer, and only healers would need to use that spell. It was rare too, since it was more common to use a potion or spell to heal a break, not regrow entire arms worth of spells.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Harry whispered dramatically, or what looked to be dramatically, it was just Harry drugged out of his gourd. Between the Skele-grow and the spells it would have that sort of affect. Hand flapping in a come closer gesture.

Antonin watched the boy like he was some sort of extremely rare and fascinating creature he hadn't seen or interacted with before. Leaning forward, he murmured, "Go ahead," he probably shouldn't, the kid had no control over his faculties. Although, the likelihood of it having any meaning was unlikely.

"It was awesome!" he chirped jerking the wizard forward further by his robes, "I could actually write without it hurting." Dreamily wiggling his fingers and waving his hand back and forth, seemingly delighted and utterly entertained.

"How did your hand originally get hurt?" Antonin asked, slowly but firmly removing the boy's hand from his robes. Lori – his house-elf – had done wonders on the clothes that Harry had been wearing originally, giving him something long in both arms and legs, comfortable and warm to wear. It had been cleaned with magic dozens of times the amount of sweating the boy had done. The spells only went so far. He needed a bath, proper clean and new clothes.

All of which would be accomplished when the boy could stand on his own. His privacy had been…he wouldn't use the term violated…but it came close. He had ordered a healer to get a full reading of his medical history without his consent. He still didn't know it all and the healer wouldn't reveal anything else without Harry's permission…and he hadn't been seen in any improper undress but again, his back had been bared (even if it was just his back) to get rid of the puss from his infection.

It was for this reason he was propped up nearly on his side, to take any strain off his back. Pillows helped prop him up and keep him as comfortable as possible. It was practically a nest of pillows with thread counts that would turn the Dursley's green with envy.

"I burnt breakfast, my uncle smacked the heavy and hot pot right on my hand took weeks to heal." Harry slurred as he spoke, and in his exhaustion his eyes closed.

"What age were you?" Antonin asked, thrumming with angry energy, no wizard deserved to be treated like that.

Hazy green eyes opened, "My seventh birthday," he told him, "Always hurt me worse on my birthday." He added, before unconsciousness claimed him, the spell gently easing him under, he was better for it. The pain from re-growing his bones would be immense, especially given his weakened state due to the blood poisoning.

There we go! I had wanted to give Dolohov a title, one that was recognized by the Muggle world you know, I just sort of want the Dursley's to die green with envy over Harry's status, and the Dursley's if they'd treated Harry right they could have revelled in the high society and the Dursley's who are social climbers would have enjoyed their time at the top…that's if they live long enough…how long can you see them lasting when Dolohov has the full picture? 😉 ooo so much fun! Unfortunately, I think I've killed them so often I'm not sure there's a way for them to go that's new 😊 I shall enjoy the challenge of finding something different for them but in the meantime I so want to write a few scenes with them so envious over Harry's high status 😉 yeah I'm nuts still haven't decided whether Harry will be neutral or dark though I mean Harry's steadily going darker in the contact I mean he basically ordered someone's death and still came off innocent 😉 still need to remember how I did that haha! 😊 so yeah, I'm not sure I've had him stay neutral…well, that's it for tonight it's late so bye guys! R&R please