- Name. Ante Dolohov.
Birthday. December 11th.
Blood Status. Pureblood.
Wand. 12" Silver-lime, Basilisk, Unyielding.
Amortentia. Ocean waves, mist, moonlight, laughter.
Boggart. Fyoder, seeping cold, confinement, heights.
Face Claim. Arben Bajraktaraj.
Share Face Claim? No.
Mother. Anastacia Darya Dolohov.
Father. Antonin Fyodor Dolohov Sr. (VIII).
Siblings. Anastasia Dolohov, Aleksander Dolohov.
Betrothed. Ophelia MacNair.
They say it's a big debate, nature vs. nurture.
When you grow up in the Dolohov home, a proud pure-blooded line spanning generations, you learn never to question your place. Even as father hands you the delicate heirloom which is to become your wand as a small child, you know it's a representation of your expectations. You offer nothing but gratitude in response.
This is the way of things. Your responses, your motions, your expressions and words are groomed for perfection. Dolohov men are proud. They don't give in. They're strong, powerful, covetous. Calculating and efficient and ambitious. You can have anything you've ever dreamed of. Any object plucked from the stars and dropped into your outstretched hands.
When Anya is born, things are different. She's the sound of laughter in the cold, the point of light in the dark. All that is good contrasted against your empty home. But you are a Dolohov man, and you can never allow that weakness to guide you. As you grow, Father becomes Fyoder, a curt acknowledgment lined with venom. Dolohov men act with honor, and Fyoder's behavior is anything but. You take the strikes. You take the bruises, so she doesn't have to.
Perhaps if you were not a Dolohov man, you would be different, too. But you are, and there is a natural twistedness inside you. It leads you to pull the wings off of insects and toy with Anya's feelings, to trap First Year Gryffindors in a vanishing cabinet or see just how deep you can press a blade into your own arm before flinching. Each strike shores you up until you are impenetrable.
In school, you are naturally Sorted into Slytherin and meet the group of people who become your lifelong friends. Nott, Rosier, Avery, Mulciber and Tom Riddle himself. Together you form the Knights of Walpurgis, a secret Slytherin society dedicated to preserving the ideals of Salazar. Others can't understand your origins, the politics at play, but they do. They're your home.
Each of you are model students in one subject or another. Yours is Potions. It's delicate and exacting and an art form. During summers home, you still crawl into bed beside Anya, arms wrapped around her, able to forget all the world. It's a glaring dichotomy as the years pass by and you settle into yourself. Hard and cold.
When Riddle transforms himself, you're there to watch. When the Dark Lord asks you to handle business, you sternly accept. Of them all, you are most willing, most able, perhaps even most eager to do the necessary. As an adult you enter the Ministry's Witch Watcher program, silent as a stone, but with an exceptional mind that allows you to travel all over the world doing Voldemort's bidding.
You tell yourself you're crafting a new world. A better world. But deep in your heart-of-hearts, you just like suffering.
The trail of bodies piles up, until the First Capture. Years, you spend in that rotting place with rattling Dementors and crumbled walls. Biding your time. Waiting until the Dark Lord rises again once more, and then it happens. Just when you've given up and all hope is lost, a sliver of light. The walls burn away, leaving you exposed to the chilly air and it's freedom.
The freedom doesn't last. It never does.