Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Antonin had long since lost count of the years he had endured in that bleak, sunless prison. Time there was a thing without shape or meaning, measured only by the clink of chains and the slow erosion of hope. In the beginning, fury had kept him alive. Hatred burned like a furnace, each breath a vow of vengeance, each day a stubborn refusal to break. It was easy then to despise every reason he had been locked away — the faces of those who had locked him away and their cause.

His second imprisonment, coming so soon after the briefest taste of freedom, proved far more corrosive than the first. The old, blistering fury that had sustained him would not ignite again; it smouldered fitfully, then guttered out, leaving only a hollow ache. For twenty long years he sat on the cold stone floor of his cell, no longer harried by Dementors’ keening or the echo of his own screams. In the silence, memory sharpened instead of frayed. With nothing to drown out his thoughts, he was forced to turn them inward, to examine the choices that had led him here and the allegiance he had once embraced so blindly. Each recollection — once worn like a badge of conviction — now lay before him like evidence in a trial only he could conduct, and the verdict grew heavier with every passing year.

By the time his release finally came, the man who stepped off the prison boat bore little resemblance to the wiry fighter who had entered them in both this twenties and again in his forties. He was nearing sixty now, shoulders stooped, decades settled into his bones. Freedom felt thin and unfamiliar, like a suit cut for someone else. An Auror had been assigned to shadow his first months outside, a quiet but unmistakable reminder that society still watched his every breath.

They handed him a single key to a narrow, peeling flat in a tired block where the plaster flaked like old parchment. He could stay there for a year, no longer, before the world would expect him to stand entirely on his own. A job had already been arranged — cleaner at the Ministry, a position meant as much to keep him under watch as to help him earn his keep. The thought of walking those gleaming corridors with a mop in his hand filled him with a quiet dread, a humiliation more biting than any chain he had worn. Yet he said nothing. After so many years of silence, words came slow, and freedom, however fragile, was a thing he scarcely dared to test.

He lingered just inside the door and let his eyes travel over the flat that was now, at least for the next year, meant to be home. The space smelled faintly of damp and old smoke. The furniture was mismatched and heavily worn, every chair leg nicked, every surface dulled by years of other people’s lives.

He moved slowly from room to room as though learning the cadence of freedom itself. The sitting room held a sagging sofa whose fabric bore old stains like bruises. When he lowered himself onto it the cushions yielded at once, swallowing him into their soft, tired depths. For a moment he simply sat there, feeling the unfamiliar give beneath him, the quiet around him unbroken by the scrape of a guard’s boots.

The kitchen offered little beyond the barest provisions: a tin of tea, some bread, a small clutch of essentials to carry him until the job began. It would be enough. He opened the single cupboard and closed it again without a sound.

In the bathroom, the tarnished mirror threw back a face he barely recognised: gaunt cheeks, eyes shadowed and sharp, a stranger wearing the remnants of the man he had once been. Beneath it, the enamel tub was chipped and dulled, the shower head sitting above the tub. Two decades of prison filth clung like a second skin, and he longed to be rid of it.

He twisted the tap until the pipes shuddered and the water ran in a furious hiss. Steam billowed up to fog the glass, curling around him. He stripped, the coarse prison-issue fabric fraying and nearly disintegrating beneath his fingers. The air prickled against his bare skin, but he stepped into the scalding water without hesitation. The heat bit at first, hot enough to make him suck in a breath, but he welcomed the sting; after years of Azkaban’s endless chill, even pain was a luxury of the living.

He eased himself lower until the water lapped at his shoulders, his knees jutting above the surface like pale ridges. With the harsh bar of soap provided, he began to scrub — slow, methodical strokes over legs, stomach, arms, face, until the water grew cloudy with the grit of forgotten years. He worked the lather into his hair, tugging at knots and flakes of salt, and felt the prison air lift, fraction by fraction. His beard, now a wild thicket, caught the suds; he ran his fingers through it with a faint scowl. He would shave it off, all of it. The same with the hair that had grown coarse and unruly. When he earnt his first coins, he would sit in a barber’s chair and start fresh.

When the water finally cooled, he lingered a moment longer, reluctant to leave the cocoon of water. At last he stood, joints creaking in protest, and reached for the towel folded beneath the vanity. To his surprise it was new — plush and thick, a small, surprising kindness. He drew it tightly about his shoulders, savouring the softness against skin still pink from the bath, and padded into the bedroom in search of something to wear.

The chest of drawers offered more generosity than he had expected. Inside lay a neatly folded sets of clothes: soft trousers with a fleece lining and elastic hems to hold the warmth, a long-sleeved woollen shirt that smelled faintly of clean soap. Whoever had stocked these drawers understood what the first days of freedom demanded — warmth, and the comfort of being clothed in something that would be comfortable He slipped into the trousers, marvelling at the gentle give of the fabric, then pulled the shirt over his head.

At the back of the drawer he discovered a pair of thick, absurdly fluffy socks. They were the sort of thing he would once have dismissed as frivolous, but now he felt only a faint, grateful amusement. He tugged them on without hesitation, letting the softness cradle his feet, and for the first time in decades allowed himself the simple, almost childlike pleasure of being warm.

He crouched by the hearth and struck the match with slow, deliberate care, the sulphurous hiss startling in the quiet. Someone had left a neat stack of kindling and a small tin of matches beside the grate — practical, unmagical comforts. He coaxed the flame to life the Muggle way, feeding the twigs until the fire caught and began to build, its light flickering across the worn walls.

The room grew warmer by degrees, the first true heat he had felt outside the bath. He knew he would have to wait for the assigned Auror, who would arrive soon enough with the wand he had not touched in twenty years, its return spoiled by the inevitable monitoring charms and yet more forms to sign. Freedom, it seemed, came with paperwork and invisible shackles.

For now, though, there was only the crackle of burning wood and the soft hiss of sap. He settled onto the sagging sofa and let the fire’s glow seep into his bones. The rhythm of the flames — sharp pops, low sighs — lulled him almost against his will. Gradually his eyelids grew heavy, and for the first time in decades, warmth and silence wrapped around him without menace. In their embrace, he drifted toward a fragile, unaccustomed peace.

He started awake at the sudden, heavy knock — three sharp raps that reverberated through the flat like a spell breaking. Heart lurching, he pushed himself up from the sofa, the room still hazy with the warmth of the fire. Groggy but alert, he crossed the worn carpet in a few quick strides and unlatched the door.

A woman stood on the threshold, framed by the dim corridor light. She was of medium height, her hair pulled back into a ponytail that escaped into a cloud of curls. Dark brown eyes — steady, intelligent — met his without flinching. She looked to be in her forties, perhaps a little younger, her face marked less by age than by a quiet self-assurance.

She offered a polite, professional smile. “Good evening, Mr Dolohov. I’m the team lead overseeing the rehabilitation phase of your release. Hermione Granger.”

Her voice remained clear and caring, every syllable carrying the quiet authority of someone practised in treading the line between caution and compassion. She extended her hand, and he accepted it almost reflexively, her grip firm and warm before she released him and stepped gently into the flat.

Antonin stood aside, suddenly aware of how loosely the borrowed clothes hung on his frame, how the damp ends of his hair hung down his back. Under her steady gaze he felt both exposed and oddly scrutinised. The woman’s eyes travelled the room in a quick, unspoken assessment — the modest fire crackling in the grate, the sparse furnishings, the faint scent of soap still clinging to the air — before they settled on him once more.

“I’m glad to see you found the clothes and managed to coax a fire to life,” she said, the faintest trace of wry humour softening her professional tone. “I’ve walked into more than one flat to find someone looking even more lost than when they left Azkaban.” She inclined her head towards the small table by the hearth, the firelight catching a glint in her brown eyes. “Come, have a seat. We’ve quite a bit to go through.”

Her words carried no menace, yet he understood instinctively that this was a routine call. It was the first, deliberate step into the next chapter of his life, and she had come to ensure the page turned properly.

Hermione set her bag on the table and drew out a neat stack of folders, smoothing each one flat with practised hands. From its depths she then produced a long, slender wand box. The sight of it sent a sharp current through him; his palms grew damp, a faint tremor running down his fingers.

“Before I return your wand,” she began, her tone steady, “there are a few conditions we must review.” She lifted her gaze to meet his, making certain he heard every word. “Your wand will be under constant monitoring. If there is any hint of suspicious activity, Aurors are authorised to conduct random checks of your recent memories and to examine the wand itself in full. Do you understand?”

He held her eyes, the weight of the years and the sudden nearness of freedom colliding in his chest, and gave a short, tense nod.

“I need a verbal confirmation, Mr Dolohov,” she prompted, her voice firm but not rude.

“Yes,” he managed at last, the single syllable catching in his throat like a stone his russian lilt coming through heavier than normal.

“Perfect,” she said, a note of brisk approval in her voice. “There are no blanket restrictions on your spellwork. However—" she reached into one of the folders and drew out a single sheet of paper, the Ministry seal stamped in deep crimson at its top “—during your time in Azkaban, the list of prohibited spells has been revised and expanded. This is the current legislation.”

She laid the paper carefully on the table between them, the ink still crisp and dark. “It’s yours to keep and consult whenever you need to. I recommend you familiarise yourself with it sooner rather than later — some of these amendments are recent, and ignorance will not spare you from consequence.” Her gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat, making certain the gravity of her words settled into his mind.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

“Wonderful.” Hermione drew another sheet from the stack and slid it across the table, along with a plain Muggle pen. “Please sign here.”

The pen felt awkward and unbalanced in his hand. He bent over the page and traced his name in the old, looping strokes he had not used in decades. Without the scratch of a quill, the letters looked almost alien — like a relic from a life half-forgotten.

She nodded once, satisfied, then eased the wand box across the table towards him. “I will be your primary contact for the rehabilitation program,” she continued, her tone both professional and — just faintly — reassuring. “If you need support or have any questions, you come to me. The program lasts two years. For the first twelve months you are welcome to remain in this flat. It isn’t intended as a permanent home, and by this time next year the expectation is that you will be financially independent and either seeking or settled in a place of your own.”

Her dark eyes held his as she spoke, steady and without judgement. “You will receive a full salary from your position as a Ministry cleaner, and for the next two years the government will provide additional assistance to help you make the transition. The aim,” she added, a small thread of conviction in her voice, “is to ensure you have every chance to build a life outside Azkaban — one you choose for yourself.”

He inclined his head in a silent acknowledgement, the motion slow but certain.

“You will have an appointment with a Healer within the week,” Hermione continued, consulting one of the folders before looking back at him. “It’s a standard assessment to confirm you’re physically fit for the work you’ve been assigned. If they find any limitations, another position will be arranged so that you can still maintain employment.”

She paused just long enough to let the words settle, then added, “In addition, you are required to attend at least one session every fortnight for the next six months with a certified Mind Healer. How you use those sessions is entirely your choice, but I strongly recommend making the most of them. The Ministry covers the cost during this initial period; after that, if you decide you do need them, the expense will be yours alone. And it isn’t insignificant.”

Her tone softened a fraction. “Consider it an opportunity, not a burden. These sessions can be… surprisingly valuable, especially after what you’ve endured.”

Antonin let the words sink in. A Healer, a Mind Healer — years ago he would have scoffed at the idea of anyone prying into his thoughts. Yet something in the even cadence of her voice made the prospect seem less like intrusion and more like a quiet necessity.

“Furthermore,” Hermione continued, her tone still measured but carrying a note of firmness, “you are not permitted to initiate contact with former associates from your past affiliations. This is a standard safeguard — meant not as a punishment, but to give you the space to build something new without the pull of old loyalties.”

She rested her hands lightly on the folder before her. “Your flat is part of a larger complex that houses others who, like you, are in the process of reintegration. These residents have all shown a strong likelihood of rehabilitation. You’re welcome to socialise with them, and of course you may seek company beyond these walls as you settle back into society.”

Her expression softened slightly, though her words remained clear. “Since your incarceration, a few laws have changed. Sex work and the recreational use of certain regulated herbs have been legalised. You are permitted to engage in those activities, provided you do so responsibly. Should your participation ever create concerns — if it begins to interfere with your employment, your health, or your obligations — then the Ministry reserves the right to impose appropriate restrictions.”

She met his gaze steadily, ensuring the implications of both freedom and responsibility were fully understood. “These guidelines aren’t meant to confine you,” she added, her voice gentler now. 

Antonin absorbed her words in silence, the steady crackle of the fire filling the space between them. He could not decide whether the list of allowances or the quiet limits felt more surreal. In Azkaban, the world beyond had been frozen in his memory; now it seemed to have moved on without him, rewriting its rules while he sat behind stone.

He rested the wand across his knees, tracing a thumb along the familiar grain. The notion that old vices were now lawful — things once whispered about in back rooms now openly permitted — landed oddly. It was not temptation he felt so much as a disorienting sense that the world had learnt to be different without his notice.

Hermione closed the final folder and slipped it neatly back into her satchel. “That concludes everything for tonight,” she said at last. “Your first healer’s appointment will be confirmed by owl tomorrow. If anything feels unclear, or if you find yourself struggling, you have my contact details in this folder. Use them. That is what I am here for.”

She rose fluffing her hair back over her shoulder, and offered him a small, professional smile. “This is a beginning, Mr Dolohov. What you do with it is entirely up to you.”

Antonin stood as well, his wand still warm in his hand. For a moment he could only nod. There were no words that would not sound either hollow or defiant.

Hermione inclined her head, satisfied. “I’ll see myself out. Rest tonight — you have more than earnt it.”

When the door clicked shut behind her, the flat seemed larger, the firelight throwing restless patterns across the walls. Antonin remained standing, the wand balanced lightly between his fingers, and let the silence stretch. It was not the silence of Azkaban: no chill breath of Dementors, no endless echo of his own thoughts. This silence belonged to him, and for the first time in decades it felt almost like a promise.

He lay in the unfamiliar bed that night, the scent of freshly laundered sheets rising like something almost luxurious after decades of damp stone. The pillow cradled his head too softly, a comfort he could not quite trust. Sleep hovered at the edges of his mind but would not come; instead his thoughts circled back to the woman who, with quiet authority, had spent the evening placing the pieces of his life back into his hands.

Hermione Granger. The name stirred fragments of memory like dust caught in the light. Potter’s ally, always at the boy’s side. Bright, relentless, maddeningly sure of herself. He was certain he had flung a curse her way in the chaos of battle — perhaps more than once — though the exact moment blurred now, lost in the smoke and shouting. He tried to summon her as she had been then: the quick, decisive wand, the fierce set of her jaw. The image wavered, half-formed, and was replaced by the woman who had stood in his flat tonight: older, steadier, her voice carrying not triumph but something with more significance— conviction tempered by compassion.

He rolled onto his back and let his gaze settle on the blank darkness above, the ceiling a void that seemed to stretch beyond the narrow confines of the flat. The quiet pressed in — not the oppressive silence of Azkaban, but a living hush, full of small sounds he had almost forgotten: the faint tick of pipes, the distant hum of the city at rest.

Moving forward in this altered world would not come by instinct. Freedom would not simply hand him a place in it. He would have to carve one for himself, step by step, relearning the shape of ordinary life. The thought carried both a weight and a strange, cautious promise: the slow work of building something that, for the first time in decades, might truly belong to him.