❝ FOR FREEDOM.
FOR T R U T H.
AND FOR LOVE. ❞
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍.
1978. Where a squib and a mischief-maker cross
paths at the crux of a war that would eventually
tear apart everything - and everyone - they...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE FOREST STRETCHED before him with no end in sight. Rows and rows of enormous, tall Balkan pine trees loomed around him, packed so densely along the forest floor that little sunlight was able to penetrate the canopy overhead. The further he walked into the forest, the stronger the smell of decay and damp earth surrounding him became. The slightly bemused man noticed that the air too was unnaturally chilly given the time of the year. Every now and then an icy breeze would caress its way through the leaves, rustling them gently. But apart from the rhythmic sound of his increasingly harsh breathing, the forest lay silent.
Stuffing his hands deeper into his coat pockets, he continued to silently stroll through the forest, the picture of his destination burning clearly before his eyes.
A twig snapped.
Antonin whipped around, his hands reaching for his wand instinctively, but there was no one. Not for the first time did his mind stray towards thoughts of the dangers that lurked within - and indeed, beyond - this forest. His heart hammered against his chest, a lump rising in his throat as his mind recited all the ways his plan could end in catastrophe, but he swallowed down the flare of apprehension. He had volunteered to take on this task, and while he was many things - several of which others might look down upon - Antonin Dolohov was not a man to abjure his word.
Clutching his wand tighter, he returned to his path. After about an hour, the putrid scent of rotting moss and decaying animals grew fainter as he left the thick of the forest behind him. The ground, which had seemed woven entirely of fallen foliage and tree trunks of yesteryears, cleared to reveal damp, dark soil that was illuminated by rays of cold sunlight now pouring in through gaps in the forest canopy. The sounds of the forest whispering too were swept away.
A few more feet, and he knew he'd be in the clearing at whose end stood the abandoned mansion he'd call home for the next few days. And sure enough, mere minutes later, he'd spotted the two olden pine trees that Mr. Lestrange had told him would mark the end of the forest and lead him into the estate grounds. Alone in a forest of lush green, the two trees stood like rusted lamp posts, brown and barren.
Beyond the trees, however, Antonin could see nothing but miles and miles of the same withered trees he'd been walking around all morning, as well as a dewy mist that kept swirling hypnotically around tree trunks. There were no wasted grounds in sight, nor was the derelict old mansion he'd seen in the photographs at Mr. Lestrange's.
With a small smile, Antonin approached the barren trees and placed a hand on the trunk of the left one. For a moment, the rough bark underneath his hands glowed warm, but the sensation was gone before he could register it. Nothing happened. The leaves rustled; a bird chirped in the distance; a twig snapped; the wind whistled; he stood still. Antonin's smile wavered, apprehension clawing its way back into his heart, but he didn't let it deter him.
