Harry Potter and the Twilight
by huntsman34
Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing about this other than the plot. No money is being made. J.K.Rowling owns Harry Potter and all assosciated characters/events... I wish I owned this as I'd be a billionaire... I can dream.
If one were to take the time to simply stand and stare at the night sky, they would be blinded by its unearthly beauty. The stars were so visible, free to engage in their nightly vigil, the majesty of the universe bearing witness to the insignificance of terrestrial life.
The pollution here was low and the city was right on the coast. One could not find cleaner air unless they learned to fly free into the night sky. The faint tinge of salt on the wind and the balmy summer temperature would make for an exquisite night.
Only it wasn't.
The darkness outside the vestiges of human interaction was nigh-on impenetrable. For a long time in this city, the night had become something to fear. An almost viscous quality was present in the darkness, something cloying, something loathsome, like stains on a pristine white tablecloth.
At the level of the people the city was pervaded with an air of dramatic certainty. Something was going to happen, and it wasn't going to be good. Muggles, despised by the so-called elite of wizarding kind, shut their windows and bolted doors, unaware of what intuition told them to do this. Wizarding folk drew their cloaks tighter around themselves despite the warm air. It could be felt by the very energy of the place.
It was a night for pain.
"MOVE, you imbeciles!" he panted harshly. The throngs of people parted to allow the fleeing man and his cohorts through, piping up with ethical commentary to mark the passage through their midst.
"Vandals!"
"Bastards!"
"Get some fucking manners!"
The sights, sounds and smells of the Cape Town market assaulted Antonin Dolohov's faculties, almost overwhelming in their sheer number. The street peddlers, from corny acts to masterful cons competed for space with legitimate rivals selling their wares. Fish, meat and vegetables combined their odours with that of the artificial aroma of jewellery, cheap muggle electronics and even cheaper wine to try and combat the stink of the masses of people congregated in such a small area.
The unobtrusive natives clashed wildly with the brash and vulgar dress of the majority of the tourists, most desperate to wear bright colours to compliment the blistering daytime weather.
Antonin took in all of this with his sharp senses as he raced through the crowds. He needed to escape from this congestion! One false step and he could trip over anything, and then he would be lucky for his life to not be forfeit.
He quoted his mantra over and over again to sustain his efforts. Pure wizards were not meant for this kind of exertion. Magic was theirs to command. He had personally spent many years killing and terrifying in the name of his lord, he should be the one doing the chasing! He was on the run for his very existence and he knew it. Somehow he was unable to apparate and neither he nor any of his lackeys had a portkey on them. They all knew that to stop now to make one or to divide their attention to make one on the run was an unacceptable risk.
"Split up!" he yelled as loud as he could. His subordinates heard and did as he had commanded. He felt a small measure of pride in that. He had trained them well and had made a killing, in every sense of the word, for the past four years here. South Africa, jewel of the motherland, was a gracious, if unknowing, host to corruption and greed.
Seeing a small side alley leading into the shanty towns, he darted quickly into its dark recesses, noting two of his top enforcers, Conre and Mills, following him. Good, they would be a useful defence, and even better shields should it come to that.
Taking great care to not succumb to the lulling pulse of panic, Antonin took a few moments to catch his breath.
His two lackeys shadowed his movements down the thin alleyway, doing their best to disguise the weight of their movement and the sound created as a result.
At the end of the alley, Antonin poked his head around the corner, trying in vain to make out what lay for him beyond. There was nothing.
"Anything moves, kill it," he whispered fiercely at his minders. He was not going to die today. He would catch this thing that everyone feared, and be more powerful than ever.
"Avada Kedavra!" he heard Conre shout on his right.
Antonin turned and looked at the result. There was a newly-dead small brown tabby cat poking out from behind a bin, its lifeless eyes staring in vacant accusation.
There was a whisper of wind from above. Antonin looked up to see nothing and suddenly heard a dull thump beside him. Looking down he saw Conre folded up on the floor, a metal dart deeply embedded in one eye. The pool of blood collecting around his head was testament to his injury. He wasn't breathing. Judging by the penetration, Antonin guessed that Conre was dead before he hit the ground.
Antonin and Mills looked around wildly for the assailant, wands trying to point everywhere at once. They could both feel the heart-clenching fist of panic rising in their guts.
"That was someone's pet," a throaty baritone stated simply from behind them. Whirling around, they saw nothing.
"Not nice," the voice came from behind them again and Antonin whirled around, leaving Mills staring into the space at his back.
There was nothing, not even a footprint in the dirt to mark a passage.
"Had to put him down, really," the voice calmly stated again, this time from above. Both men risked a glance upward to the rooftop. Nothing could be seen.
Antonin, doing his utmost to analyse the situation, had to wonder how many of these people there were. There must be a few to be in so many places at almost the same time. It occurred to him almost immediately that they all had the same voice. His fear multiplied.
"Who are you?!" shouted Mills, evidently terrified.
"Ugh!" a strangled cry from his back alerted Antonin and he turned again. His stomach dropped to his knees.
It was him again! The same man from the mansion. The same tall dark figure, completely surrounded by a dirty travelling cloak, had Mills held in front of him like a shield. Mills' feet where not touching the floor. This thing was holding all six feet five inches and eighteen stones of bodyguard off the floor, by the throat, with one single perfectly placed hand.
"Me?" the dark figure asked, his face completely hidden by the folds of his dark hood, "I'm just an old friend of Antonin's here."
Antonin barely had time to examine that revelation. Did he know this person?
Without warning, the killer squeezed Mills' throat. The crunch of grinding coming from Mills' larynx told Antonin he was dead. It was the single most sickening moment of Antonin's life. Normally he would have revelled in the brutal killing of anyone, wizard or muggle. The pitiful cries and the sound of knives penetrating flesh, curses destroying the body and the gruesome crunching of shattered bone only helped flavour the experience so that it would never get old. Hearing the plaintive melody of the victim begging for life or simply to be killed faster was a symphony one could never compose, only swim in the notes, laying in the unadulterated feeling of power it summoned.
At that moment, Antonin finally saw it from the perspective of the victim. For the first time in his life he was ready to beg.
The figure threw the body at Antonin. He saw it coming and dived to the side, rolling to his knees, wand at the ready, prepared to torture this person for making him feel weak. It was the only thing that could assuage the terror and shame he was feeling.
Looking for his target, he was stunned to find him gone. The alley was at least 40 feet long. Nothing had gone past his position and he had not heard the telltale pop or the swish of apparation or portkey. How in the name of Merlin could anything move that fast unless...
...
Vampire.
...
The only thing that could kill with that kind of speed and strength was a vampire. Antonin could have chuckled.
He had had plenty of experience with vampires and knew just how to put one down.
Smiling ruefully, he quickly ducked out of the alley and broke his way into the first semi-secure house he came across. Pushing his way inside he quickly began to wave his wand in complicated patterns, whilst intoning rapidly in Latin and Gaelic under his breath. A small flare of light and a faint gust of wind signalled his success in constructing his defences.
The wards cast, Antonin slid to the floor to wait. The trap was set and baited. He drew his mother's silver pendant out of his shirt and held it closely in his right hand, ready to best the creature by exploiting its weaknesses.
Antonin had always been talented at warding. His experiments in this field could have gone to earning him a mastery in the pursuit, or a very good position at Gringotts or the Ministry, but Antonin knew where his loyalties lay. Lord Voldemort was his master and the finest wizard to have ever lived. His lord would have expanded his knowledge of warding, and for a time he had. They collaborated on the vampire wards he had just put up, wards to paralyse and control the vile beasts.
His own outgoing anti-apparation and anti-portkey wards would keep the animal confined to this room. The addition of a ward, to temporarily seep the room in garlic essence, and one to shoot down shafts of light imitating the Luminous Solare spell would further imprison the creature.
Granted, very few wizards could cast this spell at high enough power to actually kill a vampire, let alone multiple times through a ward, but Antonin knew the light would cause it great pain and disorientation. It would be all he needed to stun the beast. Stun it and keep it stunned until a moment before its death, where it would wake up chained to the top of Table Mountain, ready for the sun to pronounce her judgement.
Despite his confidence in his work, he was stunned that things had come so far.
Two months ago, his assistant had brought him a package. This was nothing out of the ordinary; he was sent packages constantly, some by those wishing to appease him, others by those wishing to eliminate him. Either way, each package was rigorously tested before being allowed in his presence. Antonin had torn open the package and opened the elegant mahogany box inside, only to drop back into his seat, his eyes wide and his mouth open in silent despair.
In the box had been body parts. The hands of a woman to be precise, and Antonin would have known those hands anywhere. Their graceful, feminine beauty, unmarked by the ravages of age was enough to place them, and if not, the ring on the right index finger told the story. The Black family crest inlaid on purest platinum. It was the only keepsake from her mother Cassiopeia and her childhood that she cared about.
Bellatrix Lestrange's hands, perfectly removed, on a bed of soft purple silk.
Were the contents not so horrible, the packaging would have denoted a fine taste in the sender. As it was, the note left little doubt as to the motives and knowledge of the purveyor of this atrocity.
..
Sweets for the sweet. Soon you will be united as you always wished.
..
Whilst in the service of the Dark Lord, Bellatrix had bestowed her affections upon Antonin, as her husband, Rodolphus, was indisposed, permanently doing research for their lord and engaging in his one of his, even to Antonin's mind, brutally sadistic, favoured pastimes.
It was not uncommon for the wives of Death Eaters to be passed around; Bellatrix was only an exception due to her vast talent for causing injury to whoever tried. She, one of the highest favoured of the highest favoured of the Dark Lord, only took into her bed those whom she chose. She had chosen Antonin.
Whilst he knew that she had never looked at him the way he did her, he was grateful for her attentions in a time when companionship was hard to come by. Rape and torture, whilst fun, didn't give the same feelings. When the Dark Lord had been destroyed by Potter and his merry band of mudbloods and blood-traitors, all of the surviving Death Eaters whom had managed to escape had gone their separate ways, each deciding to carve out their own little niche in the underworld. It was safer that way.
He had always wished to go with her, but it just wasn't meant to be.
Pulling his mind back to the present to wait for his quarry, he couldn't help but wonder at the turn of events tonight. It was so sudden! One minute sitting all alone, luxuriant in an 80 year old scotch, the next, chaos. It still humbled him that there he was...
... his feet up on his oversized mahogany desk, reclining in his burgundy, overstuffed chintz armchair.
He was slowly sipping his glass of MacCallan 1926 Scotch, the most delectable taste he had ever experienced and the prize of his collection. He had three bottles. The fact that he had stolen these from the cellars of some of the wealthiest (and now dead) men in all of Africa didn't bother him in the least... to the victor go the spoils, and all that.
Life was good for Antonin Dolohov. When he and the other Death Eaters had gone their separate ways, he had chosen the Republic of South Africa to make his mark.
It was a fine choice indeed.
Since the fall of the apartheid regime, the vast majority of the powerful Magi whom populated the land had left to go to greener pastures (i.e. - those more likely to encourage their own brand of prejudiced persecution of the weak masses) to continue their profits. The influx of the liberals and the presidency of Mr Mandela had, for a time, crippled the organised crime rackets of the country. This was not by any virtue of the law enforcement; it simply freed the "lower" classes to rise up and try to claim their slice of the proverbial pie. No longer were they in danger for simply going in to the wrong district or wrong restaurant. They were equal and for a people so long subjugated by the whims of another, freedom brought confidence... and vengeance.
In short, it was a bloodbath.
Organisations crumbled whilst allies and enemies tore each other to pieces, leaving the environment free for Antonin to plunder. The lack of any powerful wizards and witches in the vicinity led the locals to believe him to be some sort of god, a mighty being able to dispense death with a simple point of a stick.
How easy it was to manipulate the fearful and gullible.
Wisely, he kept his expansion low key, not wishing to raise the ire of the Shamans of Northern Africa, as they were still a force to be reckoned with. He would not risk that move until he had a larger force of wizards under his banner.
So far he had almost one hundred able wizards and witches working for him in some capacity. They were his eyes, ears and hands. His lieutenants and enforcers. They delegated the tasks to the muggles force, which numbered over two thousand. It was the largest and finest criminal organisation in Africa's history, both in magical and mundane respects.
Antonin indeed felt that he had reason to be proud. His cartel bridged the gap left by normal organisations. Narcotics, human trafficking, smuggling, prostitution, assassination, extortion, it was all controlled by Antonin Dolohov.
And my, how the money was rolling in.
These past three years, his grip on power had become absolute. He was now, by his reckoning, one (of) the richest men on the planet. His fortune was in the order of billions.
It was funny how one's priorities could change. In the war, he was so focused on doing his Lords bidding, building his wards when the Dark Lord himself deemed it not important enough to bring his own phenomenal skills to bear, raping and pillaging... being with Bellatrix.
He had learned through the Daily Prophet (he still had someone bring him a copy each day to keep abreast of the conditions back home) that Bella was not dead. She had been delivered to the Ministry, handless, half-blind, scarred and beaten. A note was attached to her body with but one sentence.
...
"Vanity is for the beautiful."
...
Whoever had done it to her had in one stroke done that which over the years, even the Dark Lord could not. They had broken Bellatrix Lestrange. She was no longer capable of holding a wand, she could not properly see those whom now taunted her at Azkaban prison and she had lost the one thing more important to her than anyone or anything, her beauty.
She was now a weeping shell of her former self.
The news of Bella's dismantling at the hands of an unnamed witch or wizard was big news. The Death Eater herself was legendary for her cruelty, power and capriciousness. For someone to have so effectively taken her apart was terrifying for the majority of the magical world. It seemed portentous in that it could herald the coming of an even greater Dark Lord.
Until that moment, the wizarding world was gorging itself on a sumptuous meal of peace and self righteousness. Since Potter had dealt with the Dark Lord, the world had returned to its previous state. Whilst the purebloods still had their say, they were now subject to the will of the masses. Democracy had finally come to wizarding Britain. Each seat on the Wizengamot being elected every five years, and the Minister every three. There had been little to worry about in the UK, as the bloated ranks of the Aurors, so necessary in the war were now being used for the rank and file assignments usually set aside for the usual DMLE agents.
There even seemed to be a radical movement present in the rest of the world. Since the fall of the Dark Lord and the scattering of his previous forces, wizards and witches unnamed had been targeting the Death Eaters. In seven years since the fall of the Dark Lord, nearly every former Death Eater had been captured or killed by people unknown.
The methods of capture were always unknown, the prisoner simply turning up via portkey to the Ministry's holding cells, usually injured in such a way so as to prevent an escape attempt, a broken leg coupled with two broken wrists, a constriction curse placed upon the victim to tighten whenever they moved, etc. These methods were always quite inventive and resistant to removal by Ministry personnel.
This was the only thing that was not disclosed to the public, that which Antonin had spent a small fortune obtaining. The charms and curses only wore off once the victim was secured in Azkaban, never before. The Ministry's most powerful staff wereunable to do anything about it.
Add this to the fact that the portkeys used were utterly untraceable, not even reading as recently charmed objects, and the Powers That Be were worried that there was a very formidable, if unknown, group operating internationally. That the only people harmed were the 'monsters' of the previous war was the only reason there had not been a greater outcry, both from the public or the enforcement arms of the Ministries.
Some people had even gone so far as to claim it was one wizard doing all of this. "Preposterous!" Antonin had said to that. The idea that one wizard could go through the protections that the others had built? Laughable!
The Carrows had been delivered to the Ministry in the same way as the others, the only difference being that Alecto was dead whilst Acymus was alive on delivery. The cause of death being that of being very neatly cut in two.
Antonin had visited them briefly in Russia some months before their capture. Their security was second to none, hundreds of guards and the paranoia of Mad-Eye Moody all rolled into a big ball with some very sophisticated wards. The protections had been sliced away as if they were mere wisps of paper. Nothing outside of a cohesive force could have done this.
But then the gift of Bella's hands came and now Antonin was not so sure. The idea of anyone, be it Merlin himself breaking Bellatrix Lestrange to any degree was unthinkable. This woman actually enjoyed the cruciatus!
He looked up to his mantelpiece at the ornate mahogany box that still contained her flawless hands. It brought a smile to his face. Whilst he lamented her fate in a way which he had not even managed for the loss of his family, he couldn't help but be happy at how she had brought him increased prosperity even after her capture.
Recently, when the representative from the Hong Kong Triad had come into the room, the man was so full of bluster and smugness, it made Antonin want to kill him right then and there. This eastern upstart from behind the bamboo curtain dared to claim rights in his dominion! Threats had been made and rebuffed, the Triad wizard getting more and more irate, until he spotted Bella's unmistakable hands on his mantle. It was a natural assumption that Antonin was the agent who so brutally destroyed her.
The wizard was far more biddable afterward. He left to give his masters a clear message. Stay away from Dolohov and Africa. The man was powerful.
He chuckled. He always thought Lucius the fool, the way he coveted money above all else. It had all seemed so fleeting to Antonin back then, so lacking in purpose. The accrual of assets... big deal! He had no idea. The way money could buy a man out of almost anything, the way even the most untouchable of officials would crumble and give acquiescence when three times their yearly earnings were dangled in front of their faces.
He took another sip of his Scotch, unpolluted by ice. This was his favourite part of the day, when he would take a few minutes, ignore the stacks of messages and reports on his desk and enjoy some relaxation whilst sipping something expensive and tasty.
When the door to his office opened and Stephanie walked in, he was angry, but he quelled the feeling in his chest. After all, it could be something important.
Ah, Stephanie. She was resistant at first. She soon learned to do whatever he asked, no matter what it may be. It was nice to have a little whore to do his work, be it correspondence or dropping her knickers at his command. She had thought of herself as tough before meeting him, a wilful participant in many a muggle torture. Her favourite pastime was a sick little habit of making offspring force themselves on their parents whilst under the imperius and letting what they had done sink in before she killed them. She was indeed a bona-fide psychopath, but she was powerless before him.
He looked at her face. That was odd, her normal flushed countenance was pale and drawn, her eyes staring dead ahead over his shoulder.
"Stephanie," Antonin said, "What are you playing at?"
Stephanie looked down, seemingly seeing him for the first time. Her lip quivered and for a brief moment Antonin thought she might burst into tears. He felt himself get angry.
His anger quickly turned to puzzlement and fear as she collapsed onto his desk, a long blade – one of his own from the numerous suits of armour around his mansion – protruding from between her shoulder blades.
Antonin swallowed. He knew death intimately, having dealt it so many times. The sword was placed with precision, avoiding severing her spinal column and destroying the arterial network of her thorax. The killer had known how to give her 30 seconds before she died. This was a message to him. This meant the killer was still outside.
Picking up his wand, Antonin crept slowly to his office door, taking great care to make his footfalls silent. He would kill whoever had done this slowly. They had denied him his whore and they would pay the price with pain and blood.
Upon reaching the door, he cautiously peeked around the corner, only to have the wind knocked from him by the sight before his eyes.
Evidently the killer had placed extensive silencing charms upon the doors to his office, as Antonin had not heard a thing. The hallway was a scene out of the realm of nightmares. About two dozen bodies littered the hallway, some intact, some not so much. Even from his viewpoint Antonin could see that not all of the inert figures were dead. Some were incarcerated by ropes, others simply very badly injured but alive. Were this his operation he would have killed each and every person rather than leave any to come back for retribution. The thought both comforted and made him uneasy.
Clearly the people who had done this were powerful. They would have to be, in order to do this to his forces, but why leave people alive? Were these people simply not thorough? Or were they so confident that they did not feel the need to eliminate everyone present? Either option had good and bad points as far as Antonin was concerned.
A clear, throaty baritone cut through the hellish scene like a razor, "No one had to die here tonight."
Antonin whirled around, robe swishing dramatically in the wake of his movement, to see the source of the voice of one of the attackers. The figure sat on one of the seats under the rightmost bayed window, slouched over his own knees, his head facing the ground. The eerie flickering light of the wall torches cast the man into a haunting image. A dirty patch-worked travelling cloak, seemingly made up of lots of pieces of leather – skin? - held his body closely, showing only dark fitted clothes underneath. His hood was overlarge, folded and fell around the man's head, obscuring even the torchlight from exposing his face to the world.
He sat unconcernedly on the window stool, his hands holding a wicked looking Katana, pointing the business end straight onto the floor. It was still dripping with blood.
"This still holds true now Mr Dolohov," the figure intoned gravely, "simply relinquish your wand and we'll get you to Azkaban relatively unscathed."
/Why, the audacity! The-/ Antonin thought.
"To be audacious would imply my taking a risk here," the figure said, cutting off Antonin's thought, "nothing could be further from the truth. Providence has found you Dolohov, I suggest you accede to her demands."
/A Legilimens?! I have studied occlumency for years... my ability-/
"Is not up to standard, I assure you." The man finished Antonin's sentence for him.
Quickly taking the moment to try and simplify his thought processes and to purge all emotion, Antonin took a moment to think.
In that moment, Antonin was scared out of his wits. It was now crystal clear. This one man had done all of this himself, this man had been the one to apprehend or murder his former friends. This man had cut down his highly competent security force with such skill that he didn't appear to have a scratch on him. This man had entered and stayed within his thoughts without even the barest of feeling coming to Dolohov.
Antonin looked at him again. The poor posture he was showing could not disguise the broadness of his shoulders nor his impressive height and size.
The man rose from his seat and walked slowly towards Antonin, hands at his sides, after quickly sheathing his weapon at his waist.
"I made it very simple for your men and women here Mr Dolohov. Do not fight and they will not be harmed, do not attempt to kill and they will not be killed. I can tell you that the only dead people here are the ones foolish enough to pose a real threat."
All too quickly, the man was standing four feet from him. Antonin felt his nerves quell by themselves. It was always this way. In his battles with the Aurors back home, the fear would recede in the times of action. It was the calm before the storm; the peace before the pain.
"Give me one good reason why I don't dismember you right now?" Antonin growled.
The figure simply chuckled. Not the slimy mirthless laughs he was used to but a laugh of genuine amusement. The killer would have been leaning backwards were the situation not so serious.
"Because Mr Dolohov," the man drawled, fluidly shifting his cloak to give himself greater manoeuvrability, "you know yourself incapable of it. Otherwise it would already have been done."
Antonin stared, trying in vain to see into the empty blackness of the hood's innards.
"The choice is yours," the figure continued, as if talking to a friend out on a midday stroll, "but either way justice will be served here today. You will pay for harming her."
/Her?/ Antonin thought, /Does he really think I know of whom he speaks? How many 'hers' have I hurt over the years?/
"How many indeed?" the figure quipped gracefully.
Cursing inwardly, Antonin again tried to shut himself down, searching for the place where thought ended and instinct took over. The place where battle was done.
"If you are the person I think you are then you've killed many more people than me." Antonin shouted. "Does that make you feel all fuzzy inside? Look at this carnage! Who's the scary one? You or I?"
"Enough talk Mr Dolohov," the figure said, sidestepping the question. Antonin knew he had troubled him and it gave him some small measure of satisfaction, "surrender or fight, which do you choose?"
Antonin pretended to ponder this whilst stealthily releasing his personal dagger from his belt. Suddenly he jabbed his wand sideways out of his robes, casting a pulverising hex, whilst flicking the recently free blade at his opponents face.
Said opponent neatly, almost contemptuously, batted the blade aside whilst gracefully turning sideways, letting the curse rocket harmlessly past him. Towards the end of his dancelike twirl he viciously slammed his left elbow into Antonin's nose, crushing it.
Antonin stumbled back, swearing, his eyes blurry. He quickly took a moment to charm the floor into quicksand, before shooting off several more bone breaking and reductor curses in a pattern designed to hold an opponent whilst hoping for a fortuitous hit.
As his vision cleared he saw that each of his curses had missed their mark, not even doing the job of holding the wizard down. Antonin had the barest of fleeting moments to see his adversary clear the quicksand aerially whilst casually avoiding or deflecting his curses before the man's heavy leather clad right foot slammed into the side of his head, sending him tumbling through the air.
By some vague fortune, Antonin found himself lifted over Stephanie's desk by the force of the blow. Landing painfully, a sharp pain lancing up his right arm, he saw the button concealed under the desk.
It was the general evacuation button, or the BO (bug out) button. Only to be pushed in the direst of circumstances, it had but the one purpose. To inform everyone that hell had come knocking, and to get the fuck out. Antonin had never been so glad to have listened to the Carrows on that score.
The alarm began to blare out painfully loudly. Picking himself up from behind the desk he saw the figure turn his head towards the walls. He plainly hadn't been expecting that.
Antonin dashed out from behind the desk, hiswand blazing a trail of animation in its passage. Chairs, suits of armour, desks and wall torches; everything that was pointed at quickly came alive and advanced on the cloaked figure in a brilliant feat of transfiguration.
The killer was not impressed.
"Really Mr Dolohov, is this the best you have? Lestrange at least put up a fight."
The objects surged toward the figure, who, with a flash, had his sword in hand, cutting a swath of destruction through the lifeless offenders. Antonin didn't stay around to look. Casting a hasty Reductor at the nearest window he leapt out of it, following falling glass shards down three floors in a stomach lifting fall. He wisely cast a solid Arresto Momentum at the bottom.
He didn't wait to draw breath, quickly running towards the now overflowing guard house. The mansion was being abandoned. Risking a look over his shoulder he saw the same terrifying figure standing at his recently vacated window, not rushing to follow.
/Ha, you've won this round you fucker! We'll see who has the last laugh!/ Antonin gleefully thought as he reached the remainder of his employees and with them the border of his anti-apparation wards.
He received a shock when he tried to apparate. It didn't even begin to work.
/Will we now, Mr Dolohov?/ that annoyingly cultured voice said in his head.
Clearly, this man could bypass the most astringent occlumentic barriers and had erected an apparation barrier that none of them could break through, if the looks of sheer befuddlement on the faces of those who served him were any indication.
Antonin looked back to see the man leap from the window and land perfectly on the ground three floors later, without so much as a sign of slowing before impact. Despite the situation, Antonin could not help but be envious of the almost fluid way in which he moved.
Antonin turned to look at his cohorts faces, "What in the name of Merlin are you waiting for?" he screamed, "RUN!"
Antonin, with great effort, drew his mind back to the task at hand. He kept himself crouched low, ready to pounce in a split second, his wand trained in front of him.
There was no crack to announce his quarry's arrival, nor any swirl indicating a portkey. He was simply there suddenly. It was noiseless apparation! Not even the Dark Lord had quite managed that!
The surprise made Antonin react a fraction slower. He leapt back against the wall as the harsh shafts of light erupted all around the figure; the smell of garlic was almost suffocating. He could see the figure slightly stooped, shaking. Smiling to himself, Antonin stepped forward, only to have his insides freeze in horror. The man wasn't in pain. He was laughing!
The man's terribly amused howls reverberated around Antonin's skull, keeping him off balance. "Oh that's inventive!" the man stated simply, as if talking to a student, "You thought me a vampire?"
Antonin could only stare open mouthed.
"Sorry to disappoint you old boy, but I don't drink blood," he continued, "but it is a reasonable supposition based on what you've seen tonight. I applaud your resourcefulness. Were I indeed a vampire you may have done me in."
Finally managing to break his stupor, Antonin stepped one foot forward, releasing his favourite curse with practiced ease. The normally elegant sounding, "Kashou sono seimi!" spewed gutturally from his mouth. Quicker than he could blink the man had dodged the whooshing purple flame and had Antonin's wand hand in his firm grip. A quick shift of the man's centre of gravity was all the warning he had before his wrist neatly snapped.
"Agh," the strangled, quickly stifled gasp escaped Antonin. One did not serve the Dark Lord without becoming familiar with pain. He looked up to see the man holding his wand in his left hand. He no longer seemed to be amused.
"That was NOT a very nice curse Mr Dolohov." The man snarled, sounding extremely pissed off.
Antonin did not give him a chance to continue and, withdrawing his dagger from his belt, he lunged at the man, determined to physically cut him to pieces. The man spun, and in the same motion grabbed the knife bearing wrist of Antonin's, yanking it and pulling Antonin past him and severely off balance. Continuing the spin, the assailant brought his right leg up in a devastating snapping arc. His heel caught Antonin with pin-point precision just above the temple, knocking Antonin spinning to the ground, severely dazed but not quite unconscious.
Still unable to sit up, let alone stand, Antonin felt himself dragged up the wall. When his vision finally came back to one picture, rather than the spinning six or so he had had to contend with previously, Antonin found himself firmly held twelve inches off the ground, his throat securely held by the vice like grip of this horrifying attacker.
"I was going to leave you relatively unharmed until you cast that," the man sneered, "leave you for the authorities to deal with. Now you've really upset me!"
Weakly struggling against the grip with both hands, Antonin could barely even speak, "W-W-W... Who the hell are you?" he rasped finally.
The attacker raised his free hand and pulled back his hood.
Antonin could not believe it, "YOU!" he shouted, hearing it come out as a wheezing cough.
The attacker nodded slowly. "You tried to kill her but you didn't succeed. I have no reason to kill you. Although she may, when she sees you."
Antonin could not believe what has happening. This could not be real. This man was supposed to be dead!
Shoving his face a few inches closer to Antonin's the man growled, "This is happening. Now you know who is hunting you and your kind."
Pulling back he sighed, "The Dark Fire of Tu-Fan, Dolohov. I'd recognise it anywhere after that night. I suppose I was a fool to think you would use it only on her." He seemed to consider Antonin for a moment or two before continuing, "Do you know how it feels to burn? Would you like a lesson?"
Antonin shook his head vehemently, not knowing what was coming. Suddenly his fingers started to tingle. The tingle progressed to annoying and then to all out excruciating. The smell of burnt flesh permeated the air, making Antonin feel nauseous with the knowledge that is was his flesh that was burning. His throat had torn asunder under the stress of his screams.
Looking at his hands he saw that his fingers had been incinerated, even the bones crumbling to dust and falling off. He now was the owner of two featureless stubs where his hands had previously been. Antonin knew what this meant for him. He knew it and it made him want to die.
He was quickly released and crumpled to the ground, drawing his hands closer in a futile measure of protection against further harm. His screams now whimpering sobs, he begged whatever deity was listening to make the rest quick.
"I'm not going to kill you Dolohov, that's far too good for the likes of you. You cannot hold a wand now... not only are your fingers gone but the dexterity of the remaining mass is impaired at best. You may, in time, gain some ability in wandless magic, but where you're going, magic doesn't exactly flourish in wizards."
The man stooped down to bring his face close to Antonin's. He reached out and stuffed a piece of paper into Antonin's mouth. "Remember this always Antonin; remember who did it to you. I'll see you when we meet in hell."
Antonin sobbed despite the paper in his mouth. He would definitely remember who did this, remember it until the day he died. He didn't imagine that that day would be long coming either. Without hands he could not hold a wand. Such a disability in the normal world was surmountable, human adaptability being what it was, and wizards would learn wandless magic simply because they had to. The necessity would fuel the growth. In Azkaban it was a different matter. The leeching effect of the dementors made it impossible to hold on to ones powers. He would go mad faster than most inside there. His death would come just as quickly.
The portkey in his mouth activated. As he felt the telltale tug behind his navel he knew he would remember who did this and exactly what happened. He had never been so sure of anything. Reliving the worst moments of one's life was the daily routine in the gaol known as Azkaban; he would repeat this memory over and over again until it drove him insane, all the while recalling the demon that did this to him, the creature who so effortlessly struck his existence into nothingness. The beast who made him powerless, and who had made his life into hell once before. The powerful demon, the graceful fiend, the scarred imp...
...
...
...
The devil with bright green eyes.
Author's Notes (don't groan!):
Major, MAJOR thanks must go to my beta Chloe. Without her help (and there was alot of that) this chapter would be a muddled mess of incorrect grammar and mixed tenses.
To all readers, I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading. I will be trying to update as often as possible, but given the nature of my job and the amount of work Chole has to put in to make my writing work it may be a month or so between posts. Hopefully every coupl eof weeks I'll be able to update.
I don't write this to recieve reviews, although they are very welcome, especially those which give plot ideas. If you don't want to review, dont sweat it. If you do, thank you very much indeed.
Cheers,
Huntsman