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ANTONIN Dolohov was considered rude, mean, and cold by others. He had a permanent scowl on his face, especially around his own friends. Usually seen bickering with Dorian Nott or Cygnus Black—or even both sometimes—he did not know any other way to show any kind of fondness.

It was not like he had anyone that showed him how to show fondness, for that matter.

Except for his mother.

His mother was the only person who showed him love from a young age. For that, Antonin Dolohov had deep, deep gratitude. Unlike other Purebloods, he actually had a parent that really loved him.

Antonin put his hands into his pockets and looked around.

He was in what seemed to be a crowded reception area where rows of witches and wizards sat upon rickety wooden chairs, some looking perfectly normal and perusing out-of-date copies of Witch Weekly, others sporting gruesome disfigurements such as elephant trunks or extra hands sticking out of their chests.

The room was scarcely less quiet than the street outside, for many of the patients were making very peculiar noises.

Witches and wizards in lime-green robes were walking up and down the rows, asking questions and making notes on clipboards. Antonin noticed the emblem embroidered on their chests: a wand and bone, crossed.

The symbol of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

With a swallow, Antonin had his head down as he walked through the brightly lit, white corridors of the hospital he was found in more than his own manor.

His legs took him to the familiar room without him needing to look up and see where he was going.

He had been through this process more than five years, after all, and it never got any better.

He remembered the first time he stepped foot into the hospital, frantically looking for the only person that ever loved him.

His eleven-year-old heart shattered every single time he saw that woman in the same bed.

Now, five years later, his sixteen-year-old heart felt the same way it did since that first time as he saw the woman in the same bed after looking up.

Antonin swallowed, shut the door behind him, and walked in. His eyes remained on his mother on the bed, who shakily smiled at him—but winced as she did so. As if smiling hurt.

Antonin knew she did not smile often. He knew she only did when she saw him.

"Hello, mother." Antonin's lips quirked up sadly, stopping beside her laying form and taking her hand in his. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on her forehead, trying not to show the pang he felt in his chest towards her weak form.

As the years passed on, it never made him feel better. He could see every year how the hope in his mother's eyes dimmed, and now, fully went away.

But his own hope never left him.

Even as he looked at her weak, shaking form, he knew his mother was strong enough to overcome the muggle disease of cancer.

Because of it being a muggle disease, it was not researched well enough in the Wizarding community. Or even at all, for that matter. As a result, there were no spells, charms, potions, or any solutions for it.

For years, Antonin tried to help. He scoured the vast collections of the Hogwarts library, combed through the tomes in his own manor, and enlisted the help of Abraxas to search the library at Malfoy Manor. He also reached out to Black, asking him to explore both Black Manor and Grimmauld Place, which belonged to Cygnus' cousins. Additionally, he urged Nott to investigate the library at Nott Manor.

All for one thing: a cure for cancer.

Or something that at least delayed the ending of it: death.

He never got what he searched for, though. His friends tried to help—they really did. But they all came back with bad news, and told him they found nothing.

There was not anything to be found, after all.

His friends never brought it up again after that, since he never brought it up either and chose to act indifferent. He chose to act like his mother wasn't dying in St. Mungo's, while his father was out doing Merlin knows what.

"You have grown," his mother said, gazing up at him with a depth of love that felt almost overwhelming. A soft beanie perched on her head, a quiet testament to the hair loss she had endured long ago as a result of her battle with cancer. Despite the challenges etched on her face, her smile remained a beacon of warmth, though it trembled at the corners. "You are so handsome, Antonin. I have no doubt you'll make a lovely woman very happy one day."

Her words wrapped around him like a fragile embrace, reminding him of the resilience she carried in her heart, even as her body betrayed her.

Antonin clenched his jaw, though tears prickled in the corner of his eyes. "The way father made you happy?" he asked quietly, swallowing.

His mother did not so much as flinch, used to the way he responded whenever she mentioned love. The marriage she had with his father was not a good example, after all.

Though, she still loved the man she was married to.

Even though he had not bothered to check up on her for years.

But he was a busy man. His job was important, and she understood.

Instead of visiting, he had permanently bought the room she was in, and bought every comfort money could buy. From the expensive sheets on the bed she spent more of her time in than anything else, to the many books on the shelves around the hospital room. The books went from having thousands of pages, to only a few hundred, because of the fact that she could not hold the big books after a while.

Because of that, there now was a radio on her nightstand—the only other source of entertainment.

"Your father is doing his best," replied his mother, looking into his dark brown eyes. She squeezed his hand, choosing to ignore his doubtful expression. "He's a busy man, Antonin."

Antonin shook his head, letting out a scoff. "Too busy to visit his own wife?" he asked, nostrils flaring.

His mother would always make excuses for his father.

Her heart was too big and too full of love to notice his neglect towards her. Instead, she made excuses and tried to make her son understand the way she did, but Antonin Dolohov always believed in actions rather than words.

And his father's actions... they did not even exist.

"How was Hogwarts this year?" his mother changed the subject the way he expected her to, and gave his hand another gentle squeeze, urging him with her eyes to let the subject be changed.

He complied. If only to give her the comfort his father never did.

"Well," replied Antonin, using his other hand to take out a piece of folded parchment from his pocket. He did not let go of his mother's hand, and resorted to using one hand to unfold the parchment, which was harder than he thought it would be.

But he still did it, and showed it to her.

His mother looked at the parchment, eyes lighting up—then tearing up in pride.

Antonin had worked day and night for the results on that parchment. It was not perfect by any means, but to his mother, he was perfect.

"Your Ordinary Wizarding Level examination results," mused the woman, pride evident in her voice. She weakly brought his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to it, then two.

His lips curved up. He put the parchment on her bedside table and said, "Five O's and two E's. I know it's not enough, but—"

"It's more than enough, my dear." She gave him a look, shaking her head at him. Using her unoccupied hand, she wiped the tear that fell down her cheek and gave him a wide, proud smile. "You are the smartest man I know, and you will achieve big things."

Antonin swallowed again, trying to stop his tears from falling.

He looked around the hospital room, knowing he could not make eye contact with his mother at that moment. Where was his father to share this moment with them?

Away.

At the ministry, probably buried beneath paperwork.

Paperwork that could have lasted another day without getting to.

Antonin tried for years to understand his father's neglect towards him and his own mother, but failed each time.

He knew, deep down, that if he loved a woman, he would love her with his whole heart and soul.

So he never understood why his father was the way he was. He knew he would have never done that if he was in his father's shoes, and he knew he never will.

His mother's cracking voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "You should not let my marriage be your view on love," she merely said, letting out a shaky sigh. Another tear fell from her eye, which her son wiped for her softly.

After wiping away her tear, Antonin nodded. Only to make her happy, but she knew it was an act.

"I'm serious, Antonin," she continued, giving him a look, "you have to promise me."

"Promise you what, mother?"

"Promise me you will not stop yourself from loving." She tried to sit up, but winced.

Antonin immediately rushed to help her, and put her pillow behind her after she successfully sat in a seating position instead of continuing to lay down.

"Promise me you will be braver than your father in love," whispered the woman, looking at him pleadingly.

Her hospital gown matched the blue in her eyes, and Antonin could not help but purse his lips and shake his head. "Mother—"

"Shh." She gave him another look, narrowing her eyes. But the love in her blue eyes never left, not even for a moment as she gave her son another squeeze. He squeezed her hand back. "Promise me, my dear. You are so brave, and I know just how much you try to be better than him. If you promise, you will be."

Antonin reluctantly nodded. "I promise," he whispered.

Satisfied, the woman started talking about other matters—about the hospital, the nurses, her experience that year in the hospital while he was at Hogwarts, how excited she was to see him grow into a man every time he visited.

And he listened. Antonin listened the whole time.

Even when she dozed off in her seated position, he gently helped lay her back down and put the pillow under her head, making sure not to wake her up as he did so.

Then, he pressed another soft kiss onto her forehead, and another one onto her beanie.

He glanced at the results sheet on her nightstand, choosing to leave it there as he walked out the room and closed the door gently after doing so.

He came face to face with the nurse that had been fully paid by his father to take care of his mother 24/7.

"How is she?" asked Antonin hopefully with pleading eyes, shoulders slumping immediately at her look of pity.

The nurse glanced at the clipboard in her hands, shaking her head slowly, sorrow etched across her features. "I'm truly sorry, Mr. Dolohov," she said softly. "It appears that your mother's condition is deteriorating with age, and unfortunately, there's little we can do to improve her situation." Her voice was gentle, conveying both professionalism and deep compassion for the difficult news she had to deliver.

Everything around him whirled in a dizzying haze.

Antonin gripped the door behind him tightly, his arms straining against the cool metal as he fought the urge to collapse onto the polished marble floor of the bustling corridor. Nurses moved briskly past him, their chatter mingling with the soft murmurs of patients waiting for their appointments.

Each second sent another wave of nausea crashing over him, and he struggled to suppress the bile rising in his throat. Torn between steadying himself against the door and cradling his pounding head, he felt trapped in a whirlwind of confusion and distress, desperately trying to regain his balance amidst the chaos.

"Mr. Dolohov?" he heard the nurse ask worriedly, but he was not sure whether he imagined it or not as he slid onto the floor, eyes wide.

He did not care who saw him—who recognized him—

"Mr. Dolohov!" The nurse crouched down, giving him a cup of water he did not know when or how she got.

He looked to his side, at her, and asked in a small voice, "Is she going to die?"

The glass of water in the nurse's hand trembled slightly, a reflection of her sorrow. She swallowed hard, her eyes glistening with empathy as she looked at the young boy facing the imminent loss of his mother.

"No, Mr. Dolohov," she said gently, attempting to offer reassurance despite the moisture gathering in her eyes. She took his hand, guiding it around the cool glass. "Please, drink this," she urged, her voice steady yet soft, encouraging him to find a moment of comfort amidst the turmoil.

Antonin did as she asked, grimacing at the taste after realizing that it was not water, but a calming potion. Feeling his dizziness slowly fade away, he stood up again with trembling legs and squinted—trying to shield his eyes from the bright lights of St. Mungos with his hand.

"You're lying, aren't you?" asked the sixteen-year-old boy knowingly, voice cracking with grief already.

The nurse stood as well, the cup in her hand being placed onto a table near them. She looked at him once more, then looked at the clipboard in her hand that had every detail concerning his mother.

Taking a steadying breath, the nurse said, "Given that your father is not actively involved in your mother's care, I need to share all updates about her condition with you. This is in accordance with your father's request, though I understand this may be difficult for you." She regarded him with a compassionate expression, her eyes reflecting both professionalism and empathy.

And he knew what she was going to say.

She would take back her lie that she had fed him a moment ago to get his head back on straight and fully comprehend her next words.

"Your mother does not have long to live, Mr. Dolohov."