Note: Co-written with the amazing almanera. Many thanks to her and Guest for the lovely reviews.

Warning: This chapter is very, very dark and includes horror atmosphere, graphic non-con and boundless cynicism.

Two hours later, Antonin Dolohov was having a drink in Acromantula's Lair in the company of Rabastan Lestrange and Walden Macnair. Despite its fearsome name, the inn was among the most elegant and expensive establishments in Knockturn Alley. Spider ornaments with gleaming red eyes lurked in the shadows of the pub, which had been artistically draped in cobweb.

"It feels surreal," he admitted. "We all had our hopes, but I thought Yaxley would be chosen. Ha, did you see his face when he stormed out?"

"Looks like you're not meeting his sister-in-law, Yolanda, any time soon," Walden commented.

Antonin shuddered at the memory of the eccentric blonde woman close to his mother's age, who wore pink frills and had the habit of staring at him—particularly at his lap.

"Good," he sighed in mock-relief. "Now here is my dilemma: how do I explain to my parents that I am to marry a witch they've never met? Keep in mind my mother comes from a Light family and can't be told certain things. Certainly not any details on the way we killed the Mudblood Tonks."

"How about you just explain it to them?" Rabastan shrugged.

"Is it jealousy I detect there?" Walden smirked. "Have a drink, Rab, you actually just got lucky—while you, Tony, have a problem. It's one of the Black bitches we're talking about. Remember them from Hogwarts? I can't say they've changed."

"Oh, yeah… Good luck breaking the news; just make sure your bride is not in the room when you do."

"And still I hear jealousy." Walden laughed. "Don't worry, Rab, we understand. The Blacks do have the looks. Have a drink, both of you."

Antonin clinked his glass to Rabastan's in a conciliatory gesture. "He's right, Rab. The Dark Lord probably did you a favour: Bellatrix would kill her if they were to live close to each other, and you'd be the one who'd answer for it."

"Or Rab would kill her, wouldn't you now?" Walden sniggered, clinking with them.

"Shut up," the youngest Lestrange huffed.

"Well, the Dark Lord has chosen wisely. Tony won't kill her; he has a few more interesting activities in mind, don't you, Tony?"

"She certainly won't get bored with me—the least I can do for my wife," Antonin smirked back.

"Bloody hell, it's your wedding night!" Walden exclaimed in a sudden realisation.

Rabastan blinked and then laughed, genuinely amused for once.

Antonin joined in before complaining jokingly, "Oh, I doubt my mother will let me come anywhere near her before we're officially married."

"Are you serious right now?" Walden shook his head in disbelief.

"Shut up, Macnair, he's got a point," Rabastan cut in. "Finding the right location is a problem."

"Excuse me? Did I spend an entire month practising all those Concealment Charms for nothing?"

Rabastan burst out laughing. "How generous of you. Are you hoping to participate? I doubt it would sit well with Tony, ain't I right?"

"You're disgusting, Rab. It's Tony's wedding night after all. Oh, and there are plenty of candles, Tony… among other things. It's a very romantic getaway."

Antonin nearly choked on his drink, laughing. "Get to the second part, Walden: what is it you want?"

"Nothing. Is it so hard to believe I can be generous?" the other man returned. "Well, if you let me watch, I'll gladly accept the offer."

"Told you so, didn't I?" Rabastan smirked.

"Oh, please, as if you'd refuse."

"I see enough of Bellatrix; I don't need more."

"Rab, just drink; don't spoil our mood with your jealousy." Walden pushed another glass in front of the sullen man, rolling his eyes before turning towards Antonin. "Come, Tony, have some fun. You deserve it."

"Well," the latter drawled, making a show of thinking the offer through, "as it is my wedding night, a little privacy with my wife is a must. However, I do feel generous enough to let you listen in."

"It is your wedding night," Walden agreed in an encouraging tone. "Try not to choke in there, Rab—I see you salivating already."

"Shut up," Rabastan growled again.

It was a deserted, derelict area that Antonin Apparated to an hour later, his bride firmly secured in his arms. After half a dozen drinks, the party had split up and he had returned to Malfoy Manor to fetch Andromeda while the other two Death Eaters had left to prepare Macnair's hideout for his arrival. After replacing the witch's chains with much lighter and more practical ropes—she was too weak to put up a solid fight anyway—he had carried her out of Malfoy's dungeons, aroused by the mere sensation of her shapely figure in his embrace.

Uttering the incantation Macnair had shared with him, he saw a cave entrance come into view. A poorly lit stone staircase led him into the best equipped torture chamber he had ever seen. There was virtually no Muggle cutting weapon Macnair had not acquired and displayed on his walls. Antonin could only imagine the terror of the Muggle victims who had found themselves strapped to the table at the very centre of the room. A table his drunken companions had dutifully cleared for his needs, not without decorating it with black roses. He snorted with laughter and glanced around, wondering where they were.

As if on cue, Walden appeared before him, looking as happy as if this were his own wedding night.

"Welcome, young lovers!"

Beside him, Rabastan was—fortunately—too drunk to say anything at all.

"Enjoy."

Antonin smiled back while the captive witch stirred, her survival instincts causing her, paradoxically, to grasp at his arm.

"Thank you," he replied smoothly. "Where are you lot going to be?"

"Call us when you need us," Walden laughed, dragging Rabastan behind him as he strode away.

Silence enveloped Antonin and Andromeda. Not even the candles flickered inside this airless dungeon. The black roses lent the table the impression of a funeral altar. Looking down into the witch's coppery eyes, Antonin approached the stone surface and laid her onto it as though she were a lamb about to be immolated. A flick of his wand, and the ropes that bound her hands and feet vanished. He did not need those to keep her subdued, not as long as he had his hands. It was also his hands and not magic that tore her ragged dress away. Despite her frail state and the bruises on her skin, she had a glorious body, a soft, creamy skin and the chiselled features of a rare beauty. And all of this was his now.

Without wasting more time, he unfastened his trousers to release his impatient manhood. Their gazes met again, and slowly, tenderly even, he put his hands on her waist, trailing them up across her breasts and towards her shoulders. Her eyes filled with tears. With a tremendous effort, she tried to slap his hands away. He did not so much as budge.

"Shhh," he whispered, wiping her tears.

His fingers slid down her cheek, smoothed her locks and traced her beautifully shaped lips, lingering on those for a moment. She was exquisite.

And still she attempted to resist, growing desperate, scratching at his wrists with her broken, ragged nails.

He seized one of those ravaged hands to contemplate her slim fingers. A ring was what she needed. She would have one after tonight—after she became his for good. His erection gave a throb, and he pressed himself closer against her, pushing her legs apart, his motions languid despite his desire. There was something in the atmosphere of the dungeon that lent the situation a darkly solemn yet sensual feel. He was going to savour every second of this wedding night when the Dolohovs finally triumphed over the Blacks and claimed one of them as their own. After tonight, she would wear lilac and lavender, the traditional colours of the wives in his family. The tip of his member brushed her entrance, and one of his hands landed on her round breast—it was too perfect not to be touched.

Only vaguely did he perceive her cry of pain when he entered her unprepared body. Of their own accord, his hands went to her hips, frenzy taking over his mind. He would not have been able to stop if he tried, and he did not want to try; he wanted to possess this beautiful witch, who represented everything his family had once been and which should have belonged to him from the very start. His black eyes opened slightly, meeting her coppery ones, and despite the pain, grief and distress in them, there was something else that struck a nerve in him: a hint of contempt. In truth, she had not uttered a single plea ever since he had taken hold of her. Very well, then. With a husky intake of breath, he focused on a simple spell and lifted himself onto the table, covering her frame with his, their faces now a foot apart.

She barely flinched when a hand closed around her throat, though her eyes filled with even more tears, blurring her vision, no doubt, as her natural instincts forced her to gasp for breath.

With an unnerving combination of gentleness and brutality, he leaned in to plant a tender kiss on her panting mouth, never releasing her neck. His thrusts were becoming quicker and harder, his release impossible to fight any longer. In a final spark of conscience, he removed his fingers from her throat and wound them in her hair; he would have accidentally strangled her otherwise. His climax wrecked him for what felt like ages; all he could do was collapse on top of her, not caring that they were being watched. For her part, Andromeda lay utterly still, and her face bore distinct traces of the pain she had endured; it shone with tears in a bizarrely fitting way.

It was a while before his racing heart returned to its usual pace; when he rose to his feet, however, he was calm. He looked down at her pallid features and leaned in for one more kiss. Her lips were soft and sweet; it did not matter they were unresponsive. At last, he started adjusting his clothes.

"Walden?"

"Yes?" Macnair emerged from the shadows, his expression amused. "Feel free to help yourself to anything you like. I have a very impressive collection."

"What?" Antonin shook his head distractedly. "Oh, no, she's my wife, not an animal."

"I have enchanted them, you know. It's very amusing, actually: cut-and-heal blades, quite special."

"Oh, ingenious. Thank you, but I feel we have trespassed on your hospitality long enough, and I have to introduce her to my parents before they go to bed. There is something I need, though... I'm pretty sure it's the only thing you don't have here."

"Whatever you need, lover; tonight, I am your humble servant."

Antonin chuckled. "I need a presentable female dress. But unless you store your Muggle victims' clothes, I don't see why you'd have one."

"The night is young, you know. Why bother with dresses just yet? I also have an impressive collection of whips... Besides, she's quite a sight."

"I told you, I need to get home and present her to my parents before they retire for the night. And I'd rather my mother didn't see her naked."

"All right, all right," the burly wizard sighed in defeat, sparing the witch an amused glance as she cried quietly, her eyes remarkably absent.

"Do you have some clothes on hand or not?"

Macnair left. He was eager to see more torture but knew his fellow Death Eater well enough to recognise there would be nothing more to watch that night.

As his steps faded away, Antonin returned to the table, where the witch had not moved an inch. She was much too weak to sit down.

"I'm going to heal you," he whispered. "Lay still."

Taking one of her hands in his, he cast a spell and watched her broken nails return to their natural oval shape while her bruises faded. With a gentle kiss on the healed fingers, he set to work on the rest of her body. He knew this magic would not relieve her of her pain and faintness, but it was a start, and it would keep her both pliable and presentable. When all the marks, scratches and bruises were gone, he cast a Cleaning Charm on her skin. Within a minute, it was as creamy and silky as though she had never set foot in a dungeon. All that remained to do was give her some clothes and comb her beautiful hair. Putting an arm behind her back, he helped her rise to sitting position and conjured a glass of water.

"Drink this."

Her mouth remained immobile, though, and so did her eyes.

Antonin sighed, thinking, and then concentrated. "Imperio. Drink, Andromeda."

Her hand rose, the muscles making the effort to take the glass, yet incredibly, it froze in mid-air. Parched as they were, her lips parted a little. The dead look in her eyes had not changed in the slightest.

"Leave... me... alone," she whispered.

He stared at her. She had overcome his Imperius in spite of her pitiful state, which was unheard of. With another sigh, he put the glass away and started gently brushing out her hair. She gave no reaction to his touch.

When Walden finally returned, he was carrying an ordinary wizarding cloak.

"All I could find. Shrunk it already, just for you."

"Thank you." Antonin unfolded it to make sure it contained no stains. "Where is Rab? Is he so drunk he's fallen asleep?"

"Yes... and frankly, I should join him," Walden admitted, aware there would be nothing more for him to see.

With one last smirk at the doll-like witch and a nod at the other man, he excused himself.

Antonin used magic to dress his wife. This done, he took her face between his hands, struggling to reach her behind her lifeless façade.

"Now listen, Andromeda. I honestly can't tell where your daughter is at this moment, but she was still alive in the morning, and I'm confident the Dark Lord has decided to spare her as he has spared you. I cannot swear it, but I am almost sure of it. Keep this in mind."

There was no indication she had heard him, though; it was as if he had not spoken at all.

Either way, it was time to bring her to Plamen's Parlour, his ancestral home. He had already sobered up, which was fortunate, for the realisation that he was now in charge of this particular captive had begun settling in.

The doors to the purple house swung open. Antonin hurried inside, his wife in his arms, not bothering to remove his cloak. The fireplace and a number of floating candles had been lit in the sitting room, and he spotted both his parents at once, surrounded by the numerous portraits of his Bulgarian ancestors. His beautiful mother was sitting under an old-fashioned lamp, absorbed in a book. For once, her black curls were loose; they cascaded down her back, contrasting with her milky skin and the pearly lace of her dressing gown. His father, sturdy and darkly handsome, appeared to be writing a letter. They looked up when he emerged from the hall and froze at the sight of the unresponsive young witch.

"Good evening," he started, suddenly aware of how little he had spoken to them during the previous days. "There was a new development today. You must have heard of Andromeda Tonks, the second daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black. She was married to a Mudblood, Edward Tonks, with whom she escaped to France shortly before the Dark Lord's rule was established. We only located them a few days ago. Tonks was executed for treason while their daughter was taken away by the Dark Lord—she is in fact a Metamorphmagus and could prove valuable to our side. Until today, Andromeda's fate remained unknown. As it is, the Dark Lord decided to put one of us in charge of her, and he announced I was to be married to her. She has no other home but ours now."

For a moment, they only gaped at him. Slowly, Ivan Dolohov stood up, his eyes resting pensively on Andromeda before darting back to his son. Antonin thought he could already discern a glint of glee in their grey depths. The Blacks had never made a secret of despising and belittling the Dolohovs, who, for their part, had never forgotten or forgiven this offence. Ivan's hatred for the Blacks was notorious, and Antonin was certain of his father's support on the matter. It was his ever sensitive and emotional mother, Ghergana, who worried him. She looked stunned as she approached him, watching the younger witch with apprehension.

"Mrs Tonks? Andromeda?"

The copper-haired woman gazed back, her expression completely blank, as though she could neither see nor hear anyone around her. Then, without warning, her eyes closed and her head fell back; if Antonin had not been carrying her, she would have slumped to the ground.

"She is exhausted," he said ruefully. "Add all the stress—she only found out a few hours ago she would be spared. The Dark Lord wishes me to take care of her, and that's what I'll do."

"Right," Ghergana breathed with a nod. "The guest room is unoccupied, and the house-elf will furnish it with all the necessary items in no time. We need to make sure she has-"

"The guest room?" Antonin looked up indignantly. "She is my wife, mother. I don't think it would be appropriate to make her sleep in there."

The witch drew herself to her full height, her expression of disbelief swiftly morphing into a stern one. "Are you out of your mind, Antonin? Now listen here: she is unconscious and in a state of shock and grief. Her husband died days ago, you said so yourself, and you haven't been properly married yet—nor should you be. It is out of the question that you should take her to your room; there are even no windows there. What she needs is peace, personal space and—"

Ivan laid his hands on her shoulders, interrupting her mid-sentence. "Let him do, Gheri. It's up to him to decide."

This only increased her outrage. "Are you both insane? What are you thinking? Tony, I will not have you disrespecting this poor witch. You will not treat your future wife like this while I'm alive; if I see you—"

His father's grip on her tightened. "Ghergana, you are making an elephant out of a fly. Tony isn't disrespecting anyone; he is following orders. There is no need to raise your voice and spoil everyone's mood."

"She will recover better in the guest room," she protested, struggling against his hands. "This isn't acceptable while they aren't married."

"My word, if it isn't the granddaughter of Arcturus Black the Third," another voice suddenly spoke. It was the portrait of a middle-aged man with cold grey eyes and a hard, sneering face: Vladislav, Ivan's father. "It must be; I would never mistake those features. And our captive, no less. I am proud, Tony, I really am. Oh, I wish Arcturus were still alive to see this."

Despite himself, Antonin smiled back. Ghergana whipped around, appealing to the only portrait who usually sided with her—that of Antonin's great-grandfather, Plamen—yet for once, the smooth-looking wizard appeared to be no less gleeful than the other portraits. After one glance at her, Ivan firmly gripped her arms.

"Go to your room, Tony," he said.

Antonin frowned, unconvinced, but Ivan's nod was unwavering. "Don't worry, I'll handle the rest. Do your duty."

Clutching the unconscious witch to his chest, the Death Eater set off upstairs, followed by his mother's cries.

"Tony! Tony!"

Pinned as she was by Ivan's hands, there was little she could do but turn towards the only portrait she half-trusted. "Plamen, say something!"

"Grand-niece, Vladislav," the latter pointed out to his son, ignoring Ghergana completely. "She is Pollux Black's granddaughter. As they say, keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

"Doesn't get any closer than this," Vladislav chuckled gleefully. "Oh, I do wish I could see their faces... All of their faces."

"Especially old Cygnus's face," Ivan smirked, maintaining an iron grip on his wife.

"Oh, who knows, the shock might have given him the ability to walk again. Too bad it didn't happen earlier," the portrait smiled cruelly, referring to the condition of Andromeda's late father, who had lost the use of his limbs during the last years of his life.

"TONY!"

Ghergana had as good as screamed, and Ivan had had enough. Pulling her close, he hissed into her ear, "This is his wedding night, and you are not spoiling it for him. If you don't stop shouting now, it's the Calming Potion. You can be a supportive mother, or you can—"

A slap silenced him. His jaw clenched, and he summoned the little potion vial wandlessly. Several minutes of struggling later, she was limp on the couch.

"There you go," Ivan panted, turning towards his father's portrait. "They say the Blacks bring discord wherever they go. The wench hasn't been here for ten minutes, and look at my wife's state now."

"You have my sympathy, Ivan," Vladislav said. "Do treat our sweet cupcake to a double dose. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I have to go and see the granddaughter of the almighty Blacks in all her glory. Chavdar be blessed, I've never thought I'd actually get to see this."

"I can't wait to be a portrait," Ivan commented wistfully, staring down at his wife's motionless form.