𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔠𝔬𝔴 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔵.

GENERAL INFORMATION

Full Name: Arina Adrikovna Dolohova Nicknames: Arinka (family), Rina (close friends) Birthdate | Current Age: 5 November 1961 | 24 years old Hometown: Moscow, Russia Current Residence: London, England Spoken Languages: Russian + English (advanced), French, Italian + Bulgarian (intermediate), and a general understanding of Latin, Mermish + the Runic alphabet. Gender: Cis-Female Pronouns: She/Her/Hers Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual Occupation: Foreign Affairs Diplomat

APPEARANCE/PERSONALITY

Height: 5'3” | 160 cm. Weight: 110 lbs. | 49 kg. Hair: Platinum blonde, with hints of honey caramel highlights Eyes: Sapphire; bright, wide + penetrating Complexion: Fair with warm undertones, smooth + blemish-free Build: Petite, with natural curves + hints of athletic tone Personality: Abrasive, dynamic, eloquent, insightful, phlegmatic, vibrant. Zodiac: Scorpio Sun, Libra Moon, Leo Rising  

RELATIONSHIPS

Mother: (TBD) Father:  (TBD) Brother: Antonin Dolohov Extended Family: (TBD) Other Important Relationships: (TBD) Pets: Mishka, a Russian Blue cat; Yuri, a Eurasian Eagle owl.

MAGICAL BACKGROUND

Blood Status: Pureblood Species: Human/Witch Wand: 10" Hawthorn, Dragon Heartstring, slightly springy Amortentia: Pastila, black tea, spruce + tangerines and Italian leather.   Boggart: Rusalka, a female river-dwelling creature rooted in Slavic mythology. It is believed this creature assumes the form of a pale child with green hair and long arms. Patronus: Non-Corporal Education: Durmstrang Institute; Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Alignment: Death Eater Ally

BIOGRAPHY

To be held has rarely, if ever, been a positive thing for Rory. Even in school, the tiny flame which had burned for Mary was never enough to push him into her arms. Despite how much his lonely soul had longed to know the warm press of her curves, he had never broken his unspoken vow to protect her -even from himself. The result of all the brutality of his youth is now summed up in the immediate tensing of his body as Arina pulls them taut to one another. There is no space for him to look at their feet and count the steps, only the endless unfolding expanse of her eyes. They shine up at him as bright as sapphires stolen from a king’s crown. A muscle flicks over his jaw, teeth clenching as he wills his body to accept this new ‘training’. Perhaps he is a thief, steeling her time. 

“I know how to fall,” he answers after an uncharacteristically long pause. Long deep breaths follow and the rigidity of his spine softens just enough for them to sway. The music has stopped but another song will start soon and it won’t matter. He’s just trying to keep the rhythm after all. “I don’t know, this hurts less than jumping off a roof but I don’t know what the consequences of failing are yet. It’s hard to decide. Seems I invited you to play a game I don’t know the rules to Doe Eyes…” he tries a smile, but it’s betrayed by the uncertainty of his gaze, “shall you hex me if I step on your feet? Something worse?” He studies her, realizing his curiosity is nothing more than desire disguised. It’s another painful acknowledgement of the life he can’t have. But by God and glory, does he want to finish closing the space between them and kiss her. She might let him. He deflects his eyes, choosing to glare at strangers spinning by. 

---

He makes a point, one that Arina knows entirely too well. It is never the fall that brings pain, but always the crash that inevitably followed. A reality she has grown all too familiar with, one she suspects he is equally acquainted with. Yet, despite herself, she wants to consider the possibility that he might be a safe place to land, even if only for a moment. A growing desire on her part to believe otherwise, the moment is fleeting. It is a notion one she knows she cannot accept. That he wasn’t like the others. That his intentions weren’t of cruel and malicious intent. That, whenever push came to shove — and it always did, especially in her world — that he wouldn’t exploit her trust and honour for his gain. Yet, even with the host of reservations on her part, she cannot bring herself to pull away from his embrace. Not yet. There is an assurance, as small as it might be, in a way that only someone like him could possibly offer to someone like her. Someone who had the capacity to see her, beyond the extravagant facade, with all her vices but also her virtues. Someone who harbored a genuine interest and appreciation in keeping her company. Someone who understood.

“I haven’t quite figured out what I’m going to do with you yet. Though I could be persuaded to make a gesture, given that you haven’t been a colossal waste of my time.” As he turns away, she allows his gaze to focus elsewhere, smiling once she is sure his attention has been diverted elsewhere. She cannot help but notice the departure of those in their vicinity, the dimming of the lights above them, or her delight at the prospect of being alone with him. She places a hand to his cheek, forcing his gaze to align with hers once again as the music resumes. It is a soft and precise melody, as is the movement of her thumb across his cheek. “Would you allow me to?”

Nightmare. That was the only way that Arina could manage to describe her morning. If it hadn’t been one thing, it had been another, often in rapid and unrelenting succession. She had taken brief solace in the fact that the day couldn’t get much worse, a thought she would almost immediately regret.Just as soon as she considered it, it was then that she heard it; his incessantly cheerful voice, cascading through the narrow halls of their department. Irony had always been a cruel and unrelenting mistress, particularly where Arina and her green-haired colleague were concerned. Before she could manage to take solace in Lucius’ office, he had arrived at her desk, entirely too eager for her liking. “What is it, Cresswell?”

She’s really rather pretty, he thinks once again. Perhaps he ought to tell her, but what would be the point? She knows she is attractive. Furthermore, any girl can be pretty. A little make up, the right dress, good lighting; it doesn’t take much. Pretty? Pretty is nothing. She is interesting. Engaging. Bitchy, but Rory never did mind that in a woman and he knows he’s has yet to give her a reason to answer his own animosity with anything besides her own. That’s the fun of it though, a little game of violent truths muttered in soft voices. He told her she was interesting, a truth; something better than pretty. If she wanted hollow compliments she could parade some other hapless fool to the dance floor. 

“Whatever your standards are, I suggest you lower them Rich Girl,” he answers coolly, ‘hope comes to me to die’. The last part is thought, a violent truth about himself. People always tell him hope floats, he doesn’t. Rory is a cinder-block anchor tossed over the side of a boat sinking into murky waters. Murky water indeed and the blue-gray of his gaze meets hers for a moment. He nods at her instruction, affirming his preparedness but his eyes drop as soon as they start moving. He watches their feet, stumbling through choppy steps but careful enough to never step on her toes. “I only rise and fall climbing buildings. This doesn’t feel the same and something tells me you’re no about to join me on the ministry roof…” he pauses, smirking to himself, carefully watching their feet, “or else you’re about to tell me you can also fly.”

---

It is a refreshing change of pace, both his company and his disposition. Abrasive in his authenticity, unapologetic in his sincerity. It was unlike anyone she had encountered tonight, its rarity equivalent to the coloured diamonds that adorned her emerald pendant. His likeness had been a complete contrast from those she might have otherwise associated with, but she didn’t mind. His arms upon her back as they moved in unison, it had been the first time that she hadn’t felt like a rose stuck among an endless quantity of thorns. Even now, his gaze remaining transfixed upon the ground and not upon her, she could not help but find a certain charm in his unique, albeit enigmatic, allure. Like called to like, as loathe as she had been to initially admit so to herself.

“I will do no such thing.” She is quick to assert herself, meeting his cool indifference with a firm and equally composed demeanor. Arina gradually slows their pace, for his benefit and for hers, their steps finally managing to move in relative unison with each other. Instinctively, she adjusts her grip upon his shoulder, practically eliminating the small gap that remains between them as she pulls him close. Shutting her eyes for a moment, only to take in a breath and savor what she assumes will be the last of their time together. Opening them, she noticed that, while the music had stopped and the conversation around them had dissipated, she was still spinning. Motionless, with feet planted firmly on the ground, but spinning all the same. “How does this compare, then? Still prefer the prospect of dropping off Ministry roof?”

He really is terrible at this, but hadn’t he said as much? Dancing was a frivolity he had not been afforded. He’d barely remembered the lessons from Hogwarts, no one wanted to dance with him then and he had returned the sentiment in kind. He made sure it stayed that way. Pity and kindness were affronts to his purpose and he rejected both of them in equal measure. He had subjected himself to professor McGonogal’s instruction because he had to and kept the knowledge of it to himself, lest his parents find out and refuse to let him return to school. His other forays into dancing could be counted on one hand and were relegated strictly to country line dancing, in which the steps were called and all he had to do was follow along. Pathetic nights when curiosity and loneliness had gotten the best of him and he wanted to feel normal -bereft of his purpose. 

He shrugs and stands up, hesitantly taking her arm. A frown slices his thin lips downward, “I told you I was shite. Dancing was a waste of time, I had better stuff to do growing up. My parents would have dumped me in the woods for a week if they caught me flitting around like some fairy.” But her hand is warm and soft, so soft against his arm. His frown eases ever so slightly. He swipes his free hand through his dark hair and he rights himself enough to stand a little taller. More gently, in a hushed tone as he ‘escorts’ them to the dance floor, “we were both bred like cattle Arina, but for very different jobs.” It’s the first time he’s used her name all night and it may well be the last. Rory turn to meet her face to face, though his eyes drop immediately to see that their feet are lined up and not too close, “forward, side, back, side. Correct? Not hard at all.” Though his last bit of mumbling is more for his own reassurance than hers.

---

As a Dolohov, there is a certain entitlement and expectation that accompanies her name. Along with them comes an extensive set of privileges, ones that most would never come to experience, or even understand. Not to their full extent, anyway. From the influence of her family’s reputation in Russia, their endless supply of gold sitting in their Gringott’s vaults, or any circumstance that fell between either category, she had every advantage, and it showed. Though she never made any effort to hide it, Arina is not at all blind to the benefits that her upbringing afforded her, particularly in comparison to someone like Rory. Where she was eloquent, he was enigmatic. One raised as a royal, the other raised under a considerably more humble household. Outwardly, they were about as different as two people could be. But for now, as fleeting as their time together might be, it was enough.

His attention, though sarcastic and scornful, seemed genuine, for the most part. At the very least, his efforts to feign interest in her company had been the most convincing she had encountered tonight. It had been a far cry from the rest of them, men with the most unsavory of intentions, all of had been all too forthcoming in their brief interactions with the heiress. “You’re brighter than you look, lapochka. There might be hope for you yet.” Arriving to the ballroom, she releases him from her grasp for moment, as they turn to face each other. Offering a gentle nod at his question, Arina raises her arms, placing one upon his shoulder, and waiting for his gaze to meet hers once again before placing her hand upon his. “Forward on your left, backward on your right. Think of it as a series of moves and countermoves. Leading and following. A rise, then a fall.” Just like their interactions had been, though only time would tell how long it would take before the latter would come to pass. “Are you ready?”

“Proud of you,” he sneers when she returns with her own drink. Once again making a decided effort to ignore her brief but pointed brushes of contact. Rory hardly feels alive if he isn’t fighting or fucking but he isn’t sure if Arina is a viable option for either. Still, she’s the most interesting thing person at the Gala and he’s got to keep himself entertained for long enough to seem respectable before leaving. Everything is a transaction in one way or another. Even the banter between them is a transaction, she bears his teasing in exchange for the attention Dirk has otherwise stolen from her. 

“A shark knows a shark Rich Girl and you’ve been devouring the few men stupid enough to let their greed outweigh their fear, all night. The exception is our dear adorable green haired little idiot,” he answers her question after an introspective moment. “I’d say you were in love but even I can admit my friend isn’t playing in the same league as you,” gray eyes track her movements as she retrieves her drink but he makes no motion to move out of her way. Her perfume clings to him, heavy like a hot summer night, full of life bloated on its own importance. He smiles, very faintly and only for a flash of a moment. “You’re the closest thing to interesting this night has offered me,” he admits in an unintended degree of honesty, shifting sideways to lean towards her and whisper “and I’m wondering if you’d dance with a muggleborn but I can barely manage a box step I count the whole time. It’d be even more embarrassing than your little hissy fit here in the corner. People would laugh. Your reputation would be irreparably damaged.” 

---

Features scrunched into an irritated scowl, Arina made no effort to hide her displeasure at the mention of their shared acquaintance. She could have maintained her usual disposition, one of forced but cordial pleasantries, the way she always did when her green-haired colleague came up in conversation, or was anywhere within her vicinity. But what was the point? He would have seen through that facade in an instant, her sentiments about as transparent as the outer lining of her dress. It was a welcome change, not having to keep up with false pretenses for the sake of appearances. Unusual, but welcome nonetheless.

“Mmmm. High praise, indeed, given the company you’ve been keeping tonight.” She is quick to respond to his admission, her gaze remaining locked on his as they lean into each other. A series of calculated synchronized movements follow on both of their parts; they still remain apart at its conclusion, though only barely. Curved lips quickly to shape into a smirk, one that remains mostly concealed from his view, as she finishes what little remains of her beverage. “Let’s not waste time and play pretend, shall we? You know as well as I do that, tonight alone, my reputation has garnered the attention of company far less ideal than the likes of you.” Her words are meant to be complimentary, an effort to speak more highly of him than her contemporaries, but her tone hardly comes across in such a manner. She doesn’t dwell on the thought, suspecting he appreciates the sentiment anyway, or understands it, at the very least. Promptly standing to her feet, she wastes no time in reaching for his arm, her confusion evident as he doesn’t immediately do the same. “What, you expect me to lead and escort myself to the dance floor? You really are rubbish at this, aren’t you?”

Rory snorts in amusement, or annoyance, it is hard to tell. It is always hard to tell. There’s safety in being hard to read; if no one can pin you down they can’t get to you. Still he remains in his seat, “get it yourself,” he pauses for effect. Shark like eyes dart around the room, hungry for any important detail as he makes a point of not looking at the daringly high slit of her dress. He makes a point of staring back at any gaze that does wander their way. Arina is the crown jewel of the Dolohov’s; it’s common knowledge and it has made her untouchable by anyone too poor, too impure or too afraid of her brother. It doesn’t take much calculating to guess that she’s spent most of her night engaged in vapid conversations with the few people bold enough to think they can win brownie points by courting her.

Ignored and now seething with jealousy, she’s an easy target. All too easy to read and antagonize even further. The jabs aren’t meant to be truly cruel, not really. Surely Arina’s skin is as thick as his, it is just a fun way to pass the evening until the auction starts. “Oh right, I forgot you were born without legs and can’t. A pity and now an even bolder assumption that I’m here as a suitor…” finally he looks at her, eye to eye, “a girl with no legs and a boy with no sense. What a pair we make Rich Girl.”

--- 

Arina is hardly blind to the game he’s playing at. He was not the first to make such an effort, and he certainly would not be the last. She has seen it countless times before; the names might change, the faces may look different, but, at the end of the night, they all wanted the same thing. And under most circumstances, she would never consider indulging in such a notion. But where did that get her? The few prospects who still remained at the gala were far less promising, and it was better than spending what time she had to spare by herself. Try as she might, she couldn’t help but be intrigued at what lingered just beneath the surface of his icy stares and cold indifference.

Arms crossing her chest, Arina huffs with a characteristic indignance before standing to her feet. “Mmm. A pity indeed.” Inspecting him with a watchful eye, her gaze is unwavering once his attention returns from the surrounding crowd. She starts towards the nearest member of the waiting staff, her side brushing against his as she departs from his presence, making a concerted effort to keep her back turned from him as she attempts to engage the waiter in idle conversation.  It is a feeble attempt, and it isn’t long at all before she makes her way back to the corner of the atrium. She stands behind his chair for a moment, reaching across his shoulder to place her glass on table before sliding back into the chair beside him. “Tell me, then, lapochka, if you aren’t here as a suitor, why is it you are here, gracing me with the…”, she pauses again, briefly and emphatically, before reaching across him to grab her beverage, “pleasure of your company?”