Azael's Chains

Obsession

Howling wind wove through the dry mutterings of the mad and the throaty sobs of the hopeless, all set to the rhythmic waves beating at stone and shushing away. It was a tired, familiar melody to the sallow man sitting in the dismal cell. He'd spent a decade and a half listening to the song of Azkaban, with the barest break in captivity to alleviate his suffering. It was written into his bones, etched with strokes from the icy fingers of the Dementors that roamed the halls.

There were few ways to combat the maddening effects; Bellatrix, consumed as she was with her love of the Dark Lord, had been lost long ago. She cackled more than she cried, the wild baying echoing through the halls. Her husband went unheard in the cell beside hers, though his brother's dry whisper often skittered through odd silence. The two men were oddly cognizant last he'd seen them.

Dolohov himself liked to think he was sane. He'd focused on people who mattered to him during the first stretch of time imprisoned, though staying away from truly happy moments. He'd figured out that was the way quite by accident.

It was an old, bittersweet memory that had made him mindful of the technique.

"She's pretty when she cries, isn't she?" The young Dark Lord was stroking through lank wheat-gold hair, though his dark eyes were on his follower. Antonin was trying to suppress the longing lest Riddle decide to act on his behalf and somehow turn it against him.

He was holding the sweet girl against him, one arm cradling her so his fingers were in her soft tangles, the other draped over her legs. She was still slumbering in his embrace, warm and soft and frail. This was what he'd longed for, what he wanted to keep. He knew the other man would let him in time. Not nearly as soon as he'd like, given the crimson flash and slow baring of fang. Gaze still locked with Antonin's, Riddle fisted the girl's hair and tugged her toward him, the other hand wrapping around her slender throat.

"What--" Her round eyes popped open, features contorting with pain. She did not struggle.

"Look at her, Dolohov." He locked onto her face, to the soft fear in her eyes. Riddle's voice was low, warm, intimate. "You know she bites her bottom lip?" Of course he did. How many times had Antonin watched her and thought about sinking his own teeth into her sweet mouth? "Sometimes I can taste how much she's worried at it. I like to run my tongue over it, suck it into my mouth, sink my teeth in until I can taste her blood at the surface." Riddle thumbed the lip so they could see the wet inner flesh. "She's delicious, Antonin. She plays afraid, but I always find her so wet when I hurt her. And she kisses so softly, pliantly, like she's begging. Try for yourself."

His head shot up, staring at Riddle incredulously. "My lord?"

"Go on. I know you want her. Take a taste. You've been good; you deserve a reward."

The girl was so still as he lowered his mouth against hers, one of his large hands cradling the nape of her neck. When he thrust his tongue into her little mouth, possessively roaming it, she whimpered. She tasted of tears and bitter sorrow and it was perfect. Antonin moaned; she whimpered and he was overcome with lust, the choked sob everything to him even as it struck him just what he was doing.

He tore his mouth away from her, eyes dark as he gazed into her wide, fearful eyes. "Elena..."

She huddled into herself, crying, further stiffening when he laid a hand against her back.

Riddle radiated pleasure. "Leave us."

Antonin could not get away fast enough.

It was not a happy memory, though it was one he treasured all the same. He had hoped throughout his long imprisonment that she would have come back while he was away; he'd be released to find her waiting for him with her sad cobalt eyes and her trembling little hands.

That had not been the case.

Indeed, he'd heard she was content with her lonely life. He had raged, considering tracking her down to destroy what happiness she'd found within the strictures the Dark Lord had applied. Antonin would take her and make her his at last.

It would break her.

Once he'd calmed enough to realize that, he sat with his grief. She would never choose him; he'd made too many mistakes for her to endure him. He had to move on. So Dolohov had thrown himself into his role as a loyal Death Eater and tried to move on.

Upon his return to incarceration the memories of Elena were too painful to be of much use as armor. He spent countless days wearing a path into the stones of his prison cell, searching his memories for something, anything that would give respite from the endless sorrow, the heartbreaking betrayal across her face.

When it came, he was stunned at the form it took.

Once more his salvation was a girl. About the age at which he'd met Elena, in fact. A small creature, slim and wide-eyed, but otherwise bearing little resemblance to the obsession of his youth.

Potter's mudblood, lit by the flash of curses as she stood in opposition to him, wild curls fanned out around her and wand aloft. She was a curious one. Clever girl had silenced him and that alone was how she survived the curse he'd thrown at her.

Granger, he recalled. She was a pretty little thing, fiery in battle. At sixteen her accomplishments were enough to set her above most grown wizards; top of her year, had managed to thwart the ministry lackey installed at the school, and was generally a thorn in the side of anyone who went after Potter. "An insufferable know-it-all," Snape had called her.

He wondered how she was faring now, how she was recovering from his curse. Did it still pain her? What did the scar look like? No one had ever survived for him to see the healed mark of it; he wanted to know how it stretched over the skin, how it felt to the touch, how it colored her youthful flesh.

Happy memories were often sacrificed to Dementors; the sad could break a man. Obsession, though... Obsession would save him.