DATE: 17 september, 1944, post-match LOCATION: approaching the castle from the quidditch pitch @vntonin
“Tvoë zdorov’e,” Calla took her gloves off meticulously, by the fingertips, pulling until the leather seemed as though it would split but only slid, slipping out of the shadows. “Bravo, Mister Dolohov.” She paused — if silence was, as they said, his right, his empire — she would rip it from his hands and make it hers before he could call it zolotse and spin it into a trap for her to fall into — glacier-like in the low Scottish sun, unmoving and cold. Miserable place. Miserable man. Her smile crept up. “Easy, tiger,” she said, finally, a warning before she forced words out of him, “I’m not here for a fight. Ab-so-lute-ly copacetic flying, darling boy.”
She was imitating her father, his outdated mind and a vocabulary that matched. Unlike him, she bared her teeth at will and as punctuation, grinning. “Such a shame you couldn’t quite take out Yaxley for me.” Make no mistake, Dolohov, I’m here for a fight.
Stepping closer, enough to count the threads of his emerald robes, Calla stopped playing with the toy that seemed to have been left out just for her. “I really do mean it, Gospodin Dolohov. Always such a disgusting shame when talent loses to luck.”