Author's Notes:

1) This fic serves 2 purposes. 1st as a throwback to my horror roots. There'll be soft moments, and an HEA, but also bloodletting/drinking, elements of dub-con, general spooky/creepy stuff. 2nd is a love letter to my heritage. I spent a lot of time with my Ukrainian great-grandmother before she passed, but I was young. Growing up I regretted that there wasn't the opportunity to learn about our heritage from her. Recently I've been making up for that. I'm fascinated by the folklore & mysticism; realizing how much it all lines up with things I've always been drawn to was eye opening..

2) Because the name Dolohov has a Slavic ring to it, it made the most sense to incorporate him as the male lead in this story. He's often portrayed as Russian, but there's no canon basis for that other than his surname.

Casting Antonin Dolohov as Ukrainian rather than Russian is not any sort of sociopolitical commentary; I've considered writing him as a different Slavic nationality for a while, I'd just not gotten around to it 'til this story started tickling my brain last week; Ukrainian was the logical choice because of my personal connection with the country. My family & I are painfully aware of the current situation there, but fanfiction is a method of escapism, coping, and departure from reality for readers & writers alike, therefore that topic is not open for discussion. Thank you in advance for your understanding.

3) Wizarding Ukraine/Wizarding Lviv will differ from their Muggle counterparts (just as Wizarding Britain/Wizarding London differ from their Muggle counterparts). If there are any language discrepancies, that's totally on me—I'm still learning (literally, according to my log, I've been learning Ukranian for 128 days).

4) The upir (vampire) as exists in this story will both share similarities with, and differ from, its old world mythology.

5) The Book of Veles (claimed to be a text on ancient Slavic religions [religious passages & historical accounts, dating back as early as 7th century BC, interspersed with religious morals] supposedly discovered during an archeological excavation in 1919, and lost again in the 40s; widely believed by scholars to be a forgery) will appear in this story in a fictionalized context.

6) I don't do 'accent writing.' It can be stereotypical, and runs the danger of coming across as mocking to the ethnicity the writer is trying to emulate. If you don't have a reference for what Eastern Slavic accents sound like, a quick & easy google or youtube search can assist. :)


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any affiliated characters, and make no profit in any form from this work.


ONE

13th May, 1998

He stopped, sagging against the stone wall that hugged the border. Bracing an elbow on the rough surface, he leaned his forehead against his arm as he caught his breath. His progress had been slow, a deliberately erratic and unplanned zig-zag of Apparition and on-foot travel, to throw off any aurors who might be trailing him, but he'd finally reached his destination.

Antonin Dolohov let his head fall back, his dark eyes closed as he inhaled deep of the air so well remembered from his childhood. He'd made it. Home. Just beyond the gates between the Wizarding nations of Poland and Ukraine. Though he hardly expected he'd be welcomed with open arms by what was left of his family, it had been so long none would recognize him he was sure, but Wizarding Lviv was nothing if not kind to the weary magical traveler.

Nodding, he peeled himself from the wall and turned toward the gates. He never thought he'd miss the unbidden sounds of the forest that had been spelled centuries ago to hide the gate from unsuspecting Muggles who might happen through this very same wilderness, but now that he was back, those sounds were a soothing sort of chaos.

With one last look over his shoulder—in the direction he calculated Wizarding Britain to be—he nodded again. He could not, would not, return there. They'd have to drag his dead body back before he let himself be captured. His crimes were great and numerous, there was no way a punishment equally severe didn't await him in those damned Isles.

The sun was low in the sky, nightfall would arrive shortly. Perfect timing to find a room at the nearest inn and lay low for another few days, still. Time enough to assure himself he was free. How much had the place changed since he'd last been here, he wondered.

He could smile. Almost. He thought it foolish to let himself until he'd set foot on the other side of the wall. That sort of whimsy—believing yourself safe before you actually were—always got one caught, didn't it?

Taking the last few steps and wrapping his fingers around the cool, pocked bars of the wrought iron gate with all its fanciful twists and curves seemed final, somehow. A sudden weight settled upon him, trickling down his spine and spilling in an uncomfortable tickle beneath the curve of his shoulder blades. Apprehension, perhaps? His gaze fixed on the familiar structures just beyond treeline on the opposite side, sending a wash of relief through him, yet that sensation of blessed levity was weighed down by another, darker, far less buoyant emotion. Yes, apprehension was an unfamiliar enough feeling for him that it made sense he wouldn't recognize it.

With a deep breath, Antonin at last pushed open the gates and stepped through.

He had time enough to close the gates behind him. Time enough to turn back and gaze upon the place of his youth. Time enough for his heart to swell; for the weight of the war—and all the atrocities he'd committed in its name—to begin slipping from his soul.

Time enough to believe freedom within his grasp ….

And then his skin began to sear.

Confused at the burning in his hands, his throat, his cheeks—wherever that fading sunlight struck—he could only gape about in horror for a few heartbeats too long. None of the local villagers were near enough to notice his discomfort, it seemed.

Panic curled in the pit of his stomach. What was this?!

Whirling back to face the gates, he grabbed the bars once more and pulled—maybe if he simply left, this would stop! Yet they would not budge. His skin was beginning to redden, much more of this and he'd blister or worse. Antonin fought to control his breathing, to stymy his confusion as he let his fingers slip from the metal and looked about, desperate for a place to hide.

He couldn't understand—

A hand on his shoulder had him spinning wildly, wand drawn and ready to strike.