TRAGIC BOY.

hello everybody! i’m s, use she/her pronouns, and in the est tmz. i finally got a chance to put everything together and i’m here to introduce antonin here. if you’d like to plot or do something with him, please let me know!

Scourgify. Of course. Dorcas internally groaned at the fact that she didn’t think of that in the first place, taking her wand out and casting a quick spell to clean up the mess that was her clothes. Now that she wasn’t sopping wet thanks to her coffee, she could focus on the fact that she was stuck with Dolohov until someone noticed they were both missing – the thought gave her pause, and she fought off yet another groan. Picture perfect day.

“I didn’t say right now,” she grumbled, shooting a glare in his direction. “Clearly it would happen once we’re off this blasted thing.” She bit her tongue when he said people didn’t like him around the Ministry – I can’t imagine why – and looked straight back at the doors, glaring at them like the gesture would force the lift to start working again. She couldn’t stop herself, however, from muttering, “ten minutes will feel like a lifetime,” but quickly covered it up with a louder, “We’ll be out of each other’s hair before we know it.” 

💀

𝙃𝙀'𝘿 be hard-pressed to find the grace in her voice, though he’d been under the impression that he’d helped her by reminding her of the spell. Antonin watches her perform the spell with all the condescending curiosity of someone who is waiting for a mistake to happen before his very eyes — but it’s clear that she’s a more than capable witch. On opposing sides of the battle line, they’d seen each other’s work first hand. Only the most foolish wizards would discount the enemy’s power, and foolish he was not. 

But even their cleverness couldn’t get them out of the lift, resorting to breathing in the animosity brewing between them. Perhaps hers started even before she’d entered the lift, but for him, it’s the moment she spews the unnecessary comment about her dislike towards him. Couldn’t they let bygones be bygones? “If you’d like to insult me, Miss Meadowes, I’d prefer it be done to my face.” And whatever courtesy left in his voice melted away to leave only the ice. “I don’t quite appreciate others whispering under their breath like a coward.”  

There was no place within the Ministry’s walls quite so strange or sacred as the interior of her lifts. They were Ted’s thinking spaces. Each one it’s very own little microcosm, possessed of those very specific qualities that Ted looked for in his preferred liminal spaces; a collision of ambiguously dated interior design, perpetual dizzying motion, tuneless muzak and indecipherable smells that all culminated in the polite, crisp and painfully apathetic intonation of the welcome witch’s soothing introduction to each floor. There was nothing that could make Ted actively dislike the blackhole of time and space he reliably stepped into every time he entered a lift within the Ministry’s walls, though he suspected that the man haphazardly poking at the control panel might give it a decent punt. 

“Easy does it,” a sideward glance away from the sheaf of trade embargoes he’d been resolutely not reading told him his morning’s lift-time was thoroughly compromised. “Our Agnes is a sensitive soul. Stop pawing at her and try telling her she looks pretty today— she might change her mind about going on strike.”

💀

𝙂𝙇𝘼𝙉𝘾𝙄𝙉𝙂 over his shoulder, Antonin only recognizes the general form of the man as another Ministry official. With a paper tucked away in his hand, he is thoroughly unperturbed by the lift slowing to a grumbling stop. A stark difference, he thinks, from the housewives and first-time visitors, whose fingers always hovered over the buttons for a second too long. It’d been petty entertainment for him, especially when the lift would stop, just like this, but it is clear that today would not be one of those days.

“Agnes?” His forehead wrinkles. The name is unfamiliar to him — until he realizes that the other is referring to the lift itself, and an amused smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Do you really name the lifts? Or is this one just extra special to you?” Pausing, he slides to the side, gesturing to the control panel. “Well? Why not have a go at it? It sounds like you’re quite adept at making her go.”

Dorcas was having a rough day.

First, her alarm didn’t go off, which naturally made her late for work ( she thanked every deity that existed for her body waking up only an hour later than she was meant to ). Since she was already late, she’d stopped to get herself coffee, the only good part about her morning until about fifteen minutes ago. Paperwork galore greeted her on her desk, and just as she’d started groaning about her luck, someone bumped into her and sent her coffee across them, her, and the paperwork in question.

So for the elevator to stop about halfway to the nearest Floo station, leaving her trapped and her jeans coffee-stained with only Antonin Dolohov for company, Dorcas didn’t think she could be blamed for her slightly manic laugh. “I’m about five seconds from changing my floor entirely and giving whoever controls this a piece of my mind. Care to join?”

💀

𝘼𝙉𝙏𝙊𝙉𝙄𝙉 is subtlety personified, even as a former Order member strolls in, a vexed expression chiseled into her face. The laughter hardly matches the demeanor she exudes, and going by the state of her bottoms, it is clear that this debacle is only the cherry on the top of her already horrid day. 

“You didn’t think to try Scourgify?” He asks, raising a single brow. Tucking the paper underneath his arm, he leans against a corner of the lift, giving his shoulders a light shrug. “Good luck with that. It’s stopped, Miss Meadowes. Not sure who you’ll be giving your piece of mind, but best leave me out of it. They’re not known to like me here.” Perhaps it is unlike Antonin to turn down a good fight, or at the very least, an argument — but quite frankly, he didn’t see much the point. He sighs, glancing over at the other with a bored glaze over his eyes. “They’ll notice in about ten minutes that I’m late, anyways. We’ll be out of here soon enough, in case you were worried about being stuck in here with me forever.”

* ∘⡊ ☆ﾟ*・⊹  bellatrix ⊹

“Delight wouldn’t  begin  to cover the privilege of my thoughts, Antonin. I can only assume you are nothing short of an ungrateful, arrogant, son of a bitch.” Her laugh was clear as a bell as she crossed her knees, her posture loosening with company that she felt comfortable in. The rim of her drink met her lips and silenced her amusement, but her gaze shone bright with pleasure as she met his eye. “Don’t get offended. All the best people have some similar, if unfortunate combination.”  She did not check his reaction, content to settle further into her chair and steal another sip before abandoning the glass on the table. 

“You’re a public servant, Antonin. As a citizen, I am positively floored by your dedication.” He was not incorrect in his assessment. Bellatrix  was  bored, the sense that her glory days had passed without fruition crawled beneath her pale skin on a near daily basis. For a woman of near infamous ambitions, the shift was nigh unbearable. Anyone with eyes could see her dissatisfaction. She could not quite meet his eye, fingers straightening the pristine cut of her suit jacket, as she took a breath. After a pause, she leaned over the table, a smug smile returning to the corners of her lips, “Since we are such old friends, you must come with me to Armenia. On business, of course. There is a portrait there, I mean to collect from an … unwilling  seller. The excitement might do your sour disposition some good.” The invitation, at first dredged up on a whim, seemed to grow more appealing by the second, an old flame flickering in the witch’s gaze as she studied the wizard. “Come.  Dust off the rust from those persuasion skills, dear.”

💀

𝙉𝙊𝙏 quite surprised as much as he is amused by her impression, Antonin releases a breath, shaking his head at the other’s comment. “Arrogant? Perhaps; and son of bitch — most definitely, but ungrateful?” He raises a quizzical brow, leans back into his stool in sarcastic incredulity. “I assure you I am quite grateful. I could be rotting away in some cell in Azkaban, but instead I’m out here, graced by your lovely presence.” He raises the glass to his lips, tipping it back, relishing in the quick burn of the liquid. “The whiskey’s only an added bonus.” And with that, he finishes the rest of his drink, quickly motioning for another. 

“You’d like me to accompany you to Armenia?” The surprise is evident in his voice, and he punctuates his sentence with a little laugh. “I suppose I shall make a judgment about you, if you’ll allow me that insolence — you’ve gone quite mad, haven’t you?” And yet, despite it all, he enjoys matching Bellatrix in both wit and humor. The offer of excitement... well, it’s only the cherry on top. “I suppose you’ll drag me by my hair if I refuse.” But the devious look on his face is already a reflection of his agreement, the prospect of causing some sort of mischief enough to get him to play along. 

𝙃𝙀 supposes in the grand scheme of things, there are worse places he could be. The Ministry isn’t awful as much as it is monotonous and dull. Hardly a challenge in throwing an Obliviate to the odd Muggle who’d caught sight of some magic, and with their skills dreadfully below his own, he derived no pleasure from it. 

Stepping into the lift, he hits the button for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes before pulling out a wrinkled copy of The Daily Prophet, scanning the stories with a tired eye. Nothing caught his interest anymore, not since the war had ended. His gaze falls upon a story about an escaped dragon when the lift hums to a slow stop, and the usual warmth from the charm dissipates away, leaving them stuck between floors. 

“Again?” He walks over to the buttons, pressing them at random before exhaling, admitting defeat. “Merlin, they need to update these bloody charms. Fifth time this week I’ve heard this happening.” 

* ∘⡊ ☆ﾟ*・⊹  bellatrix ⊹

“It’s been said I’m an  excellent  judge of character.” Bellatrix assured the lone figure as she settled into the chair opposite. The witch spoke with a clear confidence but the truth of the statement remained unclear with the smirk that danced with playful jest, allowing room for doubt. A clear glass filled with a warm red wine swirled in her practiced grasp, it’s contents her clear remedy for the times. It wasn’t unusual for Bellatrix to dance around her true feelings, especially these days. Power had slipped away like sand beneath her feet and she stood in precarious circumstances, her intentions and opinions doubted constantly. Yet she survived, for the pure sake of annoying anyone who wished otherwise. “Let me guess,” her head lilted, gaze taking in their appearance with a cruelly critical flare, “bad day at the office? Or perhaps, you’ve been stood up. Whatever the case, loneliness is a bad look, dearie, and you simply must accept my company.” 

// @diagon-starters​

𝘼𝙉𝙏𝙊𝙉𝙄𝙉'𝙎 relationship with Bellatrix had always been complicated, one built upon similar goals and marred by clashing dispositions. Both had been intimately involved in the inner workings of the Dark Lord’s plans, though he’d never particularly trusted the witch. 

“Bellatrix Lestrange, an excellent judge of character,” he repeats, chuckling at the thought. “If that’s so, I’d be delighted to hear what you think of me,” he continues, “and I’ll make that judgment for myself.” 

“Every day at the Ministry is a bad day,” he replies evenly, as if it hardly bothers him that his days are spent filing paperwork and casting simple memory charms on Muggles and dim-witted wizards. “But I suppose you wouldn’t understand, would you? With the Black and Lestrange fortune at your behest, your life must be quite mundane nowadays.” A teasing lilt enters his tone as he searches the other’s face. Antonin does not mean to deride one of his own, though he cannot help but poke at her arrogance and status. “I don’t call it loneliness as much as I’d like to interpret it as a hatred for the people around me.” He pauses, before giving her a mocking wink. “Present company excluded, of course.” 

WHO: Alecto & Open WHERE: The Leaky Cauldron 

Alecto had lost count how many times she found herself drinking alone in the corner of the Leaky Cauldron after work. It was becoming quite the bad habit actually: work quite late in to the evening at Borgin & Burke’s, pack everything up, and then head round the corner to the old pub for one or two before heading home.

On most occasions she’d be able to find amusement in people watching while she drank, but tonight she was a little preoccupied with her own thoughts, and without realising she was doing it, she found herself dragging her painted nails along her left forearm where her dark mark once sat. There was nothing of it left of course, it had completely faded in the fife years since the Dark Lord had been killed, but Alecto was sure she could still trace out its exact shape if she tried. 

Suddenly aware of another close by her, she folded her arms over one another as she glanced up. “Were you planning on just standing there and gawping at me, or did you want to sit down?”

💀

𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙃𝙄𝙉𝙂 satisfied Antonin more than a glass of whiskey at the end of a long day. When the war had ended, he’d known that the adjustment would be worse than Azkaban itself, but he hadn’t predicted that the worst part would be the droning mundaneness of routine. Every day, he’d wake up, Floo to the Ministry, work until everybody would crowd around the lobby, eager to go home to their lives. Antonin had no one to go home to, nobody to see — but he liked it better that way, he supposes. The Leaky Cauldron had seen much of his time, and tonight was no different.

“Still as charming as ever, Alecto.” He slides into the stool next to her, drink already in his hand, though he motions to the barmaid for another. “Another round of firewhiskey for me and the lovely lady over here.” His eyes wander over to where she’d been tracing her forearm, and he nods, lowering his voice. “Feels strange, doesn’t it?” Antonin finishes the rest of his drink in one swig. “Miss the burn, almost. Replaced it with this —” And he holds up his newly filled glass, waving it in the air before bringing it to his lips. “But it’s not quite the same, isn’t it?”