Alive

They would have tracked the man earlier if Dolohov had stopped being an arrogant asshole with an attitude. When the Dark Lord had imposed the death sentence on the traitor, Antonin had been the first to ask for permission to make that happen. That was the first time Fenrir actually paid attention to Dolohov with his pale face and a smirk that told Greyback more about the man than his biography and Azkaban imprisonment. That crazy bitch Lestrange couldn’t keep her mouth shut about all the terrors of Azkaban she had suffered in the name of the Dark Lord. According to what Fenrir noticed, the Dark Lord wasn’t that impressed with the whining, he didn’t give a tiny rat’s ass about Bella’s sufferings, and neither did Fenrir. So, at least, Dolohov was a nice change from Lestrenge, because he didn’t say anything about Azkaban. In fact, he didn’t say much at all, but the smirk that appeared on his lips from time to time, told volumes. The Dark Lord told them both to go, and Dolohov didn’t seem too happy with Fenrir’s company, and he didn’t wait to tell him that. “I don’t need you with me. You’ll slow me down… and I don’t find werewolves of much use at all to begin with,” Antonin told him the first time they were left alone. “I couldn’t have cared less about your opinion. I could have tried. But I wouldn’t have been successful,” Fenrir was pleased to notice the surprised expression on Dolohov’s face. It wasn’t unexpected. Most of the wizards thought him to be an illiterate scum, some sort of an animal… They also tended to forget that Fenrir Greyback was not only a werewolf, but a wizard as well, and a skillful one. He didn’t care much about basic everyday magic. He’d rather get up and walk to get the thing he needed than wave his wand like an imbecile and cry out loud “Accio, some shit that is literally half a meter away from me!”. But he was good at combat magic, and Dolohov had learned this fact the hard way when he had decided to “talk some sense into the beast”. Fenrir lazily watched Dolohov cursing and wiping the blood from his lips. “I can’t believe that you’d killed the Prewett brothers,” he said at last and noticed with satisfaction the anger twisting Dolohov’s face. “Were they cripples?” “Each of them was ten times the wizard you are!” “Don’t piss your pants with excitement about some sissy boys you killed… I bet they were fighting fair. You know what? I bet they nodded at you before trying to duel you.” Dolohov’s face got dark with anger, and Fenrir laughed heartily. He got that right. “You’re kidding! Did they…?” There was a moment of silence, and then Antonin spit the blood on the ground and grinned. “They actually did.” “Fuckers!” Fenrir sniffed and got to his feet. “Alright… now will you try doing things my way?” Dolohov nodded. They were heading north in search of the traitor, and that wasn’t the cozy British north. It was on the continent, and they had to travel quietly. Magic helped up to a certain point, and then they had to go on by themselves. They didn’t want to attract too much attention to the use of magic at the places remote from the main part of the European wizarding community, and not because they were scared to get noticed, no. Both of them secretly wanted that, wanted a reason to torture and kill, or, at least, to have a good fight, but the Dark Lord had ordered otherwise. “Good. Do you have anything with you I can use to smell the bastard?” “I do,” Dolohov took a small parcel from his inner pocket and tapped it with his wand. The parcel got bigger and puffier, and Antonin gave it to the werewolf. He was watching silently Fenrir tearing the paper away and, finally, asked. “Is that magic? Or is that because you’re a werewolf?” “Both,” Fenrir grabbed the silk scarf that was inside the parcel and buried his face into the fabric, inhaling deeply. The scent was weak but traceable… he didn’t like it, though. Too much sweat under the disguise of the perfume. He sat on the ground, his face still covered with the scarf, and started breathing through the fabric. His eyes closed. “Are you…” “Shut up.” Dolohov did. The silence wasn’t full. The piercing wind was rustling through the scarce trees. Some birds were shrieking above their heads. It was getting colder with every minute. They spent several hours this way. The shack Fenrir brought them to wasn’t well-adjusted for the winter. It didn’t matter, though. Antonin was watching Igor Karkaroff on the floor with amusement of a person watching a bug trying to get back on its feet. His face was covered in sweat and tears, and his thin lips were trembling. Such a weak mouth! Even the poor excuse for a beard couldn’t make it look stronger. Igor was silent for now. He had been crying, and pleading, and screaming during the whole time Dolohov was teaching him the lessons to be learned. Lesson one. You do not betray the Dark Lord. Lesson two. You do not betray your fellow Death Eaters to get out of Azkaban. And, finally, lesson three. If you try to fight Antonin Dolohov, you lose. “Now let me talk,” Dolohov said as if Karkaroff was blabbering. He might have wanted to, of course, but the spell left him silent. “It’s pretty late, and we have traveled far to track you… so I’ll be quick.” The panic looked at Dolohov through the man’s eyes. “Don’t worry, Igor. I’m not going to kill you,” said Antonin and smiled. His smile was dark and wicked but very attractive. “I will set you free. And you will run as far as you want… like a Muggle, of course. Because traitors don’t get the luxury of magic or Apparation.” Ferir, who was sitting at the only and pretty poor excuse of an armchair the whole time since they had entered the shack, was watching Dolohov with genuine interest. Antonin was good at fight, and he was good at torture, and now he was good at giving a small speech. Dolohov waved his wand and shackles appeared on Igor’s ankles. There was no chain connecting them, though, and nothing restrained his movements. But they wouldn’t let him apparate. “There’s one catch, though,” Dolohov added. The spell he had used to immobilize Karkaroff faded, and the man sat on the floor. Then he was on his feet again. “Wha… what’s the catch?” Karkaroff’s voice was even weaker than his mouth. “My friend here,” Antonin nodded at Greyback. “Isn’t as merciful as I am. He doesn’t want to let you go… So, you’ll have to run fast. Because I managed to talk him into giving you a headstart.” The sun was licking the edge of the horizon now, and the windows in the shack were glowing red with sunset. “Run as fast as you can. Because tonight is special, and my friend always follows his instincts,” Dolohov smiled and added gently. “You see, his name is Greyback…” “No…” “And it is a full moon tonight.” “It’s Fenrir for friends,” the werewolf added with a smile when the door slammed shut behind Karkaroff. “Fenrir it is.” Both men stood by the window watching Igor Karkaroff run to the safety of the trees. “Close the door when I leave, darling.” purred Fenrir sweetly. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, my love.” Dolohov grinned and added. “Leave the face untouched. We have a message to deliver.” The Dark Mark in the sky above the shack looked almost playful.