Where the Shadows Dwell
The smoky gloom of Knock turn Alley seemed denser than usual, the shadows lengthening as early evening gave way to dusk. Antonin Dolohov pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he navigated the narrow street, each step echoing vaguely on the cobblestone paths. The muted murmur of voices and rustle of hidden dealings hushed in his presence, giving way to wind that whistled through tight passages.
He reached the door of the Three-Footed Crow, an unassuming pub nestled between the crooked shopfronts and ominous alleyways. It was clearly a place frequented by poor forgotten souls shunned by the light—Hags, werewolves, vampires, rogue witches, and wizards who wandered the darker paths of magic and ambition. A place most of his allies wouldn’t be caught dead in and yet tonight it offered the distinct call of a haven for those like Dolohov, seeking anonymity and the numbness of potent drink.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the smell of ale, smoke, blood and something unplaceable—a heavy reminder of the lives abandoned outside its doors. Dolohov approached the bar, nodding curtly to the barkeep, who served a steady trickle of clearly familiar patrons. The dim lighting cast a sepia tone over the room, blending faces into shadow.
“Firewhisky,” Dolohov ordered, his voice a blend of command and resignation. The barkeep obliged without a word, sliding a worn glass across the counter.
Dolohov settled in at the edge of the bar, half enveloped in the shadows, hood still pulled up to protect him from the worst of the scanning eyes and took a long sip, the fiery liquid blazing a trail down his throat, mirroring the tumult within. He focused on the burn, hoping to extinguish the lingering echoes of Healer Wood's words. Infertile. The revelation twisted within him—a thorn embedded deep, yet unbearable only when touched by introspection.
He was halfway through his drink when a shadow fell across him, and a familiar voice cut through the ambient murmur. “Dolohov, drinking alone? That’s never a good sign.”
Dolohov turned, barely holding back the grimace at the sight of Corban Yaxley, a former Hogwarts schoolmate and fellow follower standing a few feet away with a practiced devious smirk. Yaxley looked as much at home in the Three-Footed Crow as any of the dark lord’s inner circle, which was to say not a lot at all, his presence electric with confidence and a little too much menace to be ignored.
“Yaxley,” Dolohov grunts, lifting his glass and downing it in a semblance of greeting but not quite inviting conversation.
Undeterred, Yaxley slid onto the stool beside him, signalling the bartender for two more drinks. “I hear it’s been a week to celebrate,” he said, sly voice low and conspiratorial. “All that business with the blood traitors—brilliant work.”
Dolohov hums and nods while playing with the empty glass in his hand, his mind only partially attending to Yaxley’s words. His attention was captured by the numbing heat spreading in his chest. “It went as expected,” he replied tersely, opting for brevity.
“Modest as always,” Yaxley laughed, clapping Dolohov on the shoulder. “You’ve always been one for understatement.”
Despite his subdued mood, Dolohov found a small measure of solace in Yaxley’s presence—or more accurately, in the distraction it provided. As soon as the glasses had been refilled Yaxley raised his glass, a movement he copied as he allows Yaxley’s joviality to wash over him like the tide over stone.
“Here’s to you, Dolohov,” Yaxley continued, his eyes glinting with the promise of future victories. “May our enemies fall before us as we toast their demise.”
The glasses clinked, the sound harmonious amidst the low chatter and clatter of the pub. Dolohov drank deeply, letting the liquid gold eclipse, if only temporarily, the reality he’d faced earlier. Each sip blurred the day’s memory, obscuring its sharp edges until they became shadows in the haze of intoxication. It would seem Yaxley was here to stay, not that he minded the company if he was honest.
Throughout the evening, Yaxley filled the gulf in conversation with tales of their exploits, laughter mingling with the smoke around them and the alcohol flowed. Antonin, though distant, welcomed the occasion, surrendering to the rhythm of the muted verbal melody Corban weaved as the dizzying embrace of forgetfulness rose with the hours.
In this shared companionship, Dolohov found a peculiar comfort. He was a soldier in a war of shadows, yet at this moment, in the heart of nocturnal camaraderie, he was merely a man seeking shelter from the storm and for tonight, that was enough