Doubt me, believe me Chapter 1, a harry potter fanfic

A/N: This chapter has not undergone much rework. A little polishing and changed a few things based on the PMs and reviews I received; but nothing major that requires revisiting.

1981 - 1985

In Azkaban, they said there were only five floors, but they lied. Buried far below the fifth floor, hidden within the dungeon labyrinth was the sixth floor; and where time was a near impossible element to measure. It was the level where only the most rash and bold of aurors would willingly venture if only to gloat and flaunt their sense of superiority and moral righteousness to the residents of this floor, yet none of these Aurors would spend longer than an hour on a bounce. The small handful of prisoners of this level had been sentenced to a judgement worse than death; it was Hell on Earth. It was also believed that only the most avid of followers of the fallen Dark Lord, He Who Must Not Be Named, were condemned to a life sentence in that prison for their crimes were undeniably diabolical and should never be pardoned; yet the most chilling nature of these criminals was their overwhelming pride while performing their atrocities. It was clear even during each of their trial that they were far from repentant – some were drunk on glee and malice, while others remained very prideful and arrogant that they would have made some of the most prideful of muggle Kings humble. It was under these circumstances that the Minister had decreed, with the support of the members of the prestigious Wizengamot, that the most loyal followers of the fallen dark wizard be tortured for their iniquitous acts because death, as the righteous and upright ministry agreed, would be far too merciful for souls as black and deranged as theirs.

"Antonin Dolohov, you have been found guilty of 450 counts of murder, not excluding the aggravated capital murders of Fabian and Gideon Prewett, 1, 895 counts of attempted murder, seven counts of aggravated assault, three counts of terrorist carnage of which two were on the Muggle Britain, and 150 counts of using the unforgivable spells. Do you plead guilty?"

"Not interested." Dolohov sat in the middle of the court, his posture straight but relaxed, his arms folded across his chest, and a most indifferent expression on his face. He was the picture of pride and an unshakable belief that he was far from wrong. Even while he was awaiting his judgment, Dolohov was unfazed and not repentant. Nobody in the court doubted for a moment that he would still have done what he did even if time should rewind.

Minister Bagnold glared down at him from her perch as she read his sentence. "For the first-degree murders, you are sentenced to 30 years for each charge, and in addition to the 1, 895 counts of attempted murder, you are sentenced to 25 years for each charge, and you are sentenced to 5 years for each count of assault. On top of that, you are sentenced to 50 years for each count of terrorist carnage, and a further 15 years for each count of unforgivable spell used. Lastly, for belonging to the terrorist group, you are sentenced to 20 years. From the fifth year of your sentence onwards, you will only be granted a visitor every fourth month of the year. Aurors, take him away."

"You should have simply sentenced me to life without parole," Dolohov deadpanned as he allowed the aurors to drag him away to Azkaban.

He shuddered awake and blinked his eyes. The hair on his skin were standing, the usual sign of dipped temperatures which only meant that those ghastly beings were patrolling the corridors. A sigh escaped in a wisp of white smoke as his ears began their duty of listening to the Symphony of Beautiful Madness. It would always start with a howling somewhere from the West, and it would meet the humming of the East. Later, there would be moans and cries overriding the allegro with the occasional thunder of curses. It would then seem as if this was the perfect incantation to awaken the most charming of all women: Bellatrix Lestrange from her slumber. Her slurs of cackles would echo loudest from wherever she was held, and every bark of laughter would be replied by a beg for death and mercy somewhere down the corridor, and all the previous musical sounds would fade to background while the chortle would challenge the pleas, for supremacy to lead the symphony. The battle would go on for a while before the other elements returned to the fray and Dolohov would move his hands as if he were the conductor. When at last he stopped his hands, and allowed them to drop dramatically, the Symphony of Beautiful Madness would end, and a pin drop could be heard. Slowly as a true conductor, Dolohov would turn to face the bars of his cell and take a deep bow.

Every cycle would start with the memory of the sentence and transited into the symphony.

The silence would stretch on before elements of the symphony would star in their own melody, and Dolohov, in his silence, would pace his tiny cell that was not even as wide as his height – it was only a meter and half! He would wonder if any of them were still there, if any resemblance of their… youth still lived on or had all of them gone with the wind. Sometimes, he wondered if every waking shudder was a step closer to tipping over the edge, and perhaps one day, he would finally take the plunge and be one and the same as her. Insanity had never been picky on its host. It was perhaps, one of the most non-prejudiced elements in a world so judgmental. Dolohov sighed and flopped onto his pathetic excuse for a cot – a skin thin quilt with holes as large as his fist.

And now, the grief and sorrow fir an identity that was slowly but surely slipping away.

Dolohov dragged his shackled legs to him and rested his head on his knees and allowed himself to grieve his declining mind. With nothing tangible to occupy it, Dolohov always almost wanted to die. For someone who pride on his genius and brilliance of mind, to be unable to access and feel its greatness was a misery of one of the acutest kinds. Sometimes, he wept his loss, and, in these moments, he would remember the innocence he once possessed. "I am Antonin Valentin Dolohov. I am conceived from the love shared between Ivanov Dolohov and Calina Dolohov (nee Alexeev)," he breathed his origins with as much conviction as he could muster to chase the neediness of wanting to perish. He reiterated to himself his biography as a holding faith and prayer to remind himself of his own person and greatness. "I am Validus Antonin Dolohov, a member of his innermost circle, and he trusts me. I am useful. I have to be."

Dolohov felt his weak resolve hardening as he whispered his prayer. He was not a young helpless whelp who was uncertain of his place in the world. That curious boy who was too easily seduced by all knowledge in the world had died long ago in Koldovstoretz Wizarding Academy. That boy was gone when his parents were trialed guilty for treason and made into public examples. In place of the despaired boy, a young man was born to clear the stain of his family and cast judgment on those who had accused him and his family of lese-majesty, and wrongfully exiled the remaining Dolohov from Mother Russia. Alone, with only the power of his name and blood purity, the man found his salvation in an older man and after that, everything was history. The older man had groomed Antonin Dolohov into the merciless killing machine. Nobody knew the true name of Antonin Dolohov the Death Eater. There were some who had even forgotten his family name and bestowed him the title: Antonin the Tormentor, or Antonin the Executioner.

When Dolohov reopened his eyes, they look a little less haunted and dull. Flickers of unquenchable rage and hatred sparked behind the eyes. They, who endeavored to rip and destroy his most precious gift – his mind, persevered to snuff out his flame of life, and tried to seduce him to leave his Dark Lord for the warm embrace of insanity, would suffer his grievances once he tasted the sweet taste of freedom. He would not get him. He would never allow himself to be their marionette, and their weapon to use against his beliefs. He would not be tamed and do as they command. He might be a murderer, a terrorist, a bastard… but he would never be without his honor. He would never forget his debt, and his family ways. He would always honor those who treated him with kindness, and that meant he would never betray the Dark Lord who had saved him from a land of misery, loneliness and despair. Even if the odds would be stacked against him, even if the Heavens threatened to ban him from its paradise, he would never leave the Dark Lord for his enemies.

They would never convince me. They would never own me. Never.

When the esteemed Dark Lord rose again and led them to a new age, he would be by his side. He would cast judgement at his behest. All of them would pay the price for their folly. Every foolish soul who thought to be superior to him, and tried to condemn him, Dolohov swore he would have his revenge. He would look down on them from his perch. He and his brethren would own the chairs of those Wizengamot members, and with their Dark Lord in his rightful throne, they would watch in delight as the foolish rebels squirmed and begged for mercies. However, Dolohov could already imagine, that day would be without mercy. Each recusant, traitor and sovereign citizen would be sentenced to a Hell worse than anything they could imagine – they would be stripped off their magic and forced to live in here. On that day, when their Order was finally established and enforced, death would be far too merciful for them. They had to suffer. They must be humiliated the way he and his fellow Death Eaters had. They would learn to be meek, submissive and weak.

"One day," he promised as his tongue slipped to lick his lips, "they will beg; and no God can save them from the vengeance of the Dark Lord. They will rue the day their tried to destroy me."

I must live until his return.

April 1986

"You should have simply sentenced me to life without parole," Dolohov deadpanned as he allowed the aurors to drag him away to Azkaban.

For the umpteenth time since he began his stay in the tiny hole, Antonin Dolohov shuddered awake again. He blinked once, twice and frowned. Something was happening, the silence should not have arrived so soon. Where was the symphony? Where was the icy wind? It was unlikely he slept through it all. That was his normal. That was his routine. That was his only grasp of time and sanity! Dolohov stood up from his sitting-sleeping spot, took calming breaths while he surveyed his cell suspiciously. At last, he turned to the metal bars that separate him from his freedom. A sneering auror stood there, flanked by three others, and Dolohov's impassive mask fell naturally over his face.

"Get out now, dipshit," an auror, likely to be the leader, snarled as he yanked on the cuffs on Dolohov's hands, dragging the thin man out of his hole. When the metal bars were slammed shut again, the sound echoed through the walls of the dungeon and Dolohov winced and refused to move. He would flex whatever was left of his pride and dignity. He would not be manhandled and ordered by a team of fresh graduate sods. The boys were still wet behind their ears, and if they dueled him, there was absolutely no way they would oust him… unless Dolohov, who teetered between barely surviving and suicide, had no wand and had been starved, which was exactly his situation now. Grudgingly, Dolohov swallowed whatever little was left of his pride and allowed Auror Leader to yank him down to cast the hex for temporary blindness on him. Flanked on all four sides, Dolohov dragged his bare feet across the rough floor. Petty as it was, it was his last defense of defending his pride and himself from being at the mercy of four aurors with one providing rough shoves onto his back as if to hurry him along.

They forced him into a seat and dispelled his blindness. Immediately, Dolohov forgot his situation and did the only thing he could – slam his fists on the table. From a tiny cold cave, to dingy corridors, Dolohov finally found himself in a blindingly bright room where he felt he might lose his sight naturally. He shut his eyes and took deep calming breaths while righting himself on the seat and rested his palms on the table. Opening his eyes slowly, he looked around the room and noticed that it was just him in a room, almost as bare as his cave, with a wooden chair and table, and a phone.

Dolohov leaned into his seat, tilted his head, stretched his legs – he winced and groaned when he heard his knees popping and croaking – and crossed them at the ankles, and crossed his arms. He assessed the phone through narrowed eyes and narrowed them further when it rang. Cautiously and curiously, he picked it up and immediately dropped it with a snarl as a booming jovial voice greeted him a little too loudly. Dolohov glared at the offending item while he rubbed his bruised ear. It was a familiar voice but was it real or just his imagination? Was it finally time for the wheels to turn again? How many years has it been? No, he must not be too excited. This was, without a doubt, their ploy. It had to be their cruel mind trick – they were running out of time to break his will and mind, and gather information on the Dark Lord. He could not blame their plan – after all, who better to use to torture him than another one of Dark Lord's most trusted?

However, as rational as their method sounded, he was still very disappointed. What were they thinking – using that excited voice to entice him to lower his guard? Surely, someone in their midst, someone who had some form of strategic mind would never have suggested using the Jester's voice. It was one thing to use his best friend's voice against him, but surely… Surely, they had to know that he knew that the Violet-Eyed Madman was not easy to capture, never mind forced to do anything against his will? The Scottish wizard was infamous for his slippery ways – no one could capture and trap him without his consent, neither could any of his victims leave him without his permission.

Perhaps, he was overlooking and underestimating them. Perhaps, they managed to replicate the prick's voice. It would not be too much of a stretch considering the Japanese wizards – or was it merwizards? – had that instrument to capture voices. The most likely hiccup in that plan of capturing his voice was assuming they had managed to accomplish the feat.

Dolohov tapped the tabletop lightly as he narrowed his eyes at the phone and then to the wall in front of him and then back to the phone. There was of course the other possibility – the prick had willingly surrendered himself simply because he was bored. Dolohov would never put it past the clown. After all, the Jester had been known for his accidental trips that led his pursuers, especially the members of the Order, on a wild goose's chase a little too often, and his supposed benevolence of freeing the prisoners of war that led to foiling some of the Dark Lord's smaller plans.

Truthfully, even though they were best friends who had considered each other as sworn brothers, there were times when Dolohov caught himself holding his breath around the Scot. There was no telling when the switch would flip and the Jester to fly into an unpredictable mood. The thing worse than fighting against the odds was handling an unpredictable madman who was his equal in magic. Dolohov closed his eyes and blew a heavy sigh. Perhaps, by Merlin's will, he would put his faith – or whatever of it he still possessed – and trust in his best friend; that the prick had waltzed here simply to escape the dreaded monotony. He would convince his mind this was real. He would sell it hard to himself that the voice on the other side was real. None of this was made belief. Today was not a false imagination conjured by some fucked charm work. None of this was –

Ah, I cursed. What a foul-tasting word.

Dolohov shook his head and sagged into the chair. How could he spare any thought for manners at a time when he felt tired of resisting? He was exhausted. He was drained. He wanted to die. He just wanted the monotony of timelessness to end. If he had his way, he would rather die now than later when he had lost all of his sanity and identity. He wanted to die wholesome – with his mind, his sanity, his awareness and his body. Complete. Perfect. Dolohov sighed heavily again. Of course, he would never get whatever he wanted – he was the bad guy. He killed people, he tortured them. He was the bad guy, and fate hates people like him. Naturally, he would never be given whatever he wanted – only the hero was deserving of the blessings from the deities and whatever other super being that were believed in.

With a wry smile curling slowly on his lips, he laughed softly and bitterly to himself. He was truly becoming like one of them. He was having his own little pity party in this bright white sterile room. Perhaps, this was his subconscious screaming at him – he was losing his will to live. His flame was flickering weakly. If that were truly true and today was final day for the last shred of his identity, at least, he got to hear his voice for the last time. Perhaps, the aurors were not so bad after all… it was a good final wish before he completely became an empty husk. Perhaps, they were quite benevolent because he would never give his victims a peaceful sendoff… and that meant he was truly evil.

Let's get this final gift over and done.

Dolohov snorted a weak laughter and slowly reopened his eyes. He looked tiredly at the hanging phone and curled his fingers around it. With a grimace, he took a deep breath, braced himself and brought the phone shakily to his ear. "Hello," he breathed resignedly.

"Hey! I thought you died on me!" the voice on the other side joked before it laughed loudly.

Dolohov smiled ruefully as his eyes wearily fluttered close. As he tried recalling the Scot's features, his finger was tracing his portrait on the table. Violet, twinkling eyes, laughter lines, cleanshaven angular jaw, charming and handsome face, and… hair? What about his hair? Long white hair or was it short platinum blond hair? Did the length even matter?

"Where are you calling from?" he asked softly. This was not like him. He was never tentative and shy. In fact, he was demanding and cold, and strict and curt. Had Azkaban stripped him off his bravado and strength, or was this who he truly was underneath the façade that had been cruelly shredded by the prison? Oh Merlin, had he truly forgotten who and what he was? He was losing control of what was real and make believe.

"Well, I am in excellent health and form, thanks for asking," the voice replied cheerfully, "Too bad, you can't see me."

Dolohov felt his thundering heart momentarily slowed down. How puzzling that his fear and panic were so easily abated by the jovial man on the other side? Had this always been the case? Was this proof of how much he missed the noisy man? What was this pleasant feeling blossoming in his chest? Dolohov felt it before he realized it happened – tears had slid the sides of his face. It had been a long time since he felt them. He could not remember the last time but then again, how much of his real memories were still left in his head? "Where are you calling from?" he asked again, as his breath caught in his throat. The tears were making it difficult for him to speak.

"Happy advanced thirty-fourth birthday!" the voice exclaimed before the sound of a party horn blared through the phone. "I've got balloons and a birthday cake – "

Dolohov shuddered as his body struggled with the final wave of tears and sniffles. That was the second time he had asked, and the prick had deliberately avoided answering the question. Just because he was not feeling himself, it did not mean he had lost his ability to stay focus and keep track of the little details in the conversation. It was not the first time the Scot would ignore his question, but it could also mean there was something loaded about the question. It was either a taboo question, a taboo answer or simply the Jester's bad habit, or a combination of any three. However, did it matter? No, not really; the information changed nothing much. Not everything in the world needed an answer, and not every answer was important. It was a heavy lesson, a painful lesson, Dolohov had been forced to learn and accept as a boy.

Dolohov shook his head. He was focusing on the trivial parts. There was something important he had missed. What was it the Jester had said? His birthday, cake, candles… thirty-four. That number had to be his age. Swiftly, his fingers traced the number on the table and executed quick subtraction – he had been in prison for almost five years. Half a decade wasted away in monotony. Years spent languishing in misery and loneliness, sorrow and fear. Five years and counting…

" – your sweet tooth, so I made muffins and – "

"Keep them," Dolohov interrupted as firmly as he could, "and you're still noisy." He needed to sound serious and cold. He needed his voice to be stern or the happy wizard would just continue his monologue joyfully. Hearing that Scottish accent was relieving, but it was a very trying task to think when his mind was clinging onto his every word.

"Oh, don't be mean! You're hurting my fee- "

"Shut up, please! I can't hear my thoughts!" he hissed, and a soft and low humming immediately overwhelmed the other side of the call. As he squeezed his eyes shut, he groaned and wheezed. A pounding had begun behind the back of his eyes and his fingers massaged his temples. It was an annoying feeling, but it was not… unfamiliar. Somewhere in his memories – if they could be believed – he felt as if the irritating throbbing was a common effect caused by only one person. Only the Lord of Durness could drive him to the edge of frustration and exasperation, and insanity. Of course, everyone had told him at some point in time that he should have severed his ties with the laughing wizard lest he would be dragged down.

Dolohov bit his bottom lip as he sighed heavily. The Jester had moments of otherworldly brilliance, but he also had moments when he was a little too clumsy and comical. It was not easy to predict the Scot's next move because he was able to make everything look understandable. A little muggle girl escaping prison while he was on guard duty?

"Ah, she was eyesore and underserving of receiving any special treatment from me. It is beneath me to watch her or even dirty my magic for her. So, I did not bother to come and… I suppose the rat dug a hole and scurried? Looking for her is too much work for a lord like myself. Truly, esteemed Dark Lord, Wormtail would have done much better than me, won't you?" That had been his seemingly apologetic explanation when the Dark Lord had questioned him, and it was surprisingly deemed acceptable by the Dark Lord. Dolohov often wondered if the Dark Lord believed those were really accidents, or he was indifferent or simply found the Scot's antics amusing. After all, the Scot was the Jester because he, alone, could shred and destroy any atmosphere and made it exciting to him. It was his charm and his fearlessness to waltz into any situation and command it to accommodate and indulge him. Of course, he was intelligent enough not to push his luck over the edge – the game was always hovering at the edge of amusement and challenging.

Nevertheless, Dolohov was relieved that his best friend always kept his awareness steady, and read of the situation at the fore front of his every move. It meant Dolohov did not have to be concerned about those erratic actions too much. As undiscerning as the smiling Jester seemed to be, Dolohov believed the prick knew exactly what he was doing at every point. He was not as insane and frivolous as society believed he was. He was discerning and honest and true to himself – it was a matter of whether anyone could discern the truth from his lies, and his lie in the truths. The Scot was an annoying prick that way.

Dolohov blew a slow and low exhale. His memories of events might not be reliable, but his memories and thoughts of his fondest friend had to still be real and rational. In that case, was it not conclusive that the prick had willingly walked into their trap and called him from somewhere? Was there, then, any reason for him to be concern? Perhaps, he should calm himself and allow his best friend to orchestrate his mad plays. Perhaps, his worry was unfounded. His worry? Was he worried? Did he, even, have enough sanity and effort to spare worrying about a temperamental wizard who was his equal?

"Co-," Dolohov whispered.

"You haven't been listening to me, have you?" the voice admonished gently, before a snort of amusement followed.

"I'm- "

"Don't worry about it, bastard," the voice laughed carelessly, and Dolohov felt his lips curled on its corners. That name was not spat out. Rather, Dolohov felt he was gently and affectionately chided. That was his nickname. It was good that more of his feelings from long ago were creeping into his being. It made recalling his identity easier. "I asked if you met anyone sexy, but I figured everyone's ugly and skinny; and you'd be the Beast King."

Dolohov's eye twitched before he had fully processed the insult. That Scot was still the self-centered prick who believed he was by far, the prettiest and most gorgeous wizard. It was one thing to believe he was handsome; it was another to believe that he was prettier than any witch. It took a great deal of confidence and shamelessness to declare that as gospel truth. "How are the dresses fitting you?" Dolohov asked. It was childish of him, and that was a really weak counter because everyone knew he had modelled for gowns and dresses, even muggle fashion, when they were still students of Hogwarts living in Paris for the summer holidays.

"Exquis, parfait," the voice answered in almost native French accent, and Dolohov had no doubt that there would be that serious head nodding to accompany the equally solemn answer. "I'm beautiful in everything. It's hard not to envy my beauty," the voice continued easily, and Dolohov groaned loudly in defeat. There was no way to embarrass a man so accepting of himself that he had no qualms about going public about his quirks. The only good thing about the prick, and thank Merlin for the little mercies, was that he never made himself bigger and more important than what he was worth; in fact, he was more than willing to let someone else be the star of the stage while he stood in the background. Dolohov had long suspected that his best friend preferred that arrangement, not at all due to his modesty but rather, because he was lazy to wrestle for something he had absolute confidence in owning if he wanted.

"Yes, yes, you are very beautiful," Dolohov indulged dryly, "you're truly a marvel." When laughter erupted as a response to his insincere agreement, he rolled his eyes and allowed his lips to curl into a smile. This was familiar, and he felt a little queasy. While their banter was something familiar and comfortable, and a pleasant reminder of the good times in their past, the feeling that came with it was unfamiliar. It was not often that Dolohov allowed himself to indulge, and immerse himself in the full depth of his feelings. As far as he was concerned, feelings had no place in war. A soldier who had feelings was the same as a prey waiting to be slaughtered; and frankly, should never be called soldiers – they were a disgrace to soldiers. This was what his family stood for – they were the elite soldiers. They were the Royal Guards. They honored, and they served. That was the way of his family.

Always remember the ways of the Dolohovs. Honor them, serve them. Remember your allegiances; never surrender to -

Dolohov gritted his teeth as he squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his hands. His body shuddered and he tightened his grip on the phone. This was not the time to recap his first vicious life lesson. He was not that crying boy anymore. That boy met malice and hatred, and envy and disgust as they hounded him. Their hands and wands introduced him to brutality and savagery, and fear and terror. He had screamed. He had bled freely. He had begged them. He had begged Merlin. He had begged for the gods and spirits of life. He had begged like a dog. He -

"Hello? Are you still there?"

Dolohov hissed as his face contorted into a grimace. The question had come at an almost perfect time – it should have arrived much earlier. It should have been asked before his mind waddled through those dark treacherous waters. Nevertheless, it was good that he heard the question because who knew what would happen if he had not jolted and returned to the present time?

Dolohov shook his head. He needed to get out of his head and out of this Hell. Azkaban was not only shaving his identity away, it was also forcing his idle mind to wander aimlessly through his dark labyrinth of thoughts and memories. Truly, he had to praise the architect of Azkaban – what a marvelously dark method to ruin your enemies. It was spectacular.

When he was confident he had recomposed and steadied his heart and mind, he blew softly and counted his breaths softly. Very slowly, he reopened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. "I… fell asleep," he lied uselessly and a light laughter replied him. Dolohov sighed inaudibly as he ran his hand through his hair and then, rubbed his face in frustration and exhaustion. There was no doubt that the Scot knew the truth but he was polite enough not to comment. This was one of the prick's little virtues – he always tried to be polite and well-mannered. "How's life been?" Dolohov hummed as nonchalantly as he could while his finger traced silly runes on the table.

For once, Dolohov was acutely aware of the stillness and silence that reigned supreme in the call. Dolohov waited as his eyes trailed a path from the ceiling to the white wall opposite him. He tilted his head as he stared at the wall and imagined the smiling wizard sitting opposite him. He leaned forward and pressed a hand against it. For a moment, his heart felt a little lighter, and his blood buzzed a little louder in his ears. For a moment, it felt as if he could feel the prick was truly behind the wall but logic, as always, burst his bubble. There was no way his best friend could be there – it was too obvious.

"It's boring." Finally, the voice replied and Dolohov chuckled lightly. Truly, that was the answer he was expecting. It was a tough task to keep boredom away from a man who found amusement in chaos. Peace had to be dreadful for him.

"I'm lonely." Dolohov nearly sputtered and choked on his chuckles when he heard the soft honest admittance. It had been muttered so low that he was certain that it would not take a lot to convince him that he might have just imagined it. Whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not, there was no denying that their conversation was shifting from inane and light banter to something a lot more serious and dangerous. It was not always that his best friend would confide in him in that voice; but when he did, it always meant that he had a wicked plan he had already set in place and he had done all the groundwork. Dolohov bit the tip of his tongue as he, very carefully, readjusted himself. He had to check himself and the surroundings. Very subtly, in very controlled actions, he moved his neck minimally just to look from the corner of his eyes if anyone had entered the room or if there was any shadow behind the door. When he was sure everything seemed calm and unaware of what was happening during the call, he breathed a little deeper. There was no doubt their call was being eavesdropped, so he had to think of his words and reactions very carefully.

"Is that why you've finally decided to talk to me?" Dolohov asked and he made sure hurt was easily riding the undertones of his voice, "Am I the last resort to abate the boredom?"

A bark of laughter erupted, and Dolohov smiled. There was something light and fun, something happy in the laughter. If Dolohov had not known the prick too well, he would have easily believed the man was a happy man. Anyone who could laugh like that had to be happy and easily excitable person. Unfortunately, Dolohov knew his best friend quite well, and happy was perhaps, the only emotion he would never associate to the Scot. The prick smiled. The prick laughed. The prick glowed and his eyes twinkled, but was he ever happy? Dolohov doubted he was ever happy since that afternoon that tipped the scales of war.

"I'm glad you know you are," the voice replied honestly without a shred of guilt or shame, and Dolohov's lips pursed into a thin line. He would not be riled up. He would not react to what was the usual provocation from the prick. "You and this place are a mystery," the voice continued, and Dolohov could not stop the snort, "but, I have discovered the answer to the riddle. I know why they won't let me give you anything – not even your birthday cake, brownies and muffins, and balloons. Merlin knows you deserve better. Luxuries, you get me?"

Dolohov bit his tongue hard until he tasted blood and felt enough pain to be irritated. There was something ominous about that last thing and it did not sit right with him. He narrowed his eyes and worked his jaw a little as his mind began reeling. Was this the Jester's madness or brilliance blossoming? There was no doubt that he was hinting at a plan being set into motion but, he had questions. Had the plan already started rolling out? If not, when was it happening? Was he needed? Did he have a role to play? What was the goal of the plan? Luxuries. What was it really? He had too many questions and too little information to work with.

"Visiting time is over, fucking asshole!"

Dolohov barely heard the snarl. Instead, he was jerked out of his thoughts when he felt the arms yanking him up from the seat and pulling the phone out of his hand. Almost maniacally, a little desperately, he asked harshly and urgently, "Any last words?" as he struggled with the hands that tried to separate him from the phone.

"Remember all of them," the voice laughed good-naturedly, "and be a good boy. See you-"

Dolohov barely heard the farewell and stared blankly at the phone that was finally, successfully robbed from his grasp. His heart was beating quickly, and it was a little difficult and uncomfortable to breathe. The prick was making his move, but Merlin, he hoped it was not clumsy. The last thing he needed was another of loyal Death Eater, with a brain, to land in Azkaban because that meant the Dark Lord's return would be pushed back to a later time. However, if the prick was truly making a move, was it by himself or would it be with allies? Was it finally time for them to make a comeback and seek the Dark Lord? Was it an opportune time?

As his questions began filling his usually empty mind, Dolohov felt rather than heard the trembling of his magic coursing through him. He was not concerned for his best friend but for the plan. Whatever the prick had planned, he would do his best, regardless of circumstances, to help. After all, the prick's success must mean that they would be a step closer to the Dark Lord's revival. Despite how lackadaisical and temperamental the Scot was, he was still loyal to the Dark Lord's ambition.

Dolohov breathed deeply as he squared his shoulders and allowed the Aurors to manage him. The feeling from long ago was quickly surfacing and filling him. He had not felt the euphoria and the sense of importance for a long time. It was not as grand a feeling as fighting on the frontlines of a war, but it was still something comfortable. His steel and mettle, and his focus and determination as a soldier were finally summoned again. Yes, that was who and what he was – a soldier, a tool of war, a Death Eater. No, he was more than that. He was Antonin Dolohov. He was Antonin the Executioner, Antonin the Torturer. That was his true self. It was time he reminded them. He might be imprisoned, cuffed and chained but he was not meek and harmless. Even without his wand – he had a mastery over the Ancient Eastern Slavic and Egyptian Hierogylphs runes that did not require a wand to perform – he was still deadly; and these boys had better fixed their ignorance while they still could. After all, even if he was not the one to end them, a Death Eater would and what a massacre that would be if it was the Jester.

"You think this is funny?" the Auror Leader snarled as soon as they shoved him into his tiny cell and slammed the metals gate very strongly that the sound reverberated through the corridor, "We'll see if you're still grinning when your corpse rots in here."

Stumbling over a few steps, Dolohov shook his head as he surfaced from his thoughts. When he had regained his balance, he turned to face them calmly. The conversation with the Lord of Durness had breathed a new life in him, and it was truly unfortunate for his enemies. They should have killed him when he was almost completely broken – it was their best chance. Now though? The odds were stacked against them – his death was impossible. Strolling towards the metal bars that separated him from them, Dolohov hummed softly. Tilting his head to the side, he stroked the bars lightly and absently as if he was stroking the face of a lover, and he took a very deliberate and thorough sweep of all the aurors. He knew they were uncomfortable under his eye if the perpetual and nervous bobbing of their Adam's apple was any indication. Almost a little too careful, he stopped caressing the bars, he whispered curiously, "Aren't all of you too young to be aurors? You haven't seen enough of life; it would be a shame if you died too soon."

The aurors gritted their teeth and their leader reached forward to grab Dolohov's collar and yank him forward. Bright hazel eyes glared murderously at dull grey eyes. "Listen here, you, filthy fucker!" the Auror Leader spat, and Dolohov frowned as the flying spit landed on his face, "These fucking bars are here to keep you safe from us, so get off your high horse! Your glory days are gone! Does your pea brain, kapish?"

"You're right; I am a very filthy fucker," Dolohov agreed fearlessly as he wiped the spit easily. As he stared coolly at the Auror Leader, he slipped his hands through the gaps between the metal bars to grab the boy's jaw in a punishing grip. His lips curled into an amused smile, and dark humor trickled into his voice as he continued innocently, "I mean, I'm the one spitting, aren't I?"

"You mug! Trying to take the piss out of me?" the auror hissed as he struggled to stop wincing in pain. His jaw was getting bruised from the crushing grip and the painful stabs from the bony fingers. He had to escape from the clamp before the dark wizard decided to possibly crush it or at least unhinged his jaw. As he grabbed Dolohov's wrist, dread began settling in him. How was a man so malnourished, and skinny able to hold him in place? Perhaps he needed to inform the wardens on duty to lessen Dolohov's daily meals. He was a little too strong for someone who was trapped in his cell and fed two-meals a day, and allowed to shower once in two weeks. "Let go!" he hissed as his fingers grappled with the fingers digging painfully into his cheeks, "Damn bastard!"

Dolohov narrowed his eyes and then released the jaw roughly and with a push. He watched with cruel delight as the auror stumbled backwards and fell onto his bottom. "Feeble!" Dolohov sneered, "A little push and you've fallen on your bottom? Child, you're not strong enough to subdue a prisoner of war."

If it was possible, those hazel eyes glared unforgivingly at the smirking dark wizard. The auror patted his swollen jaw tenderly, and growled, "You'll pay for this!" He would never forgive the bastard for making a fool out of him today. He would make sure the bastard rued the day… except, it was difficult to avenge his lost pride against a dark wizard who should have been severely weakened. Perhaps it was not a baseless rumor that Antonin Dolohov had access to beneficial supplements that boosted his body. Perhaps, the correct question was not in verifying the rumor but rather questioning who had supplied him with those supplementary pills. It was no wonder that his body that looked frail was still strong. It had to be due to the supplements he had consumed over the years – those unknown drugs had changed his body. The auror decided he would let his superiors know… but was there anyone who would believe him?

However, the other theory could be true as well. What if Dolohov was strong by his own right, and not due to some rare medicine? If a malnourished Dolohov was already this strong, just how powerful was he at his healthiest?

Dolohov narrowed his eyes a little as he smiled a little more cruelly at the swollen-jawed boy. He saw the unmistakable emotion shining in those big brown eyes. The boy had realized something, and it scared him. "Ah, sorry, I'm penniless," Dolohov shrugged a little apologetically although his smile betrayed his sincerity, "I can offer you the grime from my cell. Will that do?"

"You damned bastard! Wipe that disgusting smirk off your face!" the auror ordered as bravely as his hoarse voice could manage. He was just relieved he was not stuttering. It was finally dawning upon him why they told him that Dolohov was not just a Death Eater. He was one of the stronger ones. He was truly terrifying. They truly not worthy to be his opponents.

"Come, and do it," Dolohov challenged and intentionally allowed his lips to curl into a toothy smile. "Wipe it for me."

Goaded by the sickening smile, the auror's rage overwhelmed his fear. He would not be humiliated a second time in front of his team. He was the leader for Merlin's sake! He could not cower in front of them or he would lose their respect and his position. Summoning as much bravado, he glanced at his team and gritted his teeth. They were watching him, and he would prove to them that he was a courageous auror. He dug into his coat and pulled out his wand. He pointed it threateningly at the dark wizard who merely looked at him with a little more interest. "You're a fucking disrespectful piece of shit!" he roared as he took a step forward and raised his wand, "I'll fucking kill you! I'll kill you! Confringo!" Just as he shouted the spell, a powerful zap whizzed out of the wand's tip. However, it ricocheted to a corner of the cell entrance and he fell backwards from the recoil of the powerful zap. As he sputtered and shook his head, his team crowded around him and helped him back onto his trembling legs.

Dolohov craned his neck to spy on the spell's effect and clicked his tongue mockingly. Almost patronizingly, he shook his head very slowly and sighed as heavily and loudly as he could. Reclaiming the attention of the aurors, he looked at the leader with the greatest sympathetic look and chided, "How could you ever hope to kill me if your spell not only miss the target but also fails to damage a thing?"

"You-!"

"Stand down, Auror Williamson!" a voice interrupted, and a steady pace of calm footsteps echoed the corridor. Dolohov's eyes widened a little before they narrowed, and a sly smirk stretched over his face. Turning his head just enough to spy at the newcomer from the corner of his eyes, Dolohov's eyes gleamed with a little darker malice. Cornelius Fudge. "I hope you won't take to heart the rashness of youths, Dolohov," the pudgy man with brown hair mocked, "Your stay here has been pleasurable, I trust?"

"Hello junior minister, it's in a league of its own if you truly must know," Dolohov nodded as he moved closer to the newcomer a little too arrogantly. "However, my accommodation is of little importance. What I am most curious is, Cornelius, my old friend, has your ambition always been to kiss Minister Bagnold's bottom?"

The effect was instantaneous! Cornelius Fudge's face turned red as he shook with barely contained anger. "We are not friends! How dare you!" he roared as he stomped until he was in front of the smiling Death Eater and pointed a pudgy finger, "I will kill you where you stand, you... you…! Disgusting, unrepentant perverted criminal!"

Just as he was about to pull out his wand, Dolohov closed his hand on top of the junior minister's and squeezed it just a little. "I won't do that if I were you," Dolohov whispered lowly as his eyes slowly glanced to the aurors who had begun to take their battle stance before they returned to the widened blue eyes, "Between us, we know who is stronger… and a wizard of light is forbidden to cast any unforgivable. How could you hope to kill me?"

Fudge snatched his hand out of Dolohov's grip and righted his robes as coolly as he could, while taking deep calming breaths. Dolohov was not lying. If the Death Eater truly wanted, he could have stolen the wand and killed all of them before they could send a Patronus. After all, this was the leader of You-Know-Who's infamous death squad and a dark wizard who did not need to use the unforgivable curses to be dangerous. He was also the rumored wizard who fortified the security at Gringotts Wizarding Bank with vicious curses and runes. "Auror Williamson, take your team upstairs," Fudge ordered without taking his eyes off the dark wizard, "I will handle him from here."

The young auror led his team and as they passed Dolohov's cell, Dolohov tried a final provocation. "Run while you still can, little boy." Auror Williamson stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to face the smiling dark wizard. Despite his better judgement to ignore the taunts and follow his orders dutifully, he glared fiercely as he marched towards the cell.

Glaring deeply into Dolohov's unimpressed grey eyes, he growled menacingly. "You will never escape from here, and you will rot until you are past bones. If you ever leave, I promise you that I will hunt you down like the cowardly boar you are. I will tear you apart. Limb from limb, you hear me? It will all look like an accident."

Dolohov smiled a little wider as he beckoned the boy closer until he could slip his hand through the gap and patted the shoulder lightly. Very gently, he curled his hand around the boy's nape and pulled the boy even closer. "You have quite the imagination, Williamson," Dolohov praised softly, "you remind me very much of your hopeless, cowardly Gryffindor brother. Do you remember him? It's alright to forget such spineless preachers." Dipping his head just so his lips would be a hair's breath away from the boy's ear, Dolohov purred softly and made extra care to pronounce his words very clearly, "He was always spewing all the righteous things like an annoying buzzing that would not stop. Did you know what I did to end it? I pulled his guts out while he was still very much alive and conscious… and preaching. Then, he was screaming like a swine in a slaughterhouse. His helpless guttural screams were my favorite teenagerhood music for a while but there was a special feature of his that I remembered even more fondly - his expressive brown eyes. It was exquisite how they were as brown as yours and they revealed such immeasurable fear and helplessness as he lied on the snow. So, come after me and avenge your beloved brother. Come Williamson, come after me; if you dare. Let me see those terrified eyes again." Dolohov blew lightly on the auror's ear and smiled gently when the younger wizard shuddered and pushed himself away from the metal bars. His terrified brown eyes stared at the sinister smile before he stumbled backwards and quickly scampered away without a backward glance. His team of young aurors followed him quickly and Dolohov chuckled to himself, "When preys try to play a predator's game, there is only one outcome – the hunted always becomes the hunter."

"What did you tell him?" Fudge asked.

"Nothing important," Dolohov shrugged as he returned to sitting-sleeping spot and flopped lazily, "Better run along too, Fudge. As they said, visiting hours are over."

Fudge stared at the audacity of dark-haired wizard and left without more grumble. As much as he hated to be ordered by those, he deemed lesser than him, he knew better than to fight Antonin Dolohov. The Russian man might be starved and wandless, but one simply never underestimated a valuable member of the fallen Dark Lord's inner circle. Fudge was not pompous enough to believe the bars that keep the Death Eaters in were to protect them from the rash and young aurors. In fact, Fudge believed it to be the other way just the same reason why muggles would trap animals in their zoo enclosures. "A beast would always be a beast," Fudge murmured while he walked the corridor, flanked on both sides by imprisoned Death Eaters and prayed silently to Merlin, "a predator would never forget its nature; let them never leave this place."

Dolohov closed his eyes with a contented sigh. Finally, he had found another Williamson. How long had he waited to find one of them just so he could tell them the story of James Williamson? It was a truly marvelously picturesque scene, especially since the white of winter contrasted very well. A true Gryffindor dressed only in red and gold, lied staring at the clear sky at the edge of the black lake. He was painted in bright crimson and his gold hair spread over the snow beneath his cracked head. His bowels were left spilling over his legs while he was carelessly castrated, and a haphazard message was carved onto his torso: Martyr.

The silent fear in those hazel eyes were eternal.

August 1986

"You should have simply sentenced me to life without parole," Dolohov deadpanned as he allowed the aurors to drag him away to Azkaban.

Antonin Dolohov shuddered awake just the same as all the previous cycles. The symphony had started without him, and Dolohov guessed they were fast approaching the scherzo which meant Bellatrix was awake before him, and those ghastly Dementors were gliding close to them. In the swirl of the voice of madness, Dolohov heard a foreign shuffling approaching him. Was it time for another visit from him? How many years passed by since the last visit? Dolohov shook his head. It was hard to measure time without seeing the rising and falling of the sun, or the changing skies. Perhaps, it was not his turn but someone else's visiting turn?

"Hey bastard, it's time!" Dolohov found himself smirking even before he looked at the metal bars. It was too familiar an inflection to be mistaken for another. The carefree amusement in the seemingly annoyed hiss.

"Prick?" Dolohov responded a little too cheerfully. As he turned around, his smirk slipped off completely. The man did not look like anything Dolohov had remembered him by. Perhaps, just perhaps, a change in appearance was necessary for a person deemed to have had ties with the Dark Lord? Perhaps, it was wise to adopt a little disguise while he hid in the open? Or had shame convinced him to develop an unmistakable pouch... and the hair! White blond to a disgusting shade of red! Dolohov winced as he scrutinized the face and grimaced when he finally recognized it – an ugly caricature of poverty and dullness. Of all the possible faces, he chose Prewett's brother-in-law to assist in the escape? Was he trying to spin an ironic story of forgiveness? In all honesty, Dolohov knew he should have known of the prick's preferences for theatrics but this... this was taking the cake!

"Yeah, I had to," the prick waved away the unspoken question, "it was the most convenient." Dolohov pursed his lips into a thin line as he glared at the face suspiciously. While it was true that the prick was awfully lazy and did whatever was easiest and most convenient, this was ridiculous! It was a mockery! Taking the face of his enemy as an accomplice was, absolutely, shocking!

Dolohov shook his head. If the prick was coming as that pathetic wizard, he might as well as have waltzed in here as himself. What was the point of using a useless disguise to break him out of the impenetrable Azkaban? No one would belie- Oh Merlin! Breakout of Azkaban?

"Yes!" the imposter replied easily and a little cheekily, and Dolohov gritted his teeth as he glared at the man from the corner of his eyes. Perhaps, he had asked aloud but Merlin..!

"Have you planned everything?" Dolohov asked with bated breath, "Have you checked and considered everything? What are the odds for success?" While it was a dream to escape this hell hole, it was a different thing altogether when it was a plan put in motion by the cheerful wizard. Oh Merlin, this was truly a bonkers plan unless the prick had decided, for the rare moments in his life, to be methodical and careful. Merlin, please let him be serious.

"Why don't you sit still and let me worry about the plan?" the prick suggested as he tapped his temple lightly. A retort was at the tip of his tongue, but Dolohov held his tongue. It would not be good to goad his best friend. He might just decide to be a flippant prick and abandon the plan completely. Dolohov decided he would take onboard the Scot's suggestion and watched his best friend's toothy smile stretch.

The Scot's eyes twinkled as he drew out a wand. In the next few seconds, he had his answers. The prick had drawn very precise wand movements, instead of the dreaded lazy flicks. Thank Merlin, the prick was not messing around. Dolohov watched the rocks around his cell's metal gates swiftly disintegrated into sand, and the groans of bent metal bars echoed in the quiet corridor. The prick smiled cheerfully as he pointed his wand at the metals cuffs around Dolohov's wrists. Very easily, the metal cuffs melted into liquid metal and Dolohov flexed and shook his wrists.

With a low sigh that sounded like exhaustion and reluctance, the prick pointed his wand at the far wall of his cell. Moving his wand swiftly, his eyes quickly reddened and he murmured the incantation of an Egyptian forbidden spell. His wand tip was quickly glowing, and his skin was turning red as if it was burning up. Finally, when he had reached the end of the incantation, he whispered coldly, "Infernal Illumination." A vicious eruption of black fire arrows burst out of the wand tip and collided harshly against the far wall. Quickly, the bricks were turning into black sand as the flames spread.

Dolohov looked at the dangerous dark flames before turning his attention to the wizard. He knew that spell a little too well. It was created by a wizard who had an unrivalled mastery over the fire element, and the flames from that spell had the ability to burn and decimate everything it touched, and lasted for five days and nights. Of course, a powerful spell always came with a harsh consequence to the caster. Infernal Illumination caused the caster's eyes to redden and swell, and his skin and body to heat. A bigger flame would lead to bleeding, and over use of the spell would definitely lead to permanent blindness as the most merciful consequence. An expected consequence of the spell would lead to death by being burnt alive.

Almost as if he had suddenly noticed Dolohov, the jovial imposter rubbed his eyes roughly a final time before he squinted his eyes and presented a huge cheerful smile. "Don't mind the swells around my eyes," he laughed as he waved away the concern, "I'll be okay." Dolohov bit his tongue and turned his face away. His best friend could say whatever he wanted but there was no denying that he was in serious pain. The blood trails that were smeared across his cheeks were minimum proof. "Now that the appetizers are out of the way, let's get the entrée in style," the jovial wizard laughed as he blinked a couple of times before he grabbed Dolohov's wrist and pulled him along roughly, "I doubt the pesky ugly gowns would stay away for long."

Dolohov shrugged and followed without further arguments. It would not help to argue. He was just a passenger. He had nothing to lose, and everything to win. Soon, he could smell the sea, feel the winds on his skin, and hear the whispers of the freedom. It would be golden! However, the moment his foot stepped out of his cell, his fantasy came crashing down to reality. An alarm roared loudly through the dingy corridors before hooves of footsteps echoed through the ceiling above them.

The Scottish wizard stopped to look at him. His sore eyes twinkled with amusement, and his lips pulled into a sheepish smile and laughed cheerfully, "Ah, so they had an additional security!" With a careless shrug that spoke volumes, Dolohov grimaced and fought the urge to scream and face palm. He should have known not to hope too much from the Jester. He should have known it was too much to expect the Scot to plan a subtle and quiet plan. He, really, should have remembered the man's obsession for loud, dazzling fireworks madness. "It's okay, do not worry. Live a little, be a little spontaneous, bastard!" the prick laughed as he began skipping in a direction, "It'll be too boring and easy otherwise!"

Spontaneous only meant that the Jester had not planned in detail, and that meant he had not considered for any mishap to happen! The prick had probably only written the goal, the date and place for execution when he was drawing up the plan. Dolohov winced and cringed as he hobbled and tried to catch up as quickly as possible to the long quick strides of his rescuer. He was tired and dizzy, and his legs were not steady as he would like. He heaved and wheezed as he dragged his feet limply across the gravel. He had barely reached the prick before he noticed the growing frown on the usually happy face.

"Do you remember your transfiguration?" the prick asked softly without looking at him, and Dolohov nodded weakly. The prick blinked and diverted his stern glare from the end of the corridor to look mischievously at Dolohov. "Do me a few favors," he grinned as he cupped Dolohov's face in his hands, "stick to the shadows and… stay alive."

Dolohov stared at the playful grin, and felt a sardonic smile slowly curled around his lips. The Scot was ready to fight, ready to kill. It was not often that the Jester would be serious enough to want to kill, but when he decided to kill, it usually meant a vicious massacre. It also meant that there would be more deaths than expected – and there was almost nothing that could stop him from killing allies if they decided to stand in his way. Dolohov quickly transfigured and moved out of the Jester's way, and melted into the shadows. As things stood, he would not be able to defend himself during the Jester's blood lust. Realistically, there was a low chance that his best friend would kill him; but it was still very likely that the Jester might accidentally kill him in the madness.

"Mr Weasley!"

Dolohov watched the familiar team of young aurors stopping just a few feet away from the Jester. They had little hopes of defeating him at his weakened state, and now they wanted to stop the Jester who was ready to kill? Was the Ministry sending the juniors to be slaughtered? Dolohov shook his head as he continued watching his best friend's side profile. He knew that look – the mania was growing in the twinkling eyes, and the grin was turning into something a little too excited. Dolohov could only hope the boys ran away while they could because this could get really messy quickly.

"Ah, hello Auror…Williamson," the imposter greeted warmly as he tilted his head a little, closed his eyes and smiled very, very widely, "how are you?"

"You shouldn't be he-"

"Stop the imposter!" the fast approaching true Patriarch of Weasley roared and without pause, he threw the spell: Everte Statum! The spell whizzed past the cheek of the impersonator causing a light laceration. That was just enough spark to trigger the battle in Azkaban's dungeon. The prick laughed as he taunted them and shot his own counter that seemed to hit someone in the chest. The team of young aurors immediately cast their spells to which the prick easily deflected and dodged them. As spells continued flying from both sides, Dolohov's heart began beating faster. His blood had begun buzzing, and his ears were ringing. It had been too long since he felt the thrill of battle, and it was a pity he was not healthy enough to join.

"Antonin," the prick hissed as he glanced at the shadows from the corner of his eyes, "follow the sigils and wait for me. Go."

Dolohov took stared grimly at the side profile of his best friend and then to the white sigil glowing on the floor behind him. The prick had cast a charm and a white lighted sigil appeared on the floor behind them. This had happened before, a little too often in their lives but very rarely had they chosen to separate. Dolohov shook his head. This was definitely not the time for him to hesitate. It was obvious that the longer he stayed, the lower the odds for him to escape. The prick was making it painfully obvious that he was hiding in the shadows because he had cast defensive shields and parried spells that accidentally ricocheted to, or targeted his spot. If there was anyone who was paying attention to the details of the fight, they would have noticed; so, it would be good if he left now. That way, the prick did not have to –

"Go, bastard!" the prick snarled viciously with barely a glance at him, "What are you waiting for?"

Dolohov's breath hitched as he blinked. The disguise was melting away. He was seeing more of the prick he remembered. Yes, he was rescued by his best friend. Yes, he was breaking out of Azkaban with the prick. This was real. This was not a figment of his imagination. Dolohov nodded and turned to follow the glowing signs. He would trust his best friend, his equal. As soon as he took a corner, he heard a roaring explosion from behind him and he gritted his teeth. He would not look back, he could not doubt his best friend. Right now, he could only trust the prick that he would survive and somehow, somehow, they would escape. If he died now, if they caught him again, he would never see – No, no, no! He was not weak. He was not submissive. He could not surrender now. Not now, not ever. He needed to live until the Dark Lord returns. He needed to. He must.

When he had finally caught up to the final glowing rune, it faded into nothingness and Dolohov wheezed and heaved. He was tired. He was lost. He was in pain. Sometime during the run through the maze, he had narrowly escaped the blast from an explosion. However, he had not been too lucky in avoiding the flames that had spread rampantly. His tail, his paws, his sides had been badly singed. There were too many explosions, too many blazes, too many shouts… and of course, too many screams and howling. There was no doubt the other prisoners were howling and cackling.

"On guard! Be careful, there might be more of them!"

However, Dolohov wondered if his escape was the main thing or just a diversion. Truthfully, it was too chaotic for something that should have been done with a lot more subtlety. Then again, this was the Jester's idea and none of his ideas had ever been subtle. He had always preferred loud and colourful madness. He needed chaotic excitement. He relished the flavourful madness. Dolohov crouched lower despite the protest from his aching muscles. He needed to remain guarded. There was a possibility that they had caught the Jester and were now searching for him, and he needed to perform his final defense. There was also the possibility that there were other Death Eaters swamping in and there was nothing stopping them from killing a burdensome and weakened colleague. There was simply too many unknowns he needed to consider.

Dolohov gritted his teeth. He needed to focus. He had to remain calm and think. What use was his panic now? There was never anyone or anything that fought to live by panicking. He bit down hard on his tongue and squeezed his eyes tight. He needed to focus on what he could do now. He might be weakened and wandless, but he was still a Death Eater and a duelist. They could never take those away from him. Dolohov breathed deeply as he braced himself. If this was to be his last stand, then let it be. He would fight for all his worth, and he would take at least one of them down with him before he died.

The explosions were ceasing, the curses and counter curses were fading, and the echoes of the footsteps were gradually softening. Had they defeated the Jester? Had they caught him, and now they were looking for him? Was this the end? Dolohov was not deluded. This was the end, and even if it was not, he was sure the end was quickly approaching. His vitality was quickly diminishing if the trembling in his limbs was any indication. His grit to stay awake, to stay alive was disappearing. He had fought for too long. Perhaps, it was not a bad idea to finally surrender. After all, he was not an immortal. This was truly his last stand, and he could only hope they would forgive his weakness.

"I would but you're not weak at all, bastard."

Dolohov raised his head just enough to see a blurred vision of a grinning blonde. A small smile curled slowly and weakly on his lips, as hands reached around him. "I got you, Antonin. Trust me. Relax," the blonde chuckled, "and let me do all the work. Sleep."

Dolohov barely registered the warmth gently flowing through him before he allowed himself to surrender to the sweet embrace of darkness. Faintly, he heard the whistle of wings and felt the forgotten caress of the wind. At last, after five long years of misery, he was free.

Thank you, Corban.

"Minister, Prisoner Antonin Dolohov has escaped prison. Permission to pursue, ma'am."

An auror with bright hazel eyes and blond hair delivered the breakout news in the huge auditorium. Not a pin drop could be heard in the heavy silence.

"Auror Williamson, he was your charge, was he not?" Minister Bagnold asked from her seat and Peter Williamson squared his shoulders and waited with bated breath. He nodded stiffly and she pursed her lips. "How did he escape?"

"They blew a hole in his cell, and another on the West Wing. I believe the outsiders entered through the West Wing and they left through the hole in Dolohov's cell after they led us through the labyrinth in a wild goose. They had also destroyed random parts of the maze; if only to, I believe, create tactical diversion. It is the most logical modus operandi."

She hummed. "Do we have any suspects?"

"I believe his last visitor, Corban Yaxley, is among some that assisted in his escape."

"To which direction did they flee?"

"The hole in his cell faces the North of England."

"Very well," she said with sternly. Turning her attention to regard all the attendants in the auditorium, she said curtly, "I want Dolohov back in Azkaban immediately. Watch every floo transportation and its extensive network. Watch the skies and the seas; anything that should not be flying or at sea, bring it in for questioning. Do not allow the news of his escape to surface, and I mean absolutely no news."

"Yes, ma'am. What of the… muggles?"

"We do not involve them. This is a wizarding business, not a war on England."

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