Chapter Text
The Hogwarts library, usually a sanctuary of quiet study, often hummed with a different kind of energy when Antonin Dolohov and Dorcas Meadowes occupied its ancient confines. Tonight, the flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows that made the towering shelves seem to breathe around them, filled with forgotten histories and potent magic. Antonin, even at seventeen, was all sharp angles and simmering ambition, a coiled tension always present beneath his deceptively calm exterior. He traced a forgotten rune on a dusty tome with a slender, almost elegant finger, his brow furrowed in a concentration so intense it seemed to physically push away the surrounding world. Dorcas, perched on the edge of the table beside him, a half-eaten treacle tart forgotten in her hand, watched him, a familiar blend of fascination and exasperation playing across her features.
"Still trying to decipher Grindelwald's scribbles, Dolohov?" she teased, her voice a low, melodic hum that always managed, inexplicably, to cut through his usual impenetrable intensity. It was a sound that both infuriated and, against his will, drew him in, like a moth to a flame he knew would eventually burn him.
He grunted, not bothering to look up from the complex diagram.
"It's not scribbles, Meadowes. It's intricate, powerful magic. And if you weren't so busy indulging your saccharine sweet tooth, perhaps you might actually appreciate the finer, more pragmatic points of dark magic. There's a brutal efficiency to it, you know, a directness that your Gryffindor sensibilities simply can't grasp." He spoke with a quiet arrogance, yet even then, a part of him hoped she would rise to the bait, engage him in the intellectual sparring that was their peculiar form of intimacy.
Dorcas merely smiled, a soft, almost pitying curve of her lips that always infuriated him and, against his will, held him captive. She was everything he wasn't – bright, empathetic, her spirit shining with an almost defiant optimism, and utterly unburdened by the insidious whispers of ambition that constantly gnawed at him, a relentless hunger he barely understood himself.
Yet, somehow, defying all logic and house loyalties, they'd found themselves locked in this strange, precarious orbit around each other since their fifth year. It had begun with shared, disastrous Potions classes, where her natural talent clashed with his ruthless efficiency, and a chaotic Defence Against the Dark Arts project that forced them into reluctant collaboration. And then, inexplicably, late-night talks in deserted corridors, whispered confessions and fierce debates that stretched on until the first blush of dawn.
They'd debated everything from the ethics of Transfiguration to the merits of different Quidditch teams, always circling back to the deeper philosophical differences that fundamentally defined them. She saw a glimmer of inherent good in everyone, even in him, and he saw only the pragmatic path to strength, a ruthless clarity he believed essential for survival.
"Perhaps," she conceded, her gaze softening as she finally looked at the forbidden book, tracing the lines of a grim illustration with her finger. "Or perhaps there's more to life than just accumulating power, Antonin. Like joy. Like genuine connection. Like... choosing to do good, even when the path is hard, even when it costs you something." Her voice was gentle, a stark contrast to the harshness he so often exuded, a quiet challenge that unsettled his carefully constructed worldview.
He finally looked at her then, his striking blue eyes, usually cold and calculating, holding a flicker of something akin to confusion, a momentary break in his carefully maintained composure.
"Like what, Meadowes? Weakness? Sentiment?" He spat the words like they were poison, sharp and dismissive, but his eyes lingered on her face, on the way the candlelight illuminated the faint scattering of freckles dusting her nose, the way her pristine Gryffindor tie seemed to glow against her crisp white shirt. He often found himself studying her, trying to dissect what it was about her that so effortlessly disarmed him, that chipped away at the hardened shell he presented to the world.
A sigh escaped her, barely audible, a soft exhalation of unspoken weariness.
"Like connection, Antonin. Like choosing what's right over what's easy, over what’s convenient. Like—" She paused, her eyes meeting his across the table, and the unspoken words hung heavy in the silence between them, a tangible weight that pressed down on the quiet library. Like us. The thought had been a silent, persistent companion between them for months, a fragile, unspoken truth they both recognized but dared not voice, a dangerous, beautiful possibility.
Every brush of their hands as they reached for the same book, every shared glance across a crowded room, every lingering moment after their study sessions felt charged with it, a current of unspoken longing that hummed beneath the surface of their intellectual sparring.
His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his pale skin. He knew what she meant. He felt it too, this undeniable, illogical pull towards her that warred constantly with every principle he'd ever held dear, every lesson drilled into him by his family and the nascent whispers of a powerful new master.
She was a Gryffindor, a staunch believer in the light, in compassion, her very essence a beacon of everything he was systematically turning away from. He, on the other hand, was already walking a path that led inexorably into shadow, a path he felt preordained for him, a destiny he was accepting with a chilling resolve. To acknowledge them—to acknowledge her—would be to tear himself in two, to admit a vulnerability he simply couldn't afford, a weakness that could be exploited. The future he envisioned, a future of absolute power and unchallenged influence, had no room for such softness, such sentimental attachments.
He slammed the book shut with a sudden, violent thud, the sharp noise echoing in the quiet library, making Dorcas jump slightly, her hand instinctively flying to her chest. "
Don't be absurd, Meadowes," he said, his voice rougher, more guttural than he intended, a desperate, almost frantic attempt to sever the invisible thread that bound them. "There is no 'us.' There's only the future, and what one must do, however un palatable, to secure it. Only strength. Only purpose." He wished, with a sudden, raw ache in his own chest, that he could truly believe the conviction in his own harsh words.
He rose abruptly, pushing his chair back with a loud, scraping sound. He needed to leave, to put physical distance between himself and the dangerous vulnerability she so effortlessly stirred in him. He needed to escape the way her presence made him question everything he thought he knew, everything he was being taught to believe. But he couldn't move.
His eyes were fixed on her, on the way her shoulders slumped ever so slightly under the weight of his dismissal, on the flicker of raw, undisguised hurt in her usually bright, defiant eyes. It was a familiar hurt, one he'd inflicted before in smaller ways, but this time it felt sharper, more profound, a deep cut that he knew would fester.
"Is that truly what you believe, Antonin?" she whispered, her voice fragile, barely above a breath, a devastating counterpoint to the loud slam of the book. "That all of this… these moments, these conversations… it means nothing?" Her gaze swept between them, encompassing the unspoken history, the shared moments that so eloquently belied his cruel words. The late-night debates that sharpened their minds, the genuine laughter over a shared joke in a tedious Charms class, the quiet, almost profound comfort of simply existing in the same space, understanding each other’s thoughts without need for words. "Are you really so sure that your chosen path requires you to be completely alone? To cut yourself off from everything that makes you human?"
His heart, a muscle he usually believed was made of ice, gave a painful lurch, a sudden, desperate beat. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her close and tell her that it meant everything, that she was the one crack in his carefully constructed, impenetrable world, the one person who could make him doubt the cold, hard logic of his ambitions. He wanted to confess that the thought of a future without her, however illogical and self-defeating, felt utterly barren, devoid of warmth or colour. But the words, choked by pride and fear, by the relentless indoctrination of his powerful family and the insidious whispers of a dark master, simply wouldn't come. The chasm between them, though invisible, felt impossibly wide, a gaping abyss he himself had created.
Instead, he turned sharply on his heel, his robes swirling around him. "It means nothing," he repeated, his voice colder, more resolute this time, a thick, impenetrable shield he hoped would protect him from the agonizing ache in his chest. He walked away, leaving her sitting there in the pooling candlelight, the forgotten treacle tart a stark reminder of the simple sweetness he was deliberately, savagely leaving behind.
He didn't look back, not even when he heard the soft, almost inaudible sniffle, knowing with a terrible certainty that if he did, if he allowed himself even one more glimpse of her hurt, he might never be able to leave at all. The path to ultimate power was lonely, he reminded himself, a constant, brutal mantra, and sentiment was a treacherous weakness he simply couldn't afford. It was a lie he told himself to survive, to justify the choices he was making, the dark alliances he was forging. But as he stepped out into the chill night air of the Hogwarts grounds, a different kind of cold settled deep in his chest, a profound, aching emptiness that even the promise of ultimate power couldn't hope to fill. He was walking towards a future he was convinced he needed, a destiny of his own making, but in doing so, he was leaving behind the only person who had ever made him feel truly seen, truly vulnerable, truly alive. He had chosen the shadows, and in doing so, condemned himself to an profound, self-inflicted solitude.
The remaining months of their Hogwarts education passed in a strained, agonizing ballet of near-misses and deliberate avoidances. The once comfortable, familiar rhythm of the castle now felt dissonant, each beat out of sync, a jarring cacophony. They existed in parallel universes within the same ancient walls, their paths occasionally crossing in the Great Hall or along crowded corridors, but their eyes never met, their bodies always stiffly turned away from one another. Dorcas, usually a vibrant, effervescent presence in the Gryffindor common room, her melodic laughter often echoing down the spiral staircases, found herself seeking quieter, more isolated corners. The bustling energy of her housemates, once a comforting embrace, now felt overwhelming, a joyful noise she couldn't quite connect with. Her friends, sensing a profound shift, gave her knowing glances and offered silent comfort—a gentle hand on her arm, a shared sympathetic sigh, a quiet cup of tea—but she couldn't bring herself to articulate the raw, bleeding hurt that festered within her. The words felt too big, too sharp, too devastatingly personal to give voice to. Every turn in the corridor felt like a gamble, a test of her composure, every glance around a room a desperate search, and a simultaneous dread, for the sight of his tall, dark form. When she did spot him – a fleeting glimpse across the Great Hall, his profile stark against the candlelight, or striding with purposeful, almost aggressive energy through the crowded hallways – he always seemed to be looking away, his posture rigid, his face a mask of cold, unyielding indifference, as if she were utterly invisible, a ghost he refused to acknowledge. It was a stark, brutal contrast to the intense, almost possessive gaze he sometimes fixed on her during their late-night studies, a gaze that now felt like a figment of her own desperate, foolish imagination. The silence between them, once filled with unspoken understanding and shared secrets, had become a vast, unbridgeable chasm, deeper and colder than any dungeon.
She threw herself into her studies with a desperate, almost obsessive intensity, finding a temporary, fragile solace in the precise, predictable logic of Charms and the intricate, ancient patterns of Ancient Runes. Distraction became her new best friend, a shield against the persistent, dull ache that resonated beneath her ribs. She spent hours in the library, though never in their accustomed, secluded corner, deliberately choosing a different alcove, burying herself in texts until her eyes blurred and her temples throbbed. She was fiercely determined to prove to herself that her life, her aspirations, her very being, did not revolve around a boy who had so carelessly, so cruelly, discarded her with a few dismissive words.
Yet, the ache persisted, a dull throb beneath her ribs that reminded her constantly of the deep emotional wound, like a phantom limb that still throbbed with a pain that wasn't truly there, but felt agonizingly real. Each successful spell, each intricately deciphered passage, each perfectly crafted essay felt hollow, the victory diminished by the absence of the quiet, almost-proud nod she'd sometimes receive from him, the subtle, fleeting shift in his usually stern expression that had once been her most cherished, unspoken reward. The pure joy of learning, once so vibrant and untainted, was now tinged with a bitter irony.
Antonin, for his part, found Hogwarts stifling, its ancient magic and familiar routines now feeling like a gilded cage designed to hold him back, to shackle his burgeoning power. The very stones of the castle seemed to press in on him, suffocating the air from his lungs. He plunged himself deeper into his darkest studies, seeking an escape, a potent antidote to this insidious weakness he felt, this constant, dull ache that resonated in the hollow space where Dorcas used to be. He spent more time than ever in the restricted section, sometimes forgoing meals entirely, his already sharp features becoming leaner, more gaunt, his striking blue eyes holding a perpetually distant, haunted look, shadowed by sleepless nights and the gnawing regret he fiercely suppressed. He mastered curses and dark charms that few wizards even dared to contemplate, his proficiency chilling even to some of his pure-blood peers who had embarked on similar paths.
The whispers about him intensified, growing from schoolyard gossip to a darker, more serious hum within the castle walls. He barely noticed. The only thing that mattered was the looming future, the inevitable rise of a new order, and his essential, ruthless place within it. He saw Dorcas, of course. He couldn't help it. She was everywhere, a constant, painful reminder, yet nowhere he could reach. Her bright, unmistakable hair, a flash of fiery red in the sea of drab uniforms, her melodic laugh, now a rare, muted sound he sometimes caught across the Great Hall, piercing through his self-imposed coldness. Each glimpse was a fresh stab, a painful reminder of what he had renounced, what he had consciously, deliberately shattered. He would deliberately turn his head, clench his jaw until it ached, and focus with a fierce, almost violent intensity on the cold, hard ambition that had always driven him, the promise of power that beckoned. He told himself, over and over, that it was for the best, that any lingering connection with her would only jeopardise his path, and more dangerously, hers.
He was walking into a war, a profound darkness, a world she could not, should not, be a part of. This sacrifice, he rationalized with chilling logic, was for her protection as much as his own ascent, a necessary cruelty to shield her from the inevitable storm he was preparing to embrace. But the cold, hard logic offered little comfort against the persistent, gnawing emptiness that felt like a gaping wound in his soul.
He found himself standing guard over his emotions every waking moment, constantly battling the fierce, rebellious urge to seek her out, to apologize, to somehow undo the damage, to bridge the chasm he himself had created. Each successful suppression of this urge felt like a hollow victory, and a profound, agonizing loss. He was succeeding in his chosen path, but at what immeasurable cost?
Their Hogwarts journey culminated in a silent crescendo. Dorcas graduated with top marks, her name called with distinction, but the applause felt muted, the sense of accomplishment bittersweet. She received immediate job offers from the Ministry, invitations to prestigious internships, and the warm, genuine congratulations of her peers and professors. Yet, there was a profound hollowness where the quiet pride she might have seen in his eyes should have been, a silent ache for a recognition he would never offer. She spent her final weeks at Hogwarts packing, sifting through seven years of memories, each trinket, each old parchment, seemed to whisper of a time before the cold silence, a time when a certain dark-haired boy had been an unexpected, if tumultuous, presence. She found a crumpled drawing she’d made in a particularly boring Charms lesson – a quick caricature of Antonin, mid-scowl, his dark hair impossibly windswept.
A sharp pang went through her, half-fondness for the shared memory, half-resentment for the pain he’d caused. She crumpled it tighter and tossed it into the bin. It was time to move on, she had to believe that. The world outside Hogwarts awaited, a world where she could redefine herself, free from the lingering shadow of a relationship that never truly began, but nonetheless left its indelible, complicated mark.
Antonin’s graduation was a far more subdued affair, less celebrated by his housemates, more a quiet inevitability. He had already carved out his path, a dark trajectory visible only to a select, powerful few. His final year had been a relentless, almost obsessive pursuit of forbidden knowledge, not for the sake of learning, but solely for power, for control. He had mastered curses and dark charms that few wizards even dared to contemplate, his proficiency chilling even to some of his pure-blood peers who reveled in dark magic.
The whispers about him intensified, growing from schoolyard gossip to a darker, more serious hum within the wider wizarding community. He barely noticed. The only thing that mattered was the looming future, the terrifying rise of a new order, and his essential, ruthless place within it. He saw Dorcas at the graduation ceremony, a brief, almost imperceptible glance across the vast expanse of the Great Hall. She was radiant, her Gryffindor robes striking against her bright, vibrant hair, her smile genuine and unburdened as she embraced her friends, her eyes shining with hopeful anticipation. He felt a sharp, unfamiliar twist in his gut, a sudden, potent urge to stride across the space, to tell her… what? That he regretted it all? That he wished things could be different? That he missed her quiet strength, her unwavering belief in goodness? The words died in his throat, choked by the bitter taste of his own choices, by the heavy chains of his perceived destiny. He watched her for a moment longer than was wise, an almost imperceptible hesitation, before turning his gaze back to the head table, to the men who would soon be his comrades, his mentors, his masters. The path he had chosen was narrow, unforgiving, and left no room for such sentimental weaknesses.
As the final goodbyes were exchanged and students streamed out of the Great Hall into the bright promise of summer, Antonin walked away from Hogwarts not with a sense of triumph, but with a strange, heavy burden. He was free, yes, free to pursue the power he craved, to forge his own ruthless destiny. But in shedding the last vestiges of his old life, he had also shed something vital, something he was only beginning to realize, with a crushing sense of loss, he might truly miss: the quiet, luminous presence of Dorcas Meadowes.
The castle, which had once felt so stifling, now seemed to exhale, releasing him into a world far more dangerous and far less forgiving, a world where the warmth of a simple connection would soon become a forgotten, painful luxury.