Antonin Dolohov

It rained and rained and rained.

It never seemed to stop raining in London. Antonin ducked beneath the awning of a nearby shop to straighten his robes and pull up his hood with an irritated flick of the wrist. With the customary curse under his breath, he stepped out from the shop window and powered forward, splashing past several other inviting doorways before he finally made his way over to the ‘The Ink Pot’. He was nearly in the entrance when he jostled against another man who seemed to have the exact same idea he did.

“Apologies.” Antonin stepped back, taking the door handle and holding it open, only to be shocked by the sight before him. The young man with shining blond hair looked so remarkably familiar and it took a moment before Antonin’s mind made the connection. The Quidditch player from the Daily Prophet. He let out a soft, “Oh” at the realization before casting his eyes away for the sake of propriety.

“да.” (Yes.)

He answered without even thinking, and now seeing what this stranger must think of him, Antonin panicked. “Excuse me.” He ducked around Ludo and into the shop, making his way to the dictionaries and notebooks without looking back nor offering any further details.

Though Russia was dauntingly large, Antonin didn’t elaborate on what areas he came from. Much like Durmstrang Academy, the Dolohov family estate would have probably moved around several times since his departure so it would be impossible for him to pinpoint where precisely home was and that fact gnawed at him every time he gave it room in his mind.

"And what brings you to the rainy United Kingdom?" She then asked curiously. Was it just their Master's cause, business or maybe both? She thanked the waiter that came with their drinks and then wrapped her slender fingers around the glass. And then, surprising her, he complimented her duelling skills.

Antonin cleared his throat, realizing that this was the most he had spoken in months, perhaps even years, and though his smile faded, that sense of relief lingered.

Antonin had no intention of leaving. The newly imposed curfew had been a pain in his ass the moment it took effect. Antonin did most of his business at night, from selling magical goods to impromptu ‘meetings’ with his dark family. To have the ministry breathing down the back of his neck for yet another reason served more as an annoyance than an actual threat to him and so, after a few good glasses of vodka to loosen his tongue, he felt more than willing to share his half-formed thoughts. It also helped that he intended on speaking to this woman for quite a while.

The prodigious Rita Skeeter.

Antonin recognized her from her author’s picture in the Daily Prophet. He’d been reading Skeeter’s articles since he landed in this godforsaken, rain soaked country, and to a certain extent he had her to thank for his willingness to learn more English. Her articles were addicting, from her acidic tone to her vicious ability to tear her way to the core of an issue kept him enraptured until he finally reached the conclusion. Never before had he encountered any sort of text in English that had captured him so thoroughly. He’d been meaning to thank her for the last few hours, yet only now he found the courage to speak right at the end of the night.

The meeting had ended almost as soon as it had begun. Brief enough to leave more questions than answers, as though the Dark Lord himself had chosen to keep his thoughts close— for now, at least. The Hog's Head emptied quickly as curfew loomed less than an hour away, and most seemed eager to disappear before then. Sabrina, however, lingered. Patience had always served her better than haste, and something told her the evening still had something to offer.

Her attention settled on the towering figure of Antonin Dolohov. They'd exchanged little more than passing words over the years, yet she'd watched enough to know the sort of man he was, or perhaps, the sort she believed him to be. Reliable. Dangerous. Uncomplicated. A spark of curiosity ignited within her as she she crossed the room until she came to a stop beside him. "Dolohov," she greeted evenly, glass in hand and the hint of a smile touching her lips. "You don't strike me as someone who enjoys being sent home early."

“Avery.”

Dangerous and effective, clever and intuitive. Sabrina Avery was a useful addition to the Dark Lord’s forces, and Antonin always admired skilled individuals. She had the calm, collected confidence that Antonin found lacking in his own rather brutal methods.

“мой друг (my friend), you know me too well. I do not like to be sent home early.” He nodded to her, giving her a small smile and sensing a kindred, restless spirit in her as well. “Do you know of anything better?”

"Ah, and here come someone more competent." The Dark Lord says down at the shivering and weeping bundle of robes cowering at his feet.

Voldemort ignores him for Antonin. "My friend, it is your skills I need. The Ministry has been a hindrance to progress."

More then a hindrance with nearly killing those they couldn't capture bearing The Dark Lord's mark. Even those who Voldemort had bewitched to do a few jobs.

Antonin’s eyes followed her as she lowered the hood, brilliant ruby hair pooled around her shoulders, catching the low lamplight and gleaming before she led the way forward. Antonin’s heavy footfalls followed dutifully after. She settled in a booth of her choice, as graceful as she was confident, as Antonin eased himself into the seat opposite, taking his time and glancing around the dark surroundings of the sparse tavern.

At the mention of her appetite, Antonin let out a sigh of relief. “да, I feel the same! Starving! Some of our close friends, they talk and talk and talk.” He shook his head with a wry grin, remembering the meeting they came from and why it ran so remarkably late. Rookwood’s lengthy reports always managed to put him half to sleep with his monotonous droning. When the waiter, (a thin, reedy man with thick glasses) finally made an appearance, Antonin made sure to order two whiskeys to start. He nodded to Alecto to make sure she found this agreeable.

Then the waiter came and she gave Antonin an approving nod. "Sounds good by me" she hummed, leaning back and crossed one leg over the other. She took her menu and opened it, hoping she could decide for what she was in the mood of.

"So..." she began, her green eyes finally looking up to the man in front of her. "Where are you from?" She asked curiously. "Russia?"

Though Russia was dauntingly large, Antonin didn’t elaborate on what areas he came from. Much like Durmstrang Academy, the Dolohov family estate would have probably moved around several times since his departure so it would be impossible for him to pinpoint where precisely home was and that fact gnawed at him every time he gave it room in his mind.

rita had been in this industry for too long to recognize when people were tense and she had never seen it like this. of course, she predicted that it would happen and it really kicked her in the gut to report on hard news when she'd rather write about what she did best. rita was in the middle of an interview at the cafe when the bartender called last call. her head snapped in every direction, not used to the business closing when the sun was still bright outside. "oh, you're not serious," she complained to no one in particular with the rest of the crowd who made to stand. "i can't believe this. they think this is going to solve anything and-yeah, i'm not doing this." she was agnostic about most things unless it came to an inconvenience to her and her career. "where do we even go now for a drink? someone's place? that's a worse health hazard."

Antonin had no intention of leaving. The newly imposed curfew had been a pain in his ass the moment it took effect. Antonin did most of his business at night, from selling magical goods to impromptu ‘meetings’ with his dark family. To have the ministry breathing down the back of his neck for yet another reason served more as an annoyance than an actual threat to him and so, after a few good glasses of vodka to loosen his tongue, he felt more than willing to share his half-formed thoughts. It also helped that he intended on speaking to this woman for quite a while.

The prodigious Rita Skeeter.

Antonin recognized her from her author’s picture in the Daily Prophet. He’d been reading Skeeter’s articles since he landed in this godforsaken, rain soaked country, and to a certain extent he had her to thank for his willingness to learn more English. Her articles were addicting, from her acidic tone to her vicious ability to tear her way to the core of an issue kept him enraptured until he finally reached the conclusion. Never before had he encountered any sort of text in English that had captured him so thoroughly. He’d been meaning to thank her for the last few hours, yet only now he found the courage to speak right at the end of the night.

"Ah, and here come someone more competent." The Dark Lord says down at the shivering and weeping bundle of robes cowering at his feet.

The Gryphon’s Claw lay off from the beaten track. Weathered, dirty cobblestones lay underfoot as Antonin gestured for his companion to follow along after him. The darkness of Knockturn Alley hid their movements for the most part. They couldn’t afford to be caught curfew, yet Antonin had very little regard for any rulings by the ministry; there was only one law of the land he abided by.

Glancing back in Alecto’s direction, Antonin had to admit that he felt a knot of anxiety ball up in his stomach. He knew he needed to make more connections, be more open to contact with his fellow warriors who crusaded for a just and righteous cause. Despite all that, Antonin had never been a sensational conversationalist, even in his home tongue. He left those sorts of talents to his brothers. In English, his attempts at conversation were downright laughable, yet he couldn’t let this stand in his way forever.

Antonin pulled the heavy wooden door to the tavern open and held it, gesturing for Alecto to enter. “There is good whiskey here. Vodka too. Do you like these things?” He labored over the pronunciation, speaking slowly and frowning when the ‘w’s would not cooperate with his accent.

She didn't know much of him, just that he was older than her and spoke a different language. His accent was noticeable and she found that quite endearing. "I do enjoy those things, yes" she responded with a friendly smile. "You?" She then asked in return as she entered the tavern. Once inside, she pulled down the hood of her cloak, revealing her glorious red hair.

"Hope they serve food here, I'm starving" she hummed softly as she headed to an empty booth. "So, you come here often?" She then wondered as she took a seat.

Antonin’s eyes followed her as she lowered the hood, brilliant ruby hair pooled around her shoulders, catching the low lamplight and gleaming before she led the way forward. Antonin’s heavy footfalls followed dutifully after. She settled in a booth of her choice, as graceful as she was confident, as Antonin eased himself into the seat opposite, taking his time and glancing around the dark surroundings of the sparse tavern.

At the mention of her appetite, Antonin let out a sigh of relief. “да, I feel the same! Starving! Some of our close friends, they talk and talk and talk.” He shook his head with a wry grin, remembering the meeting they came from and why it ran so remarkably late. Rookwood’s lengthy reports always managed to put him half to sleep with his monotonous droning. When the waiter, (a thin, reedy man with thick glasses) finally made an appearance, Antonin made sure to order two whiskeys to start. He nodded to Alecto to make sure she found this agreeable.