The Unwise Choice
Antonin Dolohov stood in the small, open plan kitchen of his apartment, his mind swirling with the weight of the morning’s unexpected events. He had hastily cleared the lounge of any spell books that might tempt little Hermione’s eager curiosity, though he had to wonder just how innocuous ‘A Treaty with Runes’ really was in the hands of a child.
Now, as the rich aroma of coffee spiraled through the air, he leaned against the counter, fingers drumming absently as he debated the merits—or rather, the inevitability—of a future in Azkaban. Kidnapping a child, whether intentional or not, was a one-way ticket to the wizarding prison. You need only look at Rodigan Rookwood. The crazed idiot had tried to kidnap one of Lord Greengrass’s five daughters after a disagreement over marriage proposals, if not for his son through his previous marriage the family might have been wiped out 50 years ago. As it was the Rookwood’s still didn’t quite see eye to eye with the Greengrass. No, the thought was as unwelcome as it was absurd, yet here he was.
Hermione sat at the kitchen table, her tiny frame dwarfed by the expanse of the countertop. Her bushy hair framed a face lit by intellect far beyond her years, and from the current angle, with her head bent over the open book on runes, she resembled a young scholar.
“What was your last name again?” Dolohov asked, clutching his coffee mug with both hands, as if its warmth might provide answers.
Hermione peered up, tapping the end of her delicate finger against her chin—a pose both thoughtful and endearing before shrugging. “Don’t no,” she replied earnestly. “But eve’yone calls me Hermione. Or Herme but I don’t like dhat”
He sighed, a sound laden with the frustration of navigating a conversation that managed to be simultaneously enlightening and maddeningly circular. Her innocence was unassailable, and he doubted she was anything but truthful.
“Do you know who your family is?” he inquired, grasping at any thread that might unravel this mystery. “Like, for instance, do the names Lestrange or Avery sound familiar?”
She scrunched up her nose, considering. “Lestrange… like strange?” She giggled, a melody that seemed to cut through the tension. “No, I don’t no them.”
Dolohov exhaled sharply, taking a long, deliberate sip of his coffee. His mind raced, evaluating the dire implications. If she belonged to a pure-blood family like the Lestranges, it could explain much and confirm his worst fears. Her vibrant curls could indeed recall those of Rodolpus, and her articulate nature reminded him unsettlingly of the last time he saw Amund’s extended family. Were the Averys even still in England?
Yet, no matter how he phrased the questions—roundabout or direct—Hermione seemed oblivious to her own history, a fact as peculiar as her sudden appearance here. Each attempt at clarity only muddled the waters further. ‘What if she was from a light family? Like the Prewitt’s didn’t they recently marry a Weasley? They always have more children that they can count. No, she hasn’t got red hair.’
He rubbed his temple with his fingers, ‘either way’ the headache from earlier threatening a resurgence. “I’m definitely going to prison for this,” he muttered to himself, beneath the girl’s attention.
Hermione glanced up, momentarily distracted from her book. “Prison? Like for ste’ling sweets?” she asked with genuine interest.
“Something like that,” Dolohov murmured. His thoughts were a maelstrom, each path seeming to lead toward inevitable despair, if he brough her to the ministry they would arrest him for certain and once they saw the mark… No that couldn’t happen, could he find a way to maneuver this to his advantage?
Perhaps, just perhaps, there was something here that could be turned to his favor. A hidden opportunity amidst the chaos. If he kept her, just for a few days, someone was bound to come forward. Right? It wasn’t like he has many visitors, and once the family come forward, he could just quietly drop her near their house, a little memory charm and no one would know the difference. Yes, he’s not kidnapping just retaining her for safe keeping. Like keeping a library book longer to make sure an idiotic first year mudblood covered in slime doesn’t ruin it.
The idea took root, compelling and dangerous, just as everything in his life tended to be. The Mystery of her family left unknown for now, it could remain in the realm of speculation—a puzzle yet to be solved, with a child unknowing of the storm surrounding her.
He took another measured sip of coffee, finding a strange solace in the mundane ritual. Meanwhile, Hermione returned to her runes, her world one of letters and meanings in a language both foreign and familiar. And Antonin Dolohov, casting a thoughtful glance her way, was left to ponder the new impossibility’s that had suddenly shrouded his life. Wise this was not, but did he really have a choice?