Chapter one

I've known Antonin Dolohov for as long as I can remember, probably longer than that. He's about a year older than me- the same age as Amycus.

Our mothers encouraged friendships among us, in the way all pureblooded mothers try and bring their children together from an early age. Most of the time, he and my brother would chase me through the garden, or else steal my dolls and then laugh about it. I would respond accordingly. Most of my early memories are of pinching him or having him pull my hair.

Amycus, I remember, used to tease me about being unable to say Antonin's name properly. When I was two, just barely talking, he became "Tin-Tin". Our mothers, delighted that I'd at least acknowledged him (I typically didn't give anyone a second glance; I was rather aloof and antisocial as a small child), didn't even bother to correct me. Usually, I was reprimanded for poor speech- but with him, somehow, it was alright. I'm almost positive that was why I never really hated him as a child, even when he tormented me. When he was around, I never got in quite as much trouble for acting up as I would have otherwise.

The first time I truly felt anger toward him was when I was three. He had just passed his fourth birthday, and had been given- for some absolutely ridiculous reason- a little box with a flame in it that would only burn what the holder wished for it to. His parents probably intended for it to be a learning experience, or maybe they were just nurturing his sadistic nature, or maybe he'd stolen it and used the 'birthday present' story as an excuse.

Regardless, it was with that little green flame that he burned my favourite doll. I smelled the ruined toy before I saw it, a little heap of ash in the middle of our play room rug- back in those days, Amycus and I both had bedrooms branching off the nursery, and so the main room was a bit of a common space where we both kept our playthings. And there was Antonin, kneeling over the rubbish and looking entirely pleased.

I cried for an hour. My mother told me to keep my door shut until I was finished "behaving improperly"; I cried right through my lunchtime and emerged later into the hallway, extremely hungry. To my surprise- and what little fury a toddler can manage- I nearly immediately ran into my nemesis, who grinned a sickeningly self-satisfied grin at me, daring me to do anything.

"You broke Darla," I accused. His grin broadened.

"Did you see my light-box?" He acted casually, as if he'd done nothing wrong. I felt tempted to cry again.

"You broke her," I insisted, my mind as one tracked as his was cruel.

"No, I burned her. The difference," he informed me, sounding almost too refined for his age, "is that you can't fix it once it's burned."

"Go home, Tin-Tin," my wavering voice commanded, and I turned back into my room and slammed the door. To this day, his cruel laughter is still hauntingly loud in my ears.

---

It wasn't always like that, though. By the time I was eight, I'd begun to admire him from afar- I'd watch him and Amycus race around on their toy broomsticks, and bring them lemonade in the courtyard while never really getting involved in their games. At my age, it was becoming less advised for a proper young witch to play with young wizards. Instead, we'd sit around the table for lunch together in order to "associate" before they ran back outside to play. I typically sat at the window inside and watched them enviously.

Sometimes, he and Amycus would come inside and invite me to play Gobstones; they always cheated and teased me, but I put up with it, just for the chance to observe the sadistic enigma that was Antonin Dolohov.

Through watching him when he came to our house, or else accompanying my mother to visit his, I learned many things about him. He didn't like chocolate, was only kind when he really wanted something from you, and knew basically everything when it came to magic- he even would snatch his mother's wand and practice spells behind her back sometimes. I found out that he smelled like cinnamon and rain and grass all at the same time, that his smiles- not smirks, but true smiles- were rare and incredible and beautiful all at once, and that he didn't eat when he was nervous.

Of course, my observations were entirely between myself and my diary, which I kept foolishly until the summer when I had my ninth birthday and decided that such things were childish. If Antonin was to believe me grown up, I would have to be more mature.

It was just my luck that my parents threw me a lovely party for that birthday; all the decent Purebloods around my age as well as numerous relatives I'd never met were invited. My mother had given me a lovely blue set of dress robes, which I wore proudly. I even had my makeup and hair done, which I'd never really been concerned about before.

After the celebratory meal was eaten, and music began to play, Antonin approached me. I hadn't seen him enter, despite the fact that my eyes had been darting to the entryway compulsively for the entire evening, and so I was surprised- though not at all opposed to his presence.

"Alecto," he greeted, with a slight bow. I inclined my head to him tersely, despite the fact that I was eager to converse, to tap into the great mystery that was the mind of Antonin Dolohov. He smirked slightly, as though he had some secret that I'd never be let in on. "Care to accompany me to the garden?" He extended one hand to me, in which I placed my own as I stood, feeling adrenaline pulsing through my body.

"Alright," I replied, sounding far more childlike and eager than I'd hoped. His smirk broadened, and he lead me outside, both of us in complete silence.

We sat on a stone bench among the rose bushes, which were in full bloom- my mother took particular pride in her botany charms, and most of our flowers blossomed year-round. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, his features illuminated only by the faint light of the full moon above us. I could hear distantly music coming from the house, but for all intensive purposes, we were alone.

He didn't speak for a moment, though he did drop my hand, which I hadn't realized he'd still been holding in the first place. Finally, he muttered, quietly, "Happy birthday." It sickened me how, for all the world, he sounded as though that were his only reason for having me accompany him out there.

"Thanks," I replied quietly.

"You looked a bit miserable back there, you know," he informed me, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. I frowned.

"This is my party. If all you're going to do is insult the way I look--"

"No, no," he interrupted. "I just was wondering if your parents were the ones who made the guest list."

Pursing my lips, I gave him a calculating look. Why did that even matter in the first place? "Yeah. You're here, after all, aren't you?" I shot back. He didn't even look remotely wounded by my remark; a smirk played at the edges of his mouth.

"Harsh words, Ally, mean nothing to me." I hated how self-assured he was, how his eyes seemed to read my very thoughts, how his voice was soft and smooth and sophisticated like mine had never been. And yet, for all that hatred, I couldn't help but admire his composure, how he seemed capable, with a mere glance, of controlling me...

Quickly, I averted my eyes from his. "What do you want, anyway?"

With a soft chuckle, he reached and touched the side of my face, very lightly. "Ah, Ally... I'm not blind, you know; nor am I stupid."

I bit my lip, struggling to keep from making eye contact. "Antonin, what-"

"You're such a darling girl," he told me smoothly, his whole hand spreading over the side of my face, his thumb running over my cheekbone. "Thinking I wouldn't notice how you watched me, how you're always pining after me."

"It's not pining!" I protested. He laughed.

"Of course not. As it is, though, your brother would no doubt have quite a bit to say about your little crush were he to find out."

"But he won't," I sharply countered, as threatening as a little girl could possibly be. His fingers were playing with one of the curls that had been charmed into my hair for the evening; he seemed not to hear me. "He won't," I repeated.

"Won't he?" he chuckled, obviously amused at my attempt to be threatening. His hand fell back to his side. "And why not?"

"Because... because..." I faltered. "Because you're going to keep it secret as my birthday present."

"I might," he replied. "I might not. It all depends, really."

"On what?"

"On whether or not you'll stop staring at me over tea. It's a little bit creepy, to be frank."

Blushing, I muttered, "Okay, fine."

He laughed at me then, too, though a little bit less cruelly than he had when we were younger.

---

Surprisingly enough, after that night, we were what could only be described as "friends". He teased a little less, and when he did, it was less cruel. I did, indeed, stop staring at him over tea, and we had numerous civilized conversations. Well, as civilized as his mind could manage; he had an odd fascination with pain and cruelty.

Somehow, I think we became closer over the next year than he'd ever been to Amycus. Maybe it was because their friendship was based off boyish antics while ours was more of a mutual fascination with the dark and unfriendly, or maybe it was just a natural chemistry. I've never been quite sure, but for all of our squabbling, over those next thirteen or so months before he left for school, I felt certain I'd never had a better friend.

He, of course, never really acted like he felt quite the same. Sure, he would pay me attention, and seek me out at various Pureblood galas for a chat, but I never really got the feeling that he needed me in the sense that I did him. Perhaps I was being too trusting, too weak by putting faith in him. But I was young, and he was stable, even if I could never read him completely accurately.

Perhaps that was the danger in it. I could sense, even then, that Antonin Dolohov would turn into trouble for me at some point. The worrying thing was how I didn't seem to care.