A/N: Long time, no see! After nearly a decade away from contributing fanfiction to this website I've decided to jump back on the bandwagon with a new account and give back to the wonderful fandom that's helped me kill so much time over the years. I'll generally try to keep my author's notes short—if not at the end of the chapter—but I feel like there's a few things that need to be said before we embark on this journey.

First: Disclaimer. The sandbox belongs to J.K. Rowling and I'm just building castles in it.

Second: This story will be rated M as it progresses. I'll never get too explicit, but this work deals with some disturbing themes and has a lot of canon-typical violence. Although I hope I don't go too off the deep end with these characters I fully intend on making them as grey as possible. The lines between the light and dark will be explored here.

Third: This is a Hermione Granger/Antonin Dolohov story. I have a sweet tooth for dark, unlikely pairings in fanfiction; unfortunately this is a bit of a rarepair and I haven't seen a lot of it floating around. This relationship will be far from healthy, please be warned. I tend to wallow in the shadows.

Fourth: I'm writing just for fun! I encourage any and all feedback, but at the end of the day this is just a hobby that I'm happy to be coming back to. I'll be playing fast and loose with canon, so watch out for the blasts. Without further ado:

sanguine /adjective/ :

1. marked by eager hopefulness; confidently optimistic

(alternatively)

2. consisting of or relating to blood

Hermione Granger was fucked.

Completely, utterly fucked.

They all were, really—stumbling down the paved path leading to the towering doors of Malfoy Manor, the so-called Golden Trio writhed helplessly against their bonds as they were marched to their certain death. Bound in a circle with their backs toward the center, Hermione winced every time their shared bindings pinched around the delicate skin of her wrists. She was blindly stepping backwards with every tug of the crude rope; somewhere at her back she could hear Harry panting with pain—no doubt in response to the Stinging Hex she had flung desperately at his face—and off to her right she could feel the rumble of Ron's voice as he muttered curses in angry terror. Panic was filling her skull with the ferocity of rushing water bursting from an exploded dam. The hunt for horcruxes was over. The war was won.

After everything—they lost.

The uncharacteristic chill of the evening seeped through her thin sweater. Numbly, she found herself grateful to be bound so tightly to her friends; if nothing else, their body heat was burning a comforting brand into her back and side. The Snatchers made a loose ring around the captives as they prodded them ever closer to entrance courtyard. Dean Thomas, another unfortunate casualty caught in their game of war, was tripping over his own feet as he side-stepped towards the looming Manor at wandpoint-insistence.

A man to Hermione's left just out of her line of sight laughed derisively at a magnificent albino peacock picking its way elegantly across the manicured lawn. "God, Lucius, what a ponce—peacocks, really?"

Ron paused in his mutterings and Hermione's breath caught—the lanky redhead was known for many things, but a discerning tongue wasn't one of them. "A ponce, you say?" Ron panted, a note of hysterical laughter rising in his rough voice. Hermione's hands scrambled uselessly against his sweat-slick arms in effort to quiet him. "Sounds like you and Lord Malfoy would make excellent friends, Scabior, what with his pretty hair and your—"

The bound prisoners jolted to a sudden halt as Scabior pivoted on his heel and backhanded Ron clean across the face. Hermione gasped and stumbled, Harry clutching the back of her shirt in effort to keep her standing; she hadn't quite seen it, but she had felt his body jolt sickeningly in time with the sharp impact of flesh-on-flesh. To her right, Ron spat blood to cobbled stone and let out a stream of profanity that, in any other circumstance, would have made her blush. For precious heartbeats Hermione was transfixed on the crimson dots littering the pavement. Blood and blood and blood…something about blood—

Hermione's fear was a dull throb in her chest where her heart used to be. She couldn't think. The sounds of Scabior's harsh words to Ron bled together with her rushing pulse and she couldn't hear. Here she was, brains of the bloody Golden Trio, and she couldn't even gather her thoughts long enough to process her surroundings. Her books failed her. Of all the dark tomes she had been pouring over in the last handful of months, there wasn't a single hex or curse that could magic them away from their doom. Even blood magic, she thought, transfixed on Ron's blood on the ground, couldn't give them the upper hand. There was nothing to do but endure this trial wandlessly.

There had been a time several years before when Hermione had wondered what the inside of Draco's ancestral home looked like. Malfoy never passed up an opportunity to remind his peers of his aristocratic status, so Hermione had imagined his home would reflect some sort of wasteful, lofty opulence. Now, as she was unceremoniously pushed through the grand entrance and herded into a decadent drawing room, she couldn't muster any curiosity for the dark wood paneling and tasteful fixtures dominating every corner of the house. If she had dared to look up she would have seen frescoes painted on the ceiling and a giant, curling chandelier that looked to be made from pure diamonds. Her fear wouldn't let her. Her feet scrambled against the polished floor to keep up with the Snatchers' bruising pace and the telltale stirrings of fight-or-flight wouldn't allow her to tear her eyes off of the dark-robed figures darting around the room. For all she cared, the grand home could have been a dark, dank hovel for the lingering evil it housed.

Voices were raised in surprise at their arrival. Hermione fought a wave of dizziness in the dim lighting and outstretched her clammy fingers behind her—somewhere, in the tangle of their bonds, Harry Potter clasped her hands in his. A second later Ron's fist settled tightly around theirs. They were captured, but at least together. If only their lie could hold for just a little bit longer, just long enough for her to think—

The doors of the drawing room had drifted closed after their entrance, and again they banged open as Bellatrix Lestrange strode into the room.

"Scabior!" the dark woman snapped. Even after so many months, the dark witch's high tenor still struck a chord of mindless terror in Hermione; in a sense, Bellatrix was the second worst thing behind the Dark Lord himself. "You better have a very good reason for interrupting my family time, sweetling, and if you haven't—"

"I've brought you Harry Potter and his friends, I did!" Scabior interrupted, tugging on the rope for rough emphasis.

Greyback and the other Snatchers shifted uneasily around the captives. "We brought you Potter," the werewolf corrected. In Hermione's line of vision the intimidating wolf winked at her with a lascivious leer. Hermione wanted to retch.

Bellatrix robbed of speech must not have been a common sight, for the entire drawing room seemed to come to a still at the Snatcher's proclamation. Positioned facing the wainscoting on the far wall as she was, Hermione couldn't make out the faces of the room's occupants. Just out of Hermione's field of vision Bellatrix's eyes lit with an insane fire and her full lips drew back in a wide, macabre smile. Her chest was heaving in the confines of her black corset, and if it weren't for the absurdity of the situation, Hermione would have conceded that Bellatrix Lestrange was, in fact, a gorgeous woman. "You brought me what, dear? Harry Potter?"

A flick of the witch's wand severed the bonds holding the captives back-to-back; the Snatchers, aware of Bellatrix's intentions, manhandled the prisoners into facing the rest of the room. A wand pressed itself menacingly under Hermione's chin. Ron struggled against Greyback's broad chest. Harry stayed blessedly, blissfully silent.

Hermione chanced a look at Harry specifically. The Stinging Hex had swollen his lean features into something nearly unrecognizable, and if he kept his chin tucked as he did, his hair fell down to cover his scar. Hope, that damnably bright emotion that had no place with her rage and fear, bubbled sweetly upon seeing the sight. Perhaps, just maybe, if no one recognizes...

Scabior continued bragging uninterrupted from his post by the door, his hands planted victoriously on his hips as he recounted their capture and the lie Hermione had fed him—Vernon Dudley, Barny Weasley, and Penelope Clearwater were certainly not the trio in the drawing room, but if it somehow led to their unharmed release, Hermione was prepared to say anything. Scabior thought he had recognized Hermione from the WANTED posters pasted about Diagon Alley, so that must have meant the swollen-faced bespectacled boy with her was Undesirable Number One himself. Bellatrix was cheerfully informing the room that the Dark Lord would be so very pleased, and he had to be summoned right now. Of course, the whole plan of pretending to be other teenagers would go up in flames if Draco Malfoy were to somehow walk into the room—

Another shriek from Bellatrix brought the room to a standstill and her rambling speech that had cut off Scabior ground to an abrupt halt. "What is that?" she snarled, lunging for one of the Snatchers. With a strong wrench she relieved the wizard of what he had been holding—the sword of Godric Gryffindor. "We must wait!" she continued, holding the sword before her as if transfixed by the blade. A cold tremble of fear made her voice shrill and a dart of pink tongue swiped across her bottom lip. Shoulders bunched to her chin, she hissed, "We cannot call the Dark Lord. If they got this where I think they did, we are all in grave danger."

The Snatchers began protesting in an indignant, discordant wave. Didn't they realize how many galleons the Dark Lord had offered for Potter? Didn't Bellatrix understand that this was their capture, and they should be rewarded? It wasn't fair—

Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away from Bellatrix as she brandished the sword in an angry swipe. "Fuck your galleons!" she screamed, her wild curls falling into her face as she lunged toward the bound captives. She sucked in a sharp breath and snapped to her full height, suddenly in control of her emotions as if she had flipped a switch. "Cissy?" Bellatrix crooned to her sister. Narcissa Malfoy, an elegant blonde statue standing rigid by the lit fireplace, turned for the first time since the Snatchers' arrival to face the room. "Go fetch my darling nephew for me—we need to know if these brats are really Potter and company before all else."

If it had been physically possible, Hermione would have fallen to the floor in dread. Wistfully, she thought of her wand still in Scabior's grip. She knew her lie had been flimsy, but she just needed more time—

The doors to the drawing room slid open once more as Narcissa glided silently from the room, and in exchange walked in the third worst thing in relation to Voldemort, in Hermione's opinion: Antonin Dolohov.

Wonderful, the terrified witch thought as she laid eyes on her one-time attacker. Just bloody perfect.

The man who had attacked Hermione Granger in the Department of Mysteries at the end of her fifth year was a far cry from the proud, broad man who now wore his face; whereas that Dolohov had been slight and curled from his time in Azkaban, this Dolohov held himself with a healthy authority that belied quiet power. Dark hair waved to his shoulders and his sharp jaw no longer sported the tangled, unkempt beard—when his eyes found hers, as if drawn by an audible call of his name, Hermione could see his teeth clench beneath a layer of pale flesh and dusty five o'clock shadow. Beneath her sweater Hermione felt the raised scar on her chest, a remnant of his silent purple curse, twinge with pain. She would never forget that face for as long as she lived...which, she considered, might not be much longer.

Bellatrix looked about as thrilled with his silent entrance as Hermione did. Already contorted into a sneer, Hermione watched as Bellatrix's face took on an even darker cast as the Russian Death Eater wordlessly approached her. "I wasn't aware you had joined us in the Manor, Tony," she hissed. The sickly-sweet drawl of her voice made Hermione shiver. Antonin simply hedged around the overstuffed armchairs with his back to the wall and ignored her.

Lucius Malfoy stepped into the drawing room behind the dark wizard and graciously inclined his head to Bellatrix. "He is our guest, Bella, just as you are." Behind him, Narcissa and a stricken Draco filed inside. They took their position by the fireplace and Lucius continued, never quite meeting the eyes of his crazed sister-in-law. "Cissa suggested you had a…task, for Draco."

As Bellatrix gleefully explained what she wanted Draco to do—and gods, her mood swings were awful—Hermione examined the Malfoy family as a unit. In contrast to Dolohov who had unquestionably regained his strength from his lengthy incarceration, Lucius Malfoy looked to be a thin shell of a man. Hermione remembered him being fuller, more imposing; now he was as thin and pale as his son, who looked to be simply terrified under his mother's delicate grip on his shoulder. The young Malfoy hadn't even glanced at the prisoners yet, something Hermione found vaguely intriguing. How much went on in his home did he truly know about? Narcissa, ever the totem of pureblood feminine grace, simply looked as if she wished to be anywhere else.

The minutes that followed were so tense that Hermione nearly forgot to breathe. Beside her, Harry and Ron stood rigid under Draco's reluctant scrutiny. Hermione deliberately caught his gaze and held it; if he was going to positively identify them to his deranged aunt, Hermione was going to make him look her in the eye as he did it. For all of his ranting about blood purity and power, the blond young man didn't look so sure of himself now. To his credit, she thought, he wasn't jumping at the chance to feed his classmates to the Dark Lord.

His wavering and Bellatrix's frustration was small comfort for Hermione. Even if Draco refused to confirm that they were, in fact, Harry Potter and friends, Antonin Dolohov certainly would. The dark wizard prowling the perimeters of the grand room had yet to take his eyes off of her, and if his constant attention was an indication…he remembered her. He remembered the bushy whip of her curls as she ran, the fire in her eyes as she hurled hex after hex, the startled expression on her face when he silently shot a ray of purple light from his wand directly at her chest—he remembered he should have killed her. Draco's denial of their identities meant little, she realized. Dolohov would be the one to deliver them to Voldemort, and most likely with a smile. Where Hermione Granger went, Harry Potter was also. There was no mistaking who they were now.

And that wasn't even taking the damned sword of Gryffindor into account.

An argument had broken out in the time that Hermione had held Dolohov's eyes. Who was to take credit for their capture? When should they alert the Dark Lord? Draco, why don't you take a closer look? Where could they have gotten the sword? What about my galleons? Perhaps Greyback should take the girl, she'll make a nice little treat—

"No."

Dolohov's voice cut through the others like butter, low and deadly, his accent curling over the simple syllable in a barely-there whisper.

Bellatrix rounded on him with her wand in her hand. "What did you say? Of course I have to interrogate the brats—"

"That's not what I meant," he clarified. His expression, a stone wall and all hard, masculine lines, didn't shift. "Greyback will not touch the pchelka. Leave her here for interrogation. The others can keep the prisoners company in the dungeons, no?"

Bellatrix's smile was wolfish at the suggestion, her former disdain for Dolohov's presence gone. She clapped twice, whipping around to face the Snatchers. "Dog!" she addressed Greyback, who grimaced at her address, "Take our gentlemen downstairs…make sure they play nice with Mr. Ollivander. The rest of you—out! Antonin thinks our little bee needs to buzz for us."

When the reality of the situation settled on the room, chaos erupted.

Hands pulled Harry and Ron away from Hermione—they spat and kicked and struggled and cursed, but ultimately, the strength of the leering werewolf wore them down. Hermione's friends were dragged from the room like a pair of quarreling kittens, trussed up like Christmas hams in their unyielding bonds.

The Snatchers roared in displeasure at the confiscation of their capture. Words like mine and ours and reward were thrown like hexes over Hermione's head—hands jostled her as many fought for proprietary purchase. A fist connected with flesh somewhere off to her left, the start of a brawl. A flash of green light and Dean Thomas thumped dead to the floor. Unable to comprehend the sudden blur of violence, Hermione focused on Bellatrix as she advanced with gnashing teeth and a crazed gleam in her hooded eyes.

Hermione couldn't move.

Unbidden, Hermione's eyes caught Dolohov's once more. From across the room he looked like a dark angel framed by firelight—all long shadows and proud shoulders. Even without his wand in his palm he commanded a certain power that left her feeling sick. Why wasn't he saying anything? she thought hysterically. He could say who I am and end this, why me why this why now—

In the awful fog of her fear, Hermione didn't surface back to reality until the cold, clawed hands of Bellatrix Lestrange grappled painfully at her jaw. Her face was wrenched to face the terrifying woman, and for the first time since her capture Hermione felt a sense of terrible clarity. "Let the boys tire themselves out with their petty squabbles, dear," Bellatrix cooed, canting her face down to rest her forehead intimately on Hermione's. "You'll tell me where you got that sword after we've had our girl time."

Over Bellatrix's thin shoulder Antonin Dolohov raised a single hand with one spidery finger extended. Hermione watched, transfixed, as he pointed that finger towards himself and tapped his own chest just inches below his collarbone. Right where her scar from his curse was on her body. He smiled, a wicked curl of lips and teeth. He knew.

Bellatrix raised her wand and Hermione screamed.