DOLOHOV.

Будем ли мы падать честолюбием, кровью или похотью, как алмазы, мы режем своей собственной пылью. Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust, like diamonds we are cut with our own dust.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I am a dream swallower, and I poison myself. I have a palate for rare, erratic impulses.

Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in Linotte: The Early Diary Of   Anaïs Nin (1914-1920)

[vntonin]

..... ➳♥ oh honey...

SEND ‘➳♥’ AND I’LL GENERATE A NUMBER 1-34 FOR WHERE MY MUSE WILL KISS YOURS

5: LIPS

The purgatory of the locker rooms seemed all the more ethereally untouchable tonight, for the cool air had trapped the ever-present steam of the showers within the stones with no hope of escape. It was difficult to breathe here, amidst the thick smog of scalding water and bodily heat; it muddled the mind, mingled with adrenaline and the spirit of competition to create a strange sort of opium through which they all floated like ghosts. The heat of competition burned red amidst the smoke, and inside it faces blurred and grudges melted away as easily as sweat-soaked clothes peeled from skin. 

Peeled from skin, pulled from tensed muscle and cast aside; Antonin stripped to his bare nothing as soon as the strange opium touched his face. He’d been so cold, just moments before - sweat frozen upon his muscles in the cold air of night, robes flung open with the heat and adrenaline of victory; the sound of swooning from the stands as he’d made a victory lap with chest bared to the icy air had been enough to fill his lungs with ichor. And now here he stood, emerald and raven-winged blue milling about him with indiscriminate fervor, volk’s eyes upon the moving bodies, searching for a rather specific one. A one bright spot - though such brightness born from flame and vitriol was of a different breed, though it shone with the same intensity all the same - admist the burn of steam and thrum of manic energy; victory and defeat caged within the stone walls of the locker rooms made her hard to find. But not for long - she never seemed to stay hidden for more than a fleeting blink of a moment, as was her nature. 

He spotted her through a plume of steam, raven hair pressed wet to her brow and dripping the length of proudly arched back. Heat swelled between his ribs, the dark companion upon his shoulder giving a great cackle before falling to the side, propped against tilted neck to watch the wolf prowl. The wolf and the great, prideful cat, with claws aplenty, and lovely venom enough to poison an entire pack - let alone a lone wolf. Lovely, then, if only in the dim light of the misty prison in which they found themselves - lovely, because hatred, it would seem, was entirely too lovely to resist. He could smell the revelry upon her, and her teammates, from across the room, though he himself drowned in a sea of emerald. Indiscriminate hands reached, touched, pulled, but his attention was suddenly quite firm upon his rival, who plagued him so, but so suddenly seemed all that was necessary to reach. 

But it was all in good fun, all in the name of the game. The wolf did so love to play. 

He started forward with eyes like blazing flames and teeth bared like viper’s fangs; a stalwart boat through the sea of emerald and navy blue about him, gaze upon quick-moving lips, expressive tongue, pulse just below sloped jaw. Prey, and the best sort. Antonin could nearly taste her; he’d be like to devour, if exposed for too terribly long. Fingers at his sides clenched, unclenched, tongue running hungrily upon his lips; he could hear her voice now, that voice which plagued him so, but seemed at once to be the one thing driving him forward. Perhaps to devour, perhaps to taste adrenaline upon another’s lips - would hatred taste of honey on her lips as it tasted of acid on his?

Antonin gave her little time to react as he appeared before her, shouldering his way past the Keeper to which she was speaking with great abandon. Strong hands rose to grab hold of her face, cheeks between palms - with horrible, gleeful grin, he pulled her face upward as his fell forth, lips finding hers with ferocity and command. As a hand fell to knot in the damp hair at the nape of her neck, he pressed forth, shoulders hunched and teeth nipping at plump bottom lip. Were she not so insufferable, Antonin figured, she might have been quite pleasurable to kiss. And perhaps she was - in all the aggressive, fevered pitch, in the small yelp that escaped her as his teeth found her lip, he found a certain breed of heat building between his ribs that he’d not felt many a time before. Were passion and hatred so very different? Could the acute annoyance he felt at her presence give way to such passionate displays as this, no matter how momentary? 

All at once, he pulled his lips from hers, leaving the both of them matched in plumped lips and flushed cheeks - hands dropped to his sides, and smirk returned. With the heel of his palm, he wiped at swollen bottom lip, giving dear Kitty a curt nod, and then a cynical bow. 

“Shafiq,” he purred, “Until the next match, yes?” And then he turned, gave his half-bare shoulders a roll, and disappeared into the steam. 

[justanotherrpmeme]

Send '➳♥' and I'll generate a number 1-34 for where my muse will kiss yours

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[buffmen]

[vntonin]

leoyaxley:

There is a restless thrumming in his veins, a begging song of glory, a need for victory so acute that it was almost like suffering.

There are betting grids and tactics and an ever-changing roster; there are red pins and thinly veiled silver slurs, and somewhere beyond all the organized chaos; there is a boy named Leo Yaxley who would be leading his team into a metaphorical battleground for his third and final year. Gracefully he would advance, nobly he would take to the skies – and inevitably, play without the edge that the snakes had cultivated in a matter of weeks. Total annihilation, Cygnus Black had thrown offhandedly to one of his lackeys, glancing smugly at him as he passed in the halls. 

And would it be?

He’s seen the competition. He’s seen those venom-stricken fangs. And he’s seen his soft-edged lions, who are impossibly brave and devastatingly good, but not enough to overcome the rising tide of cruel smiles and snarls in the day, in the dark. He’s already drafted half a dozen times how they might fall, or be knocked down, or otherwise incapacitated by a dirty slash of an illicit wand, the heel of a boot, pins and needles and a thousand ways to play like a fucking champion. Isn’t that what all this pompous vainglory boiled down to? Rivalry. He was the face of a rivalry that ran so deep that entire continents had been split for it, and this is the irony: this face he wears is broken, too. 

Nevertheless, they push on, likes waves against a stormy beach. 

They have midnight practices and drills at dawn. They push harder, faster  – but no one pushes with as much might or determination as the boy with the captain’s pin on his lapel, the red robes on his back. It’s half past eight, less than two hours to curfew; and the pitch is dark – but still he is here, shouldering his equipment on one arm and Lumosing with the other. Declan would be here soon; they were to go through some plays. Leo would play Beater. Dec would play Chaser. 

He’s caught up in it, so caught up that when he looks up in time to catch someone’s shoulder with his own; he’s jolted out of mindless reverie. “Sorry mate,” is the quick, automatic response, boyish; casual. But then comes the recognition and the snarl, and Leo’s eyes, of their own accord, flick up and down Dolohov’s half-naked body - a fact that he immediately stiffens for, after. 

Not that type of stiffen, wanker. 

He’s reminded, suddenly; of Corban. Of Durmstrang. Of darkness and shadow. Bare bleached bone. And though uncertainty strikes him, what was one more wolf to evade? He’d been running for centuries; there was enough blood to lead them astray for another day, another year. Triggers were always so easy to set off, he’s treading carefully, now. The beast was still growling. 

If you wanted to touch, all you had to do was ask.

“Right. Well, unless you have a flesh wound from impact,” Leo says at last, and though the tone is light, he feels uneasy. “Let’s not get aggro over it, yeah?” 

The first time he’d ever seen bare human bone, he’d been upon a broom. A rush of fluttering air, nearly a breeze, the warbling jerk of an abandoned broom, and a sickening crack; the others had gasped, but dear Antonin had bitten his tongue, for he knew to be silent when the universe revealed itself. And so it did; he watched it bloom from above, dancing like begotten rose petals across icy ground, the very heart a jagged bone which stuck, jagged, upward, as if to reach out to him. This is what you’ve done, it hissed; steam rose from the wound, trickled upward from blooming blood and brittle bone. He’d been the instigator of this peek into the universe’s visceral throat, for it had been his hand, no matter how indirect, that had sent the rival seeker tumbling. An accident, they said. An accident, as they set the bone and tracked the blood across the pitch. An accident, they’d echo - for they’d not seen Antonin, still upon his broom, still watching. 

It was then that he decided he liked the color red. 

It was here that he decided that he did quite like Quidditch after all; each match that followed was permeated with images of rival players sprawled as the Seeker once had been. Of course, he loved the sport for its merits, for its sportsmanship (a roll of the eyes, a scoff - what is sportsmanship?), but it was a different flavor of violence of which he could not get enough. A secret violence, like a peek of bone through a torn patch of fabric. 

He liked to imagine what they all would look like. Broken in the snow, framed in a bloom of enticing crimson. A tear in the universe, a peek a purpose. Even after a mere few weeks, before even learning all the names of the players on the opposing teams, he’d pictured them like this. Like animals ripe to be taken by the wolves - it was his own personal violence, which looked clearer only from the sky. He had pictured Leo Yaxley like this - and here he was. The subject of his ire, of his irksome bitterness, was not difficult to look upon now, though he lay not in the crimson embrace of the universe as he so secretly wished. At the same time, however, he wished the universe not to touch him, for a time - should the crimson bloom take him, as it had nearly taken the rival seeker, it would leave no Leo Yaxley for Antonin to enjoy. 

They’d spoken so few words to each other; it was his brother he knew better. But he enjoyed the lion so greatly already. There was something about his nobleness and charm that made him all the more delicious to devour. The wolf could only imagine that his blood would taste of honey and gold, as opposed to his own sour heat. And he could smell uneasiness on him now. The golden boy, who smelled of tarnish. But tarnish was sweet, he realized now - sweet, and addictive. He wanted to see it grow. 

“Aggro?” he repeated, the foreign word dancing with uncertainty upon his tongue as his chin jutted upward, chest puffed arrogantly outward; he’d not let the feeling of an unintentional gaze upon his bare chest go unnoticed. Weight shifted from one foot to the other, he sought to block any possible escape - Yaxley was his now, if only for a moment. “Am I really so threatening?” he wondered, the obvious answer a private joke at the back of his mind; he bled threat, and it was no secret that he’d do so openly before Leo Yaxley. 

Leo Yaxley - who had a secret. Everyone had a secret. Antonin wanted to consume his. 

He laughed, a barking, sharp sound. “Perhaps you find me so horrifying because of your imminent loss,” he nodded to the pitch, “Or perhaps there are other reasons. Perhaps you should -” a pause, a more marked look over Leo’s body, “- as you say, get aggro. Or can you not?” He begged him to, silently; a peek into his bloody universe. 

[vntonin]

kharmalibhatia:

God she hated Quidditch. Perhaps the Head Girl was always doomed to dislike the sport for there was but not another extracurricular which so shamelessly inspired such a series of unnecessary hallway brawls which fell under her duty to ‘manage’. The curses and hexes which flew past the ancient stone walls spurred by rivalry and pride warranted the strictest of discipline and to have lost so much of her precious time to such an inconsequential matter as a sports game had irked her to no end. Despite her intense dislike of the game, she would be damned if the empty Quidditch pitch wasn’t the perfect place to study late at night.

The Quidditch pitch was always well-lit, illuminated by bright lanterns occasionally accompanied by a tantalizing sliver of the autumn moonlight, thus if she timed her study session right, she typically had the entire pitch to herself. At first glance, one might have taken her for an indoors woman, but to the few who knew her, the Head Girl did in fact prefer a late-night study session outdoors- no doubt a consequence of growing up among luscious greenery which India had offered her as a child. The chilly England air played a frigid reminder that she was far, very far away from home- the wind chilling her bones as her cheeks became dusted with a light pink tint (the temperature still undeniably better than the sticky humidity offered by India’s nights).

A single book in her arms, Kharmali gave little regard to her surroundings, deeply engrossed in the matters inscribed within the worn pages of her potions textbook. Her intense concentration was obviously unnecessary for the reading she had been assigned just days ago, but books were her chosen poison- the only drug she knew could get her ahead. All her books were old and second-hand, but clawmarks which ravaged each cover belonged to none other than the current owner- one desperate to climb to the top despite the stakes. There would be no excuses for anything less than excellence, thus she only knew how to meet disadvantage with hardwork.

As her shoulder collided with another’s a quick apology was already prepared to fall from her lips, yet the boy’s words slipped out first- sharp, twisted, and most definitely unapologetic. (Suddenly, her instinctual urge to apologize dissipating into the air as quick as it had appeared.) It would be a lie to paint her as anything other than mildly frazzled but as she opted for an eye roll and an irritated scoff, she supposed it would enough to cover for her moment of uncertainty. She dared not play mouse in a serpent’s den.

“I’d like to believe I have far better things to do than touch you…take studying, for example…a prime use of my time,” she bit back not a moment before returning her attention to her potions textbook, as if to emphasize her point. 

Oh, how he adored memorizing new faces. And oh what a plethora of new faces the ritual of Quidditch practice offered; it seemed as if the sport, here, came with an immediate following, as if sport made them Gods. Antonin was already quite content to be a commodity, to be the object of desire and curiosity, but climbing swiftly to the forefront of the revered Slytherin Quidditch team had made him more obvious a deity than before. Had Hogwarts not realized it before - though the whispers, the palpable fear, the reverent energy which followed his every breath - they knew it now; the warbling adorers in the stands, watching their emerald-clad heroes fly about the pitch, were the basest evidence of that. 

But, of course, being followed about by souls bound in adoration and reverence was nothing new. It was simply better with the rich taste of victory upon his tongue. 

Before him now, however, was a visage unimpressed. It did nothing to falter the cyanide smirk upon his face, however, for it took much more than a roll of intelligent eyes and a downward turn of studious lips to deter him. Much more than a lamb’s opinion to falter the stride of a wolf; and what were they all, if not lambs waiting at the mouth of the den of the biggest and baddest? Even as she - nameless, but with a sharp face he’d not forget - stood before him with attention obviously elsewhere, he knew he’d not be deterred. She had bumped into him, after all; the idea that she was not immediately enthralled only meant that they’d crossed paths - or bumped shoulders - for a reason. Antonin liked challenges. 

He shifted, puffing unashamedly half-bare chest with pride and tipping chin downward to observe her more squarely, more acutely. His only wish was to put a name to the face; the empty pages of his little black book keened with curiosity. “Many would beg to differ,” one brow raised, lips quirked venomously upward, Antonin took a half-step forward, reaching to tip her book downward with one strong finger. “You prefer this to Quidditch?” he wondered, finger tapping atop the hard cover, “Perhaps you should - what is it? - ‘loosen up’.” But it was clear at first glance that this was not the sort of girl to loosen up under any circumstance - anyone who came to the pitch after dark to be alone with a textbook and not a lover was someone who’d never known loose in their lives. 

The irksome feeling of a lack of instant gratification - then that of a game. 

“No warm welcome for the Seeker of a rival team?” Antonin gave a nod to her colors, which starkly contrasted his own, “That would be a worthy use of time, would it not?” His voice dripped with suggestion, though it most always did; he stood close enough now to smell the binding of her massive book, upon which his finger still rested. A predator, he was; it seemed that his prey was not the sort to cower, and for this he was grateful. Antonin had always appreciated a challenge. And the mere fact that she’d rolled her eyes was challenge enough. 

[vntonin]

ariadnegreengrass:

Date: 9.9.1944 {{ after quidditch practice }}

Location: just off of the quidditch pitch Written for: @vntonin

   A packed duffel bag slung over her shoulder, and the book she’d been reading still in hand, though closed now rather than propped up on her knees, Ariadne had started to make her way back to the castle after watching the practice. Some of the other girls had wandered over, squealing together at the excitement, which was typical this early on in the semester. She’d tagged along, less for her interest in the sport and more to support the newly found friendship within the Slytherin house that had seemingly appeared after her engagment with Abraxas. 

          This time, however, the seeker, tall and dark, something new to grace the pitch, had caught her attention, drawing her attention ever so slightly from her French novel. In the chaos that had happened when she and he had first spoke, as the walls began to crumble around them, the sky falling as he’d said, Ariadne had nearly forgotten the exchange, despite having been touched by it strangely. Seeing him now, sweaty and stern as he walked ahead of her towards to school, Ariadne quickened her pace, drawing her robes around her tighter in the chilly breeze. 

          “You played well,” The Greengrass witched complimented, appearing at his side and giving a glance up to his face. No smile graced her features, though her eyes were welcoming. “It would seem you have integrated quite well here - I do hope you’re happy here?”

   He felt as if he were to return to the common room to sit upon a throne; even in practice, in laissez faire drills about the misty pitch, Antonin had ridden at the peak of his game. It would be unlike him not to do so, of course; it would be uncharacteristic to be anything but the very best, even when covered in mud and sweat, and aching in every muscle. The ache, the exhaustion, was a victory; it meant that he had done his job well - and doubtlessly that he had proven himself all the more superior to his teammates. It had certainly helped that a fair number of girls had been watching; though their faces had been indistinguishable, the sound of their ringing approval and tinkling laughter had lit a fire beneath his broom which he was not like to extinguish, so long as their attention was on him. 

   And it was - it always was. 

  At his elbow, as he began the long trudge back to the castle, appeared one of the indiscriminate faces - though when he looked down, through sweat-tousled hair and a thin sheen of dirt, he realized that it was one familiar. Not a stranger, but a friendly face, found in solace mere nights before. Two rocks in a stream, they’d been; and here she was again. Standing much more firmly on two feet, he noted; she was much more lovely in the light of calm. A porcelain doll - dolls were not meant to be jostled. 

    At her compliment, Antonin was want, for a moment, to agree with unabashed smugness; he knew good and well of his prowess upon a broom, that he could out-fly them all with a bind over his eyes. But he held his tongue: “Thank you,” he offered, voice cool (”I know”, it read; perhaps she could hear it), “I have yet to find it challenging, the sport. Especially here.” The Russians, it seemed, were less adverse to the potential violence of the sport; personal preference, perhaps. 

   He paused, at her question. “Happy,” he repeated, rolling the word about his tongue, “I have yet to form an opinion.” It was a safe answer; he looked down, briefly, to his muddied uniform, tugging at a half-undone button, “Your school’s first impressions leave one wanting. But I am willing to give happy a second chance.” Antonin looked to her, then, “Are you?”

[vntonin]

DATE: 11 September, 1944 LOCATION: The Grounds / The Quidditch Pitch AVAILABILITY: Open to all.

 He had always been quite addicted to the feeling of adrenaline - in all its forms, it was a drug of which he could not get enough. Of course he was indulgent in all things decadent, but there was nothing more so than the feeling of blood pumping, heart racing, head spinning; the thrill of the chase gave him cause - and if not the chase of the hunt, then that of the greatest sport known to wizard-kind. One would not look upon Antonin Dolohov and think of Quidditch, but his father had put him on a broom before he knew to walk - or so he liked to claim. His skill had been apparent upon arriving at Hogwarts; there had never been a question in his mind that he’d be handed a position on the team, nor had there been a question that he would excel. Antonin excelled in all things - his proficiency at the sport was no exception. 

A braggart by nature, he could not help but hold his head a bit higher, shoulders a bit straighter, chest a bit stronger as he emerged from (yet another) successful practice, hair wet and tousled from a quick shower and robes hanging half-undone upon unashamed musculature. The high was something akin to sex - satisfaction tasted quite similar when it was as good as it was with he (and it was always good with Antonin). If ever there was superiority personified, it was here, now, slinging a leather pack over his shoulder and emerging from the Slytherin locker room with smirk upon his face. Each step was propelled by an adrenaline high; the cool fall air did nothing to dampen the flame beneath his ribs, but rather stoked the embers and made him strong. 

All he’d need to complete the trifecta of thrill, adrenaline, and violence would be to hit something, he thought, with the smug satisfaction of assured victory. Were he a Beater, there would be no Gryffindors left come Sunday; perhaps he’d hit something else. 

But, of course, the search for such bloody thrill had been what had damned him to begin with. Conscience, however, had never been his guide. 

His shoulder bumped another as he stepped full into the night air, abandoning the quiet darkness of the locker room, for his mind remained upon the pitch; eyes wheeled, self-indulgent smirk turned to a toothy snarl of a smile. “Come for another show?” he snapped, at present not caring to whom he spoke, “If you wanted to touch, all you had to do was ask.” His tone toed the line between confrontation and seduction, as it so often did - it would take just the slightest touch to give a push.

[vntonin]

reginaserpentes:

DATE: 11 September 1944

LOCATION: Courtyards

STATUS: Open 

She’s been on the team for four years now; but it never fades, the buzz of anticipation that precedes the first match of the year. Red ties and verdant cloaks, broomsticks engraved in gold and new leather gloves, all those jealous, cutting stares and not-so-empty threats – see you on the pitch, bitch. But then again, the Gryffindors, with their nobility and soft leadership, couldn’t carry through with their talk if they tried. Lions with big maws but tight muzzles, large paws but no claws. Roar all you want. This year’s Slytherin roster was a crowd favourite – and they were playing for keeps. Victory is an intoxicating thing, and if her father was out chasing it with black cloaks and whipping winds, then she would too. 

Potions is about to start, but the courtyards are still packed, little groups congregating about one another, already donning their colours and support. She has her own legion of admirers, and they proudly wear the brand of the snake as they flutter about her, all Chaser again, Eva? and I heard Gryffindor doesn’t have a Seeker yet, the fools. But her gaze is fixated upon an approaching figure as they ascend the steps towards the stone parapet where she’s perched. She hops off the ledge, and with one hand closed in a fist near her side, blocks their path. “Hey baby,” she says in greeting. Whether it’s mocking or genuine remains indecisive. Then, her own flashing boldly in the morning sunlight – “Do you want a pin?”

Sense of spirit surrounding the impending Quidditch match - a clash of green and red, insults hurled from across stone halls - was gone about with much more grandeur here than at home. Antonin would have felt nearly smothered by it all, were he not upon a pedestal at the center; the icy coolness with which he regarded the student body melted beneath the near-constant pressure of sportsmanship which rallied them all. It seemed to have made them all forget that the best and brightest among them had nearly been consumed by the bloody squid, that a hole had been blown in their precious stronghold - there was nothing, he figured, like sport to boot and rally a people. And what a sport it was; it was only fitting that he’d swooped in and swept tryouts earlier in the month, easily snatching up the position of Seeker and earning the befitting adoration of countless Slytherin girls who were like to throw themselves at the feet of who was meant to be their new Quidditch star. And he could not deny the certain pride he felt for his team from the onset - it was a start, at least. 

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, he sent a wink across the courtyard, smirking lips tugged upward at the sight of green-clad girls giggling at his attention. Were it not for her voice, he might have run right into the face he’d not been like to expunge from his immediate memory, the lithe specter who seemed to arrive at always the opportune moment. A short stop and a languid bloom of ever-present smirk, Antonin’s eyes fell to the glinting pin upon her lapel. “Sure thing, baby,” his thick dialect muddled the teasingly British affectation as his chin jutted upward, hand outstretched, “The anticipation is a welcome change to the air of this place - it would only be appropriate to partake.” 

[lifeinpoetry]

in your dream, you are jealous of tragedies. / and the truth is, we all want our own tragedy, / because life is pale without it. / we want the teeth, the screaming, the survival / that comes with it.

Salma Deera, from “why you wanted a tragedy,” Letters From Medea (via lifeinpoetry)

[vntonin]

cygnusblck:

antonin

the sixth of september 13:25 potions classroom closed to @vntonin

He was late for class.

He was always late for class, Cygnus; always making an entrance, always waltzing into rooms with messy-from-sex hair and hooded eyes and a half-cocked grin. He was always late for class, and he was very late today. Perhaps he might not have been so brash in his disregard for punctuality if he was late for, say, DADA, or maybe Charms. But Potions was positively dreadful, and with his knack for wandwork and his sharp wit and his charm, Cygnus had long ago curried Professor Slughorn’s favor (and any favorite of Slughorn’s needn’t worry about attendance). He had little incentive to attend Potions at all, much less on time, and so he arrived in true Cygnus Black fashion, waltzing into Slughorn’s classroom with—you guessed it—messy-from-sex hair, hooded eyes, and a half-cocked grin. He smelled of Firewhiskey and Evadne’s perfume, and his tie hung loosely, incriminatingly, around his neck.

His arrival was unnoticed by none, acknowledged by all, and lauded by all but one. He was greeted almost unanimously by excited whispers, by nods of salutation and eager smiles. It was difficult, really, not to react to Cygnus Black, for he was a starboy, a son of constellations and stardust and vortexes, and he, like all mythic creatures of the sky, demanded the attention of those who were misfortunate enough to be caught in his orbit. They obeyed him well, his stargazers, always looking at him, always wanting him, always worshipping at his altar with upturned wrists and begging lips. Yes, his stargazers obeyed him well; the wolf did not. Perhaps Antonin Dolohov was too taken with the moon he howled at to bend his knee to the stars; perhaps he was dumb or deaf or blind, or perhaps he was all three; perhaps he missed his home, and was too stricken with sickness to pay mind to much else besides his longing for Mother Russia. Whatever the reason, he didn’t turn when Cygnus entered the room; he didn’t whisper, he didn’t nod, he didn’t smile—he just sat there, alone, face stoic and eyes downcast. And for that, he would be punished; for that, he would be reminded, sharply, that he was a dog, and that dogs ought always to heel.

“Mister Black,” Slughorn chided, “how very generous of you to join us today.” Cygnus smiled, and it was the sort of smile that got away with murder (literally, not figuratively); the sort of smile that disarmed and charmed all at once; the sort of smile thathad made it possible for him to shag his way through half of Hogwarts’ student body without incurring the scorn of his many dismissed lovers (it was too easy to fall in love with Cygnus when he smiled, and too difficult to hate him). “What can I say, sir? I’m a giver.” The lewd implication of ‘giver’ was made quite clear in the way he canted his head, looked sideways at a pretty, dark-haired Ravenclaw, and winked at her suggestively. Slughorn grunted, tapped the tip of his wand against his podium thrice, and said, “Well, Mister Black, you can give all of your attention to Mister Dolohov. You’re tardy, and our new student has no partner. Take your seat. Mister Dolohov will catch you up on today’s lesson.” Jaw slack, he bristled, outraged by the sheer obscenity of having to suffer the company of a mutt. His peers’ matching expressions of longing shuttered with fear as Cygnus, brooding and fuming, trudged from the classroom’s threshold to the unoccupied seat beside the Russian volk. 

He hated Antonin Dolohov. He’d only known him for a handful of days, but he hated him. He hated the way he stalked and prowled—ha! As if he had any claim to Cygnus Black’s hunting grounds. He hated the way he boasted his native tongue. Russian was an ugly language, all harsh ‘sss’ sounds and no staccato; Cygnus much preferred the pretty poetry of French, and he wasn’t keen on Dolohov sullying the Slytherin Dungeon’s lyrical ballad of le français with babushka this and bolshevik that. He hated the way he looked at Walburga, and above all else, he hated the way Evadne looked at him. He hated Antonin Dolohov. “Looks like it’s your lucky day, Dolohov,” he sneered, nose upturned and upper lip curled. “Cherish each moment.” Ever a perfect picture of cool arrogance, he leaned back in his chair, tipped it backwards, on its two hind legs, and crisscrossed his fingers behind his head. “So—volk—what are we cooking up today? Veritaserum?” So that I can harvest your garden of dirty secrets? “Amortentia?” So that you can try in vain to win the favor of my lover? He paused then, and his lips twisted cruelly, frighteningly. “Wolfsbane?” Sure, Dolohov wasn’t technically a werewolf, but the whole of Hogwarts had knighted him ‘wolf’—‘volk’—and the implication was clear. 

“Oh, how lucky I am. To find myself beside a man who smells like a woman.” He was unabashed in his observation, in the aversion of his eyes as they remained trained upon the smudged ink of a diagram which he was meant to make sense of. Keen nose had locked upon a familiar perfume - muddled, it seemed, by the distinct odor of something akin to soggy bread - the moment he’d entered the classroom, a convenient moment late. Just late enough, it seemed, to capture the fascination of all in the room; but Antonin, much too wise to waste his time upon a peacock with poorly painted feathers, had chosen instead to, in the words of the American, not give a damn. It was quite easy to do, he’d found; while most seemed keen to take a knee for Cygnus Black, the Russian wolf was not so disillusioned. A wolf did not bow to weasels, after all.

With a crisp snap, he flipped to the next page in his book, quite content to pretend momentarily that his partner did not exist. It was, instead, quite satisfying to imagine Professor Slughorn’s head spontaneously combusting, splattering all over Cygnus’s jacket - it would serve the both of them right for their various annoyances and indiscretions. After a moment of pregnant silence, feeling his partner’s keen eyes upon the side of his face (he could almost hear the venom of the smirk, the accusation, like nails upon a chalk board), Antonin looked upward, and with a sneer of his own answered the question, posed like a loaded gun upon an itching finger. “Living Death,” his voice was a monotone drawl, betraying the utmost lack of care - though he could not help but feel glee at the idea of Cygnus drowning in the draught, “Or, in my language, Желаю думать. Wishful thinking.” An overt overture as to his true thought, a brazen thing to say, but the volk, as he had been so aptly named, cared not. He trained his gaze upon his partner’s eyes, and smirked - he could feel the heat of unadulterated dislike radiating from dear Cygnus, and was not adverse to matching it in full.

But he could not help but revel in the implication of his last question; the smirk lingered upon his lips, which pulled back as he turned his face to bear gleaming teeth. The likes of which he could surely convince anyone were used for ripping flesh by the light of the full moon - perhaps he could do it, even without the soiling bite of the monsters with which his reputation ran. “So, собака,” dog - a private jibe, “do you own a textbook, or shall I be carrying us both through this assignment?” A pointed sideways glance, a shift in gaze to an approving Slughorn, who’d seemed utterly pleased that his token foreigner was working diligently (though he surely had no clue that he’d quite like to put his newfound partner under the table), and he gave another crisp flip of worn, borrowed page. He cared very little for brewing the draught, quite suddenly, and more for observing the posturing ass at his side - he had done enough of his own research before arriving at Hogwarts; there had been no doubt, even months prior, that he and Cygnus Black would not find common ground. Or, perhaps, too much; it was what would have one kill the other one day, doubtlessly.

One kill the other. Wolf, eat the dog.

“Or shall we return to the idea of amortentia?” he wondered; though Antonin was oft a man of little words, he could not help the vitriol that guided his tongue, “Is this a subject on which you are some sort of expert?” It was not difficult to find rhythm in a tete-a-tete across the bounds of language; surely he could speak in his mother tongue, without a lick of English, and Cygnus would understand his dislike. The implications of his prior inquiry, in ragged English, broken by thick dialect, was surely enough. He asked without looking upward, affecting nonchalance with eyes upon the page; it could have been a comment about the weather, judging by his expression, but nonplussed expression could not mask the prod beneath every syllable. And the answer he sought, quite decisively, was one he’d be thrilled to hear.

[vntonin]

veelablck:

Death has been a topic for years with a few poems constantly lingering at the edge of Walburga’s lips to be used on command. Even in a situation that permits a heavy threat, she focuses on an aesthetic of grace and superiority with each poem memorized to be repeated as a final warning. She never realized that each of these poems would never be used as her almost death had come far too soon. As much as she despised the words of muggles, it was the poem of Emily Dickinson that resonated in the darkness that now consumed her.

          “ It makes the parting tranquil and keeps the soul serene. “

She could only hope that her death would be as beautifully written as that. However, her parting would likely be far from tranquil, but one could hold on to a small ounce of a dream for a death as such. Darkness still held onto her mind without the peace of a memory to block the realization that life after death was nonexistent. She feared that this would be the rest of her existence in darkness and without the comfort of a past to recall in this state. 

In her mind, Walburga had already spent decades in this momentary darkness that trapped her for eternity. She begged the darkness of death to give her a memory to live out for eternity ; a single loop would be enough. Muted pleas for more were soon answered as a single memory came flooding back, and she almost wished she had not asked for it.

Her body laid beneath a fur blanket with the silk of her dress trapping her legs from moving. The morning had been filled with a formal breakfast, and she had almost felt the urge to jump from the window to escape the mundane conversation that usually took place. It was here that she would have to live out the rest of her eternity. It was in this single memory that she would have to live over and over again and realize that she was beneath her own superiority. 

          “ You’d better not bring any more of your wayward children home. “

She had begged for a memory, and her own torturous mind had given her one that had broken her. The screams that would have been heard from miles were trapped within herself, and her mind slowly started to break like fine china. It had only taken the moment once to shatter her, but to live through it again, she could feel a self-hatred sprout in ways that she would never be able to recover from. The last bit ran its course before starting from the very beginning. 

She was about to accept her fate when a burn broke the cycle and filled her throat. Water rushed back the way it had once come and a fit of coughs followed. Her body jerked and rolled to its side as life had been granted another chance. Her hand clung to another as her eyes lightly fluttered opened to see that she had been thrust back into chaos again. Everyone seemed to be working their way around her without a care of her current state, placing their own lives above her own. 

Walburga would have struck them dead herself if she was not distracted by an additional burn that was misplaced. A burn that came from her lips as fingers soon ran against them, revealing a touch from another. It only took a short glance up to see who had the audacity to save her life. Her fist balled up and drew back only to fall short by the fear that mirrored back at her. Antonin Dolohov showed a glimpse of emotion that neither of them cared to express towards another person. ‘ Had I vexed him to become mine? ‘ She thought to herself before screams from below continued to flood the air. 

          “ Antonin— “ She whispered as her throat ached from the sudden intake of water that did not wish to come back up. An acid from her stomach making words more difficult to express, but it was the grasp of his arm that should have given him enough to know what she needed. “ Lift me, please. “ It was all she could say as her body began to grow weaker and mind soon threatened to go dark again. “ Now! We must go quickly. “ 

There was an additional conversation that would need to take place as her lips still told a story that she wished more than anything would have been a lie. His lips on her own made her stomach ache even more so than the water, knowing that the touch alone could warp his mind to become a slave to his desire to please her. The topic would not be addressed now as survival was still reigning supreme above anything else, and she almost wished for time to convince herself that his lips on hers were something she could desire herself.

Amidst the chaos, though there was little time afforded for anything residing outside the realm of horror and panic, Antonin found himself feeling a strange dichotomy of strangeness and charm, of honey and ash upon his lip and burning between his eyes, down into his chest. He felt as if the breath had been yanked right from him - and, he hoped, past the lips which seemed to hold him transfixed for a moment too long. Lightheaded, dizzied and utterly bereft of all sense, Antonin felt himself nearly pitch backward, into the water - but it only lasted one strange moment, one passage of haggard breath, one small blink before he was, once again, chilled to the bone by lake water and gripping her face with fingers growing blue and dripping desperation. 

She’d never looked more beautiful than she did when she took her first breath - what would have been an ungraceful moment of disquietude upon any other pale visage was the most glorious thing he’d ever beholden. Harried hands flew from her cheeks to her shoulders, her collar, her ribs which jerked with pained breaths; beneath his breath, he muttered condemnations of the water and reverent prayers to his own divine power (back from the dead he’d brought her - were he not so relieved, he might have thought to be smug) as she sprang back to life. Releasing her, suddenly, seemed a blasphemous idea. And though Antonin Dolohov had never believed in God, he was sure he would be smote should he let her grip upon his arm slip, even for a moment. The screams about them, above them, below them, seemed nothing - the ragged sound of her waterlogged lips was the only music he could discern.

It was the sound of his name upon honey lips that seemed to wake him from his stupor; her weak commands were barely heard, for he was already on his knees, shrugging jacket off and discarding it in one fell toss. Arms freed, and the utmost caution and gentlemanly posture thrown to the wind, he took hold of her delicate frame - there was no doubt in his mind that under different circumstances such brash action might have earned him a deserved slap upon the cheek, a stomp of heel upon toe, or a great verbal lashing. But there was no time to think of boundaries now, for water lapped at his ankles as he steeled his grip beneath her knees and behind her slender back (how she shivered - to settle her before a fire and keep the world at bay would be the sweetest end to a horrid tale). 

“Hold fast,” he commanded, voice barely audible above the rush; his mind ran in boggled lashings of his mother tongue, but his lips - bewitched, transfixed lips - seemed to understand. It took very little effort to hoist her against his chest, to lift and stand all in one, water running in intrusive rivulets down his back. She felt no heavier than a threadbare blanket, even soaked to the shivering bone; for a moment, he could not help but glance down at her with utter worry, for surely there was more of her to lift. But she was so small - so utterly small in stature, but so beautifully massive in presence, that he nearly felt himself choked upon it. There was no time to dwell, however; Antonin could feel her heart beating in harried time against his chest, and so he held her closer - should the watery devils below try to take her, they would need snatch her from his steely clutches first. 

And below, the stairs shifted. He felt himself began to slide, but wolfish instinct was faster - before the waterlogged stone beneath him could crumble, he lurched forth, hand upon Walburga’s back raising to bar her head against the space between his shoulder and his neck, for it seemed as if the whole castle crumbled about them. He could see the light, however, the glittering light of torches and soon to be rescuers at the top of the stairs, in the corridor above where the rest of the world waited. Watched as Orpheus carried Eurydice from the Underworld, rather than leaving her to drown - as Hades emerged with a perfect rose to present to the world of mortals who so impatiently waited. 

He glanced down, speaking before his tongue could be tempered: “Do not close your eyes - look at me, дорогой. And do not look away until you are safe.” For the ascent from the Underworld to the sky above was not a pretty one - and she deserved to look not upon the horror which threatened to drag them downward. He could see faces now, as they ascended at the heels of the fleeing Slytherins; a better man would have, perhaps, left her in capable hands and returned to the fray, but Antonin Dolohov was not a good man, nor did he have any intention of becoming one today. He’d not release Walburga until she was in a hospital bed, and even then it was not likely that he would leave her out of his sights for long - even now, in a moment of chaos, he could find time to lament the incompetence sure to await her, if the Hospital Wing followed suit of the rest of the evening. 

Slippery step, dripping with lakewater as it lapped further and further upward in vehement waves, nearly made him pitch forward, but with a curse, a grunt, and scraped knee, he was upright again. Nearly trampled, he could not worry himself with those who parted and scrambled around them - every man for himself. 

Fingers still clutching damp head and trembling legs, they seemed to break a barrier of sound as they surfaced, entering into a too-full hall in which numerous clusters of concerned professors were instructing equally frantic students. He felt the desperate plea for direction, in harried English, of “Hospital!” escape him, for the ringing in his ears had returned. Eyes wild, shoulders hunched against any and all hands that might reach to take her from him, he barged forward, following a stream of Slytherins swathed in damp blankets, escorted by Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs with bandages and aid kits at hand. 

    “I will not trust any of them with you - not now.” 

His voice felt something foreign, for the ringing in his ears had grown more vehement by the moment. Upon his tongue, he could taste copper; it had only occurred to him then that he’d bitten down upon his tongue just hard enough to draw crimson. He felt quite as if he was drowning a second time, in a sea of faces he did not know, clutching Walburga to his chest as if he might gouge out the eyes of the nearest first year should anyone reach to take her from him. Almost absently, as if it were reflex, he gave the back of her head a comforting pet (though he was not quite sure how to comfort) and muttered, throat warbling, tongue thick with blood, “Are you with me still, дорогой? You shiver - soaked to the bone.” A pointless observation, to be sure; in his moment of hesitation, they had left a puddle upon the stone. Antonin looked down to her, then, for just a briefly afforded moment, then turned his gaze upward once more, bent upon finding her safety, warmth, help - and never to let her feet touch ground otherwise. 

[vntonin]

ficra:

Date: 4 September, 1944

Location: top level of the Astronomy Tower

Time: evening class

Status: Closed ( @vntonin )

Astronomy was by far Fiora’s favorite subject. It was what she was excited for above all her other classes: to learn about celestial bodies and other planets and the vast forces at work beyond their very world—it never failed to wholly captivate her. As a first year, to come to class at midnight had been a struggle worth dealing with, and Fiora was all the more pleased to return to the Astronomy Tower as a fifth year earlier in the nights; although midnight skies would provide a better view, the current timing suited her workload much better. She came to class and sat in the front—rare for her, in truth, but well worth any nerves in a case such as this.

The professor was a brilliant wizard, exceedingly knowledgable and caring greatly his subject, but perhaps a bit controlling towards the class. He had given every student an assigned place to do their work, which sent Fiora back two rows and gave her an intimidating neighbor. From listening to her friends and looking out for whomever they may point out, Fiora had a fair enough idea of those it may be best for her to avoid, but now she was placed right next to one of those very people. Briefly, she looked up at him, and it was a moment before she remembered the name that went with the face: Antonin Dolohov. 

She smiled at him, but said nothing before looking down towards the star map in front of her. Antonin, from what she knew, was not a boy to be trifled with. No problem for her, really, although she felt a little off-put at the thought of having no one to share her wonder with during her favorite class. Perhaps, after a little time, he might warm up to her—she could hope for that much, at least. But, to get to that point, they would have to start somewhere. Throughout class, she didn’t speak to him, although she did glance his way with a friendly expression once or twice over the course of the hour.

In all honesty, Fiora really did know so little about him; almost nothing that could really be confirmed. But, what she did know made her feel that much more friendly towards him: he was from another country, just like her. Russian, in his case, which was almost as completely different from the Caribbean as could be, but the common factor of their foreignness remained the same despite that. Class ended, and everyone packed up to leave. As luck and a bit of subtle stealth would have it, Antonin and Fiora packed up and left at the same time. Out in the hall, she walked quietly—and quickly, to keep up with his step—by his side for a moment before at last looking up at him with the intention to say something. “What do you think of the professor?” she quipped. “I mean, at least he didn’t give us homework on the first night, but he treats us a little like first years, don’t you think so?”

He’d made no secret of being quite sour that he was forced to retake a class he’d already passed with flying colors - the faculty of the damned prison he was now to call home had claimed that the stars were of different merit along this particular longitude, and warranted re-examining. Of course, this put him in a class with students a year younger; all dough-faced, dumb-tongued imbeciles, as far as he was concerned. Antonin was more than happy to spend the duration of the hour firm in his silence and disillusionment, for he had been more than satisfied with the stars at home - thank you very much. He was the tallest, the broadest, the darkest of them all, and the only of the thirty-odd students who’d packed into the Astronomy Tower, making him quite the odd duck amongst a gaggle of fledglings with downy feathers. 

It seemed that the smallest of all had found herself at his side; the smallest, the sunniest, even in the dark, who persisted at smiling up at him with friendliness he’d not been offered. Were he a better person, it might have set him at ease - but as he was already quite irked, and hardly in the mood for pleasantries with fifth years whose names he did not know, he offered her merely a raised-brow glance and a ‘hmph’, which would suffice. His eyes remained upon the side of her face, upon the curve of her nose and the concentrated pucker of her lips as she looked back down to the star map. There was very little to be done, very little to pay any mind to here, though the professor’s dedication to the lecture was admirable. He spoke with a fervor unmatched, though such antiquated ideas were lost on a mind which had already learned all any respectable wizard, with better things to be concerned with, could possibly learn on such a subject. 

He was happy to be done with the droll lecture (though the rest of the room seemed to have been enthralled), and was quick to pack; he had a letter to write home, for he longed for the cigars he’d left behind, and had no doubt he could convince his mother to send them. The cigars and, of course, a great deal of sweets, the variety of which he had been left bereft of since arriving at Hogwarts. Cravings for home’s food, home’s comforts were in full force - perhaps a package from home, filled to the brim with trimmed cigars and packaged pastries from the manor’s kitchens, would give him incentive to survive a year of being seated next to the serial smiler. The very same petite figure, it seemed, who’d taken to scurrying alongside him, as he’d not been paying much mind to his surroundings as he followed the flood of students to the door. 

Wide eyes and quirked brows turned downward; Antonin could not help but be surprised by her chirp of a voice, and the confidence with which she had asked her simple question. Perhaps she did not know who he was - or perhaps she was just stupid. Whichever the case might be, Antonin took pause at the sight of her, lips curled into an uncertain half-grimace; it seemed as if his unfettered walk home, his evening of necessary solitude, would have to be put off until she’d grown bored or afraid of him. Either would surely happen in quick succession, he figured - though he had been wrong once or twice before. “He speaks as if we are all stupid,” he quipped, eyes lingering on her hopeful face for a moment before turning front once more, “I have taken this class once already - I do not appreciate having my hand held.” A moment of pregnant silence, then he looked down to her once more, halfhearted attempt at manners straightening his tongue, “Do you think differently? You seemed to be...” he struggled momentarily with the proper word, face contorting uncomfortably, “paying more attention than I.”

[vntonin]

🍹 just fuck me up

                  “Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night,                   and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.”                              ― Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Book abandoned at his side, cast to sit half-open upon the bench on which he sat, Antonin watched the black wolf as he stalked along the length of his temporary kingdom; were he not so soon to be dethroned, he might have been magnificent. But kings slipping silently from their thrones were not magnificent - they were tragic. Pathetic, embarrassments - the ghost of what might have been pity tap-tapped upon his ribs as he watched, its snide cousin turning up the corners of his lips. The rest of the room seemed to find no absentminded pleasure in the display; perhaps the lackadaisical squabble Hogwarts called Dueling Club was a commonplace sight, not something worth watching with hawk’s eyes and predatory teeth raring to tear the flesh of pretender-kings. Such a display at home would have been regarded with intense fervor - but perhaps this was what put him here in the first place, sitting in the wings, watching the great king stalk his skittish prey. 

“A fifth year, Black?” the words escaped him against his own volition; the bastard child of vitriol and cynicism turned his tongue acidic, mocking, “Is this what passes as a challenge?” Steel voice carried, though the air was still; wandering eyes, which once had little direction amidst the rabble that filled the hall, locked upon the two wolves, the two kings with gilded crowns who sat atop opposite thrones. Antonin remained reclined as his opponent’s eyes turned sideways, locked upon his virulent visage; though most would wither like dried petals beneath such a gaze, he felt his thorns grow sharper, his claws dig deeper. He feared very little - the pretender-king would find an impassible challenge in him. 

But how he desired the challenge, how it boiled the blood at the base of his spine; though his time spent within the hallowed halls of Hogwarts had been brief, he’d found plenty reason to sink hungry teeth into the obvious dislike that bloomed from Cygnus Black’s every breath. He exuded challenge, breathed conflict - and Antonin was nothing if not a blade to be clashed. And did he not deserve to oust the pretender, the weaker wolf, from his parapet? Did he not deserve to indulge the need for worship, which could be so acutely satisfied by the great nothings who populated Cygnus Black’s kingdom? 

Did they not see, as he lounged here, fingers drumming atop concealed wand, languid beneath the gaze of his challenger, that their true heir had arrived? Did they not see his teeth?

How big your teeth are, Russian wolf. 

“Hardly,” Cygnus called, “Though I’ve no doubt you would not know the difference.”

All the better to eat you with, king of dogs. 

The crowd, in biblical fashion, parted - the path between the rival wolves was unobstructed now, save a stray scrap of paper on which a series of bets had been scrawled. Even from afar, Antonin could see that dear Cygnus had resided at the top of every bracket - though the competition was underwhelming at best. It was something akin to pitting a lion against a lamb; the real test of true prowess would come should Cygnus find himself brave enough to match a true opponent. 

“Would I not?” he stood, pressed and crisp, all hard lines and radiating heat, with a click of held breath from the crowd about; oh, how he desired to spill his secrets, to pull the scales from Cygnus’s eyes so he could see - but perhaps he already knew. A moment such as this, mere months before, had earned him the reputation that sat gilded upon his shoulders today; did Cygnus see the label beneath the jewels? Murderer - proud murderer. Skilled killer. They’d all thought it had been an accident; his mother had seen to the legitimacy of the ruse at the onset. But Cygnus was made of the same mettle as he - as much as he was loath to admit it - and surely would see the truth behind the mask. 

An opponent worthy of Antonin’s mettle, of his reputation for swift and unadulterated horror, Cygnus looked upon him as he stood, descending the stands and leaving his book (The Art of War - appropriate enough) unattended; contact between equally sharp gazes remained unbroken as Antonin shrugged his jacket from over broad shoulders, letting it drape unaffectedly in the lap of a blonde Ravenclaw who watched with rapt attention. He was a horror show - the sort of thing one simply could not look away from. Did she know the terror for which he was known? Did she know that this was his arena to command?

Antonin spoke again as polished shoes found stone; slipped into his pocket with absent swiftness, he pulled his wand from his pocket, and stood stock still. “A convincing display, this schooling of a child,” he glanced to the fifth year, who’d gone lily-white and now stood half hidden behind Cygnus, as if he’d find protection there, “Though my skepticism remains. Why not match with an opponent your own size? Are there none available to spar with?” The condescension in Antonin’s every breath dripped venom; even the dimmest of them all could hear it, even in his simplest words. This was the sound of a glorious challenge - one that any of his comrades at Durmstrang would have taken in stride. Surely the lily-pale sensibilities of the Brits would pale in comparison. 

Cygnus was at his wand again, gripping with thick fingers and knuckles that seemed to have never known a bruise. Antonin could not imagine him lifting a finger. His shoulders seemed to straighten, broaden, an animal threatened by an outlander at the mouth of its den. At the door to the hall, a small gaggle of students slipped between the doors, just ajar and letting in the obtrusive light of the corridor outside; it was dangerous to be here, to take arms in light of the ‘tragedy’ that befell Durmstrang just months before - anyone could see him here, anyone could behold him here. 

But the only audience which warranted captivating was the one standing before him, with ready eyes and wand angled upward. The audience who, with harsh voice entirely befitting of the tension that hung between them, spoke with a pointed step forward. “You try my patience,” no matter the brimstone upon the tip of his tongue, Cygnus remained stoic - as if speaking as master to student; it prodded at the dark companion which always sat perched atop Antonin’s shoulder, whispering bloody nothings into his ear. It screamed to pounce, to tear at his black-collared throat, to spill his heart upon the stone as he’d done to the boy at Durmstrang. 

A boy whose name he could not remember - Cygnus Black would be forgotten just as easily. 

“Do I?” a snarl loosed from his tongue - the great Russian wolf’s stoicism was beginning to reach the end of its life. A great, bounding step forward, and he was within reaching distance of his opponent, who bristled at the close proximity. At his side, his knuckles were white; he could smell violence upon Cygnus’s breath, dark and permeating as a bleeding pomegranate - and so he took another step. He was not the sort to posture, not like to wave his skill in the face of every opponent, but there were few to deserved it. And though he’d known dear Cygnus Black for mere months, there were few more deserving than he. “Shall we test your patience further?” he muttered, for he was now close enough to feel almost intimate in his hate, “Shall I show you how it is meant to be done?”

A scoff, “Shall I make you my whipping boy?”

“Shall I make you my dog?”

Wands flew upward in tandem, Antonin’s arm extended, prepared to strike as a coiled viper. Cygnus seemed to stretch upward in size, a shadow through which only horrors passed - it was doubtless that they were matched, and perhaps this was what made him such a delicious conquer. He could see it now - conquered Black slinking home to lament the prowess of the Russian king; his rightful place after swift coup d’etat was upon the golden throne on which Cygnus sat, unworthy and undeserving. (But they were the same - they were matched - they were cruel kings carved from the same block of gleaming marble. It was no mistake, however, that one of the two was simply better.) Teeth bared, eyes aflame with the utmost vitriol, Antonin drew in a breath of brimstone and venom - but the slamming of heavy, and suddenly open, doors upon the stone walls stopped the both of them at the throat. Into the hall poured a small gaggle of professors, eyes upon Antonin as if he might burst to flame at any moment. Away, away! They called, shooing them apart as one shoos embers from a hearth. Back, back! The horror on their faces was evident - they knew of Antonin’s capabilities; it made him unquestionably smug to see that they’d all foreseen Cygnus demolished. 

This knowledge made him smile - as his arm fell to his side, he cast Cygnus a pitying glance, a snide smirk entailing all he so wished the other boy knew. A sturdy hand gripped his arm, as another took Cygnus, pulling them apart -  he could hardly hear the scolding tone of the professors, for his knowing visage burned with far too much satisfaction to care. 

And so he blew dear Cygnus Black a kiss. A promise - a guarantee of business unfinished. 

[vntonin]

veelablck:

 — — — ( transition to page three )

Conversation soon shifted to silence as she gazed at the others around them, fear becoming a feeling she was now bored with. The lightest rumble would not return her back to such a fear consumed state as previously, arching her brow in response to his question. “ Barely — No cause for concern. “ The two agreed and went back to a silent enriched atmosphere. 

However, death would soon challenge her very existence as a rumble sounded once more with a shake to it that caused every single person around them to grab hold of anything. Her hand immediately extended to catch hold of Antonin’s when the wall gave. The rush of water was a singular force so strong that her legs buckled at the impact, scream muffled by water as hope for air disappeared. A singular force would have been something easily defeated, but it soon turned into something more than she could anticipate. It was a sudden slap across her back and suction so hard that she felt her skin would soon rip. 

Her mouth opened for air with water taking place of what she desired, swallowing enough to cause a faint blackness to take hold of her reality. She needed air immediately — find air. It was all she cared about as her hands searched desperately for her wand. She knew a handful of spells to give her what she needed, but it was too late as her body forced another breath in desperation. As her body went limp, she could have sworn she saw a hand reaching for her.

When he was a boy, Antonin had fallen through a patch of thin ice atop a lake near his family’s home, plunging into the black murk below with nothing to hold fast to, nothing to steel him against the piercing chill that felt akin to a thousand pinpricks beneath his skin. He’d flailed about, entirely ungraceful, too cold to breathe and too horrified to grab ahold of the jagged ice around him. The groundskeeper had been there to pull him out, to drag his sopping body onto the ice and watch him steam, for the cold had not been given ample opportunity to seep beneath his skin. 

This was not the case for the water of Hogwart’s great lake, it seemed. The water was an immediate dagger between his ribs, pulling his feet out from underneath him. Stalwart prince turned to ice as he was thrashed sideways, skull smacking violently against a column as a singular thought persisted - Walburga. He’d been pulled from her grasp by the current, yanked from between slender fingers and pushed downward beneath a swell; whereas young Antonin had been paralyzed by the fear of what lay below the dark deep, the Antonin of present day was gripped by a singular horror. 

A horror which was abruptly realized as he forced his head above the current to see a head of raven hair slipping beneath the swell, almost as if something had gotten hold of her ankle and given her a vehement tug. Antonin pushed against the current, feet scraping misplaced stone and knees knocking suits of armor too heavy to swim on their own. His head throbbed, pounded; any sensible man would have found his way to higher ground, would have clung onto one of the pillars that still remained intact along the far side of the wall. 

It seemed, then, that Antonin Dolohov was not a sensible man. 

He threw the entirety of his weight against the current, hands flailing not for purchase of solid ground, but for the delicate face that now turned downward into the water; a wave and a swirling of torrential current pulled her downward, and he swiftly followed, lungs screaming for breath and eyes keening against the salt of the water. He felt as if he might burst at the ribs before reaching her - but it was a miracle in itself that his ice-hued fingers found her wrist, pulling her like a doll through a stream to press into his side. Head surfacing once more, he hoisted Walburga up, propping slender form against his hip as he made for the high ground of the staircase winding upward, on which a number of horrified onlookers perched. 

It was yet another miracle that he was able to pull her to the shore. 

A pair of unfamiliar hands reached to pull her from him as he clambered onto the broken steps. “Off!” he commanded, each bellowing breath producing a splutter of water and salt from his nose, his mouth; Antonin nearly pitched to the side as he scrambled on his hands and knees toward her, all semblance of composure lost as he scattered those who might help. The water licked dangerously close to where she lay, but he had little time to move her; careful, with gentility not seen by many, he came to settle at her shoulder, back hunched to protect from the spray and frozen fingers brushing strands of hair from her too-still face. “давай же,” he hissed, hands falling to pump at her chest, “Breathe now, Walburga.” Waterlogged, choked, haggard and frantic, he abandoned the pumping of her chest, hands leaving heart to cup her jaw, her cheeks. 

Perhaps she would slap him if she woke - his lips were on hers, stretching her mouth into an “O” and breathing out; he’d never done this before, but he’d read about it enough. What little breath he had to spare was pushed into her lungs, lips on honeyed lips (how was it that she tasted of honey and roses, even now? thorns and sugar and all.) in the hopes that perhaps he would earn a slap. In hopes that, perhaps, she would breathe - and grant him another miracle. 

“Breathe -” he muttered once against her lips, catching his own breath, for his head spun, “пожалуйста.” Please.

[ficra-blog1]

Green!

Send me a color and I’ll write a drabble with our muses with that color as the theme.

Green for his House; green for the Quidditch pitch that they, two Seekers, would fly above on game days; green for the emerald-toned midday oceans of her youth, which is what would often come to mind when, on rare occasion, Antonin Dolohov would enter her thoughts. Vast as such a sea were their differences, but they both shared a foreignness to this country, and in that Fiora felt a chord of connection with him. It was small and delicate, a single strand of spider’s silk that she saw tying them together despite their innumerable discrepancies, but there all the same.

[declanprewett-blog]

🍹

ask meme 1/? | a headcanon/fanfic for @vntonin

Rubbing alcohol, magicked or not, fucking burns.

Declan does his best to kill the hiss of pain that rises in his chest, and fails. It falls to the infirmary floor like acid, and with ire, he watches it sizzle and froth at his feet while Madam Pomfrey fusses over the cuts and claws and fractures, the marr of black blooming across his cheek. She’s scolding him on the decency of civility and you ought to know better and of all people, on and on, but all he can hear is the laughing. A soft, rasping howl from the other side of the curtain, the kind one might expect from a madman. Pomfrey casts a look at the hidden figure, but says nothing. Declan understands - to offer reason to an animal is to offer gold to a corpse.

(And this infuriates him, too - that people like Dolohov can stalk the hallways as the pervading sicknesses they are, and be allowed it. It infuriates him, how detached he - and all of them - are from heart, from humanity. Declan had spat it in his face twenty minutes ago, do you even know how to be a person, do you even care -)

After she leaves, Declan is granted less than two minutes of peace before Antonin Dolohov pisses all over it. The sound of scraping curtain rings is an entrance fanfare for the crooked king, who, from where he lies (draped over the bed, something deathly and majestic; sickening and saintly) now regards Declan with ghoulish pleasure. The afternoon sunlight slanting through the window lines his form in cherubic curves, but do not hide the bruises he adorns, which are nearly identical to Declan’s. It’s satisfying. “Yaxley is a sore subject, then,” is the first thing out of his mouth; simpered, sung - he is glowing with amusement. “You would forsake those pretty morals of yours so easily for his dignity.”

“Don’t test me,” Declan snarls. It continues to elude him - Dolohov is cruel to Bellavie and Charles, but he is relentless with Leo. “You’ll leave him alone, or you’ll live to regret it.”

“My,” Dolohov laughs, and throws his head back, lashes fluttering, and isn’t that the picture of devastation? He is a spot of dark in the sun, some god of the wilderness thrust unceremoniously amongst good men, a bleeding wound in water. Isn’t that chaos he licks from his lips? Isn’t that mercy crushed beneath his broken jaw? Declan watches him, stinging hands already itching for a wand. 

“How romantic,” he says, the pale of his throat bobbing; a sliver of moon, a wolf’s underbelly. “The little lion kisses with his fists.”