Antonin Dolohov

"One must always accept the Dark Lord's answer"

A storm had settled overhead of the city of London, allowing day and night to blend into unreadable hours. The clouds created black and grey where there should have been blue and the street lights resembled the light of stars if one was standing far enough away. Though inconvenient for parties and outdoor activists, it was perhaps the perfect weather in which Lord Voldemort called upon his few followers. Not only did gloomy days call for gloomy business, but it would be all too easy for a man to claim that no one saw him that evening because the rain had trapped him inside his own home. Even an idiot couldn't mess up a lie that simple.

Tom's follower count had remained steadily... Little since he began his cause just a few years ago. The circle was growing, but no where near the population at which he so desired. Of course, one perk that came with having such a small number of followers was the ability to keep track of them that much easier.

"Where is Antonin Dolohov?" Tom questioned, overlooking the others as he sat at the head of the table at which they gathered for every meeting.

Evan Rosier was the one who dared to speak up, just as Voldemort expected him to be. It was no secret that Rosier and Dolohov were good mates. He cleared his throat. "Antonin is unable to join us tonight, my Lord," He said. "He begs for your forgiveness-"

"He cannot have my forgiveness!" Tom barked. "Go to him now and tell him that I care not for his excuses!"

Evan glanced at the man quickly before looking back to his hands in his lap and Tom felt his lips purse tightly. He counted silently in his head: 1, 2, 3... "Antonin's wife died this morning, my Lord," said Evan. "She birthed a stillborn and bled to death. He's grieving."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the man's words. Antonin's wife was pregnant, he knew, but as far as his knowledge went, this was the first time the baby had waited until its birth to die. He clicked his tongue. Many times before he had urged Antonin to find a new wife; one who could successfully provide an heir, but the man always refused. Now, it seemed he would have no choice.

"Grieving or drinking? Tell him I expect him here next time," He said simply.

"Yes, my Lord."

The rest of the meeting went as planned; unfazed by the small hiccup of a missing member. Antonin's responsibilities were picked up by Evan upon the man's insistence and half of Evan's therefore fell upon Rodolphus, whose then fell to Rabastan, and then to Bellatrix, who never had any responsibilities to begin with.

Reassigning tasks went rather smoothly with such a eager group of followers, and yet Tom felt an unsettling pit of annoyance and... Worry? building in his stomach. His followers swore loyalty to him, but ultimately they were driven by their own selfish desires and pleasantries. Take Antonin, for example, whose trouble and grief could have been completely avoided by simply listening to his leader rather than his own corrupt feelings; or even Lucius, who had taken it upon himself to take a paternity leave.

It was hours after the meeting that Voldemort sat musing these things. As the storm raged on outside the walls of the building he had claimed as his own, a rumbling occurred somewhere far down the hall that could not be blamed on the thunder and lightening. No, this rumbling was of voices. Voices of two men, to be specific, who went back and forth as if in a game of aggression. With his hands folded over his lap, Tom waited patiently to see who would burst through the door to find him in the same seat as he was in hours ago, and was painfully indifferent when Antonin stumbled into the room, followed by a very sober Evan. The smell of alcohol was suddenly strong in the air.

Antonin dragged his feet across the floor, too frivolous in his drunkenness to even advert his eyes from Tom respectfully, and plopped directly to his knees just a few feet away from where the powerful wizard sat.

"Bring her back," He murmured.

"My apologies, my Lord," Said Evan from the doorway. "He insisted upon coming and I-"

"Leave us, Evan. Go home and give Ava my courtesies," Tom commanded coolly, watching the man as he nodded and turned to leave. At the mention of Evan's wife, Antonin let out a dry sob that brought his chest close to the floor. He clutched at his heart as if to rip it out.

"Bring her back!" He pleaded again. "Please, please... I'll do anything you ask of me. Just bring her back."

"Antonin, stand and compose yourself," Tom replied, looking with disgust at the man at his feet. "You know I have no such power to bring a person back from the dead."

"You do! I know you do!" Antonin accosted. He broke into another sob, but brought himself shakily back to his feet and wiped whatever wetness he could away from his face. He leaned against the table for support. "Please," He croaked once more. "I know you can bring her back. Please, I'll do anything you ask of me."

"I can not bring her back, Antonin," Voldemort repeated. His tone was cool, yet he gritted his teeth as he spoke. "You will find another woman-" Antonin frantically began shaking his head, but he continued. "-A younger one, perhaps. One capable of producing an heir..."

"Don't talk about her like that!" Antonin dared to snap, his eyes widening as if in remembrance of who he was speaking to in such a tone. "She was... Perfect. You can bring her back."

"Antonin, I cannot."

"Please..."

The back and forth continued on for longer than the Dark Lord normally would have allowed. He wasn't sure why, but he felt the slightest bit of pity towards the grieving, drunken man and the fool he was making of himself. Finally, he stood from his chair and stepped around Antonin, who wobbled even while he was standing still.

"I will call Evan back to take you home, Antonin," He said. In the otherwise quiet room, it was almost possible to hear something snap inside the heartbroken man.

"After all the years I've given you, after everything I've done for you- all those times I should have been with her... You're weak!" Antonin exclaimed. "You're no lord of mine. A real lord would bring her back- would be capable of such magic-"

Before Antonin could finish his sentence, he fell once more to his knees, his body seemingly caving in on himself as he screeched in pain. The breakdown this time was not due to the heartbreak he had endured earlier that day, but instead the stream of magic that came from the end of Voldemort's wand. Antonin had been too involved in his own words to even notice the wizard pull out his wand or shoot a curse in his direction, but he didn't have to hear anything to know that he was being tortured.

Long after Tom lowered his wand, Dolohov remained crippled on the floor, sobbing and groaning and begging to have Sarah back. Evan was summoned back to drag his friend away from Voldemort's sight; back to his own home or the closest pub or wherever else he desired.

"Evan?" Antonin just barely lifted his head when his friend came near.

"Yeah, it's me, mate. Are you ready to go home?"

"I can't go home if she's not there."

"That's okay," Evan assured him, seeming in a rush to simply get out of the Dark Lord's presence. "You can come back to my house and sleep in the guest bedroom."

"You have a baby," He stated dreadfully, another pathetic sob racking his chest.

"Nicholas sleeps through the night," Evan promised.

"What about Ava?"

"She sleeps through the night, too, mate."

Author's Note: Thank you all for reading! Another chapter will be coming soon but until then; constructive criticism, feedback, and suggestions for anything else you would like me to write about are welcomed and highly appreciated! Next chapter: Rodolphus Lestrange