DOLOHOV, Antonin

[Antonin Dolohov]

{ About The MEMBER }

NAME: Penny (AGAIN, I KNOW, I'M SORRY.)
AGE: Sixteen
TIME ZONE: Australian Eastern Standard Time (GMT+10)
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OTHER CHARACTER(S): Let's not do this. Apparently I have no sense of self restraint.

{ About The CHARACTER }

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Antonin Grigori Aleksandr Dolohov
"Anton"

CANNON OR ORIGINAL: Canon
YEAR: Seventh
AGE: Seventeen
DOB: January 6th, 1960
RACE: Caucasian (British/Polish)
GENDER: Male
SEXUALITY: Heterosexual
WAND: Hawthorn, ten and a half inches. Springy and flexible- suited completely for advanced Charms work and offensive spells, but not so much for Transfiguration. Quite a powerful, well balanced wand.
BROOM: Nimbus 1007
PET: A large and imposing (but somehow friendly) black owl named Alexsei, which Anton keeps in the Owlery and uses regularly. He also has a small python, Kirshov, that is completely tamed and has a habit of wrapping itself around his wrist when he's trying to do homework.

APPEARANCE:
Antonin's natural good looks have always caused him to carry an air of innocence about him. He's been described as having a very open and honest face, though on the occasion that someone gets to talk to him, they'll realize that this is, at best, misleading. The shape of his face in general is masculine, though his jaw is an equal mix of a rugged square and a somewhat softer curve. He has a moderately high forehead and ears which lay pretty much flat against his head, and all of his facial features are blessedly symmetrical. He could almost be described as 'very handsome', if not for the fact that there seems to be something...off about his looks. Whilst he has all of the strong features that generally make a person attractive in the eyes of others, there's a certain fragility about him (whether it is the way that he carries himself or his facial structure, or even a particular expression, he doesn't know) that somehow simultaneously ruins his looks and makes them that much better. Anton's brow is dark and generally set in either a serious, or at least neutral position. The boy's nose is very straight (never broken once, despite his father's efforts), but it lacks a Grecian or Roman aristocratic feel to it, because it ends in more of a 'button' fashion (and the term is used loosely) than the aquiline, almost carved way that is so sought after. Still, Anton doesn't mind- the less attention he attracts, the better. Something about the innocence and vulnerability that his face holds (much to his chagrin), however, seems to be oddly compelling to some people, and if his open face doesn't draw their full attention, it's almost guaranteed that his eyes will. A deep, penetrating brown in colour (though they do contain flecks of green if one gets close enough to see this), they're completely guarded and unreadable about ninety-five percent of the time. More than once, Anton has been told that there's something in his eyes that makes him almost worth figuring out. More than once, he's ignored this kind of statement.

His eyes convey a sense of detachment and composure that some of his peers with more expressive eyes envy. The fact that they don't give away his feelings, along with the utter sense of 'who, me?' that the rest of his facial features provide and the fact that Antonin is a very good liar have allowed him to escape trouble for misdeeds many times. Yes, he's perfected the art of lying with his face- his lip doesn't curl when he's feeling contempt, and his eyes don't harden when he's angry. It's hard to tell what he's thinking or experiencing at all, most of the time. Yes, most of the time, because even when you try as hard as Anton does not to let any outward signs of weakness show, there's always the odd anomaly here and there, and when these 'one time things' happen or when he's experienced sudden emotional upheaval, Antonin's eyes take on a warm, almost liquid quality and it's easy to forget that he's supposed to be a heartless Slytherin. Even though he takes great pains to remind them of the fact, some people persist, apparently. His hair is a very, very dark brown in colour- almost as though it could have been black, but genetics defaulted at the last moment and he ended up with a sort of in-between. Not that he minds- it brings out the rest of the features in his face nicely, and although it sticks rather damply to his forehead (one particular stray lock does this all the time) when it's wet, it often curls slightly and effectively to frame his face, though of course that also depends on how he's slept on it. Anton doesn't style his hair- there's not much that can be done to it, really, that wouldn't make it look worse, so he leaves well enough alone. He does make sure to give it a comb every morning, though, or else he'll undoubtedly resemble a bird roost before the day is out. Anton's lips are well-proportioned in comparison to the rest of his face, but they have been called thin before, and he supposes his top lip is, though his bottom lip is slightly fuller.

The Slytherin has naturally slightly pale skin- not pale because he doesn't spend any time in the sun, because that's not true, but due to the fact that his Polish and British ancestry have somehow mingled to provide him with fair skin that doesn't tan easily, but doesn't burn either. Anton is not complaining- he supposes he'd rather be the healthy sort of almost pale than particularly olive-toned, as that wouldn't mesh well with the rest of his features. He's been blessed because he has a near perfect complexion- no acne ever blighted his face as he went through the awkward teenage years, and his skin is soft to the touch unless he's been forgetful and allowed some light stubble to grow. His mother used to call his features those of a poet, because he appeared (and still does, every now and then) sensitive and thoughtful, but that description hasn't been applied to his face for a long time now. In terms of body shape, Antonin is tall for his age, standing at a well-adjusted 6'1" and looking his height, considering his posture is perfect and he never slouches if he can help it. Now, Anton doesn't look muscular, if one is going to put it plainly. Indeed, with his relatively pale skin and his height, he looks positively lanky, but there is a graceful strength about him that is evident in the fluid and agile way in which he moves. He's never really been involved in the sorts of extracurricular activities which would possibly beef him up, but he does play the occasional match of Quidditch every now and then, and that, coupled with his fast metabolism, it seems, has proved enough to bless him with a lean, evenly dispersed musculature which makes him look nothing short of streamlined. There's very little (alright, at risk of making him sound like a weed, there's none) body fat located on his frame, and he attributes this to the fact that he's never felt the need to eat quite as much as some of his friends.

Anton's dress style is subtle- he prefers to be understated and discreetly expensive in his choices of clothing than flashy and blatantly, but tastelessly costly. All of his clothes are custom fitted, so he doesn't have to worry about anything being obscenely tight or too loose on his frame- everything fits snugly in the proper places and in a manner which flatters him immensely. He likes dark colours and neutral colours- he avoids bold things such as red or yellow, and he thinks that nobody in their right mind would wear a pastel unless it was for a dare. Mostly, he favours navy, black and white, though he has been known to occasionally don something brown to accentuate his hair and eyes. His school uniform is worn neatly (perhaps not as perfectly as some other students, but he's always presentable, at least) and he always makes sure that his Slytherin crest and robe lining are visible, simply as a point of pride, really.
FACE CLAIM: Adam Brody

PERSONALITY DESCRIPTION:
A person's first impression of Anton is often that he appears to be a young man with something to prove- whether it be to himself or to someone else, it's hard to tell, but the fact that he's always working towards a goal is undeniable. First, it was working to fit in at Hogwarts, and then it was practicing endlessly to become the very best at duelling, and now he's preparing himself so that he may one day number among Voldemort's elite. Antonin has an overwhelming need to feel as though he's headed somewhere, anywhere in life. He feels as though a person without purpose is living the worst life possible, because growing up, there was always something that needed doing, and usually he was the one doing it. Generally, he is an aloof, cold sort, preferring not to actively engage people in conversation, if he can help it. He is, for lack of a better word, afraid that if he talks to people too much, they'll get to know him well enough to be able to gage his true personality, or realize details about his past and be repulsed by them. He doesn't believe that he is strong enough to laugh off being spurned by the people he's come to see as friends, and so he avoids opening up as much as possible. One may wonder why he spent so much time bothering to learn the social graces necessary to excel interpersonally if he never tries to use them, but the answer to that is easy- he enjoys success, no matter what field it is in, and besides, if he had failed somehow to assimilate into Pureblood society, he would have counted that as a weakness, and the one thing that anyone should know about Antonin Dolohov is that he loathes weakness. He dislikes mudbloods, yes, to some extent, but he absolutely hates the idea of being considered weak by anyone.

The feelings towards vulnerability that Anton holds today are a direct result of his father's mistreatment of him as a child- it confused the boy, to some extent. He would be hit, and then told that weakness was a sin and that he wasn't allowed to be weak, but then he'd be punched again. Being told the same thing every day for years has had an almost brain-washing effect on Anton, and so he tends to be almost afraid of the things that he, as a small child, connected with becoming addled and weak- drinking (thanks to his father), love (because of his poor mother), and sickness are some of the things he tries never to go anywhere near. Still, he doesn't dislike other people who display flaws and who open themselves up to hurt, because for them it's only human- sometimes seeing these things happen even engenders a protective side in him that he didn't know existed, as a matter of fact. The only person he really hates is himself, because he knows that of course he's not as strong as he could be, or should be- Anton is capable of feeling emotion, and that, in his eyes, makes him just as vulnerable as everyone else, no matter how hard he tries to squash the notion. He suspects that he would be a violent drunk if he ever gave himself to that particular temptation, but a strong sense of control and discipline has been present in Anton's personal constitution, even since he was a young boy, and he knows the possible consequences of such foolish actions. Even if a person hates Anton, it's not difficult to admit that the young man has a good head on his shoulders. Still, he's never really been opposed to violence in general- after all, he grew up with it occurring around him every day, and a person's identity is and always will be affected by their surroundings. Sometimes a quarrel can just as easily be settled with a swift punch or hex than measured words.

Things that people say to him tend to stick with him- he has a very good memory, and has always taken statements far more seriously than he should, especially when he's feeling particularly self-conscious. Hard to believe as it may be, the entire reason that he's so intent on exterminating muggleborns is because someone used that term to tease him on the very first day of his first year at Hogwarts. The 'weakness' thing is self explanatory, too. Anton takes the term 'carrying a chip on one's shoulder' to a whole new level, and such a grand one that a friend of his once joked that he's got an entire building up there. Somehow, Anton manages to stuff all of these insecurities into a closed off corner of his mind when he's around others- best to keep that kind of thing for his own private contemplation. Indeed, when he's amongst his peers (if he has to be amongst them, that is), Antonin is the sort of fellow he wishes he could be all the time. Confident, cool and charismatic with just a slight hint of arrogance, he acts as if he was born to be a public speaker- acts being the key word, here. He's never even really lied about his personality, if one thinks about it- the side he displays is still one hundred percent him...he just omits the personal beliefs and experiences that he believes will open himself up to hurt and alienate him. Even though he's got a talent for making conversation, Antonin is by no means anywhere near perfection. Anton's never really possessed a particularly sharp sense of humour- he's intelligent, yes, and very knowledgeable in general, but being witty is not always the same as being funny. In his defense, it's not like he's ever really had anything to joke about in his life before (well, what's he going to do- make some tasteless remark about his father getting stabbed in his sleep?) and so it was probably a judicious choice on his part to simply decide he could do without.

Likewise, he's not romantic either. He likes girls and enjoys sex as much as the next guy, but he's not the flowers and chocolates type, and unless there's some girl out there who's willing to overlook a familial penchant for murder and an utterly messed up childhood, he doubts he ever will be. Still, some part of him yearns for someone who'll listen, understand and, instead of pushing him away, draw him closer- a person to confide in and to trust so completely that it would negate the mistrust of people that his experiences have given him. Of course, he saw what happened to his mother, and he's decided that he'll be damned if he ever lets something like that fall on him. It's a shame, really- he's sort of charming, in an awkward, uncertain way, and he can be...rather sweet, almost, if he lets his guard down (a rare occurrence, but it's been known to happen). He's never really been able to put his finger on exactly how he feels when he sees those perfect couples exchanging love notes in the hallway and whatnot, but hey, more power to them if that's their sort of thing. One may have guessed by now that Anton is a pessimist- if the glass was half full, then life wouldn't be so damn empty, surely. Nobody should ever count on the boy if they want to hear that everything will be okay, because nine times out of ten, his response will be one that they don't like. He's a fighter, if anything- when he was younger, he never fought back because he knew it was futile, but now, he's grown infinitely as a person since those days. He doesn't take attitude or hostility from other people well, and one of the defining principles in his life has always been to never back down, and to seize the day. Determination was something that his mother told him always mattered, no matter how bad a situation appeared to be.

As much as he'd like to say that he favours his mother (back before she was a mentally unstable prisoner, of course) in terms of personality, Anton has picked up so many bad traits that a person almost feels sorry for the boy. He doesn't feel many qualms about lying to get his own way, and has always found that duplicity contains a certain appeal (thank you, seven years in Slytherin, for that gem in his little personality). He rarely feels guilt for his actions unless he's done something to someone that even he classifies as wrong, or unless he hurts someone who means something to him (but nobody really means anything to him, if he's going to be honest about it). Sometimes the boy wonders whether or not he's bipolar, but he's decided that he's most likely not and that he's simply a product of his past, as so many people grow to be. He could have fought it, he supposes sometimes, when he thinks about it, but what would have been the point? If he had decided to resist, he would probably be a broken shell of a man today instead of the (almost, not quite...barely) normal boy that he's managed to become. Anton has always had a certain fascination with the dark arts, and this drove him to dabble in exotic curses more than he probably would have if he possessed normal preferences from a magical perspective. Still, he's proved rather talented, so why stop now? He's found that he has a flair for creating experimental curses, and sometimes he discreetly tests them on his peers. Nobody ever said that he couldn't be cruel, because he can be quite the bastard when he's feeling so inclined. Anton has always worried, actually, that some event in his life will come along and change him into an utter monster, like what happened to his father. Still, there's some of Abigail in him- not enough to combat everything bad about him, but a little bit.

As much as he is cold-hearted and distant, there are a few times when his trademark guard is let down- when he's reading a particularly good book, for instance, he's much more approachable than normal. He has an embarrassing habit of sometimes going down to the lake and skimming stones across its surface, and it's rather awkward when someone comes along and realizes that he's playing a childish game, but these are the only times that he ever really opens up and reveals anything more about himself than mere superficial details. The fact that he even still tosses stones across the lake when he's feeling pensive suggests that there's a gentle, if fully repressed side to him that lurks somewhere, practically extinguished in favour of the significantly tougher person that he's made himself into.
BOGGART: His father staggering towards him, telling him that he's weak, and that he always has been.
PATRONUS: A Bull, because to Anton, it symbolizes strength and has no weaknesses.
HOPES FOR THE FUTURE: Anton hopes to take the world by storm after he leaves Hogwarts (because it's the least he can do), and to leave a lasting impression in the history books.

SPECIAL ABILITIES: A particularly good duellist and a rather accomplished actor, it seems.
BLOOD: Pureblood
BIRTHPLACE: London, England
MY FAMILY:

Walerian Jedrek Dolohov - Father [Deceased]
Abigail Persephone Dolohov (nee. Montgomery) - Mother [40]

WHATS IN THE PAST:
The world was in a time of turmoil when Walerian Dolohov and Abigail Montgomery were young. The Muggle communities of Europe were up in arms fighting World War Two, and whilst that shouldn't have bothered the perfectly respectable Pureblood families that Wal and Abby belonged to, it did. War had far reaching consequences, stretching far enough to affect those who couldn't care less about the goings-on in the Muggle world. For instance, Wal never received the education that he should have, due to his homeland of Poland's restrictions on learning at the time. Whilst this always frustrated him (even as he grew older) he knew well enough to be thankful that he and his family weren't impacted more adversely by the raging European conflict. Abigail wasn't so lucky- she lost her father to the war as a young girl, and the trauma that followed the incident never really left her, not even when she met Walerian as a seventeen year old ten years later, when the war was done. It was an accidental meeting, really- Wal was in England, looking for a house, because his job (a senior consultant for worldwide wizarding banks) had brought him to Gringotts. It just so happened that the Montgomeries were selling one of their summer homes, and when Wal arrived to inspect the property, it was Abby who greeted him. Wal's command of English wasn't particularly good, but with stilted sentences he managed to find out that without her father, Abby's family was in dire financial straits (hence the sale of the mansion). Wal had grown up under strict conditions, so he was not a particularly compassionate young man, but something about the girl's plight moved him.

He resolved to help, and the sale was finalized the next day. Walerian expected Abby to be overcome with gratitude, but instead she was bitter and confrontational, telling him to stay out of her life and that she didn't want or need his pity. Despite his lack of English skills, Wal had known enough to deliver the age-old, universal statement of exasperation: "Women." But two months later, he was dating her and she was teaching him how to speak English properly, and all seemed well. Wal got himself admitted to Cambridge University (not because of his intelligence- his family made a large and very generous donation) and was finally receiving the education he'd never been given as a younger boy. The logical thing to do next was propose, and propose he did- after getting down on bended knee and pulling out a Harry Winston the size of a baby squirrel's head, Walerian Dolohov found himself about to become a husband. They were married on a balmy spring day, and with his marriage to one of the prestigious British Montgomeries, Wal found himself quickly assimilated into English Pureblood society. It was different to the one that had existed in Poland- hate for Muggleborns (or 'mudbloods', as they were called in jolly old Great Britain) was encouraged by all, and stamped into children from their very births. When Wal questioned Abby about why this view was held, she had simply replied that 'it's just the way it is, love, no matter how much I regret it'. The next year saw the rise and fall of a couple of semi-prominent dark wizards, and Wal was more than just a little intrigued by their actions. The idea of...ridding the world of 'mudbloods'?

It had only ever been a phenomenon in Poland, something that a few psychotic wizards did because they believed in the 'purification' of the wizarding world, but it seemed that in England, the ideology was much more real, and definitely more present. Wal looked upon it with a certain kind of fascination, but he told himself that he'd never do that, because that was exactly what had happened in Germany during the war, wasn't it? People getting wiped out because they were the wrong 'sort', and the thought horrified him more than a little. Still, he didn't mention his reservations to Abby- they'd only worry her, because she'd lost a loved one to the war, and she never wanted to talk about it. Instead, Wal focused his attention on bringing Gringotts into glory and completing his degree at Cambridge. The thought of children never crossed his mind until Abigail announced that she was expecting, and once Wal had recovered from the shock of it all, he decided that he was going to be the best father that he could possibly be, simply because his own parents had never been particularly loving to him. Abby was overjoyed, to say the least- she'd always wanted to be a mother. At that one moment when she found out that she'd conceived, it seemed that her entire purpose in life (twenty-three years, up until that point) was to bring a child into the world, and so when, on the 6th of January, 1960, her first son was born after a long and difficult labor, she felt as though she was finally complete. Her son was perfect- newborn and innocent, he made her feel perfect too.

She did love Walerian very much, but she was more of a mother than a lover, and when Wal burst into the room a moment later and found his wife holding their swaddled baby boy, he was awestruck- it was the first time he'd ever seen her cry. He was impossibly moved by the sight of it, and when she asked him what he'd like to name their son, he smiled softly and said, "Antonin. Antonin Grigori Aleksandr, for your father and for mine." Of course, Grigori was the Polish form of Gregory, which had been her father's name, but despite the change in language, Abby was still overwhelmed with love for her family in that particular moment, anyway. Antonin was, in terms of looks, a mix of his parents- he inherited his father's shock of dark brown hair, but received his mother's brown eyes instead of his father's blue ones. Both parents loved Anton dearly, and so, it seemed, did everyone else who came into contact with the well-behaved baby. Life seemed perfect, until three years after Anton was born, Wal was sacked from Gringotts after an altercation with another staff member. That shouldn't have been much of a problem, because the Montgomery and Dolohov fortunes were near astonishing in their magnitudes, but Wal didn't take kindly at all to what he saw as a failure in his otherwise charmed life. That night, he went out and got rip-roaring drunk for the first time in his life- he'd always stayed away from alcohol prior to that evening, because it had made his father particularly hard-handed on some occasions and he didn't want to risk such a thing happening to him. His sense of self restraint was impaired, though, and so he poured drink after drink down his throat until he finally became numb.

Wal headed back home, unsteady on his feet- it took him three tries to Apparate onto his front doorstep, and when he stumbled inside, he was met by an irate Abby, wondering where he'd gone and why he was home so late, and he'd never done this before so why was he suddenly being difficult now? Then she paused, folded her arms at him and declared, "You're drunk." Wal fervently denied it, but the slur in his voice gave away his condition anyway, and Abby asked him how dare he, with little Anton asleep in his cot? What kind of example was he setting for his little son? The pounding in Walerian's head was becoming too much to bear- he wanted her to shut up, why wouldn't she just shut up? She continued lecturing him, scolding him, making the throbbing in his head become worse and worse, until his hand flew upwards to silence her, and the crack of it meeting her face resounded throughout the room. Abby was, for the first time in her life, too stunned to speak, but when Wal took her in his arms and tried to apologize to her, she pushed him away and spat, "You're just like your father, Walerian, you bastard." And so he hit her again. And again, and then he walked out the door, slamming it behind him as he went. He killed his first Muggleborn that night, just because he could, and he liked it. He liked the rush that it gave him- that power over life and death, resting firmly within his own shaking hands. He fell into a routine, eventually- drink, hit Abby, then go out and find someone to torture, and maybe kill if he lost control. Antonin knew nothing about what his father did, but he noticed his mother gradually becoming sadder and more withdrawn, and he wondered what the dark circles on her face and arms were.

One night he stayed up past his bedtime, watching for when his father came home from 'work', but he was surprised and scared to find that as soon as Wal came in the door, he struck out at Abby and sent her reeling into the banister. "No!" The dark haired little boy had shouted, running down and screaming for mummy, and so Wal beat him too. And as soon as he felt the stinging impact of his father's hand against his face, Anton knew that his perfect little life was at an end. He would hide from then on, every time he heard his father's footsteps on the staircase. Sometimes he would escape a beating, but other times his father would seek him out and hit, and hit, and hit. Antonin would hug his mother and ask why she didn't report Walerian, if he was hurting them so much? He would ask her whether daddy was hurting other people too, and not just them, and Abby would nod and say she thought so, maybe, but that he mustn't mention it to Wal or else the man would get angry. The years passed, with Anton gradually learning to keep his mouth shut when it mattered, and never, ever to let his father see him cry when he was in a 'beating mood', because crying was for the weak, and "you are not weak, Antonin- my son would never be weak". Release came, finally, when Antonin turned eleven and a letter with a mysterious seal arrived for "Mr. Antonin Dolohov" from a place called Hogwarts. Full of wonder, he showed the letter to his mother, who almost cried with relief and told him that it was a place for him to learn how to control his magic, because yes, for the past year or so odd things would happen around the house when Anton got scared- things that made his mother smile sadly and his father scowl.

Secretly, Abigail took Antonin to Diagon Alley one day and they bought his supplies for school, and when finally, the 1st of September rolled around, Anton hopped aboard the Hogwarts Express and left for a strange new place- but it couldn't be worse than home, could it? He was right- Hogwarts was like paradise to Anton. Students were friendly, the food was good, and the castle was enormous and perfect for exploring. And yet...he didn't fit in properly. Not truly, anyway. While the First Years were lining up, waiting for their turn to have the Sorting Hat crammed on their heads, people started talking- about Quidditch, about the Ministry, and about something called...Pumpkin Pasties? Antonin didn't know what these things were- not because his English wasn't up to scratch- on the contrary, it was absolutely perfect due to his mother's dedicated tutelage. No, Anton didn't know what his peers were talking about because he'd been isolated from those things for his whole life- Walerian didn't have time to give his son Pasties and a broom when getting drunk was so much more important and time-consuming. Feeling more comfortable in Hogwarts than he had for a long time in his home, Anton asked the boy standing next to him, and was rewarded by jeers that he was stupid, and that he must have been a 'mudblood'. Anton shouted that no, no, his blood was pure- as pure as it could get, but he just didn't know and could they please tell him? More teasing- Antonin hit the boy. They were pulled apart in front of the rest of the school, and before Anton was taken away to be punished, a teacher directed him towards the stool in the center of the hall.

Dutifully, Anton sat down, and the battered Hat barely touched his head before declaring loudly and clearly that the boy was "a Slytherin! Oh-ho, what a Slytherin you shall be!". Antonin was escorted to his Common Room by a self-important Prefect, and then he realized that he belonged, for the first time in his life. The people in Slytherin understood when he spoke of bruising his knuckles on walls, and they soon filled him in on all the things that he had to know, being a Pureblood. They pumped him full of their ideologies, and he liked them- he learned them, because they sort of reminded him of his father, but they were better. Antonin Dolohov was home. And when a letter arrived informing him that his mother had finally snapped after one beating too many and taken a knife to Walerian while he slept, the other Slytherins cheered and told him that the bastard had it coming to him. Abigail Dolohov was shipped to Azkaban, where the Dementor's Kiss soon left her a gibbering mess. Antonin couldn't even bring himself to go and visit her- better to remember her as the determined, caring mother he'd once known than a madwoman. As for his father...Anton didn't care in the slightest. He grew as a person in the next few years, mentored by older peers, and he made friends and enemies, as most people did during their school experience. Anton discovered a talent for spellcasting, and quickly joined the Hogwarts Duelling Club- the only place where it was acceptable to hex someone and receive no punishment. He soon began devising his own spells, when the ones that he was learning stopped satisfying him.

His crowning achievement was a special curse that released a jet of purple fire, which caused excruciating pain but somehow left no mark on its victim. Anton invented that particular incantation in Fifth Year, and soon his attentions turned towards the next step forward- dark magic. With his friends, he began to dabble until he was practically immersed- his funds were limitless, since he was now the Head of the Dolohov Family (which pretty much meant that it was just him and a big old pile of money). And then he heard of the rising legend that was Lord Voldemort- the man's desire to eradicate mudbloods appealed to Antonin, since he'd never forgotten being compared to one on that very first day at Hogwarts. Towards the end of his Sixth Year, Anton and a group of friends came face to face with Lord Voldemort, and became some of his first Death Eaters. The Dark Mark was branded firmly onto Anton's left arm, and once again, that rush, that sense of belonging, nearly overwhelmed him. He practiced his spells even more fervently from that moment onwards, achieving the best grades he could and excelling time and time again in the Duelling Club- soon he was undefeated. He even had time to practice Quidditch, something that he'd never taken seriously but was fairly good at anyway. When he started Seventh Year, he wasn't saddened to think that at the end he'd be leaving the one place that he'd ever really belonged in. No, the years had changed Antonin- when he left Hogwarts, he was going to make the world belong to him, because in the words of his long-dead father, "you are not weak, Antonin". And he was determined never to be.

|{ OTHER INFO }

RP EXAMPLE:
(AS RABASTAN LESTRANGE)
Fury practically pounded through Rabastan's veins as Andromeda did nothing more than raise one unconcerned eyebrow at him and give him a retort that was far more disrespectful than he'd been expecting (after all, what right did she have to disrespect him?). Deciding that he wasn't going to put up with her attitude, Rabastan scowled darkly at Andromeda, simultaneously clenching his hands into fists. Looking imperiously down his nose at her, Rabastan mirrored his former friend's actions and crossed his own arms over his chest, glaring at her in a way which he was certain would have intimidated anyone but Andy. She'd never been frightened of him. Nonetheless, there must have been some sort of madness in his eyes, because all of a sudden Andromeda Black (the infallible, and incorrigible) was shifting nervously on her feet, awaiting something. It made Rabastan feel powerful. Determined. That sense of empowerment was what moved him to sneer and respond, "You don't have the right to demand anything from me anymore, my dear Andy. Still, since you asked so...nicely..." A flicker of amusement passed through Rabastan's cold eyes, "I suppose I can explain. We needed to talk. I'm not a patient man. And now, here you are." He paused, shrugged, and in that moment revealed a bit of the little boy he used to be, back when he and Andromeda had still been closer than close.

"Well, whether or not you would have stood for it, I doubt I would have given your feelings much mind," he threw out tonelessly, holding one large hand out in front of him (and conveniently blocking his view of her face with it) and inspecting it. "Your...opinion...doesn't matter much to me anymore, you see. I'm sure you understand." It was all bluff and bluster at this point, but Rabastan couldn't help but imagine Tonks's corpse, bloodied and broken, lying at the bottom of a Hogwarts stairwell. Well, what? It was a part of his nature. "I've come to terms with reality, but nobody could blame me if somehow I hadn't. After all, you have just gone and married a mudblood. That's a little odd. Just a bit." Rabastan waved one hand carelessly as she mentioned things about sticks and arses, and got all self-righteous and in his face. "Oh, Andromeda. I've no problem with the world that I live in. I'm rich, good-looking and I've bedded more girls than you probably know by name. There's nothing wrong there. But, you see, I am better than you. Now, at least- as you seem so keen to remind me, you're no longer part of my world. As a result, you're no longer worth my time. The fact that I'm debasing myself by talking to you now is simply because I enjoy closure. Congratulations to you." However, bitterness was rife in his voice and he wondered (not for the first time) whether or not he'd come mentally unhinged. He was making no sense, not even to himself- and Rabastan Lestrange was normally quite well known for his ability to make quick quips.

It seemed as though the Slytherin had come to the meeting very badly prepared. For instance, he could never have anticipated the stinging blow to the cheek that he received shortly after he took another stab at Ted. Well, the dam broke then, and any self control on Rabastan's part vanished. His upper lip pulled back from his teeth as he gave a soundless snarl, and he seized the Gryffindor by the shoulders. Hard. "You bitch," he hissed venomously, hiding a wince as his cheek stung in protest. Every word she said then made his ire mount. The fact that she could still stand there and say those things about how she was 'the same person' attested to her ignorance, and even though she claimed that she was different to him, Rabastan could still see hints of trademark Pureblood arrogance. "I'll talk to you any damn way I want to, thanks very much," he snarled in retort. His fingers clenched involuntarily around her shoulders as he fought to keep from taking a hold of her by the neck and shaking the life out of her. And then his grip slackened slightly, as one of her questions hit too close to home for his liking. Do you even know me? No. Of course he didn't. He knew her just about as well as she knew him- and whilst that had been a great deal when they were younger, it meant nothing now. "I know what you suffered," he almost sighed, nearly relenting as he remembered all of those stories she'd told him when they were in second year, and the way she'd looked so scared when she'd been speaking. Then he remembered why he was there, and his eyes hardened again. "But they're still your family, no matter what."

"As if your happiness matters to me!" He scoffed, pushed back towards the brink by her infuriating nature and her refusal to accept that he was, as always, right. The anger mounted as the badly chosen words 'self absorbed prick' left her lips, and his hands once again took on a vice like quality as he started to push her backwards, step by step. Because step by step, they were breaking up a friendship, and he was still trying to deal with that. "Done with it?" Step. Step. Step. "Done with it?" Step. Step. Step. "You think that you can just walk away from all of this?" Pause. Step. "You'll never break free. People have tried it before. This life...will always be a part of you." He deliberately ignored her words about how 'happy' she was now, deciding not to take her up on that matter. Her comment about 'hell', though, made him let loose a rather insane bark of a laugh. "I'm already in hell, Andromeda, as far as I'm concerned, and by the time that I actually make it to the real place I think I'll be accustomed to the climate." How he managed to be so droll, and at a time like this, he didn't know, but the sight of a tear rolling down his (former) best friend's cheek had two effects. He was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to hit her (hex her, throw her out a window- anything that would hurt her), and at the same time he desperately wanted to wipe away that tear, too. The conflict that these twin feelings presented was too much, even, for Rabastan to handle, and he released the Gryffindor girl, giving her a final vindictive shove backwards into the classroom wall.

And then he broke. "Merlin, Andy," Rabastan muttered, reverting back to using his old nickname for her. "Where did we go wrong? As friends, I mean?" He allowed a pause to fall between them, in which he sourly reflected on his life up to that point. "Because...I mean. You're right. I don't even know who you are anymore, and you certainly don't know me." To his horror, he realized that there was a prickly feeling in the corner of his eyes and immediately set his jaw stubbornly. "I don't think we can be friends now, either," he pushed on with determination, his voice mild in comparison to the way it had been a few seconds earlier. "We haven't been, really, for a long time."
ANSWER: The fact that my character killed Lupin? D=
OTHER:

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[Andromeda Tonks]

[Raiden Phoenix]

[Alexandria Perret]