A/N: I realized that it has been a year since the last update; so, thank you for keeping up with this story. I hope you have been keeping safe and well. Here we go!

It was an hour to the first break of dawn when a relatively short but stocky wizard in a black cloak reached the broken, hanging gates of a messy, neglected cemetery. He stopped and took a deep breath. Very slowly, he blew it out. He could feel it. He was ready. He had waited for this moment since he swore vengeance at his brother's funeral. He was prepared, and he would kill the bastard, come what may. As his heart slowed to a calmer rate, his brown eyes narrowed to glare fiercely at the cemetery. Hate filled his eyes as his teeth gritted in fury and his hand tightened that much harder around his wand. He would kill the vicious beast today – blood for blood.

Connor, today, you will be avenged.

He pushed the old gates and sneered when the low, groaning creaks echoed in the silent, foggy atmosphere. He cast Lumos and watched the small bulb of light lit in the fog. He held the wand outstretched and steadily. Cautiously, he allowed his wand to guide him around the scattered pieces of broken tombstones, strayed roots and rocks, and opened pit holes. As he walked, he made sure to ignore eerie cackles and whispers, and the light, ghostly touches that caressed his skin. It would not do to be afraid of phantoms and ghosts if he intended to behead the clown. After all, the apparitions were merely theatre effects created by the ringmaster, and were, therefore, quite harmless.

With every passing second that he spent walking in the cemetery, the more he was beginning to feel dread settling in the pit of his stomach. He was slowing down, and his steps were becoming heavier and sluggish. How strange that he had passed by broken gates almost five times now. Did he not enter the cemetery through the gates and then walked away from it? How was it possible that he was now approaching it again for the sixth time?

Panic was beginning to claw at his heart as he stopped in his tracks to turn and survey his surrounding carefully. The whispers and cackles had disappeared – when had they faded away? – and so had the phantom touches. It almost felt as if he were alone in another reality where there was nothing except the cemetery ground that he stood on, the fog around him, and the broken, hanging gate. Was it possible that the cemetery was the gateway to another dimension or had his senses been stripped away from him? Had he unknowingly entered and triggered Yaxley's infamous illusionary labyrinth or was the fog a poisonous smog that stole all his senses? Was he doomed to be trapped? No, he had to find an escape; but he had to figure if it was rune-magic trap or simply a poisonous smoke trap. If it was the latter, he needed to figure out what the poison was so that he could find an antidote. If it was the former, he needed to know the language of the runes Yaxley had used, the rules he had placed for the rune trap and then counter it or play by the rules and find a creative solution in the loophole to escape.

"Calm down, do not panic!" he warned himself under his breath. "One at a time, Marcus! Focus!" However, the urgency in his voice only fed the panic and dread in him. Even if had thought of all that, did he have the luxury of time to think and engineer an escape? Was this how he would die? How could he face his brother in the next life? How was he supposed to avenge his brother if he was trapped and dying within Yaxley's traps? How humiliating that he, a Death Eater and the heir of the House of Avery, was dying without his murderer even lifting a finger?

Connor, I am so-

"Get up. It is too early for you to die," a calm voice echoed sternly in his head before he felt a powerful kick slammed into his ribs. He groaned, blinked his eyes blearily as he curled in a foetal position. The kick hurt a lot and he had no doubt he would spot an ugly purple bruise come the morning. Whoever his rescuer was, they had to be stronger than he was – which meant they had to be a top-tier auror or one of his fellow Death Eaters, or someone stronger like the wretched, cowardly old headmaster. That also meant that if his rescuer was his colleague, he would always be reminded and ridiculed about his weakness until he figured a way to kill them. However, if they were an auror – It was impossible for an auror to rescue him. After all, this was Yaxley's compound and there was no reason for any auror to visit him since he was cleared of any crime; unless of course, their visits were on his terms.

Regardless, Marcus owed his saviour a word of gratitude. He was raised at least that well, but gratitude would not stop him from killing them. He had no doubt his parents, especially his mother, could not bear to suffer another humiliating news so soon after his brother had been ruthlessly tortured to death. Slowly, warily, he struggled to his feet and looked up only to stumble back in shock. Was this a cruel joke or a vicious deception on his mind?

There was no mistaking the man! The short, messy, windswept black hair with the shiny silver coat and the hauntingly huge raptor perched on the shoulders. This man could only be one person: Antonin Dolohov. He had truly escaped Azkaban and he was one of the most vicious and unpredictably cruel men. If Yaxley the Mad Clown was unpredictable in the gambling and temperamental sense, Dolohov the Executioner was unpredictable in his viciousness in executing the Dark Lord's rules. He was the one who meted out punishments on whoever he believed to cross the line and betrayed the Dark Lord. He was one of the only few who did as he liked, and he was fearless and unrepentant even as the Dark Lord punished him with a vicious curse that was quite possibly worse than death. Dolohov was cursed to have limited access to his own magic – he was almost a squib but not quite. He was a wizard who could exude his magical intimidation but in terms of casting spells, his magic was unreliable.

"Do-Dolohov…" he uttered breathlessly as his body felt paralyzed. This was a different kind of fear and dread than the one he felt before. In Yaxley's trap, he felt the slow struggle and surrender to death. Standing before Dolohov, he felt the crippling fear to simply beg for death. "How… How did you get out of there?" he asked curiously even though his raspy voice trailed.

"That is none of your concern," Dolohov murmured as he shrugged the eagle off his shoulders and then, he began walking away. "Go home, Marcus Avery Jr."

"No! I need to get to Yax – "

"You have no purpose here," Dolohov interrupted the shout as he stopped to look over his shoulder at the stocky man.

"No," Avery insisted stubbornly as his hands clenched into fists and he glared at the apathetic face. "I can't go home. He killed my brother! I have to avenge him!"

Dolohov sighed mutely. Indeed, he had read the files from Allison, and he had planned to ask Yaxley about it before anyone from the House of Avery came for revenge. It had been a particularly vicious torture, but it was unlike the relatively passive wizard to commit something so outrageous like that. Of course, Dolohov knew Yaxley had always been capable of it even after the madness of Operation Hunt. That mission had gone completely awry and resulted in Yaxley choosing to avoid the frontlines and ignore the others' invitations to torment muggles and enemies alike… unless he was properly provoked.

This was the same Scottish wizard who had dared to nonchalantly reject the Dark Lord's command to engage in the war. Instead, he insisted that he was too tired and physically weak to play chase with muggles and members of the resistance and suggested that his abilities were better suited to babysit and experiment on the prisoners of war. That had not sat well with the members of the Dark Court who wanted to shred him to pieces for his disrespect, but Yaxley was a wizard that most of them acknowledged – although extremely unwillingly and grudgingly – was better off as an ally than an enemy. His mirage magic and mastery over the fire, as well as being an adept at Herbology and Divination, were talents that were a little too lucrative to lose. After all, his eyes were rumoured to be blessed by a God to see the future.

"Very well, Corban," the Dark Lord hissed as he waved his thin, pale hand, "make yourself useful and interrogate all of them. Kill them if they prove to be useless."

After that, Yaxley ignored all the taunting, jeering and insults and kept himself in the dungeon. He took his duties very seriously that he forbade everyone – including the Dark Lord – from entering without his permission. He had even set up traps and runes to repel everyone from coming anywhere near the dungeon. When he had been questioned by the Dark Lord over his actions, he had simply shrugged and blamed it on everyone. He had claimed the continuous taunting from fellow Death Eaters were distracting him from executing his interrogation methods flawlessly, which usually ended with him killing the prisoners out of annoyance. He had gone as far as to subtly blame the Dark Lord as well.

"I would have cooked all of them for disturbing me, but I would hate to displease you; so, those prisoners? They had to lose their lives to cool my wrath. It is truly m ost unfortunate," Corban deadpanned as he shrugged flippantly. It was almost as if he felt not even a shred of guilt for what he had done or said. "Didn't I please you? I spared you the trouble of educating a new generation to share and live by your vision and values. We can always capture new prisoners, can't we?"

"Corban, must I feel grateful for your selflessness to think of me even in your rage?"

"Not at all, esteemed lord," Corban smiled easily and disarmingly, as his eyes brightened and twinkled. "It is to be expected that I would think of you in my every waking hour. After all, I am a Death Eater; in your footsteps, I follow."

"Indeed?" the Dark Lord hummed but his red eyes stared piercingly at the smiling, relaxed wizard. Silence stretched for a long time as Yaxley remained standing in the middle with an easy smile. Nothing in his face or posture betrayed his nonchalance as he waited for the Dark Lord to continue speaking. "Corban, you are very fortunate that none of the prisoners you killed are of importance to my plans," the Dark Lord finally hissed. "However, you will still be punished for assuming my decision."

"I accept any punishment you shall mete," Corban agreed easily with a smile and bowed deeply like any performer would. Peeking from his under his fringe, he asked the Dark Lord with a smile that was too cruel to be innocent, "However, I must ask if I have displeased you by putting you ahead of my feelings? It is only so I would not earn your ire in fu-"

"Crucio!" the Dark Lord cursed darkly as Corban immediately fell to his knees and palms as he growled and hissed in pain. "You are far too talkative, Corban." As Corban remained crouched, face tucked and hidden, the Dark Lord turned to the rest of the members of the Dark Court. "There shall be no more disturbances around the dungeon until he makes Caradoc talk. Continue to silence any resistance, victory is within my grasp! The new world is almost here!"

In the end, the Dark Lord had dismissed all of them while Yaxley remained punished. Dolohov had intended to check on Yaxley when he returned from his death march through Davenport with his Execution Squad, but one look at the blond-haired man was enough answer of what had probably transpired after the dismissal…or rather, what had not transpired. Yaxley was still alive, and seemingly in one of his better moods if one ignored the scruffy look he was spotting.

Upon seeing Dolohov, Yaxley immediately began moaning about wasting away his glorious self with dreadful companions. He complained about the stale air in the dungeons, about how dreadfully dull the place was, about the terrible food he was eating, about the information or lack of information that the prisoners had, about how stubbornly mute Caradoc Dearborn had been… but all that was still better than the warfront. In summary, it had been a lot of flowery words and complains about nothing useful, and Dolohov had wondered how it was possible for someone so intelligent to talk endlessly and passionately without a pause for breath about nothing useful and smart. Had Yaxley been anyone else, Dolohov would have killed them for time-wasting and being useless. It was a torture to listen to the Scot in hopes that he would slide nuggets of useful information in his inane chitchats. He was an impossible prick; and sometimes, Dolohov wondered if killing –

"Dolohov, do you understand now? I have to kill him!"

Dolohov blinked and almost snarled at being rudely interrupted from his thoughts, until he recognized the face in front of him. He shuddered involuntarily as he fought the urge to shake his head and refocus. How could he allow himself to travel so far down a memory when he was standing within arm's reach of a fellow Death Eater? Had he grown strangely complacent and arrogant? If Avery had sensed that he had lost his foot in reality and attacked him, Dolohov shuddered to think if he would be able to subdue or, at the very least, escape from Avery. The effects from Corban's concoctions were weakening and so was his strength. Dolohov was sure he would collapse and become easy fodder for his enemies if he were to fight Avery now.

"You cannot hope to kill him if you were caught so easily in his traps," Dolohov murmured as he and began walking away as calmly and steadily as he could. The only things he could do right now were avoiding any engagement with Avery and quickly return to Yaxley's Hall. Perhaps, he should have whistled and commanded Gawain to stay with him, at least the eagle could fight; instead of letting it fly home ahead of him. Then again, it might be good that the eagle had returned to the Hall, but it was still debatable if Yaxley would be in the mood to help him. After all, a storm had just passed through and if memories served him right, Yaxley hated the storm with a passion. Perhaps, he was truly on his own –

No, the Scot would without a doubt come to his assistance, but the question was how prompt would his help be. This was his compound, and it was unthinkable that Yaxley would go through the process of breaking him out of Azkaban just to die within the month. If anything, Yaxley was likely to wait for him to be almost dead before he made his grand entrance with a tagline like, "Your hero is late… but he is here now! Fear nothing, Antonin!" It would be just like him to be unnecessarily ostentatious, and viciously sadistic.

"I was just caught unawares… that's all!" Avery denied a little too hotly before he dashed forward to yank on Dolohov's arm to stop him. "Dolohov, my brother will not rest until he bleeds. Yaxley murdered an innocent in cold blood!"

Dolohov stopped in his tracks and his hand tightened on the handle of his umbrella. His stormy grey eyes trailed the path from the hands on his coat sleeve to the face that was twisted in a mixture of anger, vengeance and desperation. There was a silent but very urgent plea for him to empathize with the situation; but a desire for revenge without a strong determination was just wishful thinking, especially when the opponent was that prick.

Dolohov waited for a full minute as he silently observed the face. When the face did not falter under his scrutiny, he pulled his arm free and nodded lightly. "If you will not be deterred, follow me," he said softly as he stared into angry brown eyes. "However, I warn you; only your defeat awaits you in the Hall."

"You think I can't kill him."

"No, you are mistaken," Dolohov denied gently as he shook his head and allowed his lips to curl into an amused and indulgent smile. "I know you can't defeat him, especially not when there is so much turbulence in your heart; and without defeating him, killing him would only be a fool's dre-"

"I have no sympathy for him!" Avery roared indignantly as he grabbed onto the lapels of Dolohov's coat. "You must be completely insane if you think I will be merciful to the monster who burnt my brother to death!"

"Azkaban stole my sanity, but it's not like any of you, Averys, would know," Dolohov chuckled darkly, and he smiled a little more viciously when he saw the anger in Avery's eyes began to rapidly dim. He took a gentle hold on Avery's wrists, tugged them lightly enough to coax them to release his lapels before he took a threatening step forward. "While I am still tolerant of your childish antics, I suggest you return home," Dolohov whispered as he fixed a stern glare into guilty eyes. "Lady Ania Avery will catch her death if she loses her only remaining child to the same man."

"He is no man," Avery choked bitterly as he looked away from the menacing grey eyes to stare at the ground. "No man…not even you, would have humiliated Connor the way he did. That was a demon. He is demonic!"

"Indeed, his wrath, when unleashed, is not to be underestimated," Dolohov agreed softly. He would not sympathize. He would not comfort the younger man. There was nothing for him to say except that Connor Avery reaped what he sowed. Surely, Connor Avery knew not to involve the Black Princess in any shenanigans. Surely, Connor Avery had to know she was untouchable if even the Dark Lord chose not to command any of the Death Eaters to track her down despite her marriage to a muggleborn. Surely, Connor Avery had to be intelligent enough to understand the implication… but if he did not, he could only blame himself for his foolishness.

"I will spare him today," Avery declared proudly as he glared hatefully at Dolohov's apathetic face, "but next time, I will not be stopped."

"We shall see if the Moirai sisters will weave the threads in your favour," Dolohov spoke slowly as he returned the glare with a frosty stare.

"What are your gods to a non-believer?" Avery sneered as he shook his head almost as if he pitied Dolohov. Then, almost as if he had suddenly thought of a funny joke, his lips curled into the most disdainful smirks as he took a threatening step forward as he peeked up at the Russian wizard from behind his eyelashes. In the most pretentious voice, he asked innocently, "A better question would be; where were your gods in 1963…or was the year 1964? You know, the Blood Mo-"

Immediately, before his mind could stop him, Dolohov grabbed a fistful of Avery's cloak and yanked him even closer that they could clearly see their breaths coming out in warm puffs and felt its stinging warmth. "I'll be very careful with finishing that sentence," Dolohov snarled as he glared at the smug face, "you don't want me as your enemy."

For a long time, the men glared at each other silently. A wrong move, or a wrong word; and at least one of them would die. Avery knew with absolute certainty that he would have swallowed his pride and walked away if this confrontation had been ten years ago; but now? Now, he was stronger, and Dolohov had been cursed and spent a while in Azkaban. The Russian had to be weakened and unpolished; but was he willing to take the gamble and call on Dolohov's bluff? Was he confident enough in his abilities to kill the Executioner? It was obvious that if he chose to fight, he had to be all in, or Dolohov would definitely kill him. Dolohov was unlike the crazy demonic clown – he would not play around and certainly not give him any chance of escape. Dolohov would be absolutely brutally ruthless from the start… but if he managed to kill the Russian, Avery knew for certain that it would go a long way in restoring his family's prestige.

There was also another factor Avery knew he could not ignore. They were in Yaxley's compound, and he had no solid evidence that the mad man was at home. If the clown was not, these grounds were still familiar territory to Dolohov and Avery was at the disadvantage. However, if the clown was indeed at home, there was nothing stopping the psycho from interfering and helping his self-proclaimed best friend… Although Avery was uncertain if the lazy, whimsical Death Eater would actually involve himself. The Scot was known for his passive cowardice, and preference to avoid engaging in any confrontation. There were far too many factors that were out of his control, and Avery could not ignore any of them. He could return another day or engineer another plan to avenge Connor. Right now, right this instance, he had to decide: Was it wise to call on Dolohov's threat?

"Fine, I will let this go… for now," Avery sneered as he slapped away Dolohov's hand. Without another word, he walked away and passed the broken gates of Yaxley's cemetery, and then, disapparated away.

Dolohov waited until he heard the signature cracking sound of a disapparation before he retreated to the nearest tree and allowed his body to relax. A shuddering heave that escaped his lips exposed his exhaustion and how highly strung he had been. Merlin, he hoped he would not be so unfortunate to meet another person who would be quite willing to kill him. He had just about enough of these confrontations.

Dolohov took out his pocket watch and grumbled under his breath. Avery had taken too much of his time and now, he had to hasten his steps, or he would suffer the annoying pettiness of a displeased wizard. There was nothing that would be beneath the prick. Once, Yaxley had gone as far as to petrify and locked Lestrange in a cabinet, broke his legs and burned broom to crisps because the senior and then-Captain had refused to accept Yaxley as part of the Quidditch team. There was also the time when Yaxley accidentally set someone on fire for simply taking his seat in class. Dolohov shook his head as a fond smile curled on his face. Indeed, Yaxley was not just a mad-

A faint scent of something foreign assaulted his nose. Dolohov frowned as he closed his eyes to focus his senses on sniffing the air. He was right – there was something in the air. Something familiar but for the life of him, he could not discern it well. Perhaps, the after-rain mixed with the morning mist and the decay around him was masking it.

When he had arrived on the borders of Yaxley's compounds, just a little off the gates of the cemetery, he immediately sensed something had happened in his absence. The grey horizon that enveloped the cemetery was suspicious. It was as if someone had wanted to hide something… No, it was not who that was his concerns but rather, what. Dolohov had absolutely no doubts that Yaxley was involved and considering the weather that just passed, he wondered if Yaxley had let his temper loose or if he simply wanted to repel everyone. After all, Yaxley hated having anyone around him when he was in one of his tempers.

There was also the case with Avery. There was no doubt that the Death Eater had been caught in one of Yaxley's traps. This was Jester's home ground; there were many different types of traps spread across the grounds and especially in the Hall, and everything – the ground, the sky and everything in between – acted as extensions of him. It could be said that Yaxley's land was simply a huge dollhouse for Yaxley to play and manipulate to his desires. So, of course, Yaxley had to be acutely aware of Avery the moment he walked through the gates. Did this mean Yaxley had intended to kill Avery slowly? Or was Avery simply the unfortunate outlet chosen to bear the brunt of his unleashed rage? Did that mean Avery's arrival was calculated?

Before Dolohov registered his own movements, he was already running through the cemetery to reach the field that separates Yaxley's Hall from the cemetery. His heart thundered in his chest as he gritted his teeth. "Wait for me; I'm coming," Dolohov swore under his breath as he transfigured into a beast and sprinted harder. He should have trusted his instincts the moment he saw the too-dense mist, and especially when he had read the stormy weather forecast in the Daily Prophet on his journey home.

Dolohov slowed down when he reached the field. The strange faint scent from before was stronger and he growled warningly. It was metallic yet not exactly. Cautiously, he crouched and edged forward slowly as he pricked up his ears and focused his eyes to catch on any moving shadow. As he moved further away from the cemetery and closer to the middle section of the field, the sound of low, guttural hisses became louder, and the strange scent grew stronger. He raised his head a little, his ears twitching and his eyes darted as he searched for the source shrouded in the fog.

Dolohov moved forward, a paw at a time. It was only after he passed by a lonely pole with a toothed crossbar that he stilled all his movements. Slowly, almost robotic, he turned his head to look back at the seemingly innocent rake. In any other place, he would not have minded it too much but on Yaxley's ground, every piece had a role to play. A rake stuck in the ground, in the thick mist, was not so simple. Was it to threaten intruders that Yaxley would scrape them; or perhaps, something more? Was the rake connected to the fog – that if removed from the ground, it would dispel the fog? Perhaps, it would be best if he moved along. After all, Yaxley would have known he had returned if the prick was home. If not, Potsie would have been aware of his presence. He was not a threat to either of them; there was no need for him to feel threatened. He was not the intended target.

Dolohov snorted as he closed his eyes briefly. This was utterly ridiculous. He was tiptoeing around too many things, overly cautious and second-guessing himself. He was behaving like Pettigrew! He should not be cowering in fear. He was the Dark Lord's Executioner, for Merlin's sake! He would not be threatened by anyone, not even his colleagues. He needed to stop playing games and dancing to the beats of someone else's drums, even if it was the prick's drums. He had to quickly recover his strength, or the Dark Lord would be most disappointed with him… and that was unacceptable! Absolutely intolerable! He would not lose any faith the Dark Lord had in him. He simply could not afford that!

A little too angry, Dolohov snarled as threw away all caution to the wind and returned to his human form. He glared at the rake, returned to it and yanked it out of the ground. Gradually, the fog lifted to a fine mist and then, it dispersed completely. Dolohov sneered as he glared at the dark sky and a huge kettle of vultures flying, the cemetery behind him and then at the rake in his hand. "That filthy time-wasting prick!" Dolohov swore under his breath as he dragged the rake behind him as he stormed towards the Hall. If the prick was home, he was definitely stabbing the prick and leaving him crucified on –

"He is ahead of me, it seems," Dolohov whispered breathlessly as he approached the newly built scarecrows in the field. It was no wonder the bald raptors were circling in the sky. The grunting and hissing had to be from them, except that was strange. He knew their sounds and that was the sound of them feeding on some unfortunate carcass…which was weird. It was unlike Yaxley to feed his pets at twilight hours. The man was meticulous and disciplined – he kept to a routine.

As he continued observing them, some of the vultures had swooped down towards the scarecrows, and then returned to the circling group with pieces of something flimsy in their beaks. Oblivious to his presence, the vultures squabbled in mid-air amongst themselves for the flimsy pieces before some of them broke away from the kettle to swoop down for their own share. Dolohov narrowed his eyes as he approached the three scarecrows slowly. The last thing he wanted was to agitate the raptors above him into attacking him.

The three scarecrows were lined very neatly and deliberately in a straight horizontal line. They were not the ordinary scarecrows but rather, they looked like melted human wax sculptures. Each of the sculpture was a grotesque caricature of a boiled human. Their skin – whatever that was not hidden by clothes – and parts of their exposed muscular system had sloughed off onto the rake almost as if the discarded pieces were the glue keeping the human onto the rakes. The scarecrows' scalps had split open to reveal charred skulls with bits of their brain frothing from the fractured gaps.

Dolohov reached out to touch the scarecrow closest to him and his lips curled into a grim line. The texture of the exposed flesh was smooth and soft, except for the parts that had been ripped at by the vultures. It would have been a perfect copy of an overcooked human if only he had not reached out to feel the texture of the sculpture.

"You almost had me fooled, prick," Dolohov chuckled as he shook his head and walked away. He would have felt a little sympathy for the humans who suffered Yaxley's wrath; it had to be an agonizing death to be slowly boiled alive. Alas, the scarecrows were just wax sculptures and for that, Dolohov had no sympathy. It was good, however, that the Scot to express his rage in fine artistry instead of locking away and hurting himself or killing allies. Perhaps, when the Dark Lord returned and the war resumed, Yaxley would finally return to the frontlines.

"Help…me…" Dolohov stopped in his tracks and frowned. Was it his imagination? He had heard a raspy plea whispered in the air. He turned to look around him and waited for the plea to repeat. When he had not heard anything but the noisy vultures, he began to walk only to stop again.

"Help… plea…se…"

Dolohov released a harsh growl of irritation as he returned to the scarecrows to scrutinize them. He had touched the scarecrow on the far left and it was a wax sculpture, or at least that was what he had believed. Against his judgement, Dolohov reached out to touch the same scarecrow he had previously touched. This time, he lifted the hem of the scarecrow's shirt only to realize he was also peeling off a layer of skin. Blood spilled over his hands and Dolohov looked up at the scarecrow's face with narrowed eyes. "Empty eye sockets," he noted matter-of-factly as he withdrew his hands away from the scarecrow, "either ruptured eyeballs or gouged out before death. This one is definitely not alive."

He glanced at the far-right scarecrow and decided it was just like the far-left scarecrow. It was only the middle scarecrow that looked different from the two that stood on either of its side. Dolohov took a step closer to the middle scarecrow and took a deep sniff. Then, he took a step back so he could look at the scarecrow's face without hurting his neck too much. "You must have pissed the prick too much or caught him on a really, really terrible mood," Dolohov guessed as he gave the scarecrow a thorough look-over from the top to the bottom and back to the top. "Did you come alone, or were you with them?"

Unlike the other two scarecrows that looked like they had been burnt alive, this one looked as if it had been boiled just enough for it to hurt but not too much that it would die. "Did he keep you alive until now because of your cowardice or your arrogance?" Dolohov asked curiously as he glanced at the other scarecrows and nodded at them lightly. "Did you gamble with the prick to guarantee your safety by sacrificing your friends? Am I insulting them by calling them your friends?"

"Plea… se. Sor…ry." Pus leaked out of one of the scarecrow's eyes as Dolohov folded his arms and watched emotionlessly. If the scarecrows had been all dead, Dolohov might have spared them a little sympathy and assumed they were unfortunate souls who had unknowingly crossed paths with Yaxley…but not this time. For one of them to be kept alive, this band of once-human scarecrows had to challenge Yaxley's bottom line and were made into examples. Perhaps, the two dead companions were collateral damage. After all, the Scot preferred to keep innocents out of his business but if they were entangled, he would usually serve them a very swift death. That was the Jester's mercy… or it was, once upon a time.

"Your pleas won't change anything. Your time, or what is remaining of it, is better spent wishing or praying to whatever God or Deity you believe in, that the prick decides to end your suffering soon," Dolohov advised as he stared coldly at the melted face. "For your sake, pray hard that his rage cools off soon."

Dolohov dug his hands into his pants pockets and shook his head as he walked away. When would the world learn not to trifle with the dancing clown? When would the Jester's enemies learn that he was handpicked and chosen by the Dark Lord; unlike some of their fellow Death Eaters who inherited the title? Would anyone ever learn to be wary of the smiling, lackadaisical wizard? Sometimes, Dolohov wondered if humanity enjoyed senseless deaths more than its own survival.

Please let me know what you think.