Chapter Text
It had been almost three years since the Second Wizarding War had ended. Many of Hermione's friends had moved on, leaving behind the trauma of their stolen teenage years. Once painted with sorrows and blood, they allowed themselves to cover the canvas with white once more. Hermione had tried to move on too. She had been almost successful, almost. She finally could sleep with both of her eyes closed without being awakened by the same recurring nightmares. No longer did she see the dead walk alongside her. Even her mudblood scar had faded, becoming less and less a reminder of how she never fit in. But her small victories had been short-lived for when she turned twenty-one, everything had changed.
Suddenly, the purple scar branching out in the middle of her chest seemed to grow a pulse of its own. It didn't ooze again or hurt like it used to a year into her healing. It thrummed, as if something was coursing through its raised vines, calling out to her.
Her magic would flare in response, searching through the night for the source. Ignoring it had been a mistake, she realized too late. It now clung to her skin, an incessant itch, and it demanded to be acknowledged. Hermione found that she could no longer stop herself from recalling the events from that night. Every little detail of her last encounter with Dolohov had been combed through obsessively. They were catalogued and written down methodically somewhere safe in the corner of her mind where no one would be able to find. Almost every day, she would go over her memories. Slowly, taking them apart until there was nothing else to see. Yet still, she couldn't find one clue that would help her identify the curse that almost killed her.
One thing for sure, Madam Pomfrey had been wrong. Whatever curse he used doesn't seem to have left any lasting damage, Miss Granger, she had said. But there had been signs, way before her birthday. She had reported them, but no one had paid mind. With time, she too had chosen to ignore them.
When her magic had returned after the many days kept safe from Death's grip, it was different. Somewhat sharper, like it had lived and learned much more than any other sixteen year old. At times, it had also felt foreign; not quite hers, not in its entirety. But disappearances were occurring left and right, battles raging with no end in sight. Her concerns were laid forgotten until now. But with the fallout of the war, no one alive could really answer her questions let alone the Ministry files that had ended up being of little help.
Antonin Dolohov was gone: ''…wherebouts unknown. Presumed dead or fled from the country. Priority: high, to be captured on sight with request for backup.''
Hermione had gone over his file more times than she could count, and strangely, with each read, her disappointment grew as her relief diminished. The feeling irked her; ugly and contradictory. Her sleep was back to being unrestful and the worst part? She began to dream of him again.
She couldn't call them nightmares. Those would have implied fear and while she did wake up gasping for air, drenched in sweat with her sheets twisted all around her body, there was never any residue of fear left. Instead, she would have this eerie sense of having acquired new knowledge.
Images of places she had never traveled to before resurfaced at the forefront of her sight. Sometimes, she found herself inside of a hut in the mountains, deep in the Highlands, other times, it was a farmhouse somewhere in the Carpathians. A fire would be lit, allowing her to view the modest dwelling that smelled of pine and old wood. But there was always something else underneath it all; and it wasn't long before her magic recognized it as his magic. Eventually, the dreams would last longer, letting her see his sleeping form, undisturbed, unlike her who was restless and horrified by the realization that she knew exactly where he was at all times.
Dolohov was not dead.
He hadn't disappeared somewhere untraceable. If she wanted to, she could provide his location to the DMLE at any given moment. He wouldn't know any better, or so that's what she wanted to believe. The truth in the matter was that she simply didn't know. There was a possibility this ran in both directions; that he knew where she was, too.
She was quite certain she hated him. But she was equally aware that hatred wasn't the only thing preventing her from giving out his location. Until she figured out to what extent she was tethered to him, she would continue to scribble down every bit of information from her dreams. She had vowed to learn and understand everything about the elusive man and his effects on her. She owed that much to herself. The depths of her mind would no longer be sufficient, not for the kind of research she will be undertaking from her London flat.