Antonin stood in a crowd of fellow Death Eaters, waiting in an anxious silence. The Dark Lord sat in the front of the room, looking perfectly oblivious to the impatience of his subordinates.

At last, two masked and hooded figures entered the darkened room, the candlelight giving their silver masks an even more eery aspect than usual. The girl between them sagged unconscious. She had a spectacular black eye blooming on her face, and both she and the Death Eaters flanking her had rips and burns on their clothing that indicated a fierce fight had taken place. Her hair curled wildly at all angles, fierce and untamed. Her muggle jeans and cheery jumper could not have been more out of place in the room of black-robed figures.

As they approached the waiting circle of hooded figures, her captors flung her to the ground before the Dark Lord's feet. She fell on her side, limp as a rag doll, and skidded a few feet. One of them drew a wand and barked, "Ennervate."

She looked around groggily for a moment before shaking her head as if to clear it. She climbed to her feet with a defiant gleam in her eye and stood straight-backed and proud. She licked her bloody bottom lip experimentally, but said nothing.

Voldemort rose languidly to his feet and narrowed his eyes,

"It is customary to bow in the presence of your Lord," he hissed.

The girl's facial expression didn't change.

"Fuck you," she replied.

There was a collective gasp from the circle of Death Eaters, but Voldemort only smiled.

"Crucio," he whispered.

She fell to the ground convulsing, but to the surprise of the Death Eaters watching, she endured the agony without making a sound. After several long seconds, the white bone wand lifted. The girl staggered to her feet, swaying dangerously, but managing to right herself.

Under his mask, Antonin Dolohov raised his eyebrows. Maybe some of the rumors about this slip of a girl were true after all.

Voldemort turned to the assembled Death Eaters with a smirk, "You'll certainly have your hands full with this one, Dolohov."

Antonin groaned inwardly, but stepped forward nonetheless. He knelt stiffly, barely inclining his head.

Alright," came Voldemort's high, clear voice, gesturing for him to get up "We have things to attend to. Get up and let's get this done."

"And you're sure she's Pure, my Lord?" asked Dolohov, his eyes narrowing at the girl who was about to be his problem.

"Positive," said Voldemort in annoyance, "Take her arm."

"Now?"

"No, Tuesday. Yes, now Dolohov!" snapped Voldemort.

"My Lord, this is hardly the tradition of my house," Antonin replied stiffly, looking over her critically.

He didn't have much interest in marriage in the first place, but there were certain customs and traditions that should be observed for propriety's sake. He was sure that no Dolohov had ever gotten married to a woman wearing whatever those awful skintight muggle pants were, and definitely not sporting a shapeless knitted potato sack, in some horrible maroon color. No Dolohov had been married without his relatives and Blood-brothers in attendance.

Then again, no Dolohov had been stupid enough to get involved with a Dark Lord before either.

"Well you're not in Russia. And you should be thanking me for gifting you with a Pureblood bride. Of, course… if you are ungrateful for that which your Lord gives you-"

"Of course not, my Lord. I beg your pardon", Antonin said quickly, scenting the dangerous edge in Voldemort's voice. This might be a slap in the face to tradition, but he certainly wasn't about to be killed over a few wedding customs.

He reached out and grabbed her forearm, anger making his grip unnecessarily tight. It would serve her right if she had bruises- why did the little chit have to go and get herself captured anyway? To his intense frustration, she tried to shake him off. Did she not understand that by rights she should be dead on the floor already? Her true parents may have been purebloods, but she was still a blood traitor of the worst sort.

He gave her a shake and growled, "Take my arm or die."

To his shock, she spat back "I'd like that. It's certainly beat marrying you,"

Was she a complete fool? The Dark Lord was already losing patience, and very soon he would simply let the Death Eaters tear her limb from limb. Antonin's eyes searched the woman's face for a moment, wondering if she really was ready to end her life. Suddenly, something hit her hard in the back and she lurched into him.

Reflex made him shove her back, but he tightened his grip on her forearm as it appeared for a moment that she might overbalance and fall over from the force of his shove.

"Simmer down over there" he snapped at the crowd of Death Eaters pressed closely behind them in an ever-tightening circle. Did those pigs have no sense of decency at all? Why in Ragnar's name had he become involved with this group of imbeciles at all?

With a roll of his blue eyes, Antonin returned his gaze to the small witch in front of him. She had righted herself and was glaring furiously at him as though it had been he who hexed her. Well, if she wanted to get herself killed that was her own affair.

Antonin raised an eyebrow at her, daring her to defy him again.

She narrowed her eyes, but at last took a deep breath and clasped his forearm. Ignatius Rookwood stepped forward and began the ceremony.

Antonin went through the motions of the ceremony as if he were in a dream, and in no time was walking out of the hall, still dragging his new bride by the arm.

Oh god, his bride, he thought numbly as they disapparated. What the bloody hell was he supposed to do with a wife?

He felt a mad urge to laugh as he dragged her across the doorway of the Manor. This was a bit different to the way he'd imagined entering his marital life. He'd always had a vague imagine in his head of carrying a beautiful bride in a white dress carefully across the doorway of his ancestral home. Instead he was dragging an irate, bloody heathen girl.

He opened the door of his bedroom forcefully and pushed her inside. He hovered for a moment at the doorway, suddenly feeling awkward, as she stumbled across the room and pushed off the bed. To his surprise, he was visited by the urge to laugh again as she sprung up, ready to fight. How could this tiny thing think to take him on without even a wand?

"Oh, you are a hellcat," he said, feeling a bit of grudging respect. He'd expected her to cower or beg, not try to jump him. When she flinched and crouched into a fighting stance, he realized with a shock she was expecting him to try to rape her. What the hell did she think of him?

"We will not be fighting tonight, I do not take women against their will. I am from an honorable house," he stated angrily.

She snorted. Rage swept over Antonin again, hot and white. How dare this blood traitor insult his house- Did she think him some common thug?

"I am serious, little one," he growled, "You are my wife. I will do you no injury."

She didn't move, clearly not believing a word he said. He threw his arms up in frustration and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door so hard it rattled in the frame. Once inside, he sunk down on the edge of the tub and put his head in his hands. He couldn't believe he was stuck with this woman for the rest of his life. She was already shaping up to be a real annoyance. She clearly had no respect for his House, or for him. After taking several deep, calming breaths he finally rose and began to wash his face.

Although Antonin had slept around the Death Eater ranks a fair amount when he was younger, he had never gotten particularly close with any of his sexual partners. He'd never even brought a fling back to his chambers. His commitment-phobia was actually a bit of a running joke among his friends, so the idea of marriage on the surface didn't exactly appeal to him. It wasn't helping that the hellcat he was shackled to didn't seem intent on making anything easy.

As he washed his face, Antonin reflected that perhaps he was being a bit unfair to her. After all, he had tried to kill her. Twice. That would make most people suspicious. Maybe once he'd changed out of his Death Eater robes she'd be more willing to talk sensibly, or at least show a little respect.

To Antonin's surprise, when he left the bathroom some ten minutes later, Hermione was dead asleep on the bed. She was still fully clothed, her legs hanging off the side. Antonin paused, unsure what to do.

Should he get in bed with her? It seemed a bit creepy, but then again she was his wife. Should he put pajamas on her? Definitely creepy. Finally he decided to put her in the bed still in her clothes and get in next to her. After all, husbands and wives did traditionally share a bed, and Mopsy could change the sheets tomorrow.

He lifted her gently, anxious of her reaction should she wake up in his arms. She weighed almost nothing, and didn't even stir at being picked up. He supposed that she was truly spent, and the thought struck him that she had probably expected to be killed today. Coming down from an adrenaline rush like that could be positively exhausting. A wave of protectiveness swept over him, taking him by surprise. He put it down to his possessive nature, since she was technically his wife now, refusing to believe that the death of this fierce little thing would bother him for any other reason.

Antonin tucked her carefully under the covers, and swept a curl gently off of her face. He winced as the extent of the bruising on her face was revealed. Summoning a pot of Snape's best bruise slave, he worked it gently over her face, determined not to wake her. As an afterthought, he hit her with a cleaning charm too.

He was again surprised to notice that she was actually quite pretty without all the blood caking her face. With a sigh, Antonin climbed in next to her and rolled over, staring at the wall for a very long time indeed before sleep finally found him.