♔ ♚ ♔

[tearthatcherryout]

[dolohv]

[[ d. gudgeon‌ ]]

❝ — — OF COURSE Y’ DIDN’T. ❞  Nearly impressive how FRAGILE THE EGO of a man this size can be.  ( Perhaps more so if said SIZE wasn’t currently threatening to bend their sofa in the center. )  But certainly not surprising.  ❝ How silly of me. ❞

Fussing through the first aid kit, Davey pauses once or twice to look pointedly toward the teacup left upon the side table, mouth pressed into a line of concentration ( or IRRITATION, take a guess ) as they go.  BY NO MEANS do they consider themselves any sort of expert — — watching Abba do it had never quite inspired them to a career IN DOCTORING, after all — — yet somehow, the imagined intersection between healing plants and MUGGLE MEDICINE has rendered them something of a go - to for a particular tall, oft - injured, and Russian clientele.  Another story of a hundred you wouldn’t BELIEVE if you didn’t know them, of course.

Wand re - stowed in the pocket of their housecoat, gauze is retrieved from a corner of the kit and offered out with relatively little bedside manner.  Their attention, of course, is ALREADY DRAWN to the indicated wound ––––––– a rather nasty burn, but of course, STILL A WINNING ONE, right ?  An unsolicited smirk twists their lips while nimble fingers press a knot of gauze to the still - bleed cut on Antonin’s temple.  ❝ HOLD THAT THERE. ❞  Once they’re … relatively certain their overlarge friend can follow the direction, Davey leaves him to his own devices in a quick circle ‘round the sofa toward the WINDOW BOX flourishing in the watery moonlight spilling in through the kitchen’s window.

❝ What sort of spell, now ? ❞  BURNS are simple enough to treat, but the source is important ; the rash of a Stinging Jinx will hardly heal under treatment better suited for the raw scrape left behind by the graze of a Blasting Curse.  Carefully, vibrant yellow Calendula petals are gathered from their beds, dropped into a waiting marble mortar along with a slim branch of aloe snapped from the plant that’s quickly overgrown its basket above the stove.  ( A saucy little thing ––––––– they’ve lost count of how many times they’ve repotted it simply to be OUTSMARTED once more. )  ❝ And y’ do know that DARK MAGIC INJURIES are a right pain in my arse to fix, don’t go thinking y’ can pull one over on me. ❞  

The pounding inside his skull begins to interfere with his ability to keep his eyes open. Still, he watches Davey closely as they rifle through the small box of supplies, the creases at the corners of his mouth growing deeper. How long did it take to prepare muggle bandages? But by the time he begins to consider tearing a sleeve off his shirt to tie around his head, Davey is pressing a white wad of fabric to the wound. A sharp inhale before he does as demanded and reaches up to press the pads of his fingers to the gauze, the pointed sting melting into a moderate throbbing sensation. 

With the other’s departure, Antonin turns his attention to the teacup nearby, seemingly left forgotten and takes it with his free hand to bring up to his nose, the bitter scent of alcohol and juniper filling his nostrils. Davey’s question comes next, and Antonin would be lying if he claims to know exactly what the spell had been. Considering for a moment, he nudges his mind back to the moments in the pub that quickly tumbled out onto the streets where he collected the injury. With the contents of the cup tipped back, he pulls in a breath through his teeth before replying, “A blasting spell. Wordless, possibly modified.” Brows pinch together as he struggles to recall, “A jet of orange. Not usual,” he finishes, setting down the empty teacup on the seat and pressing his thumb and forefinger to his eyes. The gin begins to fill him with warmth from the inside out, but the wait for it to ease the pain in his head is downright irritating. 

A short huff of a breath leaves him at the second statement, and he opens his eyes again, turning an unimpressed expression towards the other. “A persistent man in a pub did this, not a Death Eater, if that is what you mean.”

[dolohv]

[[ a. moody‌ ]]

THOUGH QUIET ABOUT IT ,     Antonin offers a strike to something raw and exposed. A pulsing wound he can’t begin to staunch the flow from, the grief of a man he had come to consider a close friend.    (     He can’t offer him protection, now. He never could.     )     Alastor pauses, waiting for an expected waver in his cadence to temper itself out, his hand nearly reaching for his wand out of reflex, out of a foolish desire to offer himself instantaneous catharsis in watching the other man bleed.     “     ——-     You think he’s the one we’re offering protection?    ”    His jaw clicks, gaze shifting to the traitors he knows infect the halls just beyond his closed door.     “     We’re securing the area from attack and making sure no maniac destroys the town trying to desecrate a grave.     ——-     Or have y’forgotten the levels of depravity we’re dealing with here?    ”

Yet the insults find little room between the ache of something more profound.     “     Pretty keen on soliciting my help for someone who seems to think I’m incompetent, Dolohov.    ”    Knuckles crack with a press of his thumb, determined to keep hands busy and his mind clear.    (     Last thing he needs is unnecessary attention drawn as the result of an outburst. Too much is at stake, there are too many relying on him and his position.     )     “     I’ll look into this when I have time. If you want to speed along the process y’can start by getting the fuck out of my office.    ”

There’s a distinct tension in Moody’s words, stretched thin and tight, ready to snap. It rouses a sense of satisfaction in Antonin’s belly as he swivels on the spot, angling his body back towards Moody’s desk as he continues to eye the objects on display. His expression remains unreadable, but he gives a hum, a short acknowledgment as he builds his next sentence. He considers digging deeper, twisting the dagger he’d aimed at Moody’s open wound - but then again, he did need his help at some point. “I suppose you have a point,” he states flatly, pulling his gaze away from a particularly shiny golden cube on the shelf nearby to settle on the auror once more. “I still believe matters of international concern are of greater importance than a dead man’s funeral but-” a stiff shrug lifts his shoulders, “This is your ship, Moody.” And it seems to be a sinking one.

A frown pulls at the edges of Antonin’s mouth as his head tips thoughtfully from side to side. He lets Moody’s words linger for a moment, his hands settling back on the desk as his reaches it, lean forward to encroach on the man’s space. “Consider it constructive criticism,” he offers, helpfully, a humourless smile stretching his lips. He has seen Alastor Moody in action before, and he was clearly quite capable, though too often caught up in the various red tape of bureaucracy. He might even be useful if his beliefs were more aligned, but that was hardly something Antonin would freely voice. Their tentative interactions, always a hair’s breadth from combustion, was something he enjoyed far too much. “Always so articulate, Moody," he straightened and flattened the front of his robes, “Very well. I do, however, expect a status report next week.”

[aaron-symons]

[dolohv]

@lucius-abraxas-malfoy​

Malfoy,

No. My portkey has been compromised and I am taking another route back to England. 23 00h is more likely.

What ideas?

- A.D.

[dolohv]

[[ q. quirrell‌ ]]

Qurinus, unsurprisingly, couldn’t possibly get a read on the other man. It was an uncomfortable situation, sitting shoulder to shoulder with someone he genuinely feared (though, considering his temperament, wasn’t an entirely new feeling). He stared down at his glass, feeling as if he might soon crack it underneath his own gaze.

What’s done is done. He glanced up and at the man in sheer surprise at that. It was a much different response than he’d been expecting (half of him had been expecting a jinx rather than a response in the first place). Quirinus nodded, swallowing hard as he reached for his glass.

“I s-suppose so,” he muttered, grabbing it and taking a long sip from it. It was a most peculiar situation that he had little idea of how to handle, but something within him suspected the man wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon regardless. “H-having a good night?” He nearly cringed at his own comment, hand tightening on the glass as he said it aloud.

Antonin continued to eye the man as he teased at the deepest recesses of his mind, searching halfheartedly for the memory of their previous encounter. He came up empty handed, but he wondered idly if it was truly so traumatic that his mere presence now brought a stutter to his voice. That was an amusing thought. 

The corners of his mouth pulled down in a mild frown. “No complaints.” The words fell plainly from his mouth as he continued to watch the strange man. He was rarely intrigued by those that seemed to cower or shrink away from him, but then here was this man, clearly uncomfortable but still planted firmly in his seat. Very strange. Perhaps there was more stock to him than he previously thought.

Swivelling slightly to fully face the other wizard, Antonin’s browns lowered in stiff expression. “You do not seem to be having a good night,” he remarked, voice dropping low as it creeped towards a tone more threatening, “Should I leave?” It was a test, a push towards the door that would land the man squarely in the camp that was distinctly mundane and useless - not worth his time nor his interest. But perhaps he’d surprise him, give into whatever frustrations brought him to the bar tonight and show that fire Antonin had seen when he first arrived.

[dolohv]

[[ d. gudgeon‌ ]]

❝ OF COURSE YOU DON’T. ❞  A roll of their eye as impressive as the deepening frown it accompanies, yet here they are, still HOLDING OPEN THE DOOR like a schmuck.  WOULD YOU BELIEVE THEY APPARENTLY HAVE A TYPE ?

❝ Come on, then, ❞ a sarcastic beckoning arm gestures inward, and they don’t need to speak Russian to take umbrage.  At what point does one consider RENEGOTIATING THEIR HOURLY RATE ?  Davey turns their head pointedly to follow Antonin’s crooked journey across the flat, and it occurs to them, quite suddenly, how much like MUM they must look with hands propped so sternly on their hips.  ❝ You know, ❞ the front door slips shut on its own, and Davey elbows the light switch near the front door with perhaps a good bit more annoyed force than is strictly necessary.  ❝ You’d need less FIXING if you did less getting your arse kicked.  — — Just a thought. ❞

LIT UP, he just looks worse ––––––– there’s a stoop between broad shoulders that looks rather PAINFUL, underlined by the still free - flowing trickle of blood unleashed from a proper head wound.  Lovely.  

( Missus Abramowitz will doubtless have something to say about the BLOOD ON THE FRONT MAT … but a wordless sanitizing charm thrown over their shoulder should hopefully spare them that. )

A handful of steps gets them to rummaging through the kitchen’s cabinets, producing a half - empty bottle of paracetamol and a relatively clean teacup that’s soon filled with a generous splash of gin from the bottle usually left forgotten in the freezer.  Behind them, they can hear the sofa’s inhospitable creak beneath careless weight.  There’s no point in dosing a man of that size up with anything ‘til they’ve got a better idea of what he’s ALREADY HAD, anyway ; lugging him around holds very little appeal this early in the morning. 

A palmful of pills is presented along with the teacup, a TUT leading a far closer inspection of the cut hidden beneath crimson - matted bangs.  Stood in front of him, they’re nearly eye - to - eye.  ❝ It’s a right TRAGEDY how many jokes about The Godfather I could be making that’d just go right over your head. ❞  Summoning the first aid kit that lives beneath the kitchen sink — — at attention just for nights like this, natch — — is perhaps the greatest magical indulgence they’ll allow in the name of medicine.  ❝ What on EARTH did y’ do t’ your shoulder, anyhow ? ❞

The invitation had barely left Davey’s lips when he pushed off of the doorframe and ambled into the apartment. A few metres into the flat - or greenhouse, rather - and the light illuminated the space and the comment reached his ears. Antonin stopped in the midst of his wavering path, and turned with a steely expression setting his features. 

“I did not ‘get my arse kicked’,” he spoke in a clipped tone, the angle of his head making the back of his neck throb and boiling frustration rose to meet it, “This is what the winning side looks like.” He turned away from his host without waiting for a reaction, and shuffled a few more steps to deposit himself on the sofa with a strained grunt, one long leg stretched out in front of him and his head leant back on the cushioned backing. He could hear the blood rushing in his temples and the hot stinging of wounds on his thigh and scalp. Tempted to let his eyelids droop closed, he recalled being advised time and time again to resist the urge to sleep when recovering from head injuries, and better yet, he could hear Davey’s footfalls approach. Easing himself into a proper sitting position, he swayed slightly as pressure filled his skull and he felt briefly faint.

Whose godfather? The question that appeared in his head went unvoiced, and instead he left Davey with an expression equal parts confused and impatient. But before the man could remark on how damn slow they were being, a first aid kit had appeared and attention turned to his shoulder. It was sitting at a concerning slope, but Antonin gave a half-hearted shrug with the other. “Recently dislocated,” he stated plainly, his expression still bearing a mild irritation as he continued, “I am more concerned about the leg.” His thigh angled slightly towards the other, showing the saucer-sized hole in his trousers, edges singed black, exposed screaming red skin beneath that was already beginning to blister.

[dclohovs]

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 // A MOODBOARD FOR ANTONIN DOLOHOV.

[dolohv]

[[ g. avery‌ ]]

A hand beckoned, long fingers white as bone curling around his chin, easing him back into the throes of prophecy. But there was nothing left – only darkness, only blankness, and even Tom couldn’t lead him back to the light. Gordon was alone here, floating through the present and the future, existing in a space where the two folded together and became one in the same. HOW DO YOU KNOW HE’S ALIVE? The whisper seemed so loud, so forceful, and Gordon flinched at the ferocity behind the words. EXPLAIN. How could he? He was a seer, but he knew nothing. He’d seen the future, and yet he had nothing to offer.

Gordon felt a jolt of clarity as Antonin’s grip tightened on his collar, the material of his shirt digging into his neck. He struggled for words, knowing that Antonin wouldn’t be satisfied easily, knowing that he needed to take advantage of whatever lucidity he could scrounge together in order to impress upon the other man just how significant this was. “I’ve seen the end, and it’s not this,” he said quickly, anxiously, his cadence picking up speed. “Don’t ask me to tell you what it is – I don’t remember. I never do. But if this was the end, if Dumbledore had been the end, I would have already known. I would have already seen it.” He paused, brow furrowing, lips pressing together. No, he wasn’t making sense, not even to himself. What was he saying? What did he mean?

He could still feel Tom. That’s what he meant. If Tom was dead, then Gordon would know. It would have been like switching off a faucet, like a river running dry. Gordon would be painfully and acutely trapped in this reality, in the present, never able to slide forward and backwards like a rag doll being tossed through time and space. “He’s alive,” Gordon said, voice straining with effort, “because I still have my Sight. Without him, there’s nothing for me to see. Without him, I have no visions.”

Of course, there was the off chance that he was wrong – the future was unchanging and immutable, and the Seers of the world simply existed to interpret what was already decided. But Gordon would never admit to such weakness. He was only useful to the Death Eaters, to Tom, if his words were infallible. But still, nonetheless, that fear, that uncertainty, began coiling around his throat like a vice. “He’s alive,” Gordon repeated, desperation pitching his voice higher and making it wobble with emotion. “He has to be.” He couldn’t even entertain the idea of a world where he lived and Tom did not. Not only was reality backwards, twisted, warped in all of the wrong ways if that was the case, Gordon had no intention of continuing to exist when his very purpose for being had met its end. “There’s no point to us,” to me,”if he’s gone.”

Eyes narrowed to slits as Gordon’s words tumbled over him, jaw grinding forward to bare a bottom row of teeth as the explanation did little by way of reassurance. It didn’t make any sense, carried absolutely no weight, and Antonin could feel the acid bubbling up again, filling his lungs with smoke and fire. His eyes burned with swelling anger and irritation at just how unhelpful Gordon’s existence appeared to be. What use was it in having a seer in their ranks if he failed to remember what he saw? If he simply claimed facts to be true with no proof? Worse yet, with no confidence?

And then Gordon spoke again, just as Antonin began to settle on the idea of really knocking his thoughts from his head, and he stiffened. The explanation was better, but only slightly. The claim could be true, but Antonin never did pay much attention in divination class, so he couldn’t be sure. Gordon’s visions always seemed to involve their Dark Lord, or at least the ones he was privy to. He continued to eye the man closely, as if glaring daggers into him would puncture holes in any curtain of deception he may have raised. It was either the truth or an excuse meant to keep himself alive a little longer without any real evidence of His wellbeing. Antonin's skin continued to buzz with annoyance, his hands still fisted into Gordon’s collar white-knuckled. There had been something to what Gordon had said during his vision. There had to, or else what were they to do?

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind, that Gordon spoke again. No point. To us. And like a match to a burner, heat filled his chest and sparked a blaze behind his eyes. Without warning, Antonin shoved Gordon against his seat, making the chair skid back with a screech against the floor. He had taken a few steps back -his feet moving more carefully than even he would have expected- to put space between him and the seer. His vision was washed in red, his features pinched together in a twisted expression of newfound fury. “Perhaps no point to you,” he snarled, fingers gripped tight around his wand, which had suddenly appeared in his hand. Without another thought, his arm had struck outwards in an arc towards the other man, purple light cutting through the air from the wand’s tip. 

Time seemed to slow for a moment, the light painting the Gordon’s face in a sickly hue, Antonin’s anger fuelling the force of the spell. Perhaps it was an ember of hesitation, of doubt, of fear of what He may have to say about such impulsiveness, but the hex missed Gordon by a hair’s breadth, instead, slicing a line of violet flames across the wall behind him.

His own heartbeat throbbed in his ears as lungs heaved steadily in the silence that followed, only the sound of wallpaper sizzling and plaster crumbling to the floor filling the emptiness. 

“You have a purpose. Provide. Or next time it will be your throat.”

The words hung for a beat, suspended in the aftermath of such violence, before he turned on his heel to leave the room.

[dolohv]

[[ b. lestrange‌ ]]

“My sister can always get another husband,” Bella muttered darkly. “We will never be able to win another war if he leads us into destruction now.” She wasn’t entirely serious about killing Lucius – it was mostly a twisted fantasy that brought her great joy to imagine now, in the wake of such a terrible meeting. However, she couldn’t deny the neatness of the idea. Between her and Antonin, they could have it done so professionally that even Narcissa would be none the wiser. But Antonin was right – they couldn’t simply kill him because they didn’t support him. He had to cross a line, to do them wrong. As much as she detested Lucius, he was still one of them, and his death had to be warranted. “I suppose there’s no point to going too far down that road,” she said with a reluctant sigh. “Although it does ease my conscience to know that if we get to such an impasse with Lucius, neither of us will hesitate to do what is necessary. The others certainly won’t approve,” she added, disgruntled. “But fuck the others.” She clinked her glass against his, feeling a surprising amount of relief to be with him. Antonin was one of the only people she felt she could be truly herself with – she didn’t need to sanitize who she was or make herself easy to digest and understand. He knew the darkest crevices of her soul and she his, and they were stronger because of it.

At the mention of the Dark Lord’s location, Bella took a long gulp of her drink, lips pressing together. “I have theories,” she said after a long pause. “But like you, nothing concrete. The only solace I can find in that is that if we don’t know where he is, The Order certainly has no clue.” She wouldn’t put it past Dumbledore’s most loyal to go on a reckless mission to kill the Dark Lord once and for all – while she knew they wouldn’t succeed, she also was glad that was one less thing they had to worry about. “A few years ago, he mentioned something about Albania in passing – it was after he disappeared for three weeks, do you remember that? We all were going stir crazy for him to get back, and when he did return, I…suppose I was a little forceful with him,” she admitted with a barely-there grin. “He wouldn’t tell me why he went, wouldn’t tell me what he’d done, but it was clear something happened. He came back, and he was…powerful. More powerful than he’d ever been. If he’s weak and defeated, then maybe that’s where he went.” It was a stretch, to say the least, but it was all she had to cling to, and cling is what she would do.

She fixed Antonin with a challenging look, as though she dared him to contradict her. She was used to doubt and skepticism in the face of her ideas, always marked too radical or too senseless. Bellatrix knew Antonin to be smarter than the rest, but she’d learned better than to place her faith in anyone but herself. “I know it’s not much to go on,” she said reluctantly. “But it’s something. And after that meeting, it’s abundantly clear to me that you and I are the only ones who care about finding him. The rest just want to compare cock sizes over his corpse.”

With the clink of their glasses, it seemed the topic had been settled - a pact made over hard liquor and untempered frustration, but a small sense of satisfaction had settled in his belly, swelling along with the burn of vodka. The dynamic between the two of them had changed over the years, grown to an unparalleled understanding of one another that he couldn’t deny he appreciated. Though their choice methods didn’t always align, they often happened to situate themselves in the same corner, sharpening blades and tongues. And oh how he itched to carve out something tangible from their current circumstance, slice through its uneven surface to reveal the truths they sought. He felt something similar to gratitude flicker between his ribs, knowing they shared the same blaze of loyalty and eagerness to work towards the promise of greatness they deserved.

A stiff gaze settled on Bella as she mused aloud, cogs whirring between his ears, but he only hummed a low, noncommittal sound in mild agreement. Very little about their situation was ideal, but he supposed that was one maddeningly thin silver lining. Her next statement elicited a tilt of his head, setting down his glass as he leant against the kitchen island, palming the edge of the cold stone. Albania. His head tipped in a shallow nod at the fleeting question as his eyes narrowed with rapt attention. 

The look he received was matched with equal confidence, a growing smirk creeping across his face - an expression of understanding, of excitement. “As much as I would enjoy staying here and cutting them down to size... I think you may be right.” The curve of his lips now stretched into a full-blown grin, a rumbling chuckle shaking in his chest. This was something - a lead, and quite possibly the only thing keeping him from doing something truly brash and regrettable tonight out of frustration and boredom. He was willing to grasp at any potential path they could find, and Albania was as good as any. He claimed the bottle again and tipping more clear liquid into their glasses, “I do not think we should let this possibility go unexplored, even if others disagree. They can sit around and get themselves arrested.” 

“I can arrange for a Ministry-sanctioned trip first thing Monday,” he offered, his glass half-way to his mouth before he gave a short irritated grunt, “Though, I expect Dumbledore’s funeral proceedings may delay its processing.” Even in death the damned wizard would manage to make his life more difficult. “I could meet you there.”

[dolohv]

[[ q. quirrell‌ ]]

Merlin, he was really in it now. Quirinus resisted the urge to glance around the bar for help, instead ensuring his eyes remained glued to the countertop. The man didn’t even recognize him - of course not. A moment that had been so terrifying to Quirinus hadn’t likely fazed the man next to him at all.

Well, Quirinus had to admit this was all his fault for being so…sensitive.

With what he hoped was a steady voice, he looked over at the man. “I b-believe we m-met in Czechoslovakia a f-few years back.” It was all the explanation he was willing to give at the moment, perhaps that would be enough to job his memory.

(There wasn’t much to tell, to be fair. It’d been a quick exchange, a misunderstanding of sorts, and yet Quirinus was the only one who had seemed to take it very seriously.)

Brows lowered, eyes darkening as he considered the response. Czechoslovakia. He had little reason to be there in recent memory, besides some international conference about trading agreements or something - he couldn’t be sure. Those mundane parts of his position (and there were many) faded into a curtain of grey and beige. His eyes narrowed, as the faintest spark of vague familiarity lit the back of his mind. His fear was more telling than anything. Perhaps he’d hexed him, threatening his life or his family’s. Who was to say. It was probably fun, but not exceedingly so or he would have been able to recall it.

“Hmm,” he hummed in reply, neither a confirmation nor denial, but rather an acknowledgement of the man’s belief. Another sip of his drink, and another moment’s consideration before he turned his body to face the bar again. “What’s done is done.” It appeared, he was in a generous mood, he didn’t have the desire to waste his drink just yet, even if the stranger’s meekness was making his skin itch. Perhaps he’d ask about what had happened back at the conference once they man had settled back into a comfortable state, see how quick he could draw out that fear again. “Drink - be merry, as your people say. That is what you’re here to do, isn’t it?” His eyes flicked to the glass that hadn’t moved since he’d taken his seat.

[dolohv]

[[ a. moody‌ ]]

FINGERS TWITCH IN TIME WITH THE CORNERS     of his lips. Some days the Ministry doesn’t feel worth it     (     funny how these days always align with seeing the likes of Dolohov or Greengrass around     ).     Some days whether it be mention of his eye, comments about a sleep schedule they all seem to keep for him, it feels as though he might be best served snatching the life out of the chest of some masked coward than he ever could facing the minefield of politics and distraction. He recovers, as he always does, with nothing more than a look.

Lucky, then, to be saved in the next moment with such an opportunity.     “     You’re breaking my heart.     ”     He can see the other rising to the occasion, to annoyance built up at the other for years now. And though one stray thought will stay with such an opportunistic ask, he may give the files a once over again after Antonin has left. He may even follow a few leads. Though, the objective for the next few weeks stays the same. Moody reclines back further, catching his temple against the scarred knuckles that always seem too close to gaining more. Still he doesn’t move, and still he bites back the urge to tell Dolohov to sit down.     “     My team is focused on the security of Albus Dumbledore’s funeral and those attending it. You using us as an opportunity to round-up your former comrades can wait.     ”    Again his lips twitch, housing the smile that even felt unnerving on his features.     “     Dunno who trained you, Dolohov. But we’ve got our priorities straight ‘round here.     ”

Former comrades. Antonin could laugh if he didn’t need all his energy to keep his eyes from rolling backwards into his skull. It was no secret the company he kept in Britain - purebloods, politicians, influential people that attracted whispers about being aligned with the Dark Lord, but associating him with criminals? A tired schtick. Moody needed new material. And perhaps a second false eye.

“I see,” he spoke simply, his tone low and sharp. His brow lifted as he straightened up, stepping away from desk turning his attention to the small knickknacks that scattered the room among files and papers. His hands clasped behind his back, his thumbnail itching idly at the side of his watchband. It was safer to put some distance between them before his temper got the better of him, embers still glowing beneath his lungs. “Isn’t it a little late to provide him protection?” he questioned, eying a strange mess of metal rings and dials that sat atop a shelf. He had the urge to swat it onto the floor, but only tightened the fingers that circled his own wrist. “But I suppose that is how things are done around here. Reactionary. Desperate. Late.”

[dolohv]

[[ g. avery‌ ]]

It was nothing like waking from a dream. It was like being born, howling and screaming, forcing your way back into the world. It was painful, it was bloody, and it was all too sudden, like you were falling towards the floor at breakneck speed and suddenly you were back in reality. It was like apparating for the first time, the suddenness and chaos of it all, but you never got used to it. Each time was like the first time, but you were older, and coming back to reality was harder. At first, it felt like being pushed back onto a carpeted floor – now, it feels like being slammed into asphalt.

Gordon’s eyes flew open, and he cried out, half in the sheer, splitting agony of it all, half because he was being thrust backwards, the collar of his shirt digging into his throat. It was a man, and his first thought, his first instinct was Tom. Gordon reached blindly for him, relief flooding through him, filling the void of grief that had grown within him like an all consuming pit. Tom was back, Tom was here, Tom was alive.

But then he heard the man’s voice. It was the accent, slight but present, that gave him away, and Gordon felt himself falter – it was Dolohov, his mind hazily reminded him, not the Dark Lord. He could taste the disappointment in his mouth like spoiled milk, curdling on his tongue. He tried to get his vision to focus, but his head, god, his head – there was something to be said about fading back into it, about loosening his grip on reality and falling back into the future. It was like diving into a lake with no bottom, where you would never run out of oxygen, and you could go deeper and deeper until there was just nothing.

Gordon shook himself, feeling how close Dolohov’s hand was to his throat and the claustrophobia that came with it. He needed to be present, he needed to know. It was with great, concentrated effort that he forced out the words – “Is the Dark Lord safe? Is he back?” Tom was all he ever saw, all he would ever see when he went to that place, and if his visions weren’t gone, if his abilities were strong as they’d ever been, that meant there was more to the story, more for him to uncover. If he could still see Tom’s future, then Tom wasn’t dead. He grabbed Antonin’s arm, shaking him roughly, using what strength he could muster to shout, “I know he’s alive. Where is he?”

Gordon gave a howl of pain, but Antonin could hardly bring himself to care. He was losing the vision, his mind clearing and he couldn’t have that. The seer’s hands were grasping at his arms, with something akin to excitement, but Antonin couldn’t unravel the motivations quick enough before they slackened. He was coming to, slowly -so fucking slowly- but surely, and anxiety rattled in his bones as he realized there would soon be no hope of finding out more.

The man was shaking himself next, causing a furrow to form between Antonin’s brows. He shouldn’t do that. He was scattering his thoughts and visions, when they were so loose already. Frustration bubbled up in Antonin’s chest as he watched the effortful lines crease the man’s face, the concerted effort it took to form his words.

With the man’s question, the hope that had occupied Antonin’s mind sputtered out, and in its absence, an roiling fury flooded in, swelling in his chest and setting his skull on fire. His knuckles were white against the collar, his neck beginning to flush as the heat in his gut rose and rose. Completely useless. Eyes still trained on Gordon, his nostrils flared, and he could swear there was the scent of brimstone. How could he have no idea what had happened? How could such power fill him up and use him like a marionette, then vanish without a ghost of the information it had imparted. 

The man’s next question stalled Antonin’s anger, pausing the flames that licked up his ribcage and reached for his teeth. He’s alive.  Maybe he would be of some use after all. “How do you know he is alive?” his voice a harsh whisper, carrying in stark contrast to the volume of Gordon’s, “Explain.”

[dolohv]

[[ @patchycoat​ ]]

There’s a stretch of a stare at Remus, he can almost feel the other analyzing his face –the scars on them, probably. People had a tendency to not just overlook them. It changed, how he reacted, sometimes it was tired resignment, sometimes it was uncomfortable, this time… Remus could feel a knot in the bottom of his stomach. Lips pressed together, a single nod and     “ Got it. ”     when the other gave his order, and the wizard turned heel right back into the kitchen.

A hand came to his face, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as he took a few more steps into the kitchen. Pulling out his wand and muttering a levitation spell under his breath, Remus gave a few flicks towards the stove and the dishes. A few moments later, a dish with hashbrowns and eggs was floating within reach. With the plate in hand, Remus returned to the dining area, placing it in front of the other customer that had been waiting when Dolohov had arrived     “ Need anything else, let me know. ”     He stole a glance at Dolohov as he walked back into the kitchen again

Another few flicks of the wand, the coffee pot was pouring into a mug, the bread knife was cutting from a loaf. Soon enough, Remus was stepping out of the kitchen with a mug of black coffee and a slice of a heavy bread. He placed them in front of Dolohov with a cordial,     “ Need anything else, let me know. ”

Antonin’s eyes lingered on the paper as he heard how the server clipped his words before heading back to the kitchens to fulfill the order. He returned to reading, though his eyes did little more than drag over the characters and skip over the moving images. Curious how he got those scars.

He could hear the boy attending to another patron, plates and utensils clinking and clattering in the back of the cafe. Footsteps were soon approaching again, and Antonin remained un-moved, poised as if he were completely occupied by the contents of the the Daily Prophet. The coffee and plate were set in front of him on the table, and he reached for the cup without shifting his gaze, “Hm,” he hummed against the ceramic rim, “How did you get them?” The question came almost casually, if it the timbre of his voice could ever colour his words so lightly. He blew against the coffee before taking a sip, almost scalding his tongue as he waited for some sort of response. He was genuinely curious. It wasn’t every day he saw someone who had lived through wounds as distinct and severe as these - so he wanted to know, perhaps collect some ideas and inspiration.

When an immediate answer didn’t come, he let his mild curiosity show, pupils skipping off the page and land pointedly on the young man. “The marks.”

[dolohv]

Date: October 8th, 1979 Location: Death Eater Headquarters With: @gordonavery​

‘You hear a slow, rattling breath before Gordon speaks, a sign that his voice is no longer his own - - -’

- - - and then the voice was gone.

Antonin swept across the room, heartbeat hammering against his eardrums and drowning out the sound of his footfalls. The next moment, his fists had caught the collar of Gordon’s shirt and pushed him against the back of his seat, eyes ablaze with a vicious hunger he rarely felt.

It was one of those visions, a powerful one it seemed - almost pulling the very essence of Gordon fucking Avery out of his body as it rushed out. But maybe he could catch it - grasp at the wisps of whatever forces had welled up inside the man and made him speak. It was frustrating - maddening even, that the most useful thing to surface since the Dark Lord’s battle came from an unreliable prophet. 

“Keep talking, Avery. Keep fucking talking,” he hissed, face mere centimetres from the other’s, eyes growing wild with every passing second. He could almost feel it slipping away - the knowledge, the hope. He needed to know more - this wasn’t enough. His grip tightened against fabric, fingers itching to let go only so they could wrap around the man’s neck and squeeze out whatever drops remained of the words he spoke. “What use are you if you only speak in riddles??”

[dolohv]

[[ q. quirrell‌ ]]

Well…Quirinus couldn’t quite argue with that, could he? ( He could, but he wasn’t going to ). The man was sitting down in the seat anyway, clearly without plans to move anytime soon, and Quirinus wasn’t looking for a fight. 

He always wasn’t looking to be ogled, either. His grip on his glass tightened and he turned, ready to ask the man to stop staring when he realized who exactly he was speaking to.

( Not exactly, maybe. He didn’t know the name or anything else about the man, but he knew the face. It wasn’t a face Quirinus had found easy to forget. )

The words were tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them, fear worming its way inside his heart. “I-I’m sorry. I d-didn’t realize it was you. H-have the seat, f-feel free.” Qurinus looked away quickly, staring intently into the drink he no longer felt like drinking.

An eyebrow lifted, his expression steeled in preparation for whatever the man as about to say - teeth poised, venom ready - but then the man crumpled. The fire seemed to have been extinguished without warning, replaced with a palpable fear Antonin could just about taste. The eyebrow remained lifted, now less out of anticipation but out of curiosity. What on earth could he mean?

“Realize it was me?” he echoed after a brief pause. He took a measured sip from his glass and set it down before setting a forearm on the counter and leaning closer to the man. He couldn’t say he recognized him, not his demeanour, not his voice - but he often overlooked the mousier types. But there was a different emotion before - a stronger, livelier one - where had it gone? “Explain.”

[drusillamacnair-blog]

antonin + aesthetic. for @dolohv