Feast!
Chapter 4: A Pickle
o
An Ashwinder slipped from the embers of the dying fire and instead of finding a shadowy corner to lay its eggs it wound around and around on the hearthrug, laying a trail of ash. As Dolohov stared the dust stirred, raising into ridges, forming itself into words.
Be at Caer Dwr at sunset.
The time had come.
He arrived as the sun hung low over the sea, inches from the extinguishing waves. The castle itself was perched on an island, linked to the land by a narrow causeway. Tightening his cloak against the shore breeze Dolohov hurried across the causeway, which rose steadily to an open gateway. Within it stood two people masked and robed, each holding a blazing torch.
"Put this on," one said.
Dolohov didn't recognise the man's voice but he did as instructed taking the mask and pulling it over his head. He felt a twinge of fear as the cloth caught on his stubbled chin. He recalled very clearly the last time he had worn such a mask.
"Now, follow me."
The other man followed behind and they processed into a cavernous hallway their way lit only by the torches carried by Dolohov's escort. As they approached the end of the corridor a door opened, a line of light widening to reveal a chamber so vast that apart from an area around a crackling fireplace, its edges were lost in shadow. Dolohov peered into the darkness as his escort placed their torches in brackets at either side of the hearth and stood back, expectant.
A swish like silk on stone, then footsteps, echoing loud against the bare walls grew louder. The tall pale figure of Lord Voldemort emerged slowly from the darkness.
The Death Eaters bowed low and an instant later Dolohov did the same.
"Antonin Dolohov," said Lord Voldemort. "Stand."
He did as requested but said nothing more.
"I have watched with interest your behaviour over the past few weeks. After our little entertainment on Halloween…" he paused, angling his head as if deep in thought. "I began to wonder if your friend Rookwood had been mistaken about your commitment."
"My Lord, I…"
"Did I ask you to speak?" he said softly, "I think not. Imagine how intrigued I was to discover that you thought us fools, misguided, petty. I had a most interesting discussion with Rookwood and he insisted that you were reliable. I really couldn't find a way to make him change his assertion. Why do you think that was?"
"I …" Dolohov shivered feeling the liquid drop of fear inside him freeze then shatter.
"Spare me your lies, Antonin Dolohov. There is pettiness, to use your own term, but not in the way that you think. You have sat in your hovel and moaned bitterly for reward yet what have you done to deserve it? Self pity is very boring, Dolohov. You must enjoy what you do, relish it, revel in it or else what is the point? I assure you that we enjoy very much what we do here. We feast upon it, we take nourishment…" He looked past Dolohov, toward the entrance. "Ah, step back Antonin Dolohov. Join your companions. We will finish our business later. I believe our guest of honour has arrived."
Lord Voldemort turned and stood with his back to Dolohov and the two Death Eaters who watched as the door opened again. Five people entered. Between the rigid arms of the first two, a man hung, his robes torn and hat askew. They loosed him a few feet away and then the four positioned themselves to complete a wide circle, Voldemort and their prisoner in the middle.
"Mister Hetherington!" The name ricocheted off the walls.
Through the slits in his mask, Dolohov stared at the man. He knew him. It was the man he had spoken to in the Leaky Cauldron, the drunken man who had babbled about evil and conspiracies and Ministry cover-ups. A man who, it seemed, had taken steps to try and change his path.
"Tell me, Mister Hetherington," Voldemort began pacing slowly around the man, hands folded deep within the blackest of robes. "Why is it that you see fit to terminate your visit to London early when Lord Voldemort specifically requests that you stay there?"
Sweat began to bubble on Hetherington's brow. It gathered above his eyes and trickled slowly down into his beard. His lip wobbled.
"Please tell us Mister Hetherington." A terribly polite enquiry. "Lord Voldemort is eager to know."
Lord Voldemort's face split into a wide grin and he clapped his hands together as he turned to speak to the Death Eaters.
"My friends, it seems that Mister Hetherington has at last run out of boasts!"
A ripple of laughter coursed around the circle, nervously, Dolohov joined in as Hetherington closed his eyes.
"Where is the tale of how he came to flee? Will he not entertain us with the story of how he came to be here? Nothing more than a battle with the Ministry's best could justify this … don't disappoint us, Mister Hetherington. "
The wizard opened his eyes to find the Dark Lord's grinning face just inches from his own. He leapt back in shock, causing his hat, which hung dangerously over one ear to fall to the floor. But the jolt was enough to free his tongue.
"London, yes, the Ministry. I …" he said, tripping carelessly over his own garbled words. "The elf, was
dead and there were two wizards, Blackberry or something and one with a cat and we went for breakfast … the kitchens of course, and the house elf was there … what could we do but investigate. Well of course I had to join in, would look mighty odd otherwise."
Hetherington chortled, with a new confidence as if he had decided that he wasn't in trouble - that the Dark Lord was just having a bit of fun. "Yes, we were in the kitchens, I muddied waters, provided red herrings, and led them astray. There was no clue that would show them the culprit but then the Auror arrived and … and…and…"
"Do continue."
Antonin experienced an odd sensation at the man's discomfort. At that moment the man represented all he hated about wizard kind – a fool who had been given an opportunity and wasted it. He felt no sympathy. He neither knew nor cared what the man had done. Like the other Death Eaters, he was keen for something; he felt and shared their hunger.
"Hetherington, I said to myself, as I reached for my wand, the game's up. I could see it in his eyes, so I fired hexes in all directions and made a run for it, 'course he struck back, there was quite a fight I can tell you! I was outnumbered but I got past them and after a monumental struggle I left them confunded. My first thought was to return to you my Lord to bring you news from London. The information that I was sent to get!"
Red faced and breathless Hetherington finished with a flourish and a smile. A smile which became weaker and weaker as Lord Voldemort began to laugh.
"Yet you departed from London many days ago. Am I to believe that you walked here? Am I to ignore the evidence of my own eyes?" He tapped one finger thoughtfully on the end of his wand, "Can it be that you came here of your own accord, that my Death Eaters did not have to drag you?"
"I…I had to wait, they might have followed me!" He was panicking now, crazed eyes darting from mask to mask. "I had to leave London, they knew!"
"Mister Hetherington," Voldemort spat. "I did not send you to London to give interviews to newspaper reporters, to plant evidence or to fight house elves in kitchens or to get information of any kind whatsoever. I sent you to London to die!"
"To d-die?"
The Dark Lord nodded, still smiling. "And we see that you have failed in even that most simple task." His eyes narrowed and followed Hetherington's gaze down to the tip of his wand.
"No, no." Voldemort shook his head. "Nothing so easy as that. As you have returned my plans must change. Unworthy though you are you may serve Lord Voldemort once again. These four will be your escort."
Voldemort bent and picked up the fallen hat. He placed it firmly on the wizard's head, and then stood back with his arms by his sides.
"Step forward," he ordered.
Anticipation. Dolohov felt just like the others as they watched Hetherington obey.
"Lord Voldemort has one last gift for you. A fitting reward for your service."
Dolohov caught what looked horribly like a wink as the Dark Lord extended his left arm. The hand came to rest lightly on Hetherington's chest, just above the heart.
"Cor Ignis," said Lord Voldemort softly as he applied a little pressure with his fingers. He lowered his hand and turned aside. "Now take him away." The Death Eaters who had brought him came forward and seized Hetherington's arms, pulling him upright. "You know where. And watch him. Watch also for those who seek him."
"What have you done?" cried Hetherington as they began to guide him from the room. The warmth in his chest was growing, beginning to creep along his veins. With a final effort he broke away and flung himself at Voldemort's feet. There were tears in his eyes. "What have you done, tell me I beg you!"
"Tsk tsk." Voldemort replied with a sigh, soft and satisfied. "Very well."
He raised his hand to stop the Death Eaters and peered down at the man blubbering at his feet.
"Why Mister Hetherington, I have set your heart on fire. It will burn until every vein in your body is consumed. It is a new spell of my own devising. You are most honoured. I am, of course, intrigued to know how long the effects last and indeed if it can be reversed. You will let me know if you live, won't you?"
Voldemort lowered his hand and the Death Eaters reached for Hetherington. His cries and pleas were lost in a sweep of cloaks as the escort whisked him to his final destination.
"What an extraordinary reaction," muttered Voldemort as Hetherington's sobs faded to echoes. "He always had a tendency to talk too much. Now, Mister Dolohov. I believe we were in the middle of a discussion."
Dolohov jumped, shocked to find the attention of the Dark Lord back with him.
"Did you not find that amusing, Dolohov? Was it not entertaining? Or perhaps your tastes are too sophisticated for the likes of us?"
"I…I…"
"Can nobody speak without stammering these days?" he snapped, "Answer me, Dolohov."
"It was entertaining." Dolohov wasn't sure where he found the ability to speak but he realised just how essential it was.
"So now you have eaten our bread and drunk from our cup. Did it sate your hunger?"
"No," Dolohov replied.
"You are above the laws that stifle and bind our people," Voldemort said. "If you want more you take it and do it in my name."
"My Lord."
"With all your devotion, with all your loyalty."
"My Lord."
"Your body and mind at my service."
"Yes!"
"Bound until death."
"Yes."
"Then step forward, Antonin Dolohov."
A single pace brought him close, and Voldemort's hand shot out taking his left arm in a swift and powerful grasp. The other hand pushed up his sleeve, thick fabric bunching at the elbow. Voldemort laid his thumb on the flesh. It was cold, like the dry palm that held him there. He could see the veins beneath the taut skin that stretched over the hand pulsating with each beat of his own heart. As the Dark Lord's thumb gouged his skin it began to sizzle, and Dolohov tasted blood beneath his tongue.
He felt weaker, weaker and then the pain was gone.
Voldemort let his arm fall. "United beneath the Dark Mark,"
Dolohov collapsed hard on the flagstone floor, dimly aware that he had bitten through his lip.