Chapter Text
The weeks following Black’s escape saw inmates confined in their cells; their time in the small recreational area severely cut down by the aurors. The lack of chance to stretch their legs and talk with other inmates made the majority incredibly irritable and cranky, snapping at every small thing. The food was bad - it always was, but their restricted freedom made it worse than it already was. Dementors hovered even closer than before, leaving screams and whimpers in the wake of their cold magic. Even aurors couldn’t escape this hell hole. They were more paranoid, conducting headcounts more often, interrupting inmates from their sleep and their time alone.
One particular day, Antonin woke up to the sound of the Lestrange brothers arguing about the semantics of their family magic. He glared at the ceiling, willing himself back to sleep for there was nothing else to do, but the rising voices were doing him in. The added cackle of Bellatrix and the whispers of the others as they listened to the argument, didn’t help either. Antonin was just about ready to curse everything and everyone in his vicinity if his magical core wasn’t extremely weakened.
Shortly after the thought, a haunting chill permeated through the cells, immediately silencing their entire section. Antonin leapt out of his bed and scurried towards a corner, trying to get as far as possible from the stifling magic surrounding the two dementors that descended down the hallway. The brunet watched as his breath condensed into a fine mist in front of him, while a dementor peered into his cell.
“Zero,” he spat out, reinforcing his occlumency with reciting mindless mathematics, trying his damn best not to give into the despair and fear pulling at every inch of his being, “One, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen, twenty-one, thirty-four…” He reached 75025 before the dementor pulled back from his area. Shallow breaths escaped him, as he fought to compose himself. Almost fourteen years of this bullshit, and he still found himself struggling with his occlumency when it came to the cold, unnatural magic of dementors - as if years of training with his father and mentors didn’t matter.
“Alright there, Antonin?” came the raspy voice of one Rabastan Lestrange, who sat looking all screamed-out and ragged in the cell in front of his.
“Shut the fuck up,” was his quick reply as he picked himself up from the floor, dusting off his clothes - not that it helped, they were always grimy in here anyway. He did eventually answer the younger man’s question. “I’m fucking peachy. Are you?” He peered through the bars of his own cell and into Rabastan’s, catching the wizard’s crazed gaze.
“It was bad enough when they patrolled every two hours, this is just hell.” The spite and anger was evident in his words, and it was familiar. This entire situation was turning out to be a shitshow, and Antonin couldn’t blame the younger wizard at all, especially considering that he has less of a grasp on occlumency than him and Rodolphus.
“Blame the bloodtraitor.” Bellatrix spat out from the cell beside his, venom dripping from every syllable. Everyone knew who it was that caused the change of security and they had all pretty much taken turns cursing out the Black scion one way or another, some more vicious and utterly demeaning than others. Bellatrix, in particular, had cursed the man out almost everyday since the beginning and would have pretty much doomed his bloodline had she her impeccable control over her magic, while Antonin only had quite the visceral reaction on the day they found out - mostly out of worry for Hermione, who might get caught up in the mess since she visited the damn prison shortly before Black’s escape.
Deciding to ignore everyone as they began to chatter once more, the Lestrange brothers picking up their argument once more, Antonin laid back in his cot, staring up at the ceiling as he slowly worked on reinforcing his occlumency walls. His magical core might be weak and almost always depleted by the constant use of occlumency, but there was enough latent magic left by the dementors to torment them and the Russian wizard knew he couldn’t afford to lose his mind. Especially not now when he knew he had a daughter.
/
Later that same day, Antonin was disturbed when someone called his name. At first, he ignored them, thinking it was just Caelestius Mulciber from the cell beside Rabastan. The second time they called his name, the man growled out a ‘what?’ as he pushed himself off the cot and found himself staring down Dawlish and another auror Antonin hadn’t seen before.
“Cut the shit, Dolohov,” snarled Dawlish, looking almost as irritated as the brunet felt. The aurors were no doubt feeling the effects of the dementors themselves, considering some of them had to patrol with the damn creatures.
“What do you want then?” Antonin snapped back as he sat with his arms crossed. A small part of him hoped Dawlish was going to drag him off to see Hermione, but the man wasn’t making him get up like last time.
“The Ministry has something for you.”
Antonin’s brows furrowed as the auror pulled a letter from his pocket and held it out for him. Watching the man carefully, he stood up and made his way closer, gingerly taking the letter from Dawlish, eyeing it for a brief second before frowning at the auror.
Dawlish was quick to scowl back at him. “We’re instructed to let you reply in case you want to. I’ll come around the next patrol with some parchment.”
Barely acknowledging what the auror said, Antonin retreated further into his cell, waiting until the aurors left before tearing the envelope to read what was inside. All the while, pointedly ignoring Rabastan’s attempts to get his attention, nosy bastard.
Уважаемый Антонин Ильич
Antonin couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the use of Russian but paid no further mind to it as the letter then switched to English.
You might remember me from a couple of weeks ago - if not, I’m Hermione Granger.
Dark eyes widened minutely. A small exhale of surprise escaped him. He hadn’t wanted to assume, but he had hoped it would have to do with Hermione. Having a letter from her directly was an even better, bigger surprise.
We spoke about runes when I visited you, particularly your application of the younger futhark - or at least the fundamentals of the system. You were just about to start explaining the basic application of the younger futhark and why the older system should be dropped altogether.
I had hoped to continue the discussion with you, but with the recent events and September approaching fast, I won’t be able to visit you as previously planned. The Ministry, however, graciously allowed me to write you. I hope this is okay and that you don’t mind, especially since I got the impression that you preferred to teach in person.
Anyway, you mentioned in particular that the younger futhark was used primarily during the viking age, I have to wonder....
The girl went on to write - ramble, really, since she had a tendency to run on - about their supposed conversation, asking for clarification on some things he supposedly said. It was complete and utter shite, but Antonin had to hand it to her. She did her research. For all that they were cover ups, her theories based on his supposed explanations made sense and whatever didn’t could be chalked up to the fact that she hadn't even begun studying runes formally. He was honestly impressed, even some people who had worked with runes for years struggled to understand the fundamentals when he proposed the usage of the younger system.
Only when he was done reading, did he pay attention to his surroundings once more and heard the younger Lestrange calling him by a blasted diminutive he should have never divulged to Evan, the goddamn traitor. “What?!” He snapped.
“What’s that?” was the prompt reply. A pale hand from the cell across him waved towards the letter clutched tightly in his hands, green eyes wide with curiosity this time. A change from the usual fear. “What did you get?”
“Mind your fucking business.” Antonin turned his back on him then, the letter clutched tightly in his hands for a second longer before he tucked it almost reverently under the poor excuse of a pillow that he got. Perhaps he should share the information about Hermione and Katerine since she had been practically their sister, but… they weren’t alone and he couldn’t risk it with the aurors.
“Come on, Tosya. ” Rabastan was a whiny little bitch. “It’s not everyday any of us get letters.”
Antonin was ready to ignore the man until Rodolphus piped up. “What does the Ministry want?” Damn it. Rabastan would have forgotten about it if he ignored it long enough, the man’s memory has been slowly deteriorating, much to Rodolphus’ displeasure… but with the older Lestrange being nosy too, there was no chance of the matter being left alone.
With a scowl, he turned back around and glared out the bars of his cell, meeting not only Rabastan’s eyes but also Rodolphus’ as the man peered at him from his cell beside his brother’s. “Family business,” he grunted after staring them down for a little while, to see if they would back down.
“What, Madame Rowle couldn’t handle it?” Rodolphus asked with raised eyebrows.
“Main house matters.” Though it was meant to be a lie, he did recall Hermione saying she was adopted from Russia. That would mean she was born mainland… and that her claim to the family magic would be stronger than his, despite being only half-Russian. “I am still the Patriarch of the cadet branch.” He added, to further throw them off. He never did transfer the house over to his aunt Nikolina despite what his father asked of him should anything happen.
Rabastan guffawed at his answer, his laughter just a little bit on the edge of unhinged. “Even stuck here, you’re still having to deal with that shit? I don’t envy you.”
“Hm,” Rodolphus hummed, gaze lingering on Antonin as he joined in on the laughter, though his voice was entirely too flat. “Yes, how unfortunate.”