She wasn’t sure why she stopped. Perhaps the impulse came from the same urge that sent her walking into the night in the first place. Or, maybe she recognised a kindred spirit in the profile arching upwards towards the sky. There was a distinct possibility she missed the way danger made her heart race and the hairs prickle across her arms.
Even without the ache in her chest or the light of the moon, Hermione knew him. How could she not? He’d been a staple of her nightmares ever since he’d struck her on that night all those years ago. She’d been a child then.
So, she approached. She wasn’t trying to hide her presence, but was still surprised when he noticed, anyway, turning eyes she knew to be a deep cobalt her way.
He huffed, and Hermione flushed at the sound. He’d asked her before to refer to him by his given name.
“Antonin.” She ignored the way he pursed his lips at her correction. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a man enjoy the night air?”
Hermione frowned at the non-answer. He didn’t live in this direction. She should know; she’d been the one to oversee the reintegration of Azkaban inmates into society. Antonin Dolohov shared a flat with Thorfinn Rowle in Wanstead. While she also lived east of the city, her home was located south of the river in Abbey Wood.
“Why this park and not one closer to home?” she asked, trying hard not to seem too paranoid. It wouldn’t do for the proponent of the inmate initiative to unfairly accuse those already deemed reformed.
He wasn’t deaf or stupid. “Maybe I chose this particular park because I knew you’d be walking by.” He didn’t pause to let her object. “Or, maybe I randomly chose a destination to walk and ended up here.”
She thought the latter unlikely, and opened her mouth to say so, before shutting it just as quickly. There she was, again, jumping to conclusions. It was a bad habit of hers, one she’d been forced to confront time and time again. Hermione could understand needing alone time in an unfamiliar place. She’d done so often enough, and nobody had confronted her in those situations when she’d been discovered.
“In that case, I’ll leave you to it. I apologise for interrupting.”
His chin dropped in acceptance, the dark curls of his hair falling forward in such a way that tempted the hand to brush them back. Instead, she did as she had said; she walked away and did not look back.
It was two weeks later when she saw him again, seated on the same bench accompanied by nothing but the scent of honeysuckle in the air.
Hermione told herself to walk by and leave him to his thoughts, she really did. Again, it was as if her feet had a mind of their own, angling her towards where he sat and not stopping even when he turned to watch.
He spoke before she could think of an appropriate greeting. “Good evening.”
He stared at her, and it was in that stillness that Hermione was struck by the weariness in his stature. While this was the second time seeing him at the park, Hermione had seen him more recently than that. She checked in with all of the reformed at regular intervals–some she trusted to her assistants, and others, like Antonin Dolohov, she made a point to visit in person.
On paper, the reasons were clear. His reputation outweighed many of his peers; there was far more hatred and stigma surrounding him than those less known, less…visible. He stuck out in carriage and appearance. No makeover could hide his sure movements, and he cared little for any attempt to disguise his lingering accent.
His choice of roommate didn’t help. Thorfinn was, in a word, massive. Physically and spiritually, he took up more space than any other wizard or witch that Hermione had ever met. His enthusiastic effusement had been intimidating to her, at the start, but, over time, it also became the reason for Hermione’s adoration and trust. She wasn’t allowed to have favourites, but Thorfinn was one of hers.
And Dolohov? Well. He was, too. Hence, the unwritten reason, because her feelings for him weren’t strictly friendly, per se.
Hermione was a professional–yes, she’d taken to relaxing her guard in Thorfinn’s presence, but she never crossed the line between work and play. That didn’t mean she didn’t look, though. Look and dream.
Because wherever Thorfinn went, so did Dolohov. He sat quietly, allowing his friend to speak for both of them. His eyes spoke volumes, though, so much so that Hermione often felt she was carrying on two conversations at the same time between the two men. If Thorfinn ever noticed her split attention, he never said as such.
During each of those meetings, the wizards had seemed upbeat, hopeful even, in their prospects. Thorfinn worked security at a Muggle nightclub, the merits of which were apparent in the lovebites he sported in plain sight. Dolohov, in turn, had returned to his curse-breaking for the goblins of Gringotts. They cared little for his past, prizing the skills few wielded.
“May I sit?” she asked, indicating the space next to him.
He jerked his head to the side. Hermione thought he’d move the arms stretched across the back of the bench and waited for an awkward beat before realising he planned to do no such thing. His eyes tracked her as she settled into place. Like his arms, they never dropped, but stayed fixed in place with a predator-like focus.
She felt each of her breaths distinctly and willed them to remain steady.
“Is something the matter?”
“Many things matter. You’ll have to be more specific.”
She narrowed her eyes, to which he replied with a slight uptick to one cheek.
“Is there a particular reason why you’ve chosen to visit this park again? You can’t claim ignorance this time.”
If she relaxed and let gravity guide her towards the back of the bench, Hermione wouldn’t feel the heat of his arm with any more intensity. The presence of it behind her already felt like an open flame that she couldn’t decide whether she hated or craved.
He chuckled at her growl of annoyance.
“Antonin, I don’t believe for a second you’re out here past midnight simply because you like it.”
“Why not?” He seemed genuinely curious, head tilting to the side like some kind of adorable wild cat about to pounce on its prey.
“Because there are plenty of parks closer to where you live.”
“Ah.” Now he looked away, glancing up towards the stars, before looking at her once again. “Those other parks don’t interest me.”
The implication was that there was something here that did interest him, and Hermione hated how much she wanted to think he meant her. She could report him for it, she knew. The facts would read as those of a stalker, a possibility that was already noted in his character sheet. Per the Mind Healers assigned to his case, Antonin Dolohov had a mind capable of unparalleled focus and the determination to ignore any and all distractions.
In her nightmares, that determination fueled his cursed flames that consumed her from within until nothing was left but ashes.
In her dreams, that focus lit a different sort of fire, one that started as an ember and grew in intensity until she woke drenched in sweat. The lingering need begged a frantic hand that circled and thrust until she groaned her completion into the too-silent room.
A pulse shot between her legs, prompting her to clench her thighs.
“Why is it you’re here? Or does the Ministry make a habit of keeping their servants in the office past midnight?” He brought up one ankle to rest atop the other leg, the knee of which now a hair’s breadth from her own. She didn’t pull away like she probably should have.
“No, they do not. I just hate going home without clearing my desk first.”
“Just for another pile to land on it in the morning?”
She shrugged. “That’s work. The least I can do is stay ahead of it.”
“Or be controlled by it.”
He wasn’t saying anything Hermione hadn’t already heard before. Harry frequently told her she should have a hard cut-off time. Her inability to do so had been a large part of why she’d given up on repairing her relationship with Ronald, then, later, Neville.
“That’s my queue to go home, I think.” She stood and brushed at her skirt, waiting to see if he’d try and stop her. Despite the warm summer air, her back felt cold without the suggestion of his arm behind it.
They met a handful of times more in much the same manner. Always past sunset, and always on the same bench. It didn’t happen every day, or even every week, but, when it did, they stayed just a little longer each time.
They never touched, but it had become a habit for her to settle into place next to where his arm slung behind the wooden backing. There was one heart-stopping moment where she thought he might have brushed a hand against her curls, but when she turned to look, his hand already rested on top of the bench as usual.
“Tell me about your story again.”
She flushed at the gentle request. She hadn’t expected him to take such an interest in her writing when she’d first brought it up, but he’d since addressed it every time they spoke. “What do you want to know?”
“When do you find time to write between work and these midnight wanderings? You don’t happen to have another Time-turner, do you, umnitsa?” A wicked grin followed the unfamiliar term, one which he seemed to use more lately. Hermione would be lying if she said she didn’t like pretending the phrase meant something special.
“I squeeze it in here and there. While I eat lunch, or a bit in bed before I go to sleep.”
“And the part you last told me about, where your protagonist decides to take a long-awaited vacation–where did you choose to send her?”
“Well,” Hermione said slowly, “I still haven’t decided between a couple of places. I can’t quite make up my mind.”
“Italy, Greece…maybe Turkey. I haven’t actually been to any of them, but I like what I’ve seen and read.”
“Why don’t you visit and decide then?”
Her laugh was short and incredulous. “With what time?”
“Surely you have vacation and days off, yes? Not all trips have to take entire weeks to enjoy.”
He did have a point. For some reason, Hermione had never considered using a weekend to get away, The sorts of places she imagined going to on holiday seemed the type reserved for every couple of years. She could easily see herself taking an entire month to study ancient magical ruins. Two days had never seemed long enough for what she had in mind. But why bundle everything up at once?
“I…never thought of that.”
“Maybe not this weekend, but the next. Schedule it. That way you can plan.”
He knew her so well, despite the space between them.
A streak of courage moved her tongue where it would otherwise have not. “Will you still come here while I’m gone?”
He licked his lips before answering, the darting pink vibrant amidst the clipped sable. “I will be here when you return.”
Her portkey was set to whisk her away early the following morning, but Hermione found herself, yet again, making her way to their unagreed meeting place. She didn’t expect him to be there; he wasn’t always. But there was a tug she couldn’t help but follow.
For the first time in all of their peaceable encounters, he stood at her arrival. She stopped at the edge between pavement and grass as suddenly as if there was an invisible wall in place.
“So are you,” he parried.
“I leave first thing in the morning.”
He hummed, then took a step in her direction. The oddness of the entire situation had her taking a step back to maintain the distance. They both halted, as if strung along the lines of the same puppet master.
All around them hung the ever-present perfume of honeysuckle. Hermione adored the scent; it always made her think of lazy summer strolls and a lingering sun. Even at night, that sense of lightness lingered, buoying her above her uncertainty to say what she’d been wanting to say since they last spoke.
“Would you be interested in coming with me?”
This time when he resumed his steps, she stayed rooted in place. It only took a handful of long strides before he stood in front of her, an expression of wonder on his face as he raised one hand towards her. He paused just as she angled her cheek to press against it.
“I want to say yes, but part of me is afraid this is just another dream.”
Her heart stuttered at “another”, an echo of her own withheld intentions. Like her, he yearned for something more than these precious few hours. Like her, he continued to hold himself back.
She seized his hand to complete the journey, nuzzling into the calluses as she spoke her heart. “I’m real.” While she still held one hand against his own, she used the other to reach for his downturned face, to slide her fingers into the soft hairs and tug him closer. “This is real.”
“In that case,” he murmured, little puffs of air kissing her lips, “I accept.”
Written for the FB Dolohoes' Summer of Love Fest, Week 1: "Don't You Worry" by Oh Wonder
Cross-posted on Tumblr, FB, and AO3.
I had never heard this song before it came up as a prompt, and I ended up falling in love with it as I had it playing on repeat in the background while writing. If you're unfamiliar with it, then I suggest you have a listen!
