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howdy everyone, i’m lara (like the croft) and this is my gutter dumpster boy ANTONIN! he’s horrible, but i’m going to try not to be; i’m 23, use she/her pronouns, and live in the central time zone. college and my job keep me up into all hours, so i’m always around to make life interesting. under the cut, you’ll find my application (which is so long and doing way too much, so bless u if u make it all the way through), in addition to which i’m also trying to whip up a good full biography page, though my proclivity for procrastination probably isn’t going to make that an easy task. please come give me all the plots, and come yell at/with me, because i’m super excited and up for anything and everything !!

* △ — the dark lord has targeted [ ANTONIN DOLOHOV ] ! the muggles say he / she / they hold(s) resemblance to [ GASPARD ULLIEL ]. the [ TWENTY NINE ] year old [ MALE ] was [ MAGNETIC & PASSIONATE ] before the war, but have now become [ CONTROLLING & VIOLENT ]. though they were once a part of [ SLYTHERIN ], they have now taken up the position of a / an / the [ RUSSIAN LIASON TO THE DEPARTMENT OF INTERNATIONAL MAGICAL COOPERATION ]. whispers throughout the ministry claim that the [ PUREBLOOD ] is actually [ A DEATH EATER ], but i wouldn’t report that to the daily prophet.

HEADCANONS

1) patronus — Snow bursts from beneath the feet of his steed, plumes, waves like a powdered sea, settling into his hair, dampening his shoulders; a strange cacophony of sensations this is, to be flanked by friends, to sit astride a steed known from birth, to chase after a family of deer with such plebian fervor – but to do so while wielding such magnificent power. Wand rolls between gloved fingers, cutting down branches and bursting birds into plumes of smoke and feather as he passes, the master, the pointed lead of the deadly formation. All it is, is fun – they give no thought to slaughtering deer, to gutting them and leaving them to bleed upon the snow simply for their amusement; Antonin cannot help but wonder if his horse has some sort of moral objection to chasing such a close cousin to its death – but the thought only makes him laugh. Long before he killed the poor boy whose last sight would be the walls of Durmstrang, he finds his release in the bloodshed of animals. After all, they cannot really fight back, can they? Perhaps the mountain lion can, the bear, the cougar whose skin now serves as a rug in his mother’s boudoir, but never the deer. And there is something almost erotic about complete and total domination. Surely his comrades smell his power, even now – they’ve seen it before, and they’ll see it now, even if the prey has neither the power nor the foresight to fight back. But this is joy in its essence – a band of brothers, warriors, like-minded personifications of violence itself who kill not for the pride, the purpose, the profit, but for the thrill of watching blood spill over an untouched bank of snow. Antonin throws a wild grin, a haphazard glance, over his shoulder to one of his comrades, who thrusts his wand in the air. He looks to the other, who does the same. He looks forth, wand thrust forward and battle cry, a flurry of indiscriminate curses slipping from chapped lips, and urges his horse forward.

The first deer falls with a whip-crack and a plume of red light, and -

From his wand, in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, amidst a classroom full of onlookers, bursts a Snow Leopard, snarling, slinking about the circle until it comes to curl about Antonin’s legs, broad nose prodding at his calf. With cyanide lips curled upward, he looks down upon his creation and knows – this is his soul.

In common lore, the Snow Leopard symbolizes Intuition, Solitude, Secrets, Allure, Sexual Prowess, and PURITY. A solitary animal, it watches, observes, and collects information, striking only when beneficial. It cares well for its own, and is often associated in legend and lore with self-discovery through excruciating trial. It is only appropriate, then, that Antonin produce such a manifestation of his own soul, for his own trial by fire (or ice) is ever burning.

2) amortentia — “But the real question – does your Amortentia smell of me?” The subtlest hints of Antonin’s amortentia change quite regularly, but the base is always the same. Pine, sometimes fresh, sometimes crackling at the base of a dying fire; red wine, surely just fresh poured; roses, but only just – perhaps no more than a few petals upon a bare collar; the salt of the sea, quite like the Baltic coast, for its smell is different than any other stretch of ocean he’s come upon; the distinct smell of sex –sweat, musk, the faintest floral of a familiar perfume. Amortentia is not something that Antonin likes to dwell on – love is a strange thing, ever changing; he would much rather fuck than love. But he cannot help but be torn in a thousand directions upon catching a whiff of his perfectly brewed Amortentia – home, the woods surrounding the small (“small”) manor to the north used as a vacation home, the sea… and familiar beds, familiar whiffs from upon familiar locks. Familiar perfumes and colognes upon sheets – the familiarity of a head of raven hair and a pair of strong hands. It always changes – but love remains ever constant. Constant – and unwanted.

3) boggart — “I fear nothing. Why would I? It is I who should be feared.” Antonin would rather die than admit any sort of weakness – and fear is just that: weakness. And perhaps that is indicative enough of his truest fears, that he cannot admit weakness, that he cannot admit fear, or humanity if he possesses any at all. Failure, in truth, is his greatest fear – rejection, incompetence, impotence; he got a taste of it in the form of doubt, doubt and the knowledge that his omnipotent darkness, that his overreaching power has its limits. Fear that even he is mortal, that even he can fall to error. Antonin does not fear death; to fear death would be to fear the skin into which he was born. But he does fear failure, as cliché as it sounds. Failure would mean disappointment; failure would mean letting a legacy fall to ash and ruin; failure would see a hall of proud portraits, proud men, proud names to uphold, smolder, burn, and fall to irrelevance, disrepair, and shame. His boggart sees this, of course; where Antonin assumed that he would face a boggart and see it shrug, it grows, expands to a hundred times its size. It is a wonder that it fits in the room in which it’s contained, upon facing Antonin, for where a nondescript shape once stood, a burning manor now stands. A raven-haired woman (“Mama?”) falls into the ash, clutching at diamonds with one hand and what remains of a picture frame with the other. A hunched figure stands over her, a man, a familiar back which has never shut him out until now. He calls out to them – to his mother once, twice, thrice, then his father (but only once) – but they do not turn, for they do not hear him. Perhaps they choose not to – or perhaps they simply cannot fathom any sound but the burning of their house, the dismantling of their great legacy. And all because of him.

4) wand — ELM; What is truly ironic about this wand wood, in particular, is its reputation for never making mistakes. When Antonin drew his first blood, committed his firstmurder, his mother, for a time, did her very best to pass it off as a mistake, a misfire, a malfunction of the trusty wand which was made to be precise at all times. ‘Elm wands never make mistakes’, Gregorovitch had said. Elm wands never make mistakes – and they certainly never lie, either. Antonin, of course, stood by his wand, and his choices, and his actions which disproved his mother’s claims; there was no use lying about something as honest as his wand, after all. And why would he lie?Shame is an unfamiliar sensation. Elm is a particularly fitting wand for Antonin, in addition, because it notoriously prefers wielders with innate purpose and dignity; an elegant wand for an elegant purity, and highly capable of all that Antonin will doubtlessly ask of it.

5) LITTLE BLACK BOOK; I know it’s cliché, and I know that it makes Antonin seem a bit too much like Joey Tribbiani for comfort, but he actually has a little black book of past conquests. A small leather booklet, he keeps it in a slide-away panel within the trunk at the end of his bed. It is a rather sordid little thing, with comments, notes, likes, dislikes, sweet spots all listed upon crisp pages. He writes in his thick book of consumed hearts with only the finest ink, and treats its maintaining like ritual. It grows more often than it remains stagnant, and has seen many a night alone in the common room, pages flipping near dangerously dripping candle wax, spine pressed open while ink dries; Antonin is a studious lover, and should he ever return to a past conquest, to a page in his book, he will know them like a well-memorized song. No one knows of this little black book, for he does not flaunt it, nor does he wish to share its contents with anyone. At times, he makes vague, suggestive, allusions to it, calling it his box of hearts, but those who listen simply assume that he is simply talking into the darkness to satisfy his own ego – little do they know, he has more than just intent.

6) MOTHER KNOWS BEST; Antonin is, for lack of a better phrase, a giant mama’s boy. His mother is his entire world; from the very beginning, he was more devoted to his mother than to anyone else. He’d pick her flowers from the garden (“From my garden, Ant? Those were mine to grow.”), follow her about during her rare afternoons spent painting in the solarium, and generally worship at her feet. Of course he loves his father unabashedly, but the love he feels for him is something more akin to fear for comfort. He feels a great deal of pressure in his father’s presence, but in his mother’s he feels nothing but warmth and encouragement. She was never a traditional mother, hardly giving him the outward affection so many other boys received, but even the slightest pat of approval atop his boyish head was reassurance enough. He would kill and be killed for his mother – she gave him life, and he would gladly give or take it at her command. He will build a legacy, an empire, and will build a castle at the heart of it all for his dear Mama.

7) WHEN THE ANIMALS SMELL A PREDATOR…; There was very little like time spent in the stables, amongst the horses, in the quiet of early dawn before the birds awake and the snow outside is greatly disturbed. Antonin is an accomplished equestrian, and knows a great deal about the care of horses and the technique associated with all equine areas of interest. He is quite fond of the steeplechase, and of hunting from horseback, but there is merit to a simple ride through the woods to clear one’s head; the horses are unjudging company who expect nothing of you, they are easily controlled for the most part, and they make Antonin feel innately powerful simply by being. Sitting astride a horse is elevating in more ways than one – but what is most notable, perhaps, is the way that, for the slightest moment, as Antonin pushes open the barn doors in a flurry of powder and cool air, the horses go silent. Horses are notoriously noisy, demanding creatures – but for just a moment, in a space no longer than a breath, a blink, a beat of the heart, they are entirely still, with big brown eyes upon him, watching, waiting. But then the noise resumes, for they know that this predator is on their side.

8) GOD HATES WITCHES; A small incident in the life of a magnate, an iron prince, a legacy in flesh, but a small one – on regular family trips to Moscow, he disappears for an hour at a time; his parents worry not for his whereabouts, for they know that he is more than capable of wielding the streets of Moscow on a tight leash. Upon the steps of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior he sits, black jacket billowing in formidable breeze, a cigarette between his lips and a smirk playing at their corners. It is a personal joke he shares with only himself; he once heard, as a boy, a man preaching on the steps of this very cathedral that all wielders of magic and might, anything contrary to the man’s God was an abomination, that should they step foot inside the cathedral, they would burn on the spot. And so he sits on the steps, tempting fate, tempting expectation, teasing the myth that so many muggles seem to believe so fervently. Of course he believes it not – but the symbolism, the irony, and the chance to smoke in the face of a deity is too much to pass up.

9) OF OLD KINGS AND DEAD REGIMES; Antonin’s favorite subject to study is history – history of magic, and certain facets of European muggle history, specifically. He has a collection of old history books hidden away beneath his bed, sorted into meticulous categorical piles; needless to say, he’s read through the lot of them time and time again, for they never cease to amaze and fascinate. Antonin has a particular proclivity for cruel kings and long-standing empires with bloody histories; his own family history is one that he knows like the back of his hand, their legacy of domination, terror, and omnipotence being something to behold and something not easily forgotten or passed over in the annals of magical history. He excels in History of Magic, though he, during his studies, was not the sort to openly speak out in class; his knowledge, no matter how insatiable and overreaching, is one best kept silent. His aloofness is only magnified by time spent alone in the library, reading by candlelight in his usual armchair, with quill between his teeth, and notebook and historical tomes spread on the table before him. He could list every king of every notable dynasty from the beginning of time – and he takes pride in the knowledge that his name will share a page with the lot of them soon enough.

10) NAME ANALYSIS:

ANTONIN: “beyond praise, priceless”; A fitting name for a boy of such high caliber. His ego and his expectation linger just above the clouds; Antonin was born to be great, to be praised, to dominate. He is priceless, he is without compare; his mother and father were fully aware of the connotations of their heir’s name, and he has certainly lived up to it thus far. Of course, he intends to go above and beyond the expectations laden upon his name, for he is beyond praise,and he is beyond compare.

SVIATOSLAV: “he who worships the light”; Antonin’s middle name is such for Czar Sviatoslav I of Kiev, who was known largely for his merciless and effective conquest of two of the greatest and most potent powers of Eastern Europe. He was known for his insistence upon being surrounded by nobles, and like, war-minded, individuals for the entirety of his adult life, and for his ceaseless determination to dominate in all fields. He was considered a decent ruler; very little is known about his personal life, as he was private in most things aside from his political campaigns, but persists in history as a key expander of the empire as a whole. Antonin, needless to say, is quite proud to flaunt such an accomplished name.

DOLOHOV: “of the Dolohov dynasty”; The Dolohov name is one that does not need explaining. The Dolohov name is one implicitly known, one feared and loved and revered – and rightfully so. The strength of the bloodline is paramount; the potency of the Dolohov name, the family tree and its ever-reaching roots, the legend riding upon the back of each patriarchal male born under such a name, is all that truly matters. Family and honor above self; pride and respect above personal ambition. The name comes first – the heart is secondary.

AESTHETIC

The sound of leather shoes on freshly waxed marble, chipped china shoved to the back of a dark cabinet, too-strong cologne, popped buttons on a crisp white shirt, velvet tassels with golden chain, bruises hastily covered with mother’s white powder, snow stuck to the bottom of a thick fur coat, the click of a lock overshadowed by a loud scream, hickeys in provocative places that never seem to fade, whiskey and honey in a silver flask, hidden tattoos in different languages, sitting still and stiff for a family portrait, blood splattered across snow, the groaning hull of a salty old ship, soft words reserved only for mother, history books in stacks upon old leather armchairs, halls and halls of portraits that never smile, the rush of adrenaline after giving a hard punch, a cigarette tipped between pouting lips, commanding fingers wrapped about a lily-white throat, the smell of sex on black silk, wine dribbling down a split lip. You are an old king in a new body, and you will devour their gods to make room for your own. You are loyal to your blood as it spills, infects, sublimes.

EXTRAS:

- basically, he went to Durmstrang first, but was expelled because he got involved in some shady business that ended up getting a bunch of people hurt - but does he care?? noooo

- he’s a total playboy, and a charmer that’s more snake than charm; he’s loyal to voldemort, but his own interests always come first. he’s the ‘spoiled prince from russia’ who likes to have the violent kind of fun, and thinks that the sun shines out of his butt, basically

- has an enormous Machiavelli complex. It makes him doubt if he should be a follower or not; and it makes him wonder if love is a waste of time, and if fear should replace it all

- he’s just !!!!!!!!! A DOUCHE !!!!!!!!!! but he’s fun and good in the sack so ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

- he’s also v bisexual (”my sexual preference is often”) and likes to drink people under the table.

- currently working at the ministry, but mostly in an honorary position since the russian ministry really wants like... nothing to do with anything to do with anyone else. but he feels very uppity about being a ‘liaison’, for what it’s worth

- antonin dolohov is what happens when joey tribbiani goes to the upside down, thanks for coming to my ted talk

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