[Lord Voldemort]

It was quiet. The occassional sound of a muggle streetcar roaring down the street floated in through the cracks in the wall. A general hum of rain pattered down, a silencing effect that no spell could quite replicate. The scent of the rainwater sent the lord's nose twitching, but not in an unpleasant way. The smell of the wet wood of the shutters reminded him of the orphanage - not so pleasant. He was in upper London, a restaurant in which it was possible (just by tucking a few gold coins into the host's hand), to hold the entire third floor. The restaurant was quite spacious, and as he had heard, it was great location for parties. The idea of an upcoming "party" seemed so unlikely that the lord had almost snickered when he first heard it. Party? The lord? What a perposterous, wickedly entertaining, novice ideal. Perhaps when he had been a little boy he would have enjoyed such an event. But that was quite a long time ago, and he could not be bothered to yearn for such foolish, wasteful desires. There were things much more pleasing at this current stage of his life. For example, taking over the world. Now no one can say that isn't a very, very ambitious goal. But it was a goal, the lord was confident, that he was already very far along accomplishing.

There were, of course, some problems. The Order was the largest one. It was something he would rather not deal with, just in general, but he could not deny the amount of amusement he gleaned from knocking out one phoenix at a time. Ha! And with the very wand that held a feather from that precious creature...a new level of irony. Yes, the lord liked irony. It would be quickest, of course, to remove the head of the Order, Albus, first. This, however, was a bit daunting. While he would admit it to no one, he was vaguely, vaguely scared of fighting Albus. Not of the wizard himself, no ... no, the lord could not possibly be afraid of the toddering, white-haired man. No. It was more the possibility (however small) that the lord would lose in a confrontation with his old headmaster. All the same, the lord was confident that the current plan in place would do just fine. Take away some students, kill a few Order members, make him feel dreadful...then kill him at his weakest. It was a dream that the lord actually relished on some level. Delicious.

Sometimes, when he was alone like he was now, he actually wondered if it wasn't the world he wished to conquer, and rather, simply Albus Dumbledore. ... But he always changed his mind. It was definitely the world. The power. The respect that he had never managed to earn before. Those that had wronged him would scream in fear and pain when they were sprawled on the ground in front of him. His name was one that would echo in the air, even on the lips of every undeserving muggle. Perhaps they would even become so afraid that they would not dare utter the vowels, their faces trembling as they imagined his. He would live forever, and with every new horcrux, he found himself becoming less and less susceptible to the emotions that brought down normal, weak human beings. Like Dumbledore. Even though it was almost impossible to tell, parts of the lord that resembled happiness and friendliness and that embodied the charm and charisma he still retained could be seen.

There are so many possibilities, all but lost now, of what the lord could have been if there had been some love to his life. Perhaps, only if...if his mother had survived and showered him with affection... Hope dangled on the fringes of time, so tantalizing but so irretrievable. And besides. To ask "what if" is the sign of a dreamer. And the dreamer spends his whole life, wasting away for what is not possible or for what they are too foolish to obtain themselves.

Irony, again. A companion to the lord's tale. As a youth, and even now, the lord had the soul of a dreamer. But this soul was gradually killing itself.

Here, on the third floor of the restaurant, Lord Voldemort sat at a small round table that had potmarks in its surface. It was set for two. The plates were simple, but the wine glasses were crystal. Without even lifting a finger, and rather his wand, Lord Voldemort poured an expensive wine from countless years ago into his glass. The scent wafted to the lord's above-human senses, and he closed his eyes as he cherished the effect of the grapes even before he drank it. Tilting his wand, he brought the glass to his lips and took a long drink. Ah.

Behind him, he heard the door open. He had cast a spell over this small room; no apparating through here. He wanted to be completely aware of every presence that entered this room.

"You're late," he stated simply. He took another sip of the wine before he let the glass float eerily back to the table. Lord Voldemort gazed at the wine fondly, and watched it pour itself into the glass opposite him.

It was the color of blood.

[Antonin Dolohov]

ooc; claimed!

With a bowed head, Antonin stepped into the all but unoccupied room; his gaze rested on the straight, cloaked back of his master, and a shiver ran down his spine. With less than assured movements, he closed the door behind him, and took another step towards the Dark wizard. "My apologies, my Lord," he mumbled as he closed the gap between them; he knelt perpendicular to where He sat, and touched his forehead to the floor by His feet. "My Lord," repeated he, almost sickening to watch as he reminded the Dark Lord how devoted a servant he was (though not so devoted that he arrived early).

Backing away, his robes snagging on the floorboards, he stood up into a half bow, his back bent and his gaze lowered respectively. Here sat the only man to reduce Antonin to a docile mouse, desperate to please. It disgusted him to a certain extent, what he became when he was around his Lord, but he had never voiced such disgusts; it was self loathing, anyway, nothing to bother his Lord. It was only right that he hated himself, for he was nowhere near as perfect as his Lord was. He was nothing compared to Lord Voldemort.

His eyes flickered to the chair opposite his Lord, and he went to sit in it, glancing momentarily at Voldemort to check that he had not misjudged the situation and the chair wasn't intended for him. When he wasn't stopped, he seated himself quickly, not wishing to disrespect the powerful wizard by towering over him for longer than was necessary (it was a burden to stand taller than his Lord, and years of trying to rectify that had caused the stoop in his already slumped posture, forming his rounded back and enhancing the image of a servant). "I'm afraid I encountered some difficulty," he explained, unable to keep a slight plea out of his voice; it was not beyond Antonin's limited imagination to picture himself at the mercy of his Lord, just because he dared to be late without explanation: and, of course, Lord Voldemort had no mercy.

"The youngest Lestrange's house was being watched today; I didn't want to be seen to be staying there." Though he had delighted as he struck down two Order members whilst simultaneously revealing his true colours (unfortunately, they had not died, and a brief stay in St. Mungo's had completely cured them), Antonin missed his freedom, and hated hiding at Rabastan's poky flat, sneaking in and out and forever being on his guard. He wanted to walk free again; he wanted to have his own flat again, and be able to walk into the Ministry and casually intimidate everyone without fear of arrest. Such had always been his actions: rash, and never thought out. He could formulate a plan, but what happened if something veered off course? You had to improvise, and it was then that Antonin fell down; he was no chess player, that much was obvious.

To stop his hands nervously twitching in his lap, he reached forward and grabbed the wine glass in front of him, his large hand appearing bulky and ungainly as it wrapped around the stem. He did not lift it yet, however, unsure of his Lord's mood; he would wait until he was sure he was allowed to drink. Was this cowardly of Antonin, to wait on every order as though he possess no backbone? Or was it simply in his best interests to be cautious where a younger Death Eater might not hesitate to accidentally insult the Dark Lord, and be punished accordingly? Antonin was no much the wiser to figuring out his Lord than he was to understanding blood traitors, and even though it might seem against his usually rash nature, he would stay the cautious one. There was no heat of the moment pushing him into torturing someone he shouldn't, no stress other than Voldemort's temper. He was able to play things safe, for a short period of time at least.

[Lord Voldemort]

[ooc: really very sorry for long wait. life is busy xD hope things aren't going too too hectic for you jen.]

The concept of footsteps was one that, in some senses, intrigued and disturbed the lord. When a woman wears heels and she walks, the slender points of her shoes clicking against eh floor, an image of poise and elegance arises in one's mind. She must have a certain bit of class to pull of those shoes, that walk. Padded socks for a small child sneaking about the house after the lights were off. Heavy boots were the sign of a workman, an insolent fool incapable of walking quietly. Dancers on their toes, knowing that the heel is the part that makes the terrible racket. The busy sound of animals walking, their multiple feet hitting the ground just a moment behind the other. An imperfect orchestra. Speed mattered, too. Heavy and faster; an athlete. Small. Quick. It meant a harried, frantic person. The sounds of a timid piglet being chased. Even steps at a more than moderate speed were likely to accompany those aforementioned heels or the shoes of a businessman, a tailored Ministry member. It indicated efficieny. Yes. Footsteps said many, many things about a person. So did the shoes. One could seem high-stepping and respectable, well-off and classy, and yet, their shoes show signs of wear. Truth exists in those feet you have, dear. Those feet that carry you every...single...day. Without complaint. Without compensation. And they work tirelessly for you, wrapped up in the shoes that you provide for them. And even then. Were shoes really quite necessary? Perhaps at its root, it was just vanity like everything else.

The lord's eyes dropped to the side, downwards, his face unmoving. He was watching the approaching feet. They were slightly uneven, the footsteps. His shoes nice but certainly this was not his best pair, the pair he might have worn to the Ministry. (The Ministry job was not something the lord liked to think about. Thank you.) His eyes lifted to stare at the part of the younger man's forehead where the tips of his eyebrows begin to spread forward from his nose, the fold of skin stretched between the two eyes and the bridge of the nose. The lord watched this single point on the Death Eater's face as it bobbed in a bow. He listened to the Death Eater's apologies. If time were of the essence (and it sometimes was), the Death Eater's lateness could have well been the cause of a loss - a failure - a disappointment. Shame would be ridden in Dolohov's name for all eternity. And yet. It would seem that Dolohov's inability to appear on time was not so excruciatingly troublesome, at least at this time. The lord had his wine. He was content enough. For now.

Ah, yes. Staying at a Lestrange residence. Was there possibly a hint of annoyance in the boy's voice? It was true, though...no one wanted to copromise their hideout. Even though the idiot had compromised his position that the lord had so carefully arranged and presided over, so meticulously coreographed. Was it not he that chose Dolohov? ... For he position, that is. Now that the thought had entered his head, the lord mused for only a moment. Had Dolohov showed some sort of talent at the beginning? Maybe the boy had simply been eager. Did he select the boy from a crowd of fools...or had the boy selected him from a pocketbook of idols? Had he been a candidate in the selection of notorious cult leaders in which to follow? Of course, the lord was far from leading a "cult" now. Cult. Ha. What an impertinent word. As if it could compare to the power he was already weilding. He was not going to lose his advantage. Dolohov was making this exceedingly difficult. The Ministry. He didn't even kill them. They should have died. It would have been a small compensation for the result of Dolohov being forced to flee the Ministry and his cushy apartment.

The lord watched Dolohov's hand figure the crystal glass, and he could see in the boy's eyes the debate of whether or not to drink. Let him stew for a moment longer. Let the sweat gather on his palms. Let the neurons in his mind swirl into a frenzy until they explode. The lord was, unfortunately, forced to admit the capability Dolohov had shown during the gathering of students from Hogwarts. How were the children doing? Maybe they were playing games as they sat in the dark cellar. Tag, anyone? Guess my animal? In the back of the lord's mind, there was almost childish laughter at this idea. "Alex, when do you think we'll get out? Do you think they'll kill us?" "I don't know...but does it have four legs? Live in the jungle?" Hehe. Hehehehehe.

The lord, his shoulders and back still straight, leaned back slightly in his chair. He levitated his cup to his mouth, drinking from it carefully. "Drink, Antonin. Let's...chat. Tell me everything..." Lord Voldemort said. He smiled. A little.

[Antonin Dolohov]

If only the Death Eater could break through the Dark Lord's defenses, break through to his mind and read the wizard's thoughts. If only he was so skilled at Leglimens, then he could know what his Lord was musing about. The analysis of footfalls would have gone straight over Antonin's head -- what was the point of reading so deep into the sound feet made? Screams were far better, or the sound a body made as it fell on the floor. Not stupid walking.

But the Ministry, however... That would have proven a talking point. He would have been able to justify himself, say how he had been up against two Phoenixes, one of which was an Auror, and how St. Mungo's poxy security guards had stopped him from creating too much chaos. And how that sneaky wretch Lestrange hadn't bothered to help him at all. What had the idiot's excuse been? He couldn't reveal himself, he had to keep his job? Pathetic, really. He took down two Phoenixes, and though he hadn't killed them, he had injured them. Wasn't that going to earn him some Brownie points? He was going to finish what he started as well, he had already promised that to himself; he would kill that bastard Fenwick, and the blood traitor Longbottoms. Him and Frank had a history from the Ministry, and he would have told his Lord that he would make sure he was the one to kill the blood traitor and his Muggle-loving wife.

Perhaps it was a good thing that he knew he could not penetrate his Lord's defenses, for if he wasn't killed for that, then disagreeing with his Lord's opinion would have. It wasn't a wise step to start arguing how you excelled, and how Voldemort couldn't see how brilliant you were.

His gaze flickering nervously to the powerful wand his Lord bore, he watched as the wizard did not bother to use his hands to drink; he was above that, he was too grand. His throat suddenly dry -- no, the sight of that wand was not making him so anxious, he was... he was just having a turn -- he reached gratefully for his own glass, gulping at it to quench his thirst. His throat still felt dry, however, and a flush crept up on his face.

"Everything?" he reiterated*, his gaze barely meeting Voldemort's for longer than one of his increased heartbeats. For Salazar's sake, he was a powerful wizard in himself. Did he not know Dark magic, and already kill a number of people? Had he not infiltrated a Phoenix's defenses, posing as her boyfriend, and murdered her for information? Was he not in control and feared?

But next to the greatest wizard of all time, none of that mattered.

"My Lord, I'm not sure what you mean..." This was gray area. If he started monologuing, even though his Lord had asked that of him it could go badly; he could be accused of hiding secrets, which wasn't true. Well... Not wholly true. There were a few things that Antonin had pushed deep under his memory, times when he had attacked someone he shouldn't have, times when he had spent a lot of time watching Bellatrix when he shouldn't, times he had forgotten. They weren't really secrets; he had no secrets from his Lord. "The... The brats are still alive," he offered, unsure what exactly he was trying explain. "Nott wishes to have his way and test out a few poisons on them, but I haven't let him as of yet." They weren't going to die on his watch, not when they had orders to keep them alive.

Was this what Voldemort wanted? A report on the brats? Another hasty gulp of the wine to calm his shaking nerves. If only the Dark wizard would put his wand away.


*quite similar to what I've been doing for the entire post