A Gift For Phantomato: Father Frost (Andromeda/Antonin, PG-13)
Author: flyingharmony
Recipient:
phantomato
Title: Father Frost
Pairing: Andromeda/Antonin, past Andromeda/Ted
Rating: PG-13
Word Count/Art Medium: 1320
Summary: They were very much alike, the two of them, both misfits in a world full of apparent perfection.
Author's Notes: This basically wrote itself! It went an entirely different way than in the planning phase, but I am quite proud of how it turned out, so I really hope that you will adore reading it as much as I did writing for you! Also, I hope that Andromeda/Antonin are okay, I couldn’t decide who to go with, so I ended up with both! Lots of thanks also to the mods for being awesome and hosting this exchange another year.
It was bitingly cold. The wind was howling, snow lashing out from all directions, each flake like an icy dagger upon their bodies. It felt much more like January than March.
“Looks like Дед Мороз has arrived in Wales,“ Dolohov said in his thick Russian accent, fighting himself forward slowly, step by step. Even he appeared to have trouble moving forward in this weather.
Andromeda snorted. “Father Frost needs to control his bloody temper.”
They had been outside for far too long, walking for several hours, their fingers long numb beneath their thick gloves, their feet frozen to become one with the heavy boots they had put on to protect themselves - all to no avail. It was far beyond her understanding why they needed to walk, run, rather than simply Disapparate, travelling further distances within mere seconds than they would ever be capable to reach by foot over the course of hours. Not rationally, of course, but the grief and cold had taken her ratio from her - much unlike Antonin’s, it seemed.
“They’re following us,” he grunted as though he had read her mind. Andromeda often suspected him to actually do it, much to her disapproval. Thank Merlin she was a skilled Occlumens. “Watching our every step, even the slightest hint of magic could…”
“No need to remind me of that.”
It wasn’t that she wanted to snap at him, but the words escaped her mouth nearly beyond her control. She should be grateful, she knew, grateful for his assistance, but at this moment… At this moment she felt nothing except the cold. Her strength would not last much longer.
Despite all the circumstances, she was glad. Andromeda was glad that Antonin, of all people, was by her side, in the strangest of ways - she liked to spend time with him, even now, as much as she despised to admit it. But he had always been her favourite - they were very much alike, the two of them, both misfits in a world full of apparent perfection. The Rebel and the Russian… It sounded like the title of one of those disgusting novels Cissy had once adored to read, much to everyone’s dismay.
No one but Mother and Father - Mother being an immigrant herself, having never quite rid herself of her French accent to her greatest frustration - had ever truly accepted the Dolohov family into their most valued inner circle, no matter how well-respected they had been in their home in the depths of Siberia, no matter how pure their blood. Russian blood was worth less than British, apparently. They had been treated like servants rather than equals, looked down and spit upon, all behind their backs. It was disgusting to watch, and even more disgusting to be a part of. Andromeda was ashamed of herself for not having stood up to this behaviour in earlier years.
It wasn’t surprising that Antonin had never married - returning to his home country had not appeared to be an option, and no parents had deemed him good enough for their daughters, never looking beyond his accent and culture, all of them failing to acknowledge his intelligence, manners and education far beyond Russia and the United Kingdom. He had never fallen in love, or so he claimed, and simply not put in the effort of finding a wife, much enjoying (once again, or so he claimed) bachelor life.
Joining the Dark Lord’s cult (and what more was it than a cult?) had, at least for a while, given him a purpose, a place in life he had never had, despite once more turning him into a servant - much like everyone else. They all had been servants, equals in a way. Perhaps it was naïve to assume so, but Andromeda was almost certain that this had been his true reason for his actions, not any kind of belief. He knew better than this. Much better. None of this, however, would redeem him. He, too, had killed. He, too, had committed unspeakable crimes, no matter the reason behind them. She hated that sometimes she failed to see the obvious. She hated that, despite everything, she would constantly seek for the good in people, even those who were lost.
But he had come to his senses. The night the Snatchers caught Ted was the night Antonin Dolohov deserted.
There was no time to weep. There was no time to think about the loss of her so beloved husband, not at this very moment, not as they both were fugitives, outlaws chased by Snatchers and Death Eaters, among them her own sister who was all too eager to serve the Dark Lord their heads on a silver plate. There was only running.
Andromeda had not once asked where they were going (there was a good chance that he didn’t quite know either), had not once questioned his sudden appearance at her home, his rash orders to pack only the barest necessities but merely followed as she had rarely followed any instructions, understanding immediately. He was no longer one of them. If he was, however, this was to be her downfall.
It was foolish of her to trust him, she had never quite known whether he was truly safe even in their youth, but… In a way, she did. In a way, she trusted him blindly. Almost as blindly as she had trusted Ted. Ted…
He had been capable of controlling his breathing for much longer than she but gasped for air now, too, dragging her through the forest by the wrist towards a small wooden shack that looked anything but comfortable.
“Россия...“
Russia. The only word he was capable to utter was... Russia. As soon as they got the chance, they would escape from Great Britain, heading towards Russia. Of course… It was brilliant. And yet so simple. They were safe in Russia, safer than they could ever be here.
The shack seemed long abandoned but would at least give them shelter for the night, protecting them from the thickening snowfall - at least by morning all their traces would be buried beneath a fresh white layer. It was as though Father Frost had indeed arrived, for the mere purpose of assisting them in their escape.
Only now, Andromeda noticed that her entire body was shivering, that the cold had crept into every depth of her bones, noticed that she was weeping, tears falling from her face and nearly turning into small icicles. She could not control her crying, could not control her shaking, curled herself into a ball and leaned deep into his embrace as she felt his arms around her, sharing the final remnants of his body warmth with her… He had never touched her like this before. He had barely touched her at all. She felt safe, all of a sudden.
“How do you know Дед Мороз?” Antonin asked after a while, long after her breathing had calmed. “Father Frost?”
“You taught me Russian, remember?” she said, her lips curling into the faintest of smiles, all in spite of the tears still flowing as slowly, so very slowly she began to realise. “When we were young.”
“Young and foolish. We’re no longer like this.”
“No longer young, perhaps. Still foolish.”
“Да... Still foolish...“
Two fools, together, far away from a home they could never return to, hiding in the forest protected by snow and ice… They would not sleep much until morning, likely not before they reached Russia if they ever did, but it was all right, somehow. As long as, just for a little while, they would still remain together like this, his arms still around her, her head resting on his chest… In a very strange, unusual way, it did feel like home at this very moment, a new home, even if only for a night. In a very strange, unusual way, he felt like home.
Recipient:
phantomato
Title: Father Frost
Pairing: Andromeda/Antonin, past Andromeda/Ted
Rating: PG-13
Word Count/Art Medium: 1320
Summary: They were very much alike, the two of them, both misfits in a world full of apparent perfection.
Author's Notes: This basically wrote itself! It went an entirely different way than in the planning phase, but I am quite proud of how it turned out, so I really hope that you will adore reading it as much as I did writing for you! Also, I hope that Andromeda/Antonin are okay, I couldn’t decide who to go with, so I ended up with both! Lots of thanks also to the mods for being awesome and hosting this exchange another year.
It was bitingly cold. The wind was howling, snow lashing out from all directions, each flake like an icy dagger upon their bodies. It felt much more like January than March.
“Looks like Дед Мороз has arrived in Wales,“ Dolohov said in his thick Russian accent, fighting himself forward slowly, step by step. Even he appeared to have trouble moving forward in this weather.
Andromeda snorted. “Father Frost needs to control his bloody temper.”
They had been outside for far too long, walking for several hours, their fingers long numb beneath their thick gloves, their feet frozen to become one with the heavy boots they had put on to protect themselves - all to no avail. It was far beyond her understanding why they needed to walk, run, rather than simply Disapparate, travelling further distances within mere seconds than they would ever be capable to reach by foot over the course of hours. Not rationally, of course, but the grief and cold had taken her ratio from her - much unlike Antonin’s, it seemed.
“They’re following us,” he grunted as though he had read her mind. Andromeda often suspected him to actually do it, much to her disapproval. Thank Merlin she was a skilled Occlumens. “Watching our every step, even the slightest hint of magic could…”
“No need to remind me of that.”
It wasn’t that she wanted to snap at him, but the words escaped her mouth nearly beyond her control. She should be grateful, she knew, grateful for his assistance, but at this moment… At this moment she felt nothing except the cold. Her strength would not last much longer.
Despite all the circumstances, she was glad. Andromeda was glad that Antonin, of all people, was by her side, in the strangest of ways - she liked to spend time with him, even now, as much as she despised to admit it. But he had always been her favourite - they were very much alike, the two of them, both misfits in a world full of apparent perfection. The Rebel and the Russian… It sounded like the title of one of those disgusting novels Cissy had once adored to read, much to everyone’s dismay.
No one but Mother and Father - Mother being an immigrant herself, having never quite rid herself of her French accent to her greatest frustration - had ever truly accepted the Dolohov family into their most valued inner circle, no matter how well-respected they had been in their home in the depths of Siberia, no matter how pure their blood. Russian blood was worth less than British, apparently. They had been treated like servants rather than equals, looked down and spit upon, all behind their backs. It was disgusting to watch, and even more disgusting to be a part of. Andromeda was ashamed of herself for not having stood up to this behaviour in earlier years.
It wasn’t surprising that Antonin had never married - returning to his home country had not appeared to be an option, and no parents had deemed him good enough for their daughters, never looking beyond his accent and culture, all of them failing to acknowledge his intelligence, manners and education far beyond Russia and the United Kingdom. He had never fallen in love, or so he claimed, and simply not put in the effort of finding a wife, much enjoying (once again, or so he claimed) bachelor life.
Joining the Dark Lord’s cult (and what more was it than a cult?) had, at least for a while, given him a purpose, a place in life he had never had, despite once more turning him into a servant - much like everyone else. They all had been servants, equals in a way. Perhaps it was naïve to assume so, but Andromeda was almost certain that this had been his true reason for his actions, not any kind of belief. He knew better than this. Much better. None of this, however, would redeem him. He, too, had killed. He, too, had committed unspeakable crimes, no matter the reason behind them. She hated that sometimes she failed to see the obvious. She hated that, despite everything, she would constantly seek for the good in people, even those who were lost.
But he had come to his senses. The night the Snatchers caught Ted was the night Antonin Dolohov deserted.
There was no time to weep. There was no time to think about the loss of her so beloved husband, not at this very moment, not as they both were fugitives, outlaws chased by Snatchers and Death Eaters, among them her own sister who was all too eager to serve the Dark Lord their heads on a silver plate. There was only running.
Andromeda had not once asked where they were going (there was a good chance that he didn’t quite know either), had not once questioned his sudden appearance at her home, his rash orders to pack only the barest necessities but merely followed as she had rarely followed any instructions, understanding immediately. He was no longer one of them. If he was, however, this was to be her downfall.
It was foolish of her to trust him, she had never quite known whether he was truly safe even in their youth, but… In a way, she did. In a way, she trusted him blindly. Almost as blindly as she had trusted Ted. Ted…
He had been capable of controlling his breathing for much longer than she but gasped for air now, too, dragging her through the forest by the wrist towards a small wooden shack that looked anything but comfortable.
“Россия...“
Russia. The only word he was capable to utter was... Russia. As soon as they got the chance, they would escape from Great Britain, heading towards Russia. Of course… It was brilliant. And yet so simple. They were safe in Russia, safer than they could ever be here.
The shack seemed long abandoned but would at least give them shelter for the night, protecting them from the thickening snowfall - at least by morning all their traces would be buried beneath a fresh white layer. It was as though Father Frost had indeed arrived, for the mere purpose of assisting them in their escape.
Only now, Andromeda noticed that her entire body was shivering, that the cold had crept into every depth of her bones, noticed that she was weeping, tears falling from her face and nearly turning into small icicles. She could not control her crying, could not control her shaking, curled herself into a ball and leaned deep into his embrace as she felt his arms around her, sharing the final remnants of his body warmth with her… He had never touched her like this before. He had barely touched her at all. She felt safe, all of a sudden.
“How do you know Дед Мороз?” Antonin asked after a while, long after her breathing had calmed. “Father Frost?”
“You taught me Russian, remember?” she said, her lips curling into the faintest of smiles, all in spite of the tears still flowing as slowly, so very slowly she began to realise. “When we were young.”
“Young and foolish. We’re no longer like this.”
“No longer young, perhaps. Still foolish.”
“Да... Still foolish...“
Two fools, together, far away from a home they could never return to, hiding in the forest protected by snow and ice… They would not sleep much until morning, likely not before they reached Russia if they ever did, but it was all right, somehow. As long as, just for a little while, they would still remain together like this, his arms still around her, her head resting on his chest… In a very strange, unusual way, it did feel like home at this very moment, a new home, even if only for a night. In a very strange, unusual way, he felt like home.