Loving a Death Eater

The first time they met under non-battle circumstances was at Azkaban. She was there to ask how to reverse the effects of the spell. Taking ten potions a day for something that should have killed her was simply unacceptable. Unacceptable, and bloody painful. No one had been able to identify the hex itself, and she didn’t want to risk going to a Muggle hospital to get a second opinion. How would she explain what had happened?
When she was shown to Dolohov’s cell, she waited while he was restrained. Then Moody led her inside, and both kept their wands drawn at all times.
“Hello,” she said, unsure how else to start a conversation. Her escort snorted.
“No need for pleasantries around him,” he said. “Just get on with it, Granger.”
“Now, Mr. Moody,” Dolohov said, his voice low and throaty, “that’s no way to talk to a lady, is it?” He eyed Hermione, who swallowed.
“Mr. Dolohov,” she said, “could you please tell me how to get rid of the effects of the curse?”
“You look well,” he said. “More than well.”
“Cut it out, Dolohov,” Moody growled. The prisoner ignored him.
“Why are you here, dearest?” he asked. “Curiosity?”
“I want to know about the curse,” she said. “The purple hex. Please. How do I get rid of the metal? I’m at risk of developing argyria; you know, silver poisoning.”
“Hmm.” He looked her up and down, before returning his gaze to her face. “It involves a ritual… Tell me. How far would you go to get the information from me?” He continued to leer.
“We’re leaving,” Moody said, trying to pull Hermione away. But she held her ground.
“What’s so hard about telling me?” she asked.
“I can tell you of something that’s hard,” he said, his lips twisting in a wicked smile. Hermione gaped at him, so thrown by his implication that she was very easily led from the room by the ex-Auror. Dolohov shouted one last thing. “It’s a good thing you Silenced me at the time, otherwise you’d be dead!”
Her last thought as they left the island was that she hated him. And, more to the point, she hated him for the dreams that began that very night.
Well, could she help it that he was so damnably alluring?
No. Detestable. He was detestable.
That was what she told herself every morning… until school began.

At breakfast her first day back at Hogwarts, she received an owl from Azkaban. She hoped that it wasn’t reporting another breakout; The Daily Prophet hadn’t arrived yet, and that was their usual source of ‘information’. Instead, she found a letter saying that Antonin Dolohov had written her a note, which they had checked for curses. The note was enclosed, and she read it with shaking hands, remembering the latest dream.

Dear Miss Granger,

I hope you are well. Things are much the same at Azkaban as ever. It was so kind of you to pay me a visit that the more I think about it, the more ashamed I am for having treated you like I did. You must understand that you were a bright spark in an otherwise dull day, and that I also have been starved for female companionship for some time.
If it is possible, I wish to start a correspondence with you. Who knows? Perhaps, one day, I shall tell you just how my spell operates, and how to reverse what it did. It’s my own invention, as you have no doubt guessed. Severus was right about you being a know-it-all.
Wish you were here.

Antonin.

Hermione felt like crying. What had she done to deserve this? Oh, it was a nice letter all right; but she knew better than to believe it to be sincere. And the last two lines… and signing it with his first name…
“You all righ’, `Mione?” Ron asked through a mouthful of bacon. She grimaced at the sight.
“No,” she said. “I mean yes. I’m fine.” She folded the letter, and stuffed it in the pocket of her robes. She saw Professor Snape leaving the hall. “See you in class.” She hauled her book bag over her shoulder, and hurried out as quickly as she could, wincing at the soreness still present in various parts of her body. Once out of sight, she pelted through the corridors until she found her potions professor.
“Running in the halls, Miss Granger?” he said without even turning around. “Ten points from Gryffindor.”
“Please, sir,” she said, and he finally deigned to look at her. “Could you tell me what this letter means?”
“And here I was thinking that you were an insufferable swot, with a supposedly superior mind,” he said, sneering. “You are unable to decipher a letter without help? What a pity.” He began to turn away again.
“It’s from Antonin Dolohov.”
He stopped dead, before snapping back around to face her fully.
“What?”
“I said that it’s from…”
“Hand it over,” he said, snatching the letter from her hand. He read it through swiftly, and then examined her face with his black eyes. “Care to explain your visit?”
She sighed. “I wanted to know what his spell was. We know what it did, but there must be a permanent remedy. Please give me your opinion, sir. Should I write to him? I mean, it can do no harm with the guards examining his replies for any Dark magic, can it?”
“Miss Granger, you must ask the headmaster for permission if you are set on this. I would advise against it. If nothing else, for the sake of the owls. They do not like the journey from the island, and it can be more arduous for them as a result of the misery surrounding that place.”
“I… I suppose.”
“If you really are concerned, why not research Muggle remedies? My potions can only do so much, going by your hospital chart. Your parents might be able to help, if they have the right contacts in the medical profession. They are dentists, are they not?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Mr. Dolohov,

I thank you for your apology, but more than that I cannot do.

Sincerely,

H. Granger.

Dear Miss Granger,

Surely you can’t be so cruel to a lonely man? You seem to be such a nice young lady, if our limited acquaintance is anything to go by. This really is a terrible place. If I had letters from you to brighten my day, my week, even my month, that would mean so much. And what is a few words? I have nothing else to do here.
Think back to your visit. Multiply that by the number of hours in a day—I know how long you were there—and then that by the number of days in a year, and the number of years I have spent there, and no doubt will continue to spend.
Please reconsider my request.

Antonin.

Mr. Dolohov,

I must insist that you stop this letter-writing. It makes me uncomfortable, and I do not wish to explain it to my friends. They have enough troubles of their own, and have become intolerably over-protective since you nearly killed me.
How can you expect any other reply?

Sincerely,

H. Granger.

Antonin Dolohov was a clever man. Hermione was too decent for her own good, and kept replying, trying to dissuade him. As time went on, sentences about her own frustrations and joys slipped through, and he would sympathise, congratulate, and ask questions that would have her answering.
It was when she inadvertently confessed to her crush on Ron, and how upset she was that he was dating Lavender Brown, that his temper had shown through in his next owl.

Hermione,

He doesn’t deserve you. Let the girl have him; you and young Weasley are not compatible. You need someone with some semblance of intelligence, at the very least, who can talk about more than just Quidditch. You have passion and spirit, brains and beauty. You look after those you love. I envy the man who could hold you in his arms.
Now, no more of this nonsense. How are you getting on in Potions, with your newfound competition?

Yours,

Antonin.

She hadn’t replied for a few weeks, and Dolohov nearly went mad with the wait. What had he said? Had he offended her? No. He couldn’t have. She’d put up with worse from him. Finally, when she replied, she only talked about Potions.
It was one of only two times that she didn’t tell him to stop writing to her. The other was when he told her the cure to his spell.
After he and Rowle had been found at Tottenham Court Road, he had had the funniest feeling that he had been near Hermione. He didn’t know why he could tell; he just could. Then they were told that they had been chasing up on someone who had said ‘Voldemort’, and he wondered if it was her, or one of her friends. The Dark Lord wasn’t pleased that they had been beaten, and had their memories wiped. Rowle had been punished severely.
Now all three teenagers were missing, and he really hoped that he wasn’t responsible for Hermione’s disappearance. The alternative was that she was running around with Potter and Weasley—alone, with two hormonal, adolescent boys—and that thought angered him. He’d been telling the truth in his letter; he would be jealous of anyone who could hug and kiss her.
He wanted to be that person, and it scared the hell out of him when he realised that.
He was now determined to find her. She no longer sent him owls, and he couldn’t risk writing to her, either. If she was caught, he wanted to be the one to do it, so that he could ask for her as a reward. So when he found her in the park opposite Grimmauld Place at midnight, he could barely restrain himself from carting her away then and there.
He grimaced when he saw that she had opened one of her veins.
“Expellere argentum ab vena!” she shouted, and she bent over in pain as liquid shot out of the cut, panting and groaning, legs trembling.
Before either knew what was happening, he had run forward and caught her under the arms, stopping her from hitting the ground as her knees gave way. The last drops of silver sputtered out, trickling down her arm pathetically.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered. He cast cleansing and healing charms, and soon the blood flow had stopped. He apologised the whole time. Hermione sobbed. She turned around in his arms, and held onto him.
“It hurt,” she said. “I wish I’d left it alone.”
“Why didn’t you do it at school, where you’d be safer, and somehow could help you? Why now?”
“I didn’t want anyone to know,” she said. “I didn’t want them to know that I was writing to you. They might have stopped me.”
He tilted her chin up, confused. “You kept telling me to stop.”
She sniffled. “I know. I had to.”
“Not always.”
“…No. Not always.”
He was still holding her chin. His gaze dropped to her mouth, before returning to her eyes. She was blushing; he could see it in the light of the full moon, necessary for the ritual to work. Without thinking any further, he pressed his lips to hers, their eyes shutting simultaneously as they deepened the kiss. His hands slid further around her back, pulling her flush against his body, and her hands weaved up behind his neck and into his hair. Their tongues mingled, battled, ravaged each other. Hermione stepped out of his embrace the moment they broke for air.
“Please…” He looked at her, begging her with his eyes. “Please, Hermione.”
“What do you want from me, Antonin?”
He smiled. “You used my name.”
“Yes, I did.”
“I want… I want you by my side. I want your love. I want you to feel the same way about me that I do about you. I love you, Hermione.” She whimpered. “I thought love was a weakness. I never thought I’d feel that way about anyone, but I do… and it’s you. Please believe me.”
“I do. I do believe you.”
“…Hermione?”
“Oh,” she squeaked, looking around her.
“Hermione, the trees don’t hold the answers.”
“I know that. I… I’m afraid that…”
“That you don’t want me?” His heart broke, but he tried not to let it show. “But, Hermione… No.” He shook his head, sight blurred by tears. “Don’t worry, then. Just… d-don’t worry. Forget about me.” He started to turn, throat choked with suppressed sobs, and she stepped forward, grabbing his arm.
“I’m afraid that I am in love with you.” He gasped quietly, looking down at her. “And I really shouldn’t be. I… I have to go. You have to go. We’re on opposite sides of the war. This can never be.”
“But…”
“No, Antonin. This can’t be.”
“Hermione…”
“Let me go,” she whispered. “Just let me go.” She dropped her hand, and ran off.
He bowed his head as she disappeared into the darkness, and knelt by the spatters of silver, now shimmering in the moonlight.
“But I can’t,” he said. “I just can’t.”

Every time he heard of Hermione, he listened as attentively as he could without arousing suspicions. After the skirmish at Malfoy Manor, he raged to himself for hours at his house, strong Silencing spells covering every inch of his bedroom. He finally collapsed onto the bed, wondering what he could do to prevent such a thing happening again. All he could think of was to ensure his possession. So he went to the Dark Lord.
“You make a strange request, Antonin. Why would you wish to claim the Mudblood Granger?”
“She visited me when I was in Azkaban, my lord. Visited with the late Auror Moody.” He allowed the Dark Lord to see the scene in his mind, and even when he wrote his first letter, including her amusing reply. “I have been imagining the horror on her face if she was given to me. It would be fitting punishment for her, would it not? And she would be gratifying… entertainment.”
“Hmm. Well, I didn’t promise her to Greyback, so he has no claim on her.” The Dark Lord thought, and then decided. “Yes. You can have the Mudblood when she is captured.”
“Thank you, my lord. You are generous, as always.” Dolohov bowed, and was dismissed.
The dreams that had started when Hermione went to Azkaban had been dark and sensual in nature. They had disturbed her, but she was too ashamed to tell anyone about them. He was so attractive: his dark hair, his stubble, his smouldering eyes that had undressed her that day. As she fell for him, the dreams were gentler. They were romantic. He was romantic. At night, in those dreams, she could escape from the war.
They continued during the hunt, occasionally interrupted by a nightmare. After she was tortured, the nightmares worsened, until she was dreaming about Voldemort discovering their relationship, and both being punished for their feelings.
Eventually, the trio reached Hogwarts, and battle was soon declared.

Hermione felt bad for Ron. He was finally making it clear that he loved her, but she knew that she couldn’t return his feelings. Not now. So she kissed him, hoping to prove that they were better as brother and sister. Unfortunately, everyone else misinterpreted it; but there was nothing she could do about that.
After the battle, she was horrified to hear that Remus—gentle, sweet, new-father Remus—had been murdered by the man that she loved. The purple hex, as she knew from personal experience, caused silver particles to form in the bloodstream. For a werewolf, it would instantly be fatal. Had he known that Remus was a werewolf? If not, would he have killed him anyway?
She asked Professor Flitwick where the Death Eater was, since the Charms professor had been the one to defeat him. When he couldn’t be found, there was an uproar, and she slipped away, wondering where he was. Was he hurt? At least he was alive. Probably.
She stepped out into the moonlight, trying to hold back tears of panic. But she couldn’t help a few slipping down her cheeks. She breathed in tremulously.
“Hermione?”
She whipped around. “Antonin?” she whispered. She was pulled into a pair of arms, and looked up into a familiar face. “It’s really you?”
“Yes, it’s me.” He swept her messy hair back behind her ears, and kissed her gently. “It’s me. Ask me anything…”
“No. No, I know it’s you.” She began to cry. “I… I know it’s…”
He held her, whispering words of comfort into her hair. He shed a few tears himself, so grateful that they had both survived. Now they faced just one, little decision.
“Hermione?”
Sniff. “Yes?”
“Run away with me.”
She looked up. “Antonin… I can’t.”
“You can. I’ll protect you. We can go far away, where they won’t find us.”
“I can’t. I have to stay here. If I run away, it will just look like cowardice. What would they think of me?”
“Damn it, don’t think like that.”
“No. It would be selfish of me to leave. Selfish and cowardly.”
He smiled sadly, cupping her face. “Hermione, you couldn’t be more wrong. Staying behind would be the easy thing. You’d just be doing what everyone else would expect of you.”
“But…”
“Darling.” She gasped. He’d never called her that before. “Please, don’t think with your head. Think with your heart.”
She smiled back. “I can’t think with my heart.”
“Why not, for Salazar’s sake?”
“Because you have it. You have my heart.” His eyes lit up. “How can I think with something that no longer belongs to me?”
“Then think with my heart,” he said, pulling her close. “Because you have it. In fact, you’re holding it right now.”
He was hopeful. So hopeful. His eyes never left hers as she thought.
Did she know just how much she was holding his life in her hands? Dolohov wanted only one answer from her…
“Yes.”
“…What?”
“Yes. I’ll go with you.”
It wasn’t until they were in Hogsmeade, her hand holding onto his all the way, that it dawned on him.
She’d said yes. She wanted him.
“You said yes,” he said, grinning down at her. She nodded, grinning back. “You said yes!” He swept her up into his arms, and they laughed as he swung her around., peppering her face with kisses. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”

THE END