AN: Hello! So the updates in the next 3 weeks may not be on Sunday, because I have scuba diving and finals coming up. So they may be a little late. Thank you Creamsodafloat for the review! :) I'm glad that I got Crouch right, when I first wrote him he kinda sounded like Ross Mathews, who I so love, but I do not feel that Crouch would actually talk this way. A huge thank you to Christie for editing this and also adding some more to the Paris bit. :)
Hope everybody likes this chapter also!
Also please review and tell me what you think :)
JKR wrote the Harry Potter universe, I own nothing. No infringement intended.
I woke up in Antonin's bedroom for me a little before midday, from what I could tell from the skylight above me. I sat up and looked around; I was still being held captive. At least they are treating me well, I thought. It had already been 9 days, but living with Antonin definitely took some getting used to. He was usually out and had my other keeper and his good friend, Karkaroff, watch me then. Who knows how I could have escaped, however, since the flat did not seem to have an exit. There was a mysterious wall tucked away in the dining hall that had a picture which reminded me of Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. Maybe they came and went out of it. My captors appeared and disappeared at will and with no warning. One moment I would be doing something with one of my captors and then the next moment he would be gone and I would be alone with the other, like the first day in the library. There I'd been, sitting and talking with Crouch and then suddenly he was gone and Antonin was in his place. Generally, however, the days in the flat had been without incident. I spent most of the days just reading in my room, eager to escape Karkaroff.
Antonin had left for a week leaving me with Karkaroff. He wasn't that bad, he didn't put me through an inquisition like Crouch did. He barely spoke, actually. Perhaps he didn't know much English, with that Russian name. At any rate, he was creepier than Crouch. I would always find him watching me whenever I was around him. His vocabulary was limited to little more than grunts. A caveman would have had better conversational skills. When Karkaroff wasn't watching me he usually was reading some newspaper that had pictures of people flying around on brooms.
The usual routine was Karkaroff and I ate breakfast and read, ate lunch then read some more. I kept to myself and he to himself. There were times that I rather missed Crouch's inquisition; anything would have been more interesting than Karkaroff. Still, I was alive. That was something. Beggars can't be choosers. Even though I was being held captive they did treat me fairly well. Today's routine wasn't much different from the others, but I woke to find Crouch was my keeper of the day, he picked up where he'd left off, full of inquisitions. This time it was more about my likes and interests. Over the course of the morning I had also learned a bit more about him. It was much easier to talk to Crouch. It was odd but encouraging that Crouch acted more like a friend than a prison guard. But I didn't see the point in them keeping me; they had some magical creature, a horrid little house elf called Pavi, who took care of cleaning and cooking, every once in a while. So I wasn't there as a maid... And I thanked my stars daily that they weren't using me for any other form of entertainment. Their exact reason for kidnapping me was still unknown.
In mid-afternoon we were interrupted by Antonin, who strolled back in from his week away. Crouch looked up at him, their eyes meeting for a brief second. When their moment broke, Crouch jumped up as is he was scared and disapparated with a crack. If I didn't know any better I would say that they could read each other's minds.
"Would you get me some water?" Antonin said gruffly to nobody in particular. I got up and to get him some figuring that I might as well make myself useful, returning to find Pavi had already done so and had added a plate of food. Pavi glared up at me with his shriveled face as if he was laughing that he beat me to it. He then shuffled back to the crevasse from where he'd crawled. Pavi didn't care for people—magical or Muggle-or for any activity that wouldn't naturally happen in an abandoned house. Nonetheless, he was a curious creature and it didn't seem as if he'd been around many humans. He found my sleeping habits particularly interesting to observe. I found this out by waking up in the middle of my third night here to him standing over me with his nose almost touching mine. Needless to say, he unnerved me, but since he was clearly under Antonin's thumb, I didn't fear him inordinately.
"So how was it? I asked Antonin, returning to my seat.
"What?" he asked looking at me.
"Your trip." I said trying to get information out of him. Knowing where he had been and why he had left for a week might be interesting. If he had been to see people about a slave market I would rather know now and try to escape rather than find out the day I was sold.
"Oh yes, the trip, fine," He returned with little interest. He picked up Crouch's newspaper. I had glanced at it earlier in the day; it was full of stories about somebody who had been terrorizing people in London for a while. People had gone missing and were being killed left and right. I noticed the date in the top corner of the paper, July 20, 1979. It struck me just how long I had been gone, I had been counting days, but seeing the date made it much more real. I wonder how long I will be here.
"Well, do you want to get out of here for a while? We still have a few hours before dark," he asked in a bored tone, tossing the paper back onto the table. I was shocked that he had asked at all. Seeing my look he added, "I'm not letting you go, but if you want to go out for a walk or go out and do something we can."
"Sure," I replied, eager to get out of his flat and feel the air on my face. I wondered exactly how we were going to get out since he didn't have a door. He motioned me over to him and he took my hand in his. There was a jerking feeling like I had been sucked up into a spaceship. Then, paying attention to the swirls around me, I saw a spinning city and realized from the architecture that we landed in a back alley in what looked like Paris.
"You OK?" He asked.
"Yeah, but I may need to sit down for a bit. My head feels like it's going to explode." I sat down with my back against the stone wall, and focused on my breathing.
"That's fine, take your time. I'm surprised you haven't thrown up," he said with a smile and sat down next to me. We sat there without speaking for a few minutes, and he actually patted my back in a soothing way a few times. I didn't know what to think. Were we on a date in Paris?
When I was feeling better Antonin helped me back up, and carefully adjusted his jacket a bit. His move reminded me of the old western movies where the lone gunman shows some poor hapless slob the hidden gun and asks if him if he is feeling lucky, but with Antonin it wasn't a gun. It was his wand, and despite his apparent care for me after apparating, I was not feeling lucky. I don't know much about magic but my captor didn't strike me as the type to pull rabbits out of hats and make flowers appear. No, the magic he would do would be much more sinister.
"Are you ready?" he asked smiling down at me. I nodded. He put his arm around my shoulder, leading me out of the alley's shadow and into the sun. The street wasn't busy; only a few cars and bicycles whizzed by. We walked along and made our way into some shops, like a normal couple. We even wandered into an elegant park with gravel paths and statues and little ponds. Antonin seemed to unwind, talking about other times he'd been to Paris, keeping the conversation formal. Apparently, he'd attended a quidditch tournament there some years ago and he entertained me with tales of levitating up the side of the Eiffel Tower and floating down the Seine on top of the tourist barges. Quidditch was the game on brooms Karkaroff seemed to enjoy like boys in my hometown enjoyed rugby.
We bought some clever French rolls and ripe fruit from a sidewalk grocer. Antonin spoke French, though how well I could not tell. We strolled around enjoying the evening, eventually ending up back at the park with the statues and ponds. After a while we made our way to a restaurant that he said was good. During dinner I looked into his eyes and remembered looking into them on the first day we met, before I was his captive. He just looked back at me—I couldn't tell with what emotion. Once he squeezed my hand at some witticism, which startled me. While looking at his eyes I couldn't help but to notice just how beautiful they were. I was never one to appreciate eyes, sure people commented on the interesting light blue green color of mine, but I always wrote them off. His eyes were different they lit up when he talked and had gentle creases at the corner when he smiled.
After dinner he suggested that we go to the Museum d'Orsay, which had late hours that day. He pointed out some of his favorite artists, telling me about some of the paintings. He turned out to be quite an art enthusiast, which didn't surprise me since at this flat he had a whole wall of Picassos and even a Degas or two. In one gallery in the museum we saw a Renoir of a country couple dancing and I thought, sadly, how lucky they were. No dancing for Antonin and me. Just an informal evening in Paris, walking around like strangers in this city of love. Then after a few more strolls through these inspiring works, Antonin seemed to have had enough. Politely but firmly, he led me out of the museum and back to the alley. We apparated back to his flat, where we looked through some of his paintings. One of them, a huge one along one whole wall of his living room, struck me.
"Is this one by Picasso? It looks similar to Guernica," I noted. As much as I'd liked my evening in Paris and the chance to see world-class art at the museum, I preferred the paintings in Antonin's flat. Paintings usually just sit there, being whatever they are going to be, but Antonin's moved and occasionally spoke to you.
"Yes, but this is Guernica. All of my paintings are originals." He said this, never looking away from the painting. The bull leapt up, the hanging light bulb swayed, the man on the floor writhed and howled. The images in the painting shook as if a bomb nearby exploded.
"How could they be real all of these are on display in major museums," I asked. How could he have Guernica, one of the most famous paintings, in his dining hall? He walked away from me at the question continuing his tour until he stopped to admire a sad looking woman drinking in a bar by herself. She occasionally wiped her eyes, and the barman shouted at her to hurry up and leave.
"I copied them, took the originals and left the fakes. The Muggle authorities have never noticed," he added with a smirk. The painting of the woman at the bar seemed to be his favorite of all of his pieces. This did nothing to improve my mood, despite the trip to Pairs earlier in the evening. Looking at him admiring the painting, I suddenly realized that all of his pieces seemed to have the same reoccurring patterns and themes: death, destruction, and suffering.
AN: Some of Dolohov's paintings: Salvador Dali's Tristan and Isolde and Visage of War, George Grosz's The Pit, and Edgar Degas' Absinthe Drinker, He also has the 1934 unknown (Supposedly Picasso's but his estate claims it isn't his, but I think it is)
Hope you liked it and please read and review :)