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Pakhan Antonin Dolohov sternly held back a smile knowing that his Obshchak was running rampant with anxiety while his eyes kept throwing glares at his previous housemate and Irish Liaison, Lord Thorfinn Rowle.
“That's very kind of you to worry about me, Sergei, but there is no need. I will be quite safe.”
He paused looking around, his icy eyes taking as many details as he could process.
“Do we have to keep the Brigadiers out, Pakhan?” Sergei Belyaev asked again, his hand clutching his wand tightly.
“Relax, Sergei,” Thorfinn quipped, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “A Potter never goes back on their word. Their honour is unrivalled.”
“They’re Irish Mob and I don’t trust them,” Sergei stressed, clearly itching for a reason to start a fight.
One he could do without considering why he travelled to Limerick.
Naturally, he ignored their banter and studied the luxury surrounding them.
His eyes glazed as he stared at the famous Potter domed ceiling.
It was covered with lavish plasterwork and splendid paintings telling the story of one of the oldest Magical families in the world. It was ornamented with the largest chandelier he had ever seen.
Quietly Antonin absorbed the atmosphere of the room.
He could sense the thousands of dramas that had unfolded there; the fortunes gained and accumulated, the excitement, anger, fear, wild joy, victory and loss.
Without taking his eyes off the gorgeous décor, he let his senses roam around looking for possible threats.
He would never let his guard down, his family’s bloody history made him learn that lesson the hard way.
He made peace with his past long years ago, because even though he could no longer claim his birthright and wear the Great Imperial Crown, he could always rule the Underworld and honour his father’s legacy.
Antonin was the last descendant of the Romanov Royal Family from his mother’s side, the son of Maria Dimitrova; daughter of Anastasia Romanova.
His mother found her soulmate in Pakhan Maxim Dolohov, whom she bonded with.
Because of his father’s line of work and the abundance of enemies he acquired through the years, Antonin was stealthily sent to attend boarding school in Scotland before he returned to Saint Petersburg.
When the previous Pakhan died, Antonin had no choice but to step in and assume his duties as the Avtoritet of the Bratva.
It has been fifteen years since he ruled the Russian Underworld with an iron fist, be it Muggle or Magical transactions, nothing escaped his authority.
Nothing, until a third party started prying which brought about this sudden visit to the enemy’s territory.
“You don’t need to trust them,” Thorfinn said absently, adjusting his travelling cloak and peering at the carving on the columns. “Are these Griffins made of gold? The Potters do love their luxury.”
“Of course, they are lad,” an amused voice drawled. ‘’My great-grandfather brought the design from his travels to Scythia. Potters and Griffins have always been one and the same.”
Antonin felt his lip quirk as Lord Charlus Henry Potter, the Boss of the Irish Mob stepped in flanked on both sides by his son, Heir James Potter and his nephew, Heir Sirius Orion Black.
By the look in their narrowed eyes, he knew that they were not thrilled to have him there.
He was a bit familiar with the two Marauders.
They were six years his juniors and truth be told, he never paid them much attention when they attended Hogwarts.
He heard tales, though, for knowledge was a good Head’s greatest asset.
Some have seen them take out a half-dozen skilled enemies only to bounce to their feet, looking for more.
The trio was all about effortless intimidation and raw power.
They owned it, but more so the third player he heard so much hearsay about and couldn’t identify.
At first, he suspected their friend, Remus Lupin. Yet as a Werewolf, his belligerence wouldn’t allow the kind of sneakiness and agility that puzzled his spies.
Antonin felt the tension in his back and neck but the control that had been ingrained in him since he could remember, made him take a quiet step toward his host and offer his unarmed hand.
A silent vow that he would not abuse his ally’s trust.
Lord Potter took his hand and shook it firmly.
“Welcome to our territory, Pakhan.”
“Thank you for having me, Lord Potter,” Antonin greeted the Elder who commanded the room with the respect that was his due.
Being the descendants of the notorious Ignotus Peverell, the Potters have dealt with Death and wars for eons, their stealth and skill were nothing short of unmatched.
For the insensible witch or wizard, they were ostentatiously virtuous Gryffindors who could inflict no harm.
The truth, however, was shocking and deliciously wicked.
His father had forged an alliance with his Irish counterpart years ago and as he observed the man with the warm hazel eyes, he understood why his father trusted him so much.
Charlus gave a knowing nod and invited them to have fresh drinks and start negotiating the terms of the alliance and the mission they needed to start at once.
Light glanced off the heavy ruby on Antonin’s fourth finger signalling that the drink was safe.
He took a languid sip of his FireGuinness.
“The new raising Dark Lord seems to be troublesome,” Lord Potter’s eyes shone with annoyance as he sat back and crossed heavy arms over his chest. “Twice he tried to attack my soldiers and usurp some goods.”
Antonin nodded. “He’s been in contact with my associates. He sent his Death Eaters with daring proposals to my Brigadiers in Belarus, Kazakhstan, Azerbaijan, Armenia and Albania. Knowingly, or unknowingly, he trespassed onto my territory and I won’t let it slide.”
At the reminder of the fool who overlooked the Code of Honour every Crime Family in the world followed, his magic simmered with rage calling for blood for nothing else could appease it.
The Dolohovs has been mercenaries since the time of Olde.
Their ancestors inhabited the barren, unforgiving Siberian mountains before they took what they needed by force and established their Empire.
They cherished family, celebrated their magic and treated their Soulmates like the queens they were.
Soulmates…
The old wound in Antonin’s heart bled anew as a familiar sense of deprivation washed over him.
He was almost thirty-five, an age in which most Wixen would’ve found their Soulmates and enjoyed the ultimate bliss.
The reminder squeezed his chest and he remembered the green eyes focused solely on him that haunted his dreams whenever his head dropped on a pillow.
Green eyes he couldn’t find no matter how much he looked.
“Pakhan?” Lord Charlus had sensed his darkening mood.
“We need to work together and eradicate him before he gains more power,” Antonin’s jaw clenched as renewed fury surged through him. “Voldemort doesn’t know how to respect his betters. We must teach him a lesson.”
“It’s too late as it is,” James Potter interjected impatiently. “It has been years since he started amassing power and allies.”
“James is right, Uncle,” Sirius Black cleared his throat as his eyes frosted over. “He ruined my family and recruited Mother and Cousin Bellatrix. He must pay.”
Antonin was aware of the grudge between the Potter-Black Clan and Voldemort.
The latter slithered his way inside some vulnerable members and poisoned them with his embellished words and hollow promises.
Regardless of the reasons, he was thankful for it would serve his purposes just fine.
Lord Charlus Potter closed his eyes and seemed to be in deep thought.
Every member of the Underworld knew that his honed instincts were unparalleled. He could read a situation in the blink of an eye and react accordingly just as quickly. He possessed an impressive well of raw Battle Magic he inherited from his forbearers and only a fool would challenge him to a Duel.
Loosely, Charlus took off his gloves and examined the tattoo that marked his organization in silence.
While The Bratva carried the Crowned Eagle with pride, the Potter Syndicate were known for the modified version of the Deathly Hallows that was inked on their wrists.
A Dara Knot replaced the circle Grindelwald’s followers wore and made all the difference.
It spoke of the fortitude the Irish celebrated.
Antonin noticed with a pang of jealousy the small Grim that lay under the triangle, its tail swooshing lazily. Whenever a wizard of the Underworld found his Soulmate, his tattoo changed. The Grim opened its eyes and skewered him with a merciless silver-grey gaze; the Black eyes.
Of course, the infamous eyes of Lady Dorea Black-Potter.
A rare smile tipped just the corner of Charlus Potter’s mouth. “I’ve been postponing this for years because she was so young. It’s time she embraces her roots and makes the world see her for what she is.”
“Da!” James gasped but closed his mouth when his eyes locked with his father and a deep understanding was shared between them.
“Uncle is right, James. She’s been waiting for this moment for years,” Sirius clasped his cousin’s shoulder. “Our sister would know what to do.”
“Sister?” Sergei muttered in astonishment.
“Shut it if you know what’s best for you,” Thorfinn advised warily. “No one has ever seen the Potter Princess after she left school. Many believe that the Potters are using obscure Confounding Charms from the Family Grimoire so no one can remember her face or cause her harm,” he whispered under his breath.
“My flower is the only one who can take care of this nuisance. She was blessed since birth. Death and The Fates favour her.” Pride seeped from every word that left Charlus Potter’s mouth.
Antonin’s nerves clamoured in alarm. While he was a dutiful son of Mother Magic and an ardent follower of the Olde Deities, he wasn’t certain that this flower could singlehandedly solve their problem.
“Lord Potter?” he said in a subdued voice.
“There was a prophecy, Pakhan,” Charlus said and he sat up straighter curious to hear more. “I trust you because, like your father, I consider you my friend and ally.”
Antonin nodded as Charlus lifted cold eyes to meet him. “My flower is the only one who can take care of Voldemort and end his reign. She’ll need our help, eventually, but I believe she can manage.”
Antonin’s expression closed down completely.
When he sought the Irish Syndicate for help, the last thing he considered was for the Boss to be a—
“I’ll take him to her,” Sirius offered smugly. “The Pakhan doesn’t seem to be convinced by your words, Uncle.”
Antonin sensed the moment Sergei clutched his wand and he shook his head discreetly.
“Sirius is right, Da. She’s taking care of business as we talk.”
“Perfect,” Lord Potter stood abruptly and everyone followed.
Antonin took the outstretched hand and shook it again.
“Follow me,” James instructed and they did as asked.
“I hate this, it can be a trap,” Sergei hissed.
Thorfinn growled while James and Sirius exchanged a meaningful glance and remained silent.
The moment they stepped into the basement, Antonin took a deep breath.
Dark Magic filled the air and seduced his senses with its potency.
“Sweet Salazar,’’ Thorfinn gasped and he couldn’t blame him.
A man was gasping for air, floating in midair as water coming from a redhead’s wand splashed over his face.
When she noticed them, she nodded curtly.
Her emerald eyes gleamed when she saw James. “Jamie!”
“Lily-Flower, I missed you.’’
Completely ignoring the struggling hostage, he pecked her lips and looped an arm around her shoulders.
“I’m sor—Sorry…Ple…pleaase…” the man spluttered helplessly.
“Don’t say sorry,’’ the second woman said in a low voice. ‘’You are not even on the threshold of sorry yet. You tried to betray my family, filth.”
Antonin’s heart jerked awake with a sudden jolt when she turned.
She smirked at James and Sirius. “You’re late.”
“Blyad…” Antonin hissed when their eyes met.
His wrist throbbed with pain and even before he took his gloves off, he knew what he would find.
A Celtic design would grace his wrist and mess up his eagle in a way that could never be undone.
He found her.
•─────────★•♛•★────────•
The Pakhan exuded an aura of dominance and danger and everything inside her wanted to challenge him, to let him know that she could do better.
Heather Potter looked into the icy blue eyes of her Soulmate and if not for the obnoxiously loud gasping coming from the traitor, she would have forgotten they had company altogether.
She found him.
Daintily, she lifted her wrist ignoring James and Sirius’ widened eyes and examined her tattoo.
A majestic eagle with icy-blue eyes hovered over the Peverell Triangle; its strong wings sending shivers all over her arm.
“Take him and leave us,” she said without taking her eyes off Antonin Dolohov.
“Heather?” James tried to shake off the hand Lily placed on his arm but one look from her let him know that he had no choice
Her older brother knew how long she had waited for her Soulmate, how long she suffered from the endless loneliness while all her friends tasted the most sacred bond a Wixen could have.
He did not even know half of it.
Her long wait had parted her leaf and leaf and a chilling winter resided perpetually in her heart as the years passed. Only the Prophecy, only the promise that her eternal enemy would bring an unexpected bliss and a power she knew not of kept her going.
She embraced her place as the Head's daughter and worked hard to find a spot among the ranks. Her mother, Lady Dorea Black-Potter, told her from a young age that she was the fabled Child of Prophecy, that she was favoured and graced. Her father used all his resources to keep her out of Dumbledore’s greedy clutches. They faked the Prophecy and confounded anyone that came close to the truth.
Heather Potter was nothing but a myth, a fable weaved by whispers and glazed eyes few would believe.
It was the Potters’ preferred style; the one they would keep using while disposing of their foes.
“Welcome to our home, Pakhan,” she said in an exuberant voice as soon as their company made themselves scarce.
She winked surreptitiously at the Brigadier when she noticed his outraged expression and he almost tripped if not for their common Liaison, Lord Thorfinn Rowle’s steadying hand.
“Heiress Potter,” Antonin stared down at her with intense blue eyes.
“It’s Heather,” she offered, unbothered by his scrutiny.
She welcomed the gooseflesh that rose all over her body and could hardly believe that at last, she had her Soulmate standing before her. He approached her, taking his gloves off and studying the changes with amused eyes.
“Lord Potter’s Flower. A wildflower, if I might say.”
She smiled and let him step into her personal space. “My thorns prickle at both ends, Pakhan. They might be underestimated but my foes and my friends should know better than to ignore them.”
His grin widened. “I noticed, Heather. Look what you’ve done to the mighty eagle.”
Swiftly, she gripped his wrist, sighing as their skins made contact for the first time. His other hand went to her hair, playing lightly with the thick raven locks and her lids dropped in delight.
“It looks better,” she loosened her hold but he didn’t let her go.
“Does it now?”
A small Celtic Trinity Knot stood proudly over the eagle’s heart.
Heather gasped when the noble creature blinked. She felt exalted and newly alive as the blue faded leaving place to viridian green, her eyes.
Their breaths mingled as Antonin rubbed their foreheads together. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this day...For you?”
“I do.” Her voice trembled with emotion. “I regret not meeting you in Hogwarts.”
“Are you perchance calling me old?” he teased.
“Of course, you are,” she clung to him, keeping her mouth at his ear. “I’ve been postponing taking care of Voldemort because somehow I knew that you would come,” she confessed her deepest secret knowing that she could always trust her Soulmate.
“Thank you for waiting for me, malyishka .”
She felt an involuntary tremor run through her as he kissed her temples. “We’ll take care of him at once. I heard he’s in Romania in talks with the Coven. And then—“ he smirked.
“And then?” she repeated.
“And then I’ll take you home. With me. The Winter Palace is waiting for its Queen.”
Heather grinned and nodded as his palms slid up to clasp the vault of her rib cage and he hitched her a few inches higher on his chest.
She loved her family, dearly. However, no one said that she couldn’t be the Syndicate Princess and the Bratva Queen at once.