#cygnusblck

Book abandoned at his side, cast to sit half-open upon the bench on which he sat, Antonin watched the black wolf as he stalked along the length of his temporary kingdom; were he not so soon to be dethroned, he might have been magnificent. But kings slipping silently from their thrones were not magnificent - they were tragic. Pathetic, embarrassments - the ghost of what might have been pity tap-tapped upon his ribs as he watched, its snide cousin turning up the corners of his lips. The rest of the room seemed to find no absentminded pleasure in the display; perhaps the lackadaisical squabble Hogwarts called Dueling Club was a commonplace sight, not something worth watching with hawk’s eyes and predatory teeth raring to tear the flesh of pretender-kings. Such a display at home would have been regarded with intense fervor - but perhaps this was what put him here in the first place, sitting in the wings, watching the great king stalk his skittish prey. 

“A fifth year, Black?” the words escaped him against his own volition; the bastard child of vitriol and cynicism turned his tongue acidic, mocking, “Is this what passes as a challenge?” Steel voice carried, though the air was still; wandering eyes, which once had little direction amidst the rabble that filled the hall, locked upon the two wolves, the two kings with gilded crowns who sat atop opposite thrones. Antonin remained reclined as his opponent’s eyes turned sideways, locked upon his virulent visage; though most would wither like dried petals beneath such a gaze, he felt his thorns grow sharper, his claws dig deeper. He feared very little - the pretender-king would find an impassible challenge in him. 

But how he desired the challenge, how it boiled the blood at the base of his spine; though his time spent within the hallowed halls of Hogwarts had been brief, he’d found plenty reason to sink hungry teeth into the obvious dislike that bloomed from Cygnus Black’s every breath. He exuded challenge, breathed conflict - and Antonin was nothing if not a blade to be clashed. And did he not deserve to oust the pretender, the weaker wolf, from his parapet? Did he not deserve to indulge the need for worship, which could be so acutely satisfied by the great nothings who populated Cygnus Black’s kingdom? 

Did they not see, as he lounged here, fingers drumming atop concealed wand, languid beneath the gaze of his challenger, that their true heir had arrived? Did they not see his teeth?

How big your teeth are, Russian wolf. 

“Hardly,” Cygnus called, “Though I’ve no doubt you would not know the difference.”

All the better to eat you with, king of dogs. 

The crowd, in biblical fashion, parted - the path between the rival wolves was unobstructed now, save a stray scrap of paper on which a series of bets had been scrawled. Even from afar, Antonin could see that dear Cygnus had resided at the top of every bracket - though the competition was underwhelming at best. It was something akin to pitting a lion against a lamb; the real test of true prowess would come should Cygnus find himself brave enough to match a true opponent. 

“Would I not?” he stood, pressed and crisp, all hard lines and radiating heat, with a click of held breath from the crowd about; oh, how he desired to spill his secrets, to pull the scales from Cygnus’s eyes so he could see - but perhaps he already knew. A moment such as this, mere months before, had earned him the reputation that sat gilded upon his shoulders today; did Cygnus see the label beneath the jewels? Murderer - proud murderer. Skilled killer. They’d all thought it had been an accident; his mother had seen to the legitimacy of the ruse at the onset. But Cygnus was made of the same mettle as he - as much as he was loath to admit it - and surely would see the truth behind the mask. 

An opponent worthy of Antonin’s mettle, of his reputation for swift and unadulterated horror, Cygnus looked upon him as he stood, descending the stands and leaving his book (The Art of War - appropriate enough) unattended; contact between equally sharp gazes remained unbroken as Antonin shrugged his jacket from over broad shoulders, letting it drape unaffectedly in the lap of a blonde Ravenclaw who watched with rapt attention. He was a horror show - the sort of thing one simply could not look away from. Did she know the terror for which he was known? Did she know that this was his arena to command?

Antonin spoke again as polished shoes found stone; slipped into his pocket with absent swiftness, he pulled his wand from his pocket, and stood stock still. “A convincing display, this schooling of a child,” he glanced to the fifth year, who’d gone lily-white and now stood half hidden behind Cygnus, as if he’d find protection there, “Though my skepticism remains. Why not match with an opponent your own size? Are there none available to spar with?” The condescension in Antonin’s every breath dripped venom; even the dimmest of them all could hear it, even in his simplest words. This was the sound of a glorious challenge - one that any of his comrades at Durmstrang would have taken in stride. Surely the lily-pale sensibilities of the Brits would pale in comparison. 

Cygnus was at his wand again, gripping with thick fingers and knuckles that seemed to have never known a bruise. Antonin could not imagine him lifting a finger. His shoulders seemed to straighten, broaden, an animal threatened by an outlander at the mouth of its den. At the door to the hall, a small gaggle of students slipped between the doors, just ajar and letting in the obtrusive light of the corridor outside; it was dangerous to be here, to take arms in light of the ‘tragedy’ that befell Durmstrang just months before - anyone could see him here, anyone could behold him here. 

But the only audience which warranted captivating was the one standing before him, with ready eyes and wand angled upward. The audience who, with harsh voice entirely befitting of the tension that hung between them, spoke with a pointed step forward. “You try my patience,” no matter the brimstone upon the tip of his tongue, Cygnus remained stoic - as if speaking as master to student; it prodded at the dark companion which always sat perched atop Antonin’s shoulder, whispering bloody nothings into his ear. It screamed to pounce, to tear at his black-collared throat, to spill his heart upon the stone as he’d done to the boy at Durmstrang. 

A boy whose name he could not remember - Cygnus Black would be forgotten just as easily. 

“Do I?” a snarl loosed from his tongue - the great Russian wolf’s stoicism was beginning to reach the end of its life. A great, bounding step forward, and he was within reaching distance of his opponent, who bristled at the close proximity. At his side, his knuckles were white; he could smell violence upon Cygnus’s breath, dark and permeating as a bleeding pomegranate - and so he took another step. He was not the sort to posture, not like to wave his skill in the face of every opponent, but there were few to deserved it. And though he’d known dear Cygnus Black for mere months, there were few more deserving than he. “Shall we test your patience further?” he muttered, for he was now close enough to feel almost intimate in his hate, “Shall I show you how it is meant to be done?”

A scoff, “Shall I make you my whipping boy?”

“Shall I make you my dog?”

Wands flew upward in tandem, Antonin’s arm extended, prepared to strike as a coiled viper. Cygnus seemed to stretch upward in size, a shadow through which only horrors passed - it was doubtless that they were matched, and perhaps this was what made him such a delicious conquer. He could see it now - conquered Black slinking home to lament the prowess of the Russian king; his rightful place after swift coup d’etat was upon the golden throne on which Cygnus sat, unworthy and undeserving. (But they were the same - they were matched - they were cruel kings carved from the same block of gleaming marble. It was no mistake, however, that one of the two was simply better.) Teeth bared, eyes aflame with the utmost vitriol, Antonin drew in a breath of brimstone and venom - but the slamming of heavy, and suddenly open, doors upon the stone walls stopped the both of them at the throat. Into the hall poured a small gaggle of professors, eyes upon Antonin as if he might burst to flame at any moment. Away, away! They called, shooing them apart as one shoos embers from a hearth. Back, back! The horror on their faces was evident - they knew of Antonin’s capabilities; it made him unquestionably smug to see that they’d all foreseen Cygnus demolished. 

This knowledge made him smile - as his arm fell to his side, he cast Cygnus a pitying glance, a snide smirk entailing all he so wished the other boy knew. A sturdy hand gripped his arm, as another took Cygnus, pulling them apart -  he could hardly hear the scolding tone of the professors, for his knowing visage burned with far too much satisfaction to care.