A/N: Goodness me! This mammoth is finally done after so many rewrites. As always, thank you for the reviews and continued support!

Dinner at Yaxley's Hall was a very quiet, and seemingly comfortable affair. The master of the Hall sat at the head of the long mahogany dining table. His plate had been left empty and untouched. His utensils, too, had been left untouched since they were laid on the table. With his elbows resting heavily on the table, his right hand swirled the wine glass carelessly and mindlessly. His head rested tiredly on his other hand as his violet eyes stared at the sloshing red wine. Every so often, a sigh escaped his lips and he would close his eyes momentarily.

To his left, his black-haired companion sat, glaring and scowling at his plate full of… somethings. His hand had closed around the fork tightly, and he had been prodding – stabbing – his dinner. Dolohov grumbled under his breath as he emptied his glass of water onto his dinner in hopes to soften the black thing. It was one thing to consume an atrocious lunch combination of green and yellow foul-smelling things, but it was a whole different thing to try eating a turkey-sized black thing that was as hard as granite ores. When drenching the thing to soften it was fruitless, Dolohov released a frustrated huff that could have been a scream of fury if he had been someone with a lot less self-restrain.

"Grumpie Wizzie something wrong?"

Dolohov bit his tongue and exhaled strongly. He would not lash at the house elf – she was innocent, even if her master was a prick. He turned slowly, and smiled thinly. "Not at all, Potsie. Nothing at all," he repeated but he was sure that assurance was more to convince himself than her. "Dinner that is hard like granite is perfect. I just need to find out how to eat it."

Potsie stared at him, blinked owlishly and tilted her head. It was obvious she found him to be quite crazy for doubting her master's culinary skills. After all, Corban, under his alias, was a renowned Herbologist and Medi-wizard. There could simply be no wrong in the way the chef prepared his meal, right? Right, or at least Dolohov was sure the house elf believed that to be facts. "Grumpie Wizzie be cutting," Potsie suggested as if it was obvious, after a while of accessing if the wizard boy in front of her was joking with her or if he was serious, "Knife be cutting. Grumpie Wizzie be sick, small thing, small bite."

Dolohov nodded weakly while his face hid behind his hands. Of course the elf was going to think he was stupid. How else would anyone eat their dinner? Of course with a pair of fork and knife! Why did he not think of that? Merlin! Did she really think he was so stupid to not have figured that out? Dolohov seethed as he waved the elf away. He had not been in Azkaban long enough to have forgotten even the most menial of human activities. Did Potsie truly believe his time in Azkaban had degenerate his brain until he was retarded? Was that how society assumed he would be? Degenerated? Oh how he would love to –

Suddenly, a raven flew past his eyes and Dolohov's eyes immediately followed its flight. The bird squawked once as it circled around the table before it landed soundlessly on the table. It tilted its head when its black eyes locked onto grey eyes before it squawked again and hopped cautiously to Dolohov's plate, dragging a letter along. Once it was before the Russian wizard, it turned its back on the wizard before pecking curiously on the black monstrosity. With deft fingers, Dolohov easily retrieved the bundled letter and scanned it once and then twice, before allowing his lips to curl into a smile of relief and happi- gladness. If ever there was a time he was glad to retrieve a letter from someone other than Yaxley, it was now.

This was good. It had hardly been a day since he had woken up in Yaxley's Hall, and it had been a pleasing discovery that his most cherished friend was still the same prick from their schooling days. Sure, they just had a… tiny argument that went a little unexpected but that was just a blip. Nothing to fret and worry over. After all, every relationship had its fair share of bumps. A smooth sailing relationship was a false one anyway.

However, to receive a letter from her just an hour after he wrote to her was extremely good news. What were the chances that she would want to communicate with him after he had left her behind? It had been years since he had last written to her, and much longer – probably almost a full decade – since he last saw her; and yet, everything in the letter was just like he remembered. He had always admired her penmanship – strong, neat, elegant... alive. Perhaps, he had a good eye in picking her as part of his team. It was good – more than good, if he was honest – that she had kept herself alive and well-hidden. He folded the letter, patted it once and placed it under his glass. He leaned back into his seat and gave up in resisting the wistful smile that had curled onto his lips. A sigh escaped his lips as he closed his eyes.

"Who could ever make you so happy?"

Dolohov chuckled softly and kept his eyes closed. There was a bite but Dolohov would not react. He had known since he introduced her to Yaxley that the two people had immense mutual dislike. They were both important to him – albeit in different capacities – but as things stood, it would take more than death threats and curses to force him to drop either of them. They knew that meant there was almost no chance at all for him to choose one over the other. Although, if he was really pushed and pressed to choose, it was obvious to all three of them who he would choose to save. They knew, they begrudgingly accept that fact but that did not mean they would soften their stance and that was good enough for the Russian killer. As long as they did not try to kill each other, he was fine with whatever they tried to do to each other; although he did protect her from Yaxley a few – plenty of – times. One was a Death Eater that made everyone wary, and the other was a resourceful woman whose talents lied far from dueling scenes.

"She's just as I remembered. Efficient," Dolohov replied as he handed the letter easily, "and she wants to see me."

Yaxley's eyebrows scrunched as he narrowed his eyes to stare at the infatuated man. There could only be one woman whose letter would twist the bastard out of shape, and made him drop all of his errands just to go to her side. Yaxley, for all his intellect, could never understand why his dangerous best friend would be fond of an annoying slutty harpy. Antonin did not look too poorly – if only, one ignored his current barbaric look. There was no reason for the black-haired Russian to pursue and protect a classless woman who sold her trades in pubs and those whoring houses.

"Are you done pretending to be lovestruck?" he snarled a little harsher than intended as he snatched the offending letter from under bastard's drink. By the time he finished reading the letter, his eye was already twitching from irritation. "How nice of her to write," he sneered as he glanced at the wasteful piece of parchment again. "Oh, Dolohov my darling," he read aloud in false seductive voice that was a little too shrill, "You'll find me in Davenport if you come. I promise, darling."

Dolohov clapped his palm over his lower face as his nose flared. His eyes danced with mirth as he listened to Yaxley's poor imitation of the woman. "I know you're a prick but, even that is a little too rude, Corban," he chided teasingly as undertones of amusement bellied his measured voice, "she doesn't sound as bad as you make it to be."

"Of course not," Yaxley countered easily without batting an eyelid as he tossed the letter to the Russian wizard who caught it, "she sounds a lot worse. I'm flattering her by lowering the shrill."

Dolohov shook his head helplessly. There was no appeasing the Lord of Durness when he had decided to focus on his irritation. It was better to let him rant and sneer until he was satisfied. Stopping him or even defending the victim of his rants would only encourage him to continue or on occasions made him to be the new target. However, it was precisely this thing about the blond-haired man that made Dolohov most relieved – even if they had gone through defeats and glories, and heartbreaks and happiness, there was still something childlike left inside. The war had not ripped apart everything.

"Thank you for staying alive, Corban."

The words tumbled out softly and unconsciously. Yaxley's lips clamped shut as his head swerved to the left as his violet eyes met melancholic grey eyes. There was sincerity in the usually unfeeling eyes. Very slowly, he nodded and rose to his feet. In a few strides, he was beside the unkempt, long-haired man. Almost a little too aggressively, he pulled the thin man into a bear hug. Perhaps, he should have done this much earlier instead of attempting to kill him first. Burrowing his head into Antonin's shoulder, he tightened his grip on the man. He was no good with words but it was alright because Antonin knew – did he not? – that he hugged only those precious to him in that way.

As the brothers continued sharing a hug, the Russian wizard began patting the Yaxley's shoulder a little urgently. Immediately, the blond-haired man released him and violet eyes looked at him in confusion, before they scanned the room for threats. Who would dare disturb him in his own home? When he detected nothing amiss, he returned his attention to a fuming wizard.

"Were you serious?"

Yaxley blinked a few times. Of course he was serious about hugging his brother! Anyone would be serious about hugging their beloved brother whom they had not seen in years! Those were the words he would have wanted to scream aloud at the dunderhead but this was Antonin Dolohov, and they were Death Eaters. It would not do to show weakness and sentimentality so openly – one could never be certain of eavesdroppers. Oh, oh! Perhaps, this was precisely why his best friend wanted to end the hug soon. Of course! The Russian bastard would never lower his guard for too –

"Were you trying to kill me with food not even befitting for zombies?"

Yaxley looked from the seething face to the plate. Indeed, there was a black solid on the plate. Oh! He almost forgot all about it but he could not be charged guilty until he confessed, could he? Yaxley returned to his seat as calmly as he could. Coughing into his fist, he took a deep breath and mustered all his strength and will not to choke on his laughter. "I need you to jog my memories, Antonin," he requested solemnly as he rubbed his temples. "You know how it is; my memories are always fragmented when I overuse my magic. It is difficult for me to recall a lot of things after every episode."

Guilt flickered in the grey eyes as Dolohov dropped into his seat with a deflated huff. In a much gentler and softer tone, he relayed his horrendous lunch and terrifying dinner. He elaborated especially about the effects those… things had on his olfactory organs. "A dragon's dung and a centaur's bile…" Dolohov trailed as his back shuddered, "and now this. The charred remains of something I have no idea what. Were any of this necessary?"

Yaxley's violet eyes softened and began tearing as his face turned wounded and pitiful. "I simply wanted to rejuvenate you," he replied sadly, almost as if he could not comprehend why his actions were not well received. Looking into stormy grey eyes, he continued sniffing, "Was I wrong to do good for you? I'm sorry Validus; you know, I didn't mean to hurt you."

Dolohov's gaze immediately hardened to a glare when he saw the violet eyes shining with undisguised hilarity. This was Corban's performance to amuse himself, not a true effect of his curse. Dolohov gritted his teeth. He would not be moved by this pitiful act. He had been at the receiving end of it too many times over the years and, especially, when they were still boys in Hogwarts. Breathing in very deeply, he asked in a measured voice that told Corban just how irritated he was, "Did you have to prepare these monstrosities for my homecoming?"

When the victim of his prank remained unmoved from his pitiful act, Yaxley's face exploded with a sheepish smile that was far from guilty or embarrassed. Very freely and without a shred of remorse, he admitted, "Nope, but it was amusing! That's all that matters, isn't it?"

Dolohov sighed loudly and rested his head on the table. Some things did not change and perhaps, that was good. He peeked at the smiling wizard and sighed in defeat. There was simply no defeating a man who found everything hilarious. It was not that Corban did not have moments when he was serious. It was also certainly not true that Corban was lackadaisical but he simply chose to be entertained and amused. No matter how he decided to act, there were very few who would dare command him to change his behavior and those who did wield that might would rather let him do as he pleased than engage him in a duel that held no merits – only losses – to everyone.

With a wave of his hand, Potsie trotted in with a tray of more…edible food. Yaxley watched his best friend dug into his proper dinner with fervor after Potsie served him. With a careless smile playing on his lips, he rested his head on one hand as he drew his violet eyes away from his famished brother to his red wine. That girl from the evening... There was something about her that felt too familiar that it was bordering on suspicious. Something was definitely not right with that one, and Yaxley was absolutely certain he would get to the bottom of the riddle.

"Antonin, did we let a rat escape?"

Dolohov blinked as he raised his head and swerved it roughly to look at the focused yet dreamy expression on the blond-haired man's face. Grey eyes roved around the fair-skinned face, and observed the violet eyes acutely. There was something strange about the usually twinkling eyes. "We killed every enemy and trespasser," Dolohov answered calmly as he wiped his mouth with the napkin, and pushed his dinner plate away. He folded his hands and rested them on the table, and leaned forward.

"Do you remember every kill?" Yaxley asked tiredly as he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "I can't remember their deaths… only their screams."

Dolohov stared at his best friend and kept quiet. This… this was real. This was not a performance. This was Yaxley's genuine moment of vulnerability, but it was also his most triggering moment. Whenever the blond-haired wizard asked about events of the past, Dolohov had come to expect it to be a deadly question. After all, whatever Corban asked during these moments had no right or wrong answer; only answers that the Scot would accept. "I don't remember the deaths between 1967 and 1971. They are a blur," Dolohov admitted easily, as he continued training his eyes on the Scot's violet eyes. "Those kills were too easy… too routine. Too ordinary."

Yaxley sighed. Admittedly, it was not that he could not remember the kills. He could not tell which were real and which were fantasies created by his mind. After all, he knew better than almost everyone else that his curse brought out the worst in him. Where he would rather not kill, the cursed version of him was more than willing to maim the victims to death. Where he would rather be passive and uninvolved, the cursed one was more than willing to destroy and create chaos, and watched everything turn to ash. Of course, Yaxley would never claim to be a saint and that other side to be evil. He had killed enemies, and he acknowledged that; because why else would the Dark Lord promote him to be a Death Eater? There was also the fact that he killed allies, fellow soldiers to the Dark Lord's cause, and he had not regret their deaths. How could he regret their deaths when he felt they had wronged him?

They were in his way. They wanted to hurt what was important.

"Did a ghost threaten you?"

Yaxley blinked and raised his head to look warily and wearily at the narrowed eyes. Nothing escaped the bastard. He was too keen and astute. "Yes…" he answered tiredly.

"Yes?" Dolohov echoed as he raised a curious eyebrow.

That would look like harmless curiosity, or even amusement on anyone's face but on the Dark Lord's Executioner? That was the prelude to his fury, or more aptly, Antonin's final warning or chance for his victims to backtrack on their answers to provide a more appreciated answer.

"No," Yaxley backtracked on his answer, and made sure there was firmness and certainty in his voice, as he shook his head "No, no one threatened me." If he wanted to convince Antonin, he had to first convince himself. "Who would dare threaten me?" he asked aloud and forced his lips to curl into an amused smile, "I am Lord Yaxley of Durness! Yaxley the Death Eater! Yaxley the Mad Jester! I am the Great-"

"You don't need to list all your titles to me, Corban," Dolohov interrupted as he visibly relaxed and leaned back into his seat with a smirk. "Remember you're a natural prick; you don't have to try too hard to be an asshole."

"Bastard!" Yaxley laughed. Just like that, his worry was momentarily set to bed. Antonin had the gift of calming him down, easing his sorrows and anxiety. Truly, Yaxley was certain in no uncertain terms that no one saw the Russian the way he did. Indeed, there was no denying the terror the bastard had inflicted, nor could he deny the bastard's ruthless and vicious nature to torture all his victims until they were driven insane until death became the greatest blessing. Those hands that tormented his victims until they begged for death, were the very same pair of hands that helped him to nurture the young flora and fauna, care for the injured creatures, the unicorns' and kelpies' pregnancies and deliveries, and even, harvesting the bounties. How strange that viciousness and gentleness lied within the same person. Yaxley wondered if society should one day see the bastard in the same instances he saw, would they still see the bastard as the malevolent and heartless executioner? Would they be able to separate the executioner from the man?

Was there any reason to separate the identities?

"What's bothering you?"

Yaxley sighed as he looked into already calm grey-eyes. With those keen eyes trained on him, it would be in their best interests for him to spill sooner rather than later. After all, it would be ridiculous for them to have a tussle just because of his stubbornness to pretend he was not bothered when it was obvious that he was deeply disturbed. Breathing in deeply, he confessed as flippantly as he could, "I saw her."

"Who?" Dolohov asked as he leaned closer, intrigued by the confession. "You mean your new… what was it you like to call them? Belle?"

"Them?" Yaxley echoed in mock-surprise as his eyes twinkled with undisguised amusement, "I am not a playboy, Antonin. I lead a simple life, away from all those, shall we say… extravagant lifestyle. I am just a simple country boy."

"Says the man who has to look immaculate and perfectly-put-together at all times," Dolohov quipped as he rolled his eyes.

"Of course, looks is everything!" Yaxley retorted loudly but without any bite as he waved his hands wildly. "What if I should die tomorrow, or Merlin forbid, now? I must be always charming! I must die with a bang! My death must be glorious and I must look befitting of a gorgeous stage!"

"In that case, I must apologize," Dolohov sighed heavily as he closed his eyes and lowered his head. He made sure to look apologetic and small, but there was no hiding the amusement and the obvious laughter that leaked into his voice. "I shall leave your stage. I am too ugly now."

Without a beat, without hesitation, Yaxley smiled blindingly and charmingly, as he shook his head gently to stop his friend from rising from his seat. "Your ugliness would not dim my excellence; but rather, it would only make me look much better. A candle can shine brighter when there is some darkness," he comforted the Russian. "Although, you were still too ugly even at your sparkling best."

Dolohov stared at his friend as his lips twisted in many ways before they burst open to release loud roars of guffaws. Trust Yaxley to kick anyone even when they were in self-depreciating state. Truly, when it came to bantering and mocking others, Corban was ruthless. He held no sentiments and certainly no punches. Holding his hands up in surrender, Dolohov simply shrugged his shoulders and took the defeat graciously. There was no denying that Corban had always been the better looking one between them. The man could dress up in anyway, even in a witch's clothes, and made it look like haute-couture, or if he was in the mood, he could make it look like avant-garde fashion.

Yaxley smiled wistfully as he watched his closest friend. Truly, he missed that genuine sound. Sure, Antonin had a horrendous unrestrained laughter but it had been a little too long since he listened to it. Since they left Hogwarts, he vaguely remembered hearing that roaring sound once, twice…maybe thrice but definitely not more than that. Antonin would smile. He would smirk. He would chuckle but he would hardly ever laugh as unguarded and as genuinely as that. It was as if the war had buried and silenced the boy in that grey-eyed man. Antonin had only been nineteen years old when he had been sent to infiltrate and kill by the Dark Lord's order, and made into one of the Dark Lord's Commanders. Antonin was never asked to waste his time recruiting and promoting even when even the likes of Rodolphus Lestrange and Godfrey Mulciber was ordered to recruit. Family and prestige meant little to nothing to the Dark Lord when he handpicked his Commanders.

"What's with the look, Corban?"

Yaxley felt his smile slipped a little around the corners as he regarded the man who had stopped laughing even if amusement still danced in his eyes. "What look?"

"That dreamy, sappy, infatuated look," Dolohov smiled knowingly and widely enough that his canines peaked a little. "Are you falling in love with me?"

"If I was, I fell out. The ship sailed a long time ago," Yaxley deadpanned as he rolled his eyes. For a long moment, their conversation seemed to have finished there and then. Nothing seemed forthcoming from either side…until his mouth took a life of its own. First, it sighed helplessly before it confessed almost a little shyly, "She wasn't a belle, not at all… but she's her daughter."

The reaction was instantaneous. Dolohov straightened in his seat, his eyes narrowed again as he leaned forward almost as if he was ready to lunge forward. Dolohov was battle-ready. "How do you know?"

The question was asked softly but fiercely. Yaxley sighed as he slumped further into his seat. He had spilled it – there was no backing out. Society, allies and foes, had believed that Dolohov the Executioner was the worst of Antonin Dolohov but there was a side of him that was far scarier. The protective side of the Russian was truly dangerous. It made Antonin unpredictable and ruthless. "She said her godfather said someone with my eyes would protect her from death," he replied slowly.

"You believe her."

Whether Antonin intended to or not, Yaxley could not help but hear the accusatory tone. It was not a question, it was a statement deemed to be facts. Antonin was already certain he believed her – there was no reason for him to pretend. He nodded once and explained, "I didn't kill her."

"Wouldn't or couldn't?"

Yaxley stared at the cold expression and sighed. What was the point of asking him that? Was it not obvious? Why was Antonin acting – No! Antonin already knew the answer, he simply wanted the confession. This was one type of merciful cruelty that the Russian was capable of – confessions would be spoken aloud willingly. "She looked like her," he huffed as he stressed each word. The reason for sparing the woman was obvious.

Understanding chased the apathy away from the calm eyes as Antonin slowly nodded his head. Four words seemed to be more than enough to calm him down. Finally, grey eyes fluttered close and Yaxley heaved a muted sigh of relief. It was over. He knew how pressurizing it was when Antonin interrogated, and he could be very creative too when he wanted to be. However, it was two very different things – spectating the interrogation and being subjected to it. When those grey eyes reopened, they were clear and curious. There was none of the apathy, deadly calmness and seriousness. They were friendly and playful but not enough to be mean and mocking.

"It could just be polyjuice," Dolohov suggested with a shrug as a teasing smile slipped onto his face, "she used to drop her hair strands everywhere, didn't she? She was always so stressed out."

"Yes, she did," Yaxley replied softly, as he smiled wistfully at that trivia fact, "but for someone to collect her hair stands? It must either be someone close to her or a stalker… in which case, I should really have them killed."

"Protecting her is no longer your prerogative," Dolohov reminded firmly but gently as the playful smile slipped away, "it hasn't been yours for a long time now."

Yaxley opened his mouth and then, closed it immediately. It was a harsh reminder but it was needed. Someone needed to remind him that he was not just unwelcomed in her life, but he was exiled. She no longer needed him, not since the night of The Hunt. No, no. She still needed him especially when her spouse was weak and incapable of protecting her but she wanted him nowhere near her, and that was the problem. It had nothing to do with his fairy tales, of course not. He would never force anyone, least of all, her to bend to his will. "But it's not polyjuice!" he protested.

"Are you certain?"

"Protractum would have blown away all disguises except for metamorphmagi disguises," Yaxley answered as he crossed his arms and a thoughtful expression descended on his features. "It can shave away the skin and hair... and to the bone if I truly wanted it to."

"It has to be powerful if it's to be one of your more signature spells," Dolohov nodded as he locked his eyes on thoughtful violet eyes. "Did you use Ultima Revelium though?"

"That would be an overkill, don't you agree?" Yaxley asked as he shook his head slowly. "How often in the past has it been truly needed? We don't meet too many metamorphmagi."

Dolohov closed his eyes. Corban had a point. Even at the heights of the war, when they were faced with animagus enemies, Protractum was more than enough to reveal their true identities and then kill them in one of the most agonizing ways. Only once in his life, he was twenty years old – a full-fledged Death Eater – he had been forced to use Ultima Revelium – when Protractum had proved to be useless – and he had been truly frightened of what he had seen. It was that moment he understood two things: one, Headmaster Dumbledore was truly the most powerful and knowledgeable, and fearless wizard of the land, and two, there was a reason why the headmaster had warned him about-

"Besides, to use it demands a high level of discipline and focus." Dolohov reopened his eyes quickly as his best friend continued talking flippantly and his lips had curled into a lazy grin. Dolohov sighed inwardly as he scratched his chin. Gone was the uncertainty and anxiety from those violet eyes, and the playfulness had returned. After twenty over years of friendship, he was not truly certain which version of his best friend was more troublesome to handle – did he want to deal with the Jester who had nothing to lose or the lovelorn man who would do anything to achieve his goals?

"What's the point of creating spells if you're not using it?"

"You know, Ultima Revelium would leave me open to ambushes but you still… I cannot believe this!" Yaxley sniffed theatrically as he wiped the non-existent tears from his face. "It has hardly been a day since we are reunited and you've already planned for me to die?" he hiccupped and cried intentionally as he batted his eyelids at his seemingly apathetic best friend. "Oh! I am so heartbroken! You're such a cruel bastard."

Dolohov stared at his dramatic friend and blinked his eyes very slowly. Breathing in very deeply, he fought the urge to rub his face. The melodrama monologue would have been welcomed in other instances but now? At this moment while they were discussing something important, he had decided to switch on the comedian? Dolohov bit his tongue and sucked on the wound. The metallic taste of his own blood would anchor him in reality and ignore the nonsense spilling endlessly out of that talkative mouth. Had Corban been any other Death Eater or Member of the Order, he would have attempted to murder him but… there was a reason the violet-eyed Jester was his best friend and equal. It was one thing to fight a powerful wizard who would fight to kill. It was another thing completely to fight a laughing wizard who was your equal in talents and did not usually fight at his full potential. The former was predictable, the latter was impossible.

"Perhaps, this one is a metamorphmagus?"

"Maybe," Yaxley mused as he tapped his temple, "quite probable." Even as he said it aloud, there was something that still did not add up – she felt familiar. Could it be that she was someone he met during one of his journeys, or was she someone he owed a debt to? It was moments like these that made him resent the curse that lied within him – fragmented memories made it impossible for him to fully trust himself and that also made him wary of everyone he met. Who could he trust completely except for his house elf and brother?

"Breathe, Corban. There's no need to panic."

Yaxley felt his body shudder as it tried to follow that instruction. Was he panicking? Was there reason for him to panic? With Antonin by his side, was there anyone who truly dared and wanted to threaten him? A large warm hand fell onto his shoulder before he was slowly pulled into a hug. Yaxley breathed in the familiar scent and slowly his heart calmed its erratic beats.

Safe.

Tension ebbed out of him and Yaxley felt the stiffness around his muscles disappear. This was a luxury he had been missing since Antonin was behind bars. There was no one who could calm him. No one he trusted enough to lower his guards and let go. No one capable of stopping his madness-induced rampage. Everyone would have tried to kill him except Potsie and Antonin. Only with them, could he trust his body, heart and soul to. They would never trample on him.

When Corban was finally calmed again, Dolohov released his best friend and returned to his seat. He waited until the violet eyes looked and recognized him, before he took the reins of the conversation and steered them back to the topic at hand. "A metamorphmagus cannot be her daughter," he insisted as he laid down his explanation. "She isn't a metamorphmagus and a muggleborn absolutely cannot carry that unique ability. You and I know that that talent can only be passed down directly from the parents. The sperm or the egg or both must carry an active strand of that gene for someone to possess that ability."

Yaxley knew, even if Antonin had not said a word, that as soon as they concluded that the young woman was highly likely to be a metamorphmagi that she could not possibly be her daughter. It was impossible. Not even divine intervention could change that – it was simply the law of nature. He knew metamorphmagi better than almost everyone else because after all, he was the one who wrote the book about Metamorphmagi and their Manipulative Reconstruction. He was not a generational talent for nothing.

"Recessive genes carry a very slim to nothing chance of passing on the ability. It is this reason that metamorphmagi are so few and far in between," Yaxley continued Dolohov's explanation dully almost as if he was reciting a small passage from his own works. "Metamorphmagi are born, they cannot be made."

Dolohov kept quiet as he watched his best friend. He knew that look. He knew those eyes. Corban the Doctor had awakened. Metamorphmagi was a subject Corban was extremely passionate about to the point it could be considered an unhealthy obsession. Part of the reason for that, Dolohov was certain was because test subjects were too rare. Corban might never have told anyone but Dolohov was sure that the Scot had kept and put his test pets through many tribulations and stressful situations, and kept and dissected, and experimented on their corpses… all in the name of progressive knowledge.

After all, this was the same man who had sliced opened his own leg just so he could document, in acute detail, every joint and vein. Once upon a time, when he was a boy, he had showed Dolohov a new meaning to graverobbing. The silver-haired boy had no qualms about digging up unnamed graves and cutting up the corpses – he made sure to take multiple different corpses at various levels of decay. He had also kept a thorough record and a full inventory of all the potions and salves and everything in between, their ingredients and recipes, and especially all types of plants and their parts. Corban the Mad One was truly meticulous and detailed, and there was not a test subject that escaped him without his permission. Sometimes, Dolohov felt sorry for the subjects tagged by his best friend. If Dolohov had tortured his victims to insanity before he killed them, Corban drove his victims to the precipice of sanity but never enough for them to tip over and he made sure they stayed on the knife-edge. It was anyone's guess which way to death was worse but considering Dolohov was dubbed Death's Avatar, perhaps, his way was a little worse.

"My invitation to Davenport still stands," Dolohov spoke aloud even though he knew the answer. There could only be one answer.

"I've to take a rain check this time," Yaxley rejected the invitation with a mocking apologetic smile. "I can't join you this time, Antonin."

"What a pity," Dolohov chuckled as he shook his head. "Is it worth dumping me?"

"A little turnabout is fairplay, don't you agree?" Yaxley counted with a gentle smile, "What was it you used to say? Sorry, but – "

" – a new toy takes precedence."

Dolohov knew that line very well. How many times in the past had he used it? It had become a coded message that only they understood. He rose from his seat and laughed a little, "I see where I'm no longer wanted."

"Goodbye Antonin," Yaxley whispered as his best friend slowly exited the dining room. "I hope my true homecoming present to you would help you while I am not there."

Stay alive, bastard.

Faraway from Yaxley's Hall, in the heart of London, a man with spiky golden hair and bright blue eyes walked towards King's Cross Station. It had been years since he had come anywhere near to this place, and yet, this was one of his favorite places as a boy. This was where he first met his brothers. This was also the last place he saw that person. He walked towards a pillar and stared at it regretfully. He, like every other student from Hogwarts, knew what lied behind the pillar. If a decade ago, he knew he would never see that person again, he would never have gotten on the train. How horrible was it to not be able to say goodbye to the one you admired the most? How terrible was it to not be able to say thank you to the one who had taught and protected you as you grew up? How crushing was it to be cast away and forgotten?

He had been silly and naïve, and gullible when he believed the words of a snake. He should have trusted himself – Yaxley the Mad Jester could never be trusted – and he would not have been in Hogwarts that year. He would never have graduated but at least… at least, he would have been with them.

"Stay in school and graduate, and you'll see us at your graduation."

How could he allow the Violet-Eyed Scot convince him? No, he wanted to be convinced because he had been desperate for good news. He was hopeful even when the odds were stacked up against his favour. He had persevered in school, attended every class and he did his best even when the professors and adults, and his fellow students had treated him with mistrust and suspicion. Flich and Mrs Norris, especially, shadowed him everywhere. Oftentimes, Filch would sneer and pester him about the Death Eaters, and especially, about his adoptive brothers. Sometimes, Mrs Norris would hiss at him just because he had stayed a little longer than usual in the library. He had to stick to a routine or he was scheduled for an interrogation. Professor McGonagall, although she was not his house head, she was a little kinder to him than the others. She would check on him – no, his dark mark – periodically and asked if he had heard of any news from his guardians. Nobody was interested in his well-being except the oddest person then. Headmaster Dumbledore.

He was by far the strangest. He would check on him a little more often than he would check on any other student. He had never asked about anything related to Death Eaters and the war, but he would talk about Dolohov and Yaxley. It was as if the Headmaster wanted to make a clear distinction between the Death Eaters and the men. It was from stories told to him by the Headmaster and the complaints from the portraits that he learnt why his brothers were called bastard and prick. They were, beyond doubt, scoundrels. It was only in these moments that he found comfort and solace to carry on and finish his studies.

Alas, came the day of his graduation and that was also the day the war ceased. The Dark Lord had been thwarted and the Ministry was out at full force to capture all remaining Death Eaters and supporters of the Dark Lord. He remembered he had been worried, and he fashioned an escape from Hogwarts – or perhaps the Headmaster had helped him leave. He skipped out on his graduation, stole a flying bike from one of the pubs in Hogsmeade and flew as quickly as he could to Yaxley's Hall… but it was for nothing. The prick had told – lied – him that Dolohov had been on his way to Hogwarts to attend his graduation, and had instructed him to go first because he wanted to dress for the occasion. The prick had promised to catch up. Without hesitation, he flew frantically back to Hogwarts only to have his hopes dashed. Neither Antonin Dolohov nor Corban Yaxley was anywhere to be seen but their pictures were scattered all over Hogsmeade. The Ministry wanted them, Dead or Alive, and they were willing to pay a hundred thousand Galleon to whoever surrendered them.

It was out of anger that he sold Yaxley on that same day. He told the Ministry where to find the liar but when they arrived at Yaxley's Hall – and de-warded the compound – that they found an empty house. The house elf was missing, all of the valuables had been taken away, the furniture were untouched and covered by cloths, and the master of the house had disappeared. The only one telling sign that Yaxley had been there mere moments ago was the little note and a fat pouch of Galleon left on an empty golden plate.

Since then, he had never seen or heard from either of them. He had read the news that the lying prick was found to be not guilty because he had been under the Imperius curse. What sort of best friend would cast an unforgivable on you to force you to do evil? Only a bastard would be capable of that. Yet, even as he read the news and heard the gossips, something still did not add up. Shortly after the bastard was sent to Azkaban, the prick vanished into thin air and Yaxley's Hall went into complete ruination… And he was alone.

He had only been nineteen years old then, that he took off on his own with the money the prick left him. He travelled far and wide, searching for Azkaban and finding ways to enter it. He applied – not once, but twice – to be an Auror but he was immediately turned down. They cited every reason – even those unreasonable ones such as his built – but he knew he was rejected because of the dark mark. He worked hard to learn magic that worked well with his physique and frame.

Now, at age five-and-twenty, he was finally coming back to where it all began for him. He was no longer the delusional boy who chased the shadows of his brothers. He was certain the reason they left him at Hogwarts was because Hogwarts was convenient and it was too burdensome to look after him. They did not want him because he was useless. They dropped him as soon as it was convenient. They never loved him like a brother. He was just a plaything to them – something to help them pass their time faster. They had intended to groom him into a Death Eater like them – why else would he carry the dark mark – but in their assessments, he was deemed not good enough. That was the only logical reason for why they would abandon him and never returned for him.

Despite his resentments, he still kept the final letter one of them wrote to him. The prick had known his childish and predictable moves, and was many steps ahead. Digging into his jacket, he pulled out the crumpled, old, little note. The penmanship looked lazy and careless, but towards the end, it was firm if the imprints on the other side of the note was anything to go by.

Oh, you poor, poor little trusting boy. You're a little too slow.

Congratulations on graduating with not-too-stellar results but… that'll have to do. I'm sorry we could not be there, little brother.

Take the money and take good care of yourself. Eat well and live well.

Goodbye, Little Rowle.

With love,

Your prickly brother

C.Y

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