The Last of a Legacy
Antonin Dolohov glared at the medical chart that seemed to be attached with a rather stubborn sticking charm to the plain white wall of the sterile examination room in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. His calloused hands clenched into restless fists. Dim light filtered through the magical panes, casting dancing shadows on the walls adorned with healing emblems. Despite the soothing environment, there was a chill in the air—one that even the most comforting charms couldn’t dispel.
His eyes, sharp and calculating, betrayed no emotion as he waited for Healer Miriam Wood, a specialist known for her discretion and unparalleled skill in treating ailments deemed “delicate.” The hospital was abuzz with tension, the undercurrent of the ongoing wizarding war seeping even into its hallowed halls. But for Dolohov, today’s visit was a personal diversion from the chaos he usually thrived in.
Healer Wood entered quietly, her robes flowing softly against the stone floor. Her demeanour was professional yet distracted as she flicked through her detailed notes while approached the simple pine wood desk set against the back left hand wall “Mr. Dolohov, thank you for your patience,” she began, taking a seat at the desk and consulting the chart that hovered beside her with a flick of her wand.
Dolohov nodded stiffly, his gaze fixed on her face, searching it for any hint of what was to come. “I’m sure you’re aware, Healer, that my time is not something I expend lightly.”
“Of course.” She pressed her lips together, hesitating for the briefest moment before gesturing for him to take a seat in the opposite chair. “I have completed a thorough examination, and double checked the results.”
The air grew thicker as Dolohov reluctantly settled on the stiff wooden seat, his mind racing through possibilities. He was not one to shy away from adversity, yet there was an unfamiliar knot in his stomach, a mixture of dread and defiance.
“As I’m sure your aware, magic, especially of a darker nature, can have profound effects on the body,” Healer Wood began, her voice steady but devoid of any real emotion while still studying her notes “It disrupts natural systems in ways we are still striving to understand fully. Unfortunately, we have identified significant degradation to—”
“Get to the point, Healer,” Dolohov interrupted, his voice a low growl.
She raised her eyes to meet his gaze unflinchingly. “Mr. Dolohov, the use of dark magic has compromised your ability to father children.”
For the first time, Dolohov’s composure wavered, a flicker of something indefinable passing over his features before settling into a hard mask. “You’re saying I’m infertile.”
Healer Wood studied him for a second before a twinge of sympathy seemed to shift across her features and she nodded empathetically. “I’m afraid so. The damage is irreversible with the current magical knowledge we possess.”
A simmering silence enveloped the room. Dolohov’s mind swirled—a crumbling facade of deeply ingrained beliefs and unspoken dreams he never allowed himself to acknowledge. Yet, somewhere beneath the layers of his cold exterior, the reality cut deeper than any spell.
“And you’re sure” he finally replied, his voice barely a whisper. Healer Wood hummed quietly in affirmation as she continued to watch Dolohov curiously. “Yes, although you are welcome to a second opinion if you would like, Healer Selwyn is just down the hall.” Dolohov barely heard the Healer, his mind still processing what he had been told. Upon realising she was waiting for a response he shook his head.
“That won’t be necessary, thank you for your candour,” he offered in parapatry of a response, his voice came out hollow even to his own ears. He forced himself to stand, throwing all the swirling emotions welling up under the surface into a box and shoving it to the back of his mind. It wouldn’t do to look anything but composed and resolute, even as the room seemed to close in around him. The implications were immense, but Antonin Dolohov, devoted servant of the Dark Lord, had learned never to show his weakness, even when faced with the stark truth of his human frailty.
As the Healer rose to open the door for him, Dolohov stared ahead nodded in quiet thanks, a warrior caught in unexpected and unwelcome introspection. He would continue to serve of course, to fight, without the burden of legacy or the promise of progeny, in a world where power and lineage were everything. And in that moment, the shadows of St. Mungo’s felt more binding than ever.