di-dolohov-blog

[di-dolohov-blog]

evanrosiier :

Evan steps out of the restaurant’s glass doors and signals for a cab waiting at the side of the curb. It pulls up to him slowly, like a hesitant insect approaching a dangerous newcomer. Evan crawls into the backseat, slouched back and watching the city lights roll away before the driver prompts him for his address. He obliges, but his mind is still distracted, unsettled by recent events: the leaked invoice, Maya’s distant behaviour, the photograph of him and Florence. Even an indulgent six-course meal at his favourite French-inspired restaurant (accompanied by a ten-year-old bottle of red wine) was not enough to lift his spirits. 

No matter. He has allies, and power, and money. He tries to reconcile himself that these things are enough to get him through whatever challenges the Order will throw at him. Besides, arrogance went hand-in-hand with vigilance. They can try their best to hurt him, but he’ll always come back, the ghoul that continues to haunt the rebellious. 

They arrive at his townhouse faster than expected. Evan pays the driver before strolling toward his front door, the keys tinkling noisily in his fingers. He slots one in, twists the handle, and enters the darkness. His hand searches for the switch on the wall. Click. 

Pandemonium. Mess. Someone has raided his home. Bare wires protrude from walls, lightbulbs lie cracked on the floor, his furniture has all been rearranged. For a second, Evan simply stares at his adjoined kitchen and living room, his heart beginning to hammer in his chest as he wonders if the intruder is still around. Flashes of fire cross his imagination. The enemy has found him. His eyes finally land on the figure slouched on his sofa, and up rises an unexpected plume of fury.

“What the everloving fuck have you done?!” Evan demands, slamming his door shut behind him as he strides into the room. He’s not angry at Antonin. He’s angry Antonin looks the way the house does: broken.

Antonin doesn’t look over when the door opens. He hears it distantly but the fog enveloping him doesn’t crack until Evan’s voice pierces through it, loud and angry and upset. 

Evan, an island in the mess Antonin’s created of his apartment, standing in front of a broken lamp. Evan. Evan. He doesn’t know how to explain himself, doesn’t know how to confess everything, anything.

He jumps up to face Evan, black spots dancing in his vision for a moment. Taking in the apartment with fresh eyes, he can see there’s no reasonable explanation anyway. Nothing except the truth. He’s cracked, straight down the center, terrified. 

“Evan,” he says and then clears his throat when his name comes out too rough. “You weren’t followed, were you?”

No, of course he wasn’t. Why would he be? Not like Antonin, living on a tightrope, betraying everyone and anyone. Destroying evidence, framing other people, the stuff he’s sent to the Quibbler, lying lying lying to everyone. 

G e t  o u t  w h i l e  y o u  s t i l l  c a n. The email lives on the inside of his eyelids. 

Whoever sent it miscalculated though. It’s already too late for him. 

It has always been too late for him. 

“I-I. I’m being watched. I thought there might be a bug in your place too. I’m sorry. I can fix this,” he says, though he can’t, not really. He can put things back in their place, clean up the glass, buy a new lamp but he can’t fix it. 

#chats #evan

[di-dolohov-blog]

@evanrosiier

Two buses, three miles, an Uber, two miles. He’s crisscrossed back and forth and forth. No one’s tailing him, not anymore, at least. (maybe, maybe. he’s not sure. who’s that in baseball hat?) His skin itches, prickling with goosebumps (fuck). He darts into the first store he passes, winding his way to the back and out the door into the alley, ignoring the employee’s yelled questions. 

He sticks to the alleyways the rest of the way, still checking his back every few feet (behind you, behind you. that was definitely a noise. they’ve got you now. no, no just a rat). In reality, Evan lives about 20 minutes from him; today, it’s around four hours before Antonin’s standing behind Evan’s building. He’s not actually sure how long it’s been since he left his phone at home. Couldn’t risk them tracking him with that. No, no. 

He slips in through the service entrance when a janitor steps out for a smoke break. It’s probably too easy to pick the lock on Evan’s door; he should fix that (or is it a trap? is it all a trap). Once inside, he begins the same process that he just finished at his own apartment-checking for bugs. Every light bulb, the picture frames, beneath the table, the electrical socket, the vent. There’s nothing (is that a bad thing though. is there a reason they trust Evan? He’s told them something, hasn’t he?).

He carefully places the couch cushions back and sits to wait for Evan to get back. He’s left a bit of mess everywhere. He’s a mess, everything’s a mess. He feels sweaty and itchy and he didn’t wash his hair this morning and the split on his knuckles from when he punched the wall at work has started oozing blood again. His stomach hurts-a mixture of anxiety and hunger-and every now and then his eyes slip shut but he just sits there. Now that he’s sat down, he isn’t certain he can get back up. 

#closed starter #evan #anxiety tw #chats #overdramatic much #post email

[di-dolohov-blog]

Mic: How do you like your whiskey?

Juno: With an active desire to do me harm.

Mic: I asked about your whiskey, not your men, but fine.

#about

[di-dolohov-blog]

ofandromedas :

to: antonin dolohov from: andromeda black subject: re: the email

Antonin,

Yes, I do remember you. I’m more surprised that you remember me. At any rate, I would certainly like to speak with you. I have already met with Maya Zabini (the third recipient of the e-mail) last week and between the two of us we didn’t come up with many concrete answers, but she seems to think it’s something worth being concerned about. I’d be interested to hear your perspective. 

I work the morning shift Tuesday and Thursday, so I’m free after 2 if that works for you? Or early in the morning any day of the week. I’m sure your schedule is just as chaotic as mine.

Andromeda

to: andromeda black from: antonin dolohov subject: re: the email

Ms. Black,

I wasn’t aware you had already spoken with her. I hope you were careful with what you said. Is 7:00 am on Wednesday fine? The Starbucks on the corner outside St. Mungos. Anywhere similarly crowded and public will due however.

Sincerely,

DI Antonin Dolohov

✉

#chats #andromeda #ms.black #now hes just being an asshole #this is how i communicate with people in group projects to ensure they know were not friends and they are my inferiors #coincidentally i have no friends in any of my classes

[di-dolohov-blog]

✉

to: andromeda black @ofandromedas

from: antonin dolohov

subject: the email

Good morning,

I hope you’ve been having a good week. I’m not sure if you remember me but we’ve run into each other several times at St. Mungo’s. You actually stitched me up once. I’m a DI with the London police. More relevantly, it appears we both recently received the same email. I’m sure it was a mistake but I was hoping you would like to meet somewhere to discuss the particularities of it. Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

DI Antonin Dolohov

#andromeda #chats #this loser something told me he would be oddly formal and evasive

[di-dolohov-blog]

evanrosiier :

Antonin’s question was met with a nonchalant grunt as Evan accepted his beer. The drink was bitter on his tongue, matching his memories of the two of them strewn in the very same booth, their voices getting louder until they were kicked out. They still got piss-drunk together, but it didn’t used to be this depressing. It used to feel like an adventure. Now, it felt like a means to an end.

He felt a foot hit his shin and looked up sharply, summoned from his thoughts and into Antonin’s. The man’s eyebrows were drawn, dark intelligent eyes darting back and forth, as though he had memorised all his case files and was flicking between them. A smirk toyed at the corner of Evan’s lips. It was typical of Antonin to worry, but Evan didn’t blame him. No doubt he was on edge all hours of the day, lies plastered to his mouth. You need to get wasted.

However, the warning made the frown return to Evan’s face. He could tell Antonin felt apprehensive, too, in the way his bottle obscured his chin. He also felt something softer, like gratitude, but swept it away. “Listen, you’re looking too deep into this, and it’s probably because you’re a detective,” Evan told him, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “If they’d wanted to do some damage, they would’ve. But all they did was give us a little fire show. And that just makes me think they don’t have the resources to hurt us.” 

And now he had to address the other issue, the fact that Antonin worried over him. “I’m nobody’s target, Ant,” Evan laughed, almost in ridicule of the thought. He beckoned Antonin to lean in closer and continued in an excited hush. “You know why I’m safe? Your boss hit me up at the reunion. And we fucked. So if Vane doesn’t know who the hell she’s hunting, what makes you think the Order would be any different?” He wasn’t sure why he was telling Antonin this. Maybe to reassure him, maybe to make him jealous.

Antonin looked away from the frown painting Evan’s face. Of course, he was looking too deep into it. He was always looking too deep into things, turning it over and over and over in his head, searching for reason, searching for the answer, the clue that didn’t exist. It beat doing nothing. It beat feeling as utterly useless as he was. The casual wave of Evan’s hand reminded him that despite growing up together, despite their initial similar circumstances, Evan had come a long way from being the boy on the outside. He was protected by his name, by who he’d become. Evan didn’t know what it was to be under constant scrutiny, to be afraid.  

“I don’t know,” Antonin replied, running a finger through the ring of condensation on the table “You’re probably right. I just feel...” the words hang in the air unfinished. He doesn’t know how to explain. “I just feel like something’s coming. I don’t know how to describe it. But I don’t want anyone caught in the crossfire.”

His eyes darted away again, at the nickname, embarrassed by his concern. There was an itchy part of his brain that just wanted to yell at Evan, to demand that he take this seriously, lay low for a while. His change in posture caught Antonin though, drawing him in, like always, until he’d mirrored Evan, leaning against the table that separated them.

Mouth dropping open, Antonin stared back incredulously at Evan. “No. Oh my god. No. Florence? DI Florence Vane? Ice Queen? Head-of-Operation-Auror, never-talk-about-my-feelings Florence Vane?” He leaned back, resisting the urge to say something stupid, something revealing, to ask, why her, of all people, why someone I know?

In the end, he restrained himself, somehow, he’s not used to having to censor himself around Evan. The smirk he deliberately arranged his face into isn’t a perfect mirror of his real smirk, he can feel how forced it is, but trying’s what matters. “God, she must’ve been drunk to think you were appealing,” he teased.

He feels an edge of defensiveness for Florence too, for someone he’s grown to trust, to deeply respect. She sees more than she tells anyone, he thinks. He won’t tell Evan to be careful because he’s already said that one too many times in this conversation. “She’s a lot like me, Evan, too observant, too much of a thinker.”

#ugh ill reread later #chats #evan #imsooosorrythisiseonslateandtrash

[di-dolohov-blog]

OPEN

Pressed close to wall, barely breathing, Antonin reminded himself cruelly that this was his fault. No one had forced him to follow after Travers when he’d slunk down the alley behind the stadium like the slimy dirtbag he was. He should’ve been long gone by now, gone long before the firefighters, Operation Auror, cops, every news channel arrived. Especially, when evidence of what he’d been a part of lingered all over him. Of course, what did he care about being caught; it was Antonin who would have to save him. 

Antonin paused in his pursuit to muffle a gasping cough into his sleeve. He’d been out here in the billowing smoke since the beginning. Ever since the terrifying meeting in which they were informed of the stadium’s fate, Antonin had been planning an excuse to be nearby when it went up in flames. It was his concession to all of this, it was the only way he’d be able to look himself in the eye later. Slumped over at a bar just a block down from the stadium, Antonin had waited anxiously for the first sounds of alarm. The second he realistically could hear someone screaming, he took off, calling Florence even as he ran down the street. Ushering innocent civilians out of their homes had taken all his attention from there. Until he caught sight of Travers.

Quiet, he wiggled his cell out from his back pocket. Even if Antonin couldn’t do anything legally about Travers, for now, he wasn’t going to pass this up. The Quibbler would appreciate the photos. Just as he opened the camera, he felt the whisper of breath on his neck. Oh, god. He was dead. Turning quickly, he hissed under his breath, “This isn’t what it looks like.”

#penumbrastarter #open #events #event 2: arson retaliation #come plot with me or just go for broke i dont care :) #i need to read back through this cause i wrote it btwn classes but i rlly wanted to get something out for the event

[di-dolohov-blog]

#about

[di-dolohov-blog]

@evanrosiier

He slid the second beer across the sticky table to Evan, dropping heavily into the other side of the worn-out booth. “I hate this place. Why do we keep coming here?” he grumbled without any heat. The answer was easy enough; no one either of them knew would be caught dead in this hole in the wall, sticky, dim bar. Not to mention that this was the same bar that had looked the other way when they’d come in as underage 16-year olds to get disastrously drunk that whole summer. 

Taking a sip of his own beer, the tension ebbing from his shoulders, he acknowledged that the alcohol wasn’t too bad either. He kicked lightly at Evan’s leg beneath the table, trying to get his attention. Provoking him, maybe? Evan would probably kill Antonin for attempting to talk about work during beer time but he just couldn’t get the reunion off his mind. 

“The fire,” he started slowly, as if he was only now working it out in his head, though there was no need to pretend with Evan. He knew precisely how obsessive Antonin was. “At the reunion, I don’t think it was just a little stunt. It felt more like a call to arms or the preview to something bigger. They’re drawing everyone’s attention to them.”

He picked his drink back up, hiding behind it when he spoke again. Careful, this was a touch too close to no man’s land, to the place they’d both silently agreed not to go. “I want you to be careful. You’re a potential target.” It was ridiculous considering, considering that Evan was plenty dangerous in his own right. Antonin was always letting himself forget this. 

#closed starter #evan #(you have not found that place yet) #ehhh still not happy with it but whatever

[di-dolohov-blog]

alicexfortescue :

She had never been much of a liar. Purity and honesty resonated off her - clear as the light of day. But what did you do when the two began to diverge? When being good meant breaking the law and working towards a nobler cause? Alice already knew the answer. You did your best to reconcile the two, found a way to deal with the guilt and hoped you would never be discovered. I can be loyal to the law and the order, she repeated, over and over, until it became a mantra. Some days, it was easier to convince herself than others. This was not one of those days - and yet, it wasn’t quite guilt she felt. Not yet, anyway.

No harm had come of their act - she never would have agreed in the first place, if it had anyway - no matter who it was leading her into the fray. Do no harm, but take no shit. Who had once said that to her? She couldn’t quite remember, the words fuzzy, but they made sense nonetheless. This had been one of those times. It hadn’t yet faded - the memory of Marlene’s hushed voice, or how James had liked when the light burned. She had felt something within herself too - a sense of purpose, validation of her goals. This is right. It might not have been legal - but the two weren’t mutually exclusive.

No doubt, it would make her work-life a little uncomfortable…but it wouldn’t be the first time. Knowing that as soon as the last traces of alcohol had faded from her system and they were back within the confines of London she would immediately begin to struggle, she decided to take this peace for as long as it held - and to deal with the carnage later. Thankfully - it wasn’t Florence she was paired with. Had it been, she might not have been able to meet her eyes.

Raising her head at Antonin’s voice, she took the photo from him silently, suppressing a yawn. There would be no more sleep tonight. Even if it hadn’t been under the light of her phone, she doubted she could have guessed which of the three it was. There was no telling their gender, ethnicity - anything. Although a little satisfied, Alice did her best to conceal it - and shook her head. “It’s hardly the Order’s first rodeo. They know better than to make careless mistakes. Which means we can rule out any chance of it being a copycat act.” Happy to accept his offer, Alice rubbed her hands together and walked at his side, knowing they would find few traces. She had done a last scan before they had left - determined to make sure nothing could be connected directly back to them. “This had to just be a stunt - probably looking for publicity, given the attendees.” More than one journalist. Nearly all of the sacred-28. If she had been looking in from the outside, that would have been her guess. “After all, if they wanted to hurt someone, they would have had plenty of other chances.”

Antonin nodded along with her assessment, hand absently pushing his hair back from his forehead. Alice was good, rational, level-headed, she’d make a great senior detective one day. Better than him, given that she wouldn’t have any unfortunate entanglements. 

“Agreed,” Antonin said, eyes trained on the scorched ground, “Honestly, with this crowd, we’re lucky this is all that happened. I was expecting a few fist fights, at least. Though, if you’re on the right track, calling it a publicity stunt, then we have to wonder if this is a preview to the main event.” 

He prodded a cigarette butt with the toe of his shoe before snapping a photo with the department issue camera hanging from his shoulder. He’d meant it when he said he was expecting trouble tonight; he’d come fully prepared. Pulling on a pair of gloves, he bent to carefully place it in an evidence bag. More than likely, it just belonged to a current student or some random person but it was important that he went through the motions, especially with the current audience. Somewhere, in the group we’re his arsonists and, more importantly, dotted among them were Death Eaters all expecting him to find something out here to pin on the Order. 

Standing back up, he threw a teasing glance at Alice, nudging her with his elbow. “If you tell anyone I said this Fortescue, I’ll have you collect the next four disorderly conducts, but this is kind of disappointing. I don’t know about you-” though he imagined Alice had hardly ever dipped a toe out of line- “but I got up to worse shit than this back when I was just a student here.”

#chats #alice #omg im sorry so late #antonin is so olbivious not sweet angelic alice never

[di-dolohov-blog]

#wow called out #about #evan #(you have not found that place yet)

[di-dolohov-blog]

fuckyeahthenational :

So blame it on me I really don't care It's a foregone conclusion

#music

[di-dolohov-blog]

blazingmarlene :

The loathing was its own sort of high. She had been betrayed, yes, and many times. But none had stung quite as much as Antonin’s stab, as seeing the boy of her childhood turn into a shard of a man strung up on living a lie. A man who had wanted her to live a lie as well.

“Can’t say the same.” The tone was dry, unamused, lacking even the playful sadism she reserved the most repulsive. And while every muscle in her body told her to muster up some dignity and leave, the chemicals in her brain didn’t. They told her to stab the son of a bitch.

“You’re looking a lot like your father these days.”

He couldn’t help the flash of hurt or involuntary step back he took. She would know, wouldn’t she, after all those years of his father protecting the McKinnons. She had seen the very depths his father would, could go for the Sacred 28. How far would he go? Was there any point at which, he’d refuse. Or did that point just keep slipping further and further with each crime he covered up.

This was the problem, of course, with people from your childhood; they knew things, secrets, the damaged little pieces of you that with age you learn to hide.

Well, she hadn’t lost her attitude. He wondered to how she knew that he was still very much in the pocket of the Death Eaters. Was it an assumption, was she still in contact with her parents, or did she have another reason for knowing? God, he hoped she wasn’t caught up in anything. 

“All that coke musta’ve really addled your brain. I’m a detective now. Nothing like my father,” he said forcefully, daring her to contradict, to admit what she knew. 

#chats #marlene

[di-dolohov-blog]

avcarrow :

@di-dolohov

They’re at their self imposed four drink limit by the time they spot Antonin across the room. They grab two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter anyway (champagne’s not technically alcohol, right? Not compared to what they’ve been drinking tonight, anyway) and head smoothly in his direction, mood skyrocketing faster than they can blink. It’s enough that they allow themselves a few polite quotes to one of the reporters who’s been hounding them all night – they make the poor kid’s day, judging from his expression – before inserting themselves into the group Antonin’s surrounded himself with – friends? Old schoolmates? Strangers? They don’t really care, honestly.

“Antonin!” they exclaim as if they’re friends who haven’t seen each other in too long, elbowing him a little too hard in the side to be necessarily considered friendly and holding out one of their glasses towards him. “So good to see you again. How’s life treating you? I heard about the promotion, congratulations, by the way. How’s Henry?” They ask this knowing full well the last time they saw each other he’d been braced up against the wall being very unfaithful – it never hurts to rub salt in someone else’s wounds, after all. “Is he still in Minsk, or did he make it back in time for the celebrations?” The location is picked entirely at random, as usual; it’s just a gentle reminder that no matter how far his husband runs, neither of them will ever be quite safe from them.

They appear from nowhere, suddenly too close, elbow digging into his side. Fuckkk. Antonin freezes up, fingers fumbling around the glass they push into his hands, brain screeching to a halt. He’ll admit under duress to glancing around when he first arrived, body filled with sickly relief when they were nowhere to be seen. Tonight was already going to be full of people he was not up to dealing with; the last thing he’d needed was that deadly smirk and those knowing eyes.

Speak of the devil though and Amycus will appear. 

His hands are clammy, heart stuttering at the mention of Henry, at the too close heat of their body. He’s fucked up, he knows then and now, and he’s had a few too many to survive this conversation. It’s not the first time Amycus has brought up Henry, not even the worst circumstances, brick against Antonin’s back, pants at his ankles, hands everywhere, but he still flinches. It’s a tell he can’t help. 

Somehow manufacturing a smile, strained as it is, he replies in starts and stops, “Amycus, yes. It’s been ages, hasn’t it. I’m good, he’s good. Everything’s great.” The smile’s one thing but he has zero idea how to make his words sound sincere. He can feel his old classmates eyes on him, curious, dissecting. Can they see what he’s done, who he is? Dirty cop, murderer, cheater. “He couldn’t make it unfortunately,” he says dully, just for their audience. Amycus knows Henry isn’t here though they probably knows exactly where he is. The desire to send Henry a quick text churns in his stomach, a mix of fear and guilt. Guilt heavy in his lungs. 

Instead, he says as calmly as he can manage, “Excuse us. Sorry, I just need a quick word with Amycus.” He reaches out to grab their forearm to tug them away before thinking better of it, hand falling back to his side. He tilts his head indicating the corridor beyond them, hoping futilely that Amycus follows. Antonin doubts they’ve ever done anything in their life they didn’t want to do. Fuck. He reaches out against his better judgement, clamping his hand down on their wrist, tight, tight, and gives a sharp tug. “Remember, Amycus, you wanted to ask about that,” he lowers his voice into a false whisper, “addicts anonymous group the department hosts.”

It’s probably a mistake, dropping to Amycus’ level, essentially consenting to their game, clearly though he does not know what’s good for him. 

#chats #amycus #omg adam #dont match idk what im doing #(whiskey from the back of your wrist)

[di-dolohov-blog]

xenoteros :

@di-dolohov –hogwarts reunion.

It appears the open bar has obtained an almost congregational following.

Xenophilius takes another sip of vodka, waits in overt and insipid observation. Every light luminescent on the side of a cheek, every shadow on the line of a closed mouth- there are more things hidden here than Xenophilius would ever have time to rout out, to see. Given time, perhaps.

For now xe waits, fingers tracing the label of the bottle in front of xem. Had grown weary of catching the bartender’s eye- had asked for the entire bottle. Considers the man pulling up a chair beside xem with lidded eyes. “Detective Inspector.” Fingertips on the rim of xir glass, lifting it to xir mouth in blithe disregard. “Ivanov, yes?”

Inaccuracy dropped without care or thought.

Eyes flicking away xe reaches over the counter, plucks a glass and sets it on the mahogany. Pours the detective a shot. “You don’t look well, Detective.”

Not a lie, this- haunted, hunted man. Something in the eyes. Speaking of prey. And Xenophilius can’t help xe’s forever been a wolf, wolf-hearted and cruel. Looks at the inspector and wants to pull the shell from the man, tangerine skins and orange peel, find whatever soft bleeding thing lies inside.

But that- is for later. For now two fingers slide the shot glass to rest in front of the off-duty detective. 

Long before the first time he sent something into the Quibbler, Antonin had decided if he did it, if he ever got the nerve, if it were ever worth it, he’d send it to Xenophilius. To be precise, he decided this in the midst of ushering xem back to the other side of the crime scene tape, demanding that no pictures be taken, threatening to arrest xem. Xenophilius had shook off his touch like Antonin was as physically dirty as he was ethically and said slowly in the most haughty tone, sycophant, in such a way that it sounded more like motherfucker. 

He consistently regrets it, each and every time he sends something, hands shaking as he seals the envelope, but he’s never regretted who he sends it to. There’s a level of respect there that Antonin chooses to ignore. 

“Dolohov,” he corrects, just a murmur, barely audible over the din of the Great Hall. He’s pretty sure at this point that Xenophilius does, in fact, know what his name is. Ivanov, Aliyev, Mikhailov, Gregorovich, Petrovich. The causal, deliberate, disregard is something of a comfort though Antonin thinks if Xenophilius knew that xe’d stop.

 It’s getting late, the glamor and shine of the hall, of the people, fading into reality. There’s a slightly more frenzied feeling in the air now, even the music feels different. This is their last chance to prove to everyone that they’re better, richer, smarter, sexier than they were during University. For his part, Antonin just feels wrung out, a wet towel twisted and twisted into a semblance of dry, wrinkled beyond recognition. It should be a familiar feeling by now.

He snorts at xir comment, a rush of self-deprecation rising up his throat. In his head, he can hear Henry calling him melodramatic. He’s well aware that he doesn’t look well, the hollows of his eyes bruised, hair tangled and greasy from all the times he’s run his hands through it, dress shirt lightly wrinkled and half untucked. The entire night’s been a tense game of poker, in which Antonin’s betting everything with a losing hand and everyone knows it. 

“Yeah, well, it’s been a long week,” he says, a euphemism for long month, long life. “But you know that considering you were at both my crime scenes this week. ‘m gonna arrest you one day for obstruction or tampering.” He glances sideways at Xenophilius as he lifts the proffered shot glass up. Xe looks the same as always-the cat that got the canary, smug, like xe knows something everyone else doesn’t. It’s probably because xe does, probably xe knows that Antonin’s the one who’s sending in the tips, the evidence. Fuck. He swallows tightly and tells himself it’s just paranoia, ignores the burn of the magnifying glass focused on him.  

“You look...,” he pauses, searching out the right words, something that isn’t hungry, “like you’ve gotten some good material tonight.” He sits forward, snagging the bottle up and pouring another glass. 

#omg im so sorry things slid away from me do not match omg do not #also i love you #chats #xenophilius #(okay so im the dragon)

[di-dolohov-blog]

atrodolphus :

“No one’s here to rehash old memories.” No one. He spoke only of the Sacred 28, the Death Eaters, his circle. Their circle. The rest of the world hardly mattered in comparison. Narrowed eyes settled on Antonin. “Except you, apparently.  Have you been socializing tonight, then?” He couldn’t quite see the other man flitting in and out of conversations, drink in hand, smile replacing the frown on his lips.

Rodolphus hummed in response, brushing the comment aside. Questions lurked in his mind, at the tip of his tongue. What house? What did you study? Who did you know? They weren’t anything that would lead to anything more than a couple more minutes lingering in the hall and a shallow understanding of the other, so he let them go. It always seemed to be the case with Dolohov, Rodolphus could never quite decide if he cared for the man. He’d kill for him without a beat, but sharing a conversation never seemed to fit with them.

“She’s here tonight, isn’t she?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, tone sharp and thoroughly unamused. “I don’t know what she looks like. Let’s fix it.” The hesitance caught his eye and he attached it to worry rather than whatever else it might be. “Don’t worry, I’ll play nice. I’ve promised to be on my best behavior tonight.” A toothy grin accompanied his claim.

Antonin clenched his jaw, molars shifting roughly against each other. There was a part of him who’d come back here so that he could roam down the halls and think about the person he’d been before. Not blameless, even then, by a long shot but not a murderer yet, not a mess of a drunk, a cheater, a disaster. The person he’d been before they’d gone and destroyed him utterly, corrupted him into nothing. No, that was wrong, said his conscience, said his guilt, said Henry. The worst of it, he’d done himself. The blame was his and it would be Antonin who hung for it all not the Death Eaters when the time came. 

“Only enough to seem normal, only with the people I should be,” he defended. It was the truth, he’d skirted around the various reporters and had stayed away the Death Eaters that he wasn’t actually supposed to know. 

He maintained eye contact as steadily as he could under Rodolphus’ gaze. “Yes, she is,” he confirmed lowly as he tried to find the words to say, no, she’s a good person. Florence couldn’t get caught up in this, not like Emma who’d agreed all too eagerly. He should at least ask why he wanted to get a look at her. The flash of Rodolphus’ teeth sent Antonin’s gaze skittering away though. Absolutely nothing was comforting about him promising to be on his best behavior. He’d never once struck Antonin as the type of person who knew what best behavior meant or rather he was the type that’d find best behavior criminally boring. “Okay. But she’s, she won’t be corrupted, she can’t be bought or bribed.” 

#chats #rodolphus #better late than never rightttt??

[di-dolohov-blog]

florencevane :

Good memories or bad. Well, that was a loaded question, but at least Antonin had come bearing gifts. Florence plucked the champagne from his hand, fighting the urge to down the whole thing in one gulp. “Isn’t it always both?” she muttered off-handedly. She wondered how many people in the room were criminals. Every hand she shook, every person who smiled at her, Florence second-guessed them. She could count on one hand the number of people she could trust, and most of them were on her own staff.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? London is so popular that even at a University gathering in Scotland of all places, there are still so many familiar faces.” Some of them were from the news, heads of huge companies or politicians, some of them were the by-lines of newspaper articles or simply arsonists and graffiti artists. Some of them, her gut told her even without proof, were killers. “I know this is supposed to be a celebration and everything, but I can’t turn off detective mode. I keep waiting for something to happen.” She gave Antonin a long look. “You haven’t seen anything suspicious, have you?”

He grimaced. Florence, the consummate professional, had breezed straight past any conversation of her University days. He doubted she’d even really meant to do it which just made him feel more ungainly, disastrous. His thoughts strayed momentarily to the embarrassment of a phone call he’d made months ago. He was always blurring personal and professional. 

“Unfortunately,” he replied because, of course, she was right. A bitter smile crept along his face as he took in the Great Hall. Even decorated up for the event, he could remember precisely the way it was on a normal day, could see the exact place where the Slytherin table usually was. The very place where Henry had turned to him, sleepy-eyed and soft, one morning their last year and said, marry me. “I used to think nothing could taint my good memories of this place.” 

He snorted, gifting her with half a smile. “Well, I mean, where else is there to be but London.” For everything undeniably bad about their city, Antonin still had a fierce loyalty to it. 

“Me either. I’ve been hoping someone will give me an excuse to arrest them. Get a huge group of people together who are all trying seem better than they are, prove they’ve made something of themselves, ply ‘em with free booze and something’s bound to happen,” he told her, deliberately casual. He stared back at her, one beat, two, three. Too long. Did she know? He could feel sweat sliding down his back. “No. I’d tell you if I had,” he said shortly. 

God, but how many times had he said that. I’d tell you if I wasn’t fine. I’d tell you if I’d found any prints at the scene. I’d tell you if there was something wrong at home. I’d tell you if I knew who stole that evidence. Broken record. Liar.

#ahhh im sorry don't match #chats #florence #(sounds like penance)