ANTONIN let slip a curse in his native Russian the moment he'd Apparated to his destination, a clandestine oath he'd never dare utter aloud when near the prickly little she-wolf who had an inexplicable hold over him.
A furious blood-yell left his lips as he raised the wand he had taken off Willas Wydman's corpse, Oliver having broken his, and let loose his fury on that which was closest to him, which in this case, was a gnarled old elm tree.
The air crackled with otherworldly energy as a torrent of Dark and destructive magic surged forth from Willas Wydman's wand, smashing into the old elm tree with a deafening impact.
Bark exploded, splinters few, and the very earth seemed to tremble beneath the onslaught of his rage. He sensed the rebellion brewing within Willas Wydman's daughter just moments ago.
If the werewolf wanted to demonstrate her intelligence and sanity, she'd do well to accept his proposition. The brisk breeze bit into his skin, coloring Antonin's cheeks with a red hue, though not solely due to the cold.
The chill couldn't compare to the fury and pain emanating from the fragile, quivering muscle within his chest – a feeling he wished he could extract with his own hands. He despised the witch for this turmoil, for infiltrating his thoughts and muddling his discernment, leaving him fixated on little else but safeguarding her from Black.
Black would undoubtedly obliterate the witch in one of his rages, and despite Antonin's anger at Norah Wydman's rejection, Antonin suspected that the wandmaker's daughter held a certain sway over the Obscurial, whether Oliver comprehended it himself or not. The bastard had always scrutinized his every action, questioning each decision.
Nevertheless, he remained the only one they could rely on to ensure the Dark Lord's machinations proceeded smoothly, especially if circumstances took an unfavorable turn.
The uncontrollable might of the Obscurus residing within Black could serve as an ultimate recourse.
His pale eyes remained fixed on the expanse of leaves adorning the trees before him, a tapestry of red, orange, and brown. He chastised himself for his inability to expel the witch's image from his thoughts.
When Norah Wydman had left him with no recourse, forcing him to wield her father's wand and materialize the dagger in his grasp, a familiar surge of betrayal, devastation, and sorrow rose within him. Yet, it was the torrent of rage that propelled the Death Eater onward, the same fury coursing through his veins that kept his magic pulsating within. A man of patience, he was in no rush to reveal himself prematurely. He envisioned the demise of his elusive prey, the wolfish figure in his mind. Antonin redirected his gaze to the overhead canopy of the forest, entertaining thoughts of summoning yet another blade. This time, it would be to drive it into the blonde's chest, or to graze it menacingly across her exposed throat, all while compelling Black to witness her blood adorn him like war paint.
And oh, it felt sublime. Muscles twitched as an insatiable craving for the wolf's life surged within him. The desire to punish the wandmaker's daughter for her transgressions burned hotter than ever. He loathed her, and his wish for the wolf's demise was rooted in a conviction that she was his inferior in every conceivable aspect. But his intent was more than mere killing; it was to extract agony. He yearned for her suffering, to witness her anguish.
Killing had always held a certain allure for Antonin, yet this time, he was driven to prolong the ordeal, unlike any other instance. Unlike some of the Dark Lord's associates – those like Bellatrix and the brutish Fenrir Greyback – who delighted in playing with their prey before the final strike, Antonin saw no merit in elongating suffering needlessly. However, with Norah Wydman, it was different, almost necessary. She had to endure agony, bleed, scream, and weep. But when the decisive moment arrived, when her tearful eyes locked onto him with his knife embedded in her knee, his resolve wavered momentarily. The arrival of Aurors on the scene threatened to freeze him in place, just as the terror in her gaze held him back. Her profound fear shook him to his core.
The instinct to end her torment waged a battle with the desire to make her suffer for rejecting him, once again. It was a grim internal conflict, unprecedented and tormenting, tearing at him from within.
The hesitation was brief, though. His decision crystallized as his urge to snuff out the witch's life dwindled. Instead, he redirected his focus toward his archenemy, the one who had secured the greater triumph.
If he couldn't possess her on his terms, then Black wouldn't have her either – that was his unyielding resolution.
As the tense atmosphere hung heavy around him, Antonin's attention was abruptly torn from his contemplations by the sound of crunching leaves and twigs underfoot, and out of the corner of his gaze, he caught a flash of black coming from his right.
He slowly turned, unaffected by the new arrival, and acknowledged his nemesis's cousin as Bellatrix Lestrange, her wild mane of dark curly hair cascaded down her shoulders, sauntered into view with a sardonic grin curling the witch's lips.
Her presence was like a volatile spark, even by Antonin's standards, igniting the air with a combination of mischief and cruelty. She seemed to possess an uncanny ability to materialize at the most inconvenient moments, and this was no exception. Antonin gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders as Bellatrix parted her lips to speak.
"Well, well, Antonin, I knew I would find you here. Our Lord requires us, he says you were taking too long to arrive," Bellatrix purred, her voice dripping with a malicious sweetness that Antonin knew to be false and sent a chill through him. "You seem lost in your little daydreams. Who might be the star of your…dark musings this time?"
Antonin's jaw tightened until he swore he felt his molars clack, his grip on his wand's handle intensifying as the overwhelming burning itch to brandish his wand against the witch in front of him, but he dared not lift a finger against her.
Bellatrix's keen perception was both a curse and a curse, and her tendency to expose vulnerabilities was something he had grown accustomed to in the years he had known the witch but never reconciled with.
"Save your prattling, Bellatrix," Antonin retorted, his voice laced with a mixture of annoyance and suppressed fury. "I've no time for your games," he bit out. Bellatrix's shrill laughter, like the tinkling of shattered glass, pierced the air.
She took deliberate steps forward, positioning herself just inches away from him. Her heavily lidded dark eyes gleamed with a manic sort of delight as if she relished the disquiet she stirred within himself.
"Oh, come now, Antonin," she cooed, her pink lips curling into an even wider grin that for a moment, almost reminded Antonin of Barty before the wizard had suffered the Dementor's Kiss.
It had been Antonin who had slipped into Azkaban three nights later and put the poor bastard out of his misery.
He was jolted from his thoughts as Bellatrix continued speaking.
"You can't fool me. I see it in those brooding eyes of yours, that flicker of desire hidden beneath all that righteous anger." As if to emphasize her point, she bent at the waist and plucked a chunk of the destroyed elm tree Antonin had let loose his fury upon not even a minute ago.
He bristled at her words, his gaze hardening as he shot her a rueful scowl.
"You see nothing, Bella. Leave me be. Inform the Dark Lord I will come in a moment," he snarled.
Bellatrix's laughter grew louder, dancing on the edge of mania.
"Oh, but I do see, my dear friend. I see the way you look at the Wydman dog, that mangy little creature you so ardently desire. The wolf, Antonin—a creature no better than a disgusting common dog, like one of Lucius's hounds, and yet here you are, consumed by the flames of attraction. You would do well to snuff them out, our Lord will not take kindly to your…preoccupations, as I am sure the Dark Lord has told you."
Bellatrix's laughter lingered, a twisted symphony of amusement.
"Oh, my dear Antonin, you can't deny the pull of your twisted little desires, can you? The Wydman wolf—too fascinating a fixation even for you, don't you think? A creature who is so far beneath you, yet you yearn for the beast as if she were a prized jewel."
Antonin's jaw tightened a mixture of frustration and something else simmering beneath the surface.
"Enough of this, Bellatrix. Your games are tiresome, witch, and I have no time for them. The Dark Lord, he calls for us, as you've said, we should not keep him waiting longer," he grunted, and turned on his heels to flee even as Bellatrix's grin widened, undeterred by his gruff dismissal.
His knuckles whitened as he kept his wand hand hovered over the handle, his control slipping like sand through his fingers. He wanted to lash out, to silence Bellatrix's mocking taunts, and even cut out his tongue if he was of a mind to do so, but he knew that would only provide her more ammunition.
"Is this your twisted idea of entertainment, Bella?" he spat, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
Bellatrix leaned in even closer, her dark eyes glinting with a frenzied fever.
"Entertainment? No, my dear Antonin. I'm merely pointing out the hypocrisy of it all. You, a Death Eater, a servant to our master, our Lord of Darkness, now reduced to a mere whimper at some pitiful little wolf."
His anger surged but he bit down hard on his retort, refusing to give Rodolphus Lestrange's wife the satisfaction. Bellatrix was a master manipulator, and he would not allow himself to be her plaything, not this time, and not ever. With a final withering look, Bellatrix straightened her gait and began to walk away, her mocking chuckling echoing through the trees and ringing loud in his ears.
"Think about that, Antonin. You are one of the Dark Lord's best, only a little better than me when it comes to your dueling. You're about to be brought low by your own desires if my dear cousin does not kill you first. It's almost…poetic, wouldn't you say?"
Antonin's grip on his wand slackened somewhat as she paraded her back to him and began to walk away, leaving him alone once more. The wizard's thoughts were a tempest of conflicting emotions—rage, desire, self-loathing—all churned together in a potent mix.
Bellatrix's words had struck a nerve, exposing a vulnerability he'd tried so hard to suppress. As the leaves rustled overhead, he stared at the forest floor, the weight of his feelings heavy upon him. He knew he had a choice to make and not much time to make it. To succumb to this torment within that he felt for the witch, or to harness it for his ends. Either way, the war waged on, and he had his role to play, regardless of the tempest in his heart.
With a frustrated exhale, Antonin turned on the heels of his boots and stomped out of the woods, leaving the dense thicket behind him. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, his frustration at his recent encounter in the Forbidden Forest still burning like a hot coal in his chest.
As he marched towards Lucius and Narcissa's opulent home in the distance, his feet seemed to move of their own accord, carrying him forward with a mix of urgency and agitation.
The sound of his boots clicking against the polished marble floor hardly registered as Antonin crossed the threshold of the Malfoy Manor. His internal storm of emotions muted the grandeur of his surroundings as he made his way through the corridors and eventually reached the grand dining room. The atmosphere within was thick with tension, every Death Eater present acutely aware of the gravity of the situation.
Antonin's dark eyes swiftly swept over the familiar faces of his fellow followers, their masked expressions revealing nothing of their thoughts. But it wasn't Lord Voldemort, seated at the head of the table, who captured his attention. Instead, it was the hooded stranger beside the Dark Lord, occupying the space once held by Barty Crouch Jr.
The stranger's features were concealed beneath the depths of his hood and the folds of his robes, rendering his identity a mystery. Yet, an aura of power and enigma surrounded him, a magnetic pull that intrigued Antonin despite his internal turmoil. Suppressing his burning curiosity, Antonin took his customary seat a few places down from Voldemort, head bowed in deference.
The Dark Lord's voice, quiet but commanding, cut through the charged atmosphere, focusing everyone's attention on him. Antonin's heart skipped a beat as he found himself singled out by that penetrating gaze, the sensation as though they were alone in the room.
The Dark Lord's tone was laced with both irritation and an undercurrent of threat as he addressed Antonin's tardiness.
"Antonin," he intoned, the Dark wizard's crimson slit-like eyes fixed on him as though the room had become devoid of all other followers. "I trust you have arrived with no complications. You are very nearly late," he bit out scathingly.
Antonin's spine stiffened as he moved to sit, his jaw tightening, but he maintained his composure as he replied, "No, Lord. The woods have been thoroughly swept, and all security measures have been taken to ensure privacy."
Voldemort's chilling smile sent a shiver down Antonin's spine, its implications not lost on him.
The Dark Lord's thin and nearly transparent lips curled into a cruel smile.
"Very good, Antonin. I have a task for you, one you will not fail me in as I am giving you this opportunity to rectify your mistake in confronting Oliver and Miss Wydman in the Forbidden Forest. You interfered with their mission and as a consequence, Fenrir Greyback's Pack is not as large as I had hoped. For that, I would be well within my rights to see you punished, however, I am a merciful lord, and as you are one of my most skilled followers seated here at this table, I give you this chance in front of your comrades to prove your loyalty." He paused to draw in a breath and gestured towards the hooded stranger. "This individual holds a key to our plans, Antonin. You are to keep watch over them and ensure they are adequately prepared for the task ahead. Black must be returned to me. He is a valuable asset but in the wrong hands. Our newest associate will ensure Black's safe return, of that I am sure. I am entrusting his care to you, Antonin. See to it both Black and his wolf are brought to me, unharmed."
Antonin stiffened and gritted his teeth. His master's acknowledgment of his recent error in confronting Oliver and Miss Wydman was a bitter reminder of his lapse in judgment.
The mention of Fenrir Greyback's Pack being compromised due to his actions fueled his self-disgust.
But the Dark Lord's tone shifted, presenting Antonin with an opportunity to redeem himself. The task before him was weighty—guarding the mysterious stranger, a figure with a pivotal role in their schemes, and ensuring the return of Oliver Black. Antonin's heart raced as he listened, struggling to conceal his turmoil beneath his stoic facade.
Antonin's mind raced, the gravity of the situation settling heavily upon his shoulders. His heart clenched as he contemplated the path he was now set upon, the conflict between duty and his treacherous desires stirring within him. Yet, as Lord Voldemort continued to speak, Antonin's focus returned to the stranger, and he couldn't shake the feeling that their presence held the key to something far greater than he could currently comprehend.
"For what I would have you do, Antonin," the Dark Lord's voice resonated, a deliberate pause emphasizing his words, "you shall keep a low profile in the coming weeks. Perhaps even months. While others here at this very table are working tirelessly to ensure our successful infiltration into the Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries, you, on the other hand, will remain elsewhere at a different place altogether, vigilant, unseen, but watchful. I would have you follow Black and his witch." Lord Voldemort's red eyes bore into Antonin's, a silent command to heed his words.
Antonin could only nod, his expression a mask of obedience and restraint. He was well aware of the strategic importance of his role, and the need for an unseen presence as his master's greater plan unfolded. His mind raced with possibilities, but he knew better than to question his master's orders so openly.
"The moment for our operation will arrive in time," Lord Voldemort continued, his voice a chilling whisper. "And when it does, I will require the full might of our Obscurial. Ollie Black's power is crucial to our success, and you, Antonin, shall ensure that there are no more... distractions that would keep him from returning to us. Ensure that his pet is taken care of and that he sees our newest recruit in full view."
Antonin nodded, though his brows furrowed slightly at the mention of Ollie Black's "pet."
The situation surrounding the wandmaker's daughter and her ties to the Obscurial infuriated him, and he wondered about the extent of the new recruit's influence on Black and their potential to disrupt their plans.
"Remember," Lord Voldemort's shrill voice brought Antonin's attention back to him as he returned his gaze to his master, "our strength lies in secrecy and precision. We can afford no more lapses in judgment, not when the Ministry's forces grow more vigilant by the day. You will play the part that is expected of you, Antonin Dolohov, and ensure that our plans unfold without disruption. Arrange a meeting with your contact within the Ministry of Magic, and the problem of your prickly little werewolf will trouble you no more. And make sure that the only thing keeping Black from returning to me is far from him as possible."
Antonin inclined his head in acknowledgment, his resolve hardening. "It will be done, My Lord, I assure you."
The Dark Lord's gaze shifted to the head of the table on the opposite end, where Lucius Malfoy sat, his pale features etched with a mix of apprehension and loyalty.
"And what of the wandmaker's daughter, Dolohov? What of the werewolf, hmm? The allure of your forbidden desire for the beast is not lost on me." A chill chuckle resonated through the room as the Dark Lord's gaze returned to Antonin. "Tell me, Antonin, do you still pine for the wild beauty that should have always been Greyback's brother's mate?" he sneered.
Antonin's jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around his wand.
He had never been one to show weakness, especially not in front of his master.
"My Lord, my... interests are of no concern to our cause. I remain committed to your goals."
The Dark Lord's laughter echoed, a sound that sent shivers down the spines of those gathered. "Indeed, Antonin. It matters not what you do in the shadows, as long as you serve me well in the light."
Antonin nodded, his jaw cut like steel. He would do whatever it took to fulfill his role, regain the Dark Lord's favor, and navigate the intricate web of alliances and secrets surrounding him.
As Lord Voldemort's attention shifted to the others seated at the table, Antonin's mind raced, processing the weight of his responsibilities. He studied the Dark Lord's newest Death Eater with a quiet intensity, his gaze unwavering.
The stranger, seemingly impervious to the weight of the discussion, remained silent throughout. Antonin's gaze lingered on the figure, trying to glean any insight from their posture and demeanor.
Despite the hood obscuring their features, Antonin sensed an air of strength and confidence emanating from them.
Suddenly, as if aware of Antonin's scrutiny, the stranger's head turned ever so slightly, the movement barely perceptible. Despite the darkness within the hood, Antonin could have sworn he caught a glint of piercing green eyes that sent a chill down his spine. He quickly averted his gaze, focusing on the task ahead.
As the conversation continued, Antonin's thoughts raced, his mind divided between his duty and his burning curiosity about the stranger's role and identity. He knew that the path ahead was treacherous and that the challenges he faced would test his loyalty and cunning like never before.
Yet, as a Death Eater of Voldemort, he was prepared to embrace the darkness, navigate the shadows, and ensure the success of the Dark Lord's plans, no matter the cost. When the meeting ended, the Death Eaters began to file out of the grand dining room, their movements carrying an air of tension and purpose.
Antonin, however, lingered for a moment, wanting in his mind more time to linger with his new partner. His face was all suspicion as he kept his gaze fixed on the hooded stranger who had captivated his attention throughout the gathering. As the last of the Death Eaters departed long after Lord Voldemort had taken his leave, Antonin fell into step with the enigmatic figure, his determination to unravel the stranger's secrets burning like wildfire within him.
Outside the opulent halls of Malfoy Manor, Antonin quickened his pace to match strides with the stranger. His heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of fury, curiosity, and urgency driving Antonin forward.
As he finally matched the stranger's stride, he reached out and touched the stranger's arm, stopping them in their tracks. The figure turned, their hood still concealing their features.
Antonin's dark eyes bore into the shadowy depths of the hood as he spoke, his voice low and commanding.
"Who are you? And how is it that you know Black? Every time his name was mentioned in there, I saw your reaction. You stiffened in your chair. It is not the sort of reaction one has to a stranger. The two of you are familiar?" he questioned angrily. The stranger remained still for a moment, the air thick with silence.
Antonin could almost feel the tension emanating from the hooded figure.
Then, finally, a voice emerged from the depths of the hood, calm and controlled.
"The wizard and I share a history, one that stretches back years. Our paths have crossed in ways that neither of us can so easily forget."
Antonin's curiosity burned even hotter at the figure's cryptic response. He leaned in slightly, his voice low and filled with determination. "What history? What is your connection to Black?"
The stranger hesitated for a moment, and Antonin could sense the internal struggle beneath the hood.
"It is…a story best left untold for now," the stranger replied quietly, their voice carrying a weight of regret, if Antonin wasn't mistaken. "Suffice it to say that Ollie Black and I have shared pain, choices, and consequences. The kind that binds us together, whether we wish it to be this way or not."
Antonin's eyes narrowed, his mind racing to decipher the stranger's words. There was a depth to their connection, a history that intrigued him even further. But he could also sense the stranger's guardedness, their reluctance to reveal too much. As a Death Eater, Antonin was quite skilled at discerning truth from lies, and he could sense the truth in the stranger's words, even if they were shrouded in mystery for the moment.
"Whatever your history with Black, it seems that the Dark Lord values your presence at our side," Antonin stated coldly, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and warning. "You hold a pivotal role in his plans in ensuring Black returns to us, preferably willingly and of his own volition, and I will be watching closely to ensure that you do not falter."
The stranger's hooded head inclined slightly, acknowledging Antonin's words.
"As should be expected. I am here to serve the Dark Lord's cause, just as you are."
"Norah deserves better than an uncontrollable force like Black," Antonin's voice was a venomous whisper, his eyes narrowing with intensity. "She has let herself become ensnared by him, but I will liberate her from his grip, even if it means obliterating him, and with time, the witch will come to realize the truth. I will wait for her."
The stranger's hooded head inclined slightly, acknowledging Antonin's words. "I do not know this woman, but perhaps she is stronger than you realize, and her choices are her own to make."
Antonin's grip on his wand tightened even further, his knuckles turning bone white. "No one can stand in the way of what I deserve, what I want. And what I want is the wolf. Norah Wydman is mine, mine alone, and I will stop at nothing to make it so," he snarled, his voice dripping with possessiveness and an unrelenting determination.
The intensity of his obsession had reached a fever pitch, his every thought consumed by the image of Norah, the object of his desires. His mind raced with visions of her breaking away from Black's grasp, her submission to him inevitable. He could almost taste the victory, the heady triumph that would come when she finally saw the truth when she realized that her heart and destiny were intertwined with his. With each passing second, his resolve grew stronger, his obsession a relentless force driving him to the brink of madness.
The stranger had become a means to an end, a pawn in his dangerous game, a tool to be manipulated for his desires. He would exploit every opportunity, navigate every treacherous path, and ensure that Norah Wydman was by his side, bound to him in every way possible.
As the seconds ticked by, Antonin's mind plotted the intricate steps that would lead him to his victory. He had become consumed by the darkness, a man unshackled by morality or restraint. Norah was his prize, his salvation, and he would let nothing – no power, no force – stand between him and the realization of his darkest desires.
Antonin's declaration hung in the air like a chilling echo, his words laden with a possessiveness that bordered on madness. His eyes remained locked on the hooded figure before him, his grip on his wand unwavering. The intensity of his obsession had turned him into a force of nature, a man driven by the singular goal of claiming Norah Wydman for himself. The stranger's response was measured, their voice calm amidst the storm of Antonin's fervor.
"Your desires run deep, and your determination is evident. I can admire that in a man like you. But they say that love is the duty of all duty, that obsession can blind even the most cunning of minds. Norah Wydman may not be as malleable as you believe."
Antonin's lip curled into a sneer, his patience wearing thin as the stranger's words grated against his resolve. He was a man consumed by his obsessions, deaf to the warnings and blind to the consequences.
He had tunnel vision, his thoughts fixated solely on Norah and the lengths he would go to possess her.
Just as the tension seemed to reach its peak, the stranger's hooded head inclined slightly, a signal that their conversation had come to an end.
"I have other matters to attend to if the two of us are finished here," they said, their voice composed and unyielding. "Please, excuse me."
Without further words, the stranger turned on his heels and began to walk away, their conversation now terminated.
Antonin was left to watch the stranger depart before turning and disappearing down the opposite hallway that would lead him out the back entrance. Antonin's one-track mind was consumed by a singular fixation—the hooded stranger, and the werewolf. A dangerous mix of obsession and lust for the witch churned within him, driving his steps as he hurried to catch up to the hooded stranger, not daring to let them out of his sight for a second.
Every fiber of his being was being pulled towards the prickly blonde werewolf who had captured his attention, even stemming back to before her accident that had ruined her life and now made her a beast.
It was a force too strong to resist. Antonin's nostrils flared, his breaths coming in short, controlled bursts. His need to possess Norah Wydman, to have the witch for himself, was overpowering.
He was prepared to go to any lengths necessary to separate her from Black, believing their connection to be unworthy and contrary to his wishes.
If the most effective means of achieving this was through the stranger whose safety he was now responsible for, ensuring the stranger's mission success, then he wouldn't allow this individual to be apart from him for more than a few hours. Even during those brief separations, he would maintain constant watch.
His mind raced with thoughts of the task ahead that lay before him and the enigmatic figure who had suddenly become a central part of their mission for reasons that were yet unknown to him.
The road ahead was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but Antonin was prepared to tread it, determined to unravel the mysteries that surrounded them and ensure the success of the Dark Lord's plans.
Antonin stood there, rooted to his spot, his mind a tempest of emotions – rage, obsession, and a twisted sense of determination. The encounter had left him both shaken and emboldened, his resolve stronger than ever before.
He stood there for a moment, his grip on his wand still tight, his thoughts consumed by his desires. Norah Wydman was a puzzle he was determined to solve, a challenge he was willing to face no matter the cost. The stranger's warnings were nothing more than whispers in the wind, lost amidst the roaring storm of his obsession.
With a slow exhale, Antonin turned and walked towards the woods once more once he was outside Malfoy Manor.
The darkness within him had taken hold, and there was no turning back.
The witch would be his, no matter what it took, no matter the sacrifices. And as he stepped deeper into the heart of the woods, his obsession burned brighter than ever, an all-consuming fire that threatened to consume him whole.