Voldemort strode through the halls of Riddle Manor, wand in hand, and
frustrated. Ignoring the nagging image of a dog hiding when he knew it was
bath time, he was ready to summon the man to him when Nagini spoke,
directing him from the manor proper and into the grounds. On the rather
dilapidated stone wall that had once probably bordered the rose garden that
lay dead and dry now, sat the man he was looking for. He seemed to be
looking towards the Muggle village.
Once he would have hexed the man for carelessness, for threatening to reveal their presence in this place. His visitors, his guests as he almost mockingly called them, were confined to the house. At least, they had been. One by one, over the last three weeks, he had allowed them out into the world, like a bird releasing her chicks. This man had been the last to join them, weak and beyond the help of his brothers and sister, and it would be some time yet before he would leave this place. My broken son.
"Dolohov," he called quietly, knowing that even at this moderate distance the man would hear him. He was not surprised to see him flinch. "Stay where you are," he added, but not hastily enough. The man had already scrambled over the edge was lying prostrate on the ground. "Dolohov, get up," he said, somewhat nervous, before a shimmer in the air made him stop. It wouldn't matter if a Muggle was standing on the other side of the stone wall, he would not see in. So the boy had remembered how to shield. It was a good sign.
"Ya--I'm sorry, my Lord." His accent was thicker now than when Voldemort had first met him as a teenager. A slight trill on the 'r's, a deeper pronunciation of consonants, not to mention that he was only now remembering to speak in English. He was unsurprised when a loyal Auror came to him with the information that Dolohov had spent the last twelve years begging in his native language. If nothing else, it explained why the harshness of his voice was only matched by that in Bellatrix's, who had spent the majority of that time screaming as the dementors took a liking to her. Voldemort locked his emotions as the younger man stood slowly, fearfully. It wouldn't do to scare him off again.
The cruel irony. He had been an incredibly strong asset when he was but seventeen. Now he was broken.
"You need to take your potion," Voldemort reminded him, holding out the goblet Snape had delivered him to ten minutes previous. He had sent the Potions Master away promptly, unwilling to let any other tend to the man he considered his child. Neither man would harm the other in his presence, but he was not fool enough to believe there were no factions within his ranks. And in this state, even had he not been given a wand, Dolohov was not safe to be around. Unless you were Voldemort.
Dolohov flinched slightly, and Voldemort did not need to touch his mind to know he had been hoping that the last dose would not be delivered. Where Dolohov had intended to run tonight was beyond Voldemort—he doubted that even Dolohov knew—but he had no intention of betraying his position by releasing a blood-starved and insane beast, even on the Muggle population. Questions would be asked, and Macnair's information that there were no werewolves—registered or known—in this area weighed heavily towards his decision to keep Dolohov away. Locked in a cage of his own mind, this time, rather than a cage of steel and brick and demons. Voldemort only hoped that Dolohov was sane enough to refrain from hurting himself as he had done in Azkaban, trapped with neither Wolfsbane nor any way to hunt. He had arrived here, after he had been freed, still bleeding from wounds left unhealed by the attendants of his prison. As the werewolf tipped his head up to drain the goblet, Voldemort couldn't help notice the particularly angry scar across his chest, reaching up to the base of his neck. Werewolves, unlike normal wolves and foxes, were physically unable to truly hurt themselves: their rapid healing and their physiology that kept them from tearing their own throats out made suicide impossible. By the look of the scar, though, Dolohov had tried long and hard.
Yet it was not the largest scar on his body.
"Come inside, now," Voldemort urged. "The moon will rise soon." He waited as Dolohov banished the shield with a jerky flick of his wand, and led him inside.
"Do you need to eat before the Change?" Voldemort asked, suddenly realising that he had very little knowledge of werewolves. Dolohov made a noise halfway between snorting and gagging, and Voldemort took that as a 'no'. "Surely you'll need your strength," he pressed. The younger man was somewhat prone to lying about his needs.
"I'll be ill," Dolohov supplied. He was seated on the floor, despite Voldemort's insistence that he sit on the settee with him. The werewolf obeyed most commands quite literally, as if he lived his life under the imperius, but maintained a set of peculiar beliefs about formality. His one concession to his current weakness was to recline slightly, his back resting against the cushions. He tensed slightly as Voldemort reached a hand down, drawing his head to lean against his Master's knee. He stroked his dark hair lightly, and Dolohov half-growled, but let himself relax. They sat like that for some minutes.
"How will you be?" Voldemort asked, breaking the silence. Dolohov craned his head to look up at him, his cheek resting against his Lord's leg, warm through the fabric of his robes. Dolohov started to say something, then stopped himself. He started again in English.
"I fear." The words were simple, the tone bland, but emotion shone bright in his eyes. Voldemort tangled his fingers a little tighter against his child's scalp, a reassuring pressure that made Dolohov close his eyes for a second.
"You are safe here," Voldemort pointed out.
"Yes."
"And you need not hurt yourself. With the potion..."
"Yes," Dolohov repeated.
"You will be safe," Voldemort said, an assurance that came easily to his lips. He had repeated these words many times over the last three weeks with the almost flippant arrogance of a man who believed in ultimate power. Dolohov twisted his body slightly, nodding, but curling about his Master's leg, seeking reassurance. Voldemort hesitated for only a second before reaching down and lifting Dolohov, still incredibly underweight from Azkaban and the paranoia that had him regurgitating most of the simple, small meals practically forced into his body, into his lap. Dolohov struggled for a moment, but Voldemort held him in much stronger arms.
"Sit still," he commanded, and Dolohov froze like a startled hare. Voldemort shifted the other man slightly so that Dolohov's head was resting against his shoulder, his arms encircling his charge protectively. Voldemort had found that the werewolf responded best to physical rather than verbal cues, and he had no intention of spooking him this close to the Change.
"What about the moon?" Dolohov protested weakly.
"What right has the moon to dictate my actions?" Voldemort asked. A rather tactless question, for the moon ruled Dolohov, but the werewolf seemed to take some comfort in these words. Again they sat, Dolohov's unnatural body temperature seeping through both their robes to warm Voldemort as hey lay wrapped in the safety of his Master's arms. At length, Dolohov twitched violently, just as Nagini hissed an unnecessary warning from her place before the fire. Voldemort released his arms as Dolohov struggled suddenly against his grasp, letting the werewolf roll violently onto the floor. There was a canine yelp and a crunch—usually Voldemort found this noise quite encouraging, but now he found it sickening—as he fell badly, and then scrambled into the corner, cradling his wrist. Voldemort stood.
"Let me heal that," he commanded, cursing Dolohov's frantic terror, but keeping his voice and emotions even. The werewolf could smell his emotions, he knew, and he was still trying to avoid scaring him. Dolohov whimpered, shaking his head, backing as far away as he could. "Antonin," he tried.
"I don't wish—" he shook his head, unable to talk properly through his lengthening jaw.
"You will not hurt me." Voldemort gestured again for him to hold his hand out, and Dolohov did it, shakily. He quickly reduced the swelling, repaired the bone and dissolved the fragments with a few quick swishes of his wand, stepping back as Dolohov lurched to the floor, writhing in agony as his bones shifted and lengthened with the Change. Nagini hissed and moved herself once more, but Voldemort stood his ground, steeling himself by imagining this curse upon those who had trapped his children for all this time.
When the wolf finally emerged from the broken body of the man, he was quick to heal his wounds, feeding the wolf the meat he craved, mixed liberally with the sleeping potion Dolohov refused as a man. And as the wolf slept, his thoughts turned from revenge.
He would heal his children yet.
Once he would have hexed the man for carelessness, for threatening to reveal their presence in this place. His visitors, his guests as he almost mockingly called them, were confined to the house. At least, they had been. One by one, over the last three weeks, he had allowed them out into the world, like a bird releasing her chicks. This man had been the last to join them, weak and beyond the help of his brothers and sister, and it would be some time yet before he would leave this place. My broken son.
"Dolohov," he called quietly, knowing that even at this moderate distance the man would hear him. He was not surprised to see him flinch. "Stay where you are," he added, but not hastily enough. The man had already scrambled over the edge was lying prostrate on the ground. "Dolohov, get up," he said, somewhat nervous, before a shimmer in the air made him stop. It wouldn't matter if a Muggle was standing on the other side of the stone wall, he would not see in. So the boy had remembered how to shield. It was a good sign.
"Ya--I'm sorry, my Lord." His accent was thicker now than when Voldemort had first met him as a teenager. A slight trill on the 'r's, a deeper pronunciation of consonants, not to mention that he was only now remembering to speak in English. He was unsurprised when a loyal Auror came to him with the information that Dolohov had spent the last twelve years begging in his native language. If nothing else, it explained why the harshness of his voice was only matched by that in Bellatrix's, who had spent the majority of that time screaming as the dementors took a liking to her. Voldemort locked his emotions as the younger man stood slowly, fearfully. It wouldn't do to scare him off again.
The cruel irony. He had been an incredibly strong asset when he was but seventeen. Now he was broken.
"You need to take your potion," Voldemort reminded him, holding out the goblet Snape had delivered him to ten minutes previous. He had sent the Potions Master away promptly, unwilling to let any other tend to the man he considered his child. Neither man would harm the other in his presence, but he was not fool enough to believe there were no factions within his ranks. And in this state, even had he not been given a wand, Dolohov was not safe to be around. Unless you were Voldemort.
Dolohov flinched slightly, and Voldemort did not need to touch his mind to know he had been hoping that the last dose would not be delivered. Where Dolohov had intended to run tonight was beyond Voldemort—he doubted that even Dolohov knew—but he had no intention of betraying his position by releasing a blood-starved and insane beast, even on the Muggle population. Questions would be asked, and Macnair's information that there were no werewolves—registered or known—in this area weighed heavily towards his decision to keep Dolohov away. Locked in a cage of his own mind, this time, rather than a cage of steel and brick and demons. Voldemort only hoped that Dolohov was sane enough to refrain from hurting himself as he had done in Azkaban, trapped with neither Wolfsbane nor any way to hunt. He had arrived here, after he had been freed, still bleeding from wounds left unhealed by the attendants of his prison. As the werewolf tipped his head up to drain the goblet, Voldemort couldn't help notice the particularly angry scar across his chest, reaching up to the base of his neck. Werewolves, unlike normal wolves and foxes, were physically unable to truly hurt themselves: their rapid healing and their physiology that kept them from tearing their own throats out made suicide impossible. By the look of the scar, though, Dolohov had tried long and hard.
Yet it was not the largest scar on his body.
"Come inside, now," Voldemort urged. "The moon will rise soon." He waited as Dolohov banished the shield with a jerky flick of his wand, and led him inside.
"Do you need to eat before the Change?" Voldemort asked, suddenly realising that he had very little knowledge of werewolves. Dolohov made a noise halfway between snorting and gagging, and Voldemort took that as a 'no'. "Surely you'll need your strength," he pressed. The younger man was somewhat prone to lying about his needs.
"I'll be ill," Dolohov supplied. He was seated on the floor, despite Voldemort's insistence that he sit on the settee with him. The werewolf obeyed most commands quite literally, as if he lived his life under the imperius, but maintained a set of peculiar beliefs about formality. His one concession to his current weakness was to recline slightly, his back resting against the cushions. He tensed slightly as Voldemort reached a hand down, drawing his head to lean against his Master's knee. He stroked his dark hair lightly, and Dolohov half-growled, but let himself relax. They sat like that for some minutes.
"How will you be?" Voldemort asked, breaking the silence. Dolohov craned his head to look up at him, his cheek resting against his Lord's leg, warm through the fabric of his robes. Dolohov started to say something, then stopped himself. He started again in English.
"I fear." The words were simple, the tone bland, but emotion shone bright in his eyes. Voldemort tangled his fingers a little tighter against his child's scalp, a reassuring pressure that made Dolohov close his eyes for a second.
"You are safe here," Voldemort pointed out.
"Yes."
"And you need not hurt yourself. With the potion..."
"Yes," Dolohov repeated.
"You will be safe," Voldemort said, an assurance that came easily to his lips. He had repeated these words many times over the last three weeks with the almost flippant arrogance of a man who believed in ultimate power. Dolohov twisted his body slightly, nodding, but curling about his Master's leg, seeking reassurance. Voldemort hesitated for only a second before reaching down and lifting Dolohov, still incredibly underweight from Azkaban and the paranoia that had him regurgitating most of the simple, small meals practically forced into his body, into his lap. Dolohov struggled for a moment, but Voldemort held him in much stronger arms.
"Sit still," he commanded, and Dolohov froze like a startled hare. Voldemort shifted the other man slightly so that Dolohov's head was resting against his shoulder, his arms encircling his charge protectively. Voldemort had found that the werewolf responded best to physical rather than verbal cues, and he had no intention of spooking him this close to the Change.
"What about the moon?" Dolohov protested weakly.
"What right has the moon to dictate my actions?" Voldemort asked. A rather tactless question, for the moon ruled Dolohov, but the werewolf seemed to take some comfort in these words. Again they sat, Dolohov's unnatural body temperature seeping through both their robes to warm Voldemort as hey lay wrapped in the safety of his Master's arms. At length, Dolohov twitched violently, just as Nagini hissed an unnecessary warning from her place before the fire. Voldemort released his arms as Dolohov struggled suddenly against his grasp, letting the werewolf roll violently onto the floor. There was a canine yelp and a crunch—usually Voldemort found this noise quite encouraging, but now he found it sickening—as he fell badly, and then scrambled into the corner, cradling his wrist. Voldemort stood.
"Let me heal that," he commanded, cursing Dolohov's frantic terror, but keeping his voice and emotions even. The werewolf could smell his emotions, he knew, and he was still trying to avoid scaring him. Dolohov whimpered, shaking his head, backing as far away as he could. "Antonin," he tried.
"I don't wish—" he shook his head, unable to talk properly through his lengthening jaw.
"You will not hurt me." Voldemort gestured again for him to hold his hand out, and Dolohov did it, shakily. He quickly reduced the swelling, repaired the bone and dissolved the fragments with a few quick swishes of his wand, stepping back as Dolohov lurched to the floor, writhing in agony as his bones shifted and lengthened with the Change. Nagini hissed and moved herself once more, but Voldemort stood his ground, steeling himself by imagining this curse upon those who had trapped his children for all this time.
When the wolf finally emerged from the broken body of the man, he was quick to heal his wounds, feeding the wolf the meat he craved, mixed liberally with the sleeping potion Dolohov refused as a man. And as the wolf slept, his thoughts turned from revenge.
He would heal his children yet.