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Who: Antonin Dolohov, Lucius Malfoy Jr, Others (?)
What: Drinking!
Where: ...A...pub (The Ankh?)
When: Evening
Notes: I shall edit this bit once I know the whens and wherefores.
Warnings: None as yet.

Antonin Dolohov stands waiting outside the Malfoy Townhouse, a coat slung over his arm. The material serves to conceal the way his fingers are curled around the handle of his wand. He isn't expecting an attack, but in spite of his jovial - almost friendly - behaviour towards the locals (and other kidnapped souls), he has been conditioned for years to be ready for anything.

He had no trouble settling in to the new surroundings of Baedal; better here than dead, he decided upon arrival. Of all the embarrassing ways to die: at the end of tiny duellist's wand was downright humiliating. Yes, far better to be here with his comrades-in-arms than moldering in a casket somewhere.

He turns back to the door and calls out, "Hurry it along! Haven't got all day!"

Turning back with a snort and a sneer, he mutters to himself, "Bloody ponce." His words are without any venom, however; in fact, they're almost cheerful. The fact is, Antonin likes his fellow Death Eaters. He enjoys the camaraderie, though that may have more to do with his personality than with shared politics or the temperament of his colleagues. He has grown to manhood around these men; they're as close to family as he has, short of his parents.

Even torturous, black-souled murderers have a little heart.

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"Yes you have, unless you've any pressing social engagements after this," Lucius says, as he comes up behind. It wasn't as if Dolohov has, or plans to get, a job. (Granted, Lucius wouldn't have a job if he had access to his bank account, but even so.)

He is almost entirely certain that allowing Dolohov to talk him into this was a terrible idea. On the other hand, though Azkaban certainly left an evident mark, Dolohov isn't so different from his old self that it isn't somewhat good to see him, and as Narcissa's so brilliantly pointed out, Lucius has been under a great deal of stress.

He can't argue with Lucius to that point and simply shrugs his response. He has nowhere to be save hunched over a table, nursing a bottle of something strong. He hasn't even attempted looking for a job, though ennui and the desire to avoid being viewed as a leech will eventually push him in that direction.

Eventually being the operative word.

He reaches out and takes Lucius by the arm, an expectant look on his face as if to say, Well? You know the best places.

"I mostly drink at home," Lucius cautioned him, "but I'm aware of a few places that might be to your taste." Because Lucius can handle Dolohov's tastes, but taking Dolohov to anyplace sedate or upscale gives one visions of bulls and China shops. "Unless you've already anywhere you prefer."

"Home," he echoes mockingly, as though the very idea of Baedal being 'home' is ridiculous. He'll sleep here (usually on the floor), but he won't call it home. With a shake of his head which might be dismissal (or might be resignation), he gives a tug to Malfoy's arm.

"Let's see what you know about my tastes."

"How far are you willing to travel?" The Ankh might do, but he feels it might be a bit sedate for Antonin's tastes; After Dark might be more his style, at least by reputation. "We can apparate back, assuming we're in decent shape, but we'd have to go the long way since you haven't been before."

Antonin curls a lip at the thought of walking - when has that ever been necessary for side-along Apparition? But Lucius says it's so, and it either means Lucius knows what he's talking about, or Lucius doesn't feel like being the designated Apparator.

Was that a word, he wondered?

Apparatist? Apparitionist?

He gives a jerk of his head. "I'm not fussed. If we walk, we walk."

Lucius wouldn't mind if they were home, but he's still learning Baedal, and he doesn't want them ending up in the middle of fog or otherwise astray. (Of course, this is not a great argument for Apparating drunk, either.)

He is not, however, going to admit to taking public transport more than he has to. "We'll get a cab." A carriage, not a car, which seemed at least a bit less humiliating. "It's far to walk. There's a place nearer, but it tends to the quiet."

Antonin stares at Lucius for a moment, then makes a broad gesture with his right hand. Well, off we go. I'm not getting any more sober.

And this is how most nights start with him. It's not a race to get intoxicated, but a desire to be out of the house. Out with friends. Remembering the glory days, before things went to hell and people died.

"Come along, Lucius. We've got the night ahead of us."

"Why is it that I always feel that, coming from you, this presages something wildly inappropriate in my immediate future?" It's dry, but he can't help a little smile.

He gets them a cab, and once they're settled, he adds, "It's almost like old times. You grinning at me like you're already aware of the hangover I'm going to have tomorrow."

Pleased to be in a cab of the traditional sort rather than a Muggle vehicle, Antonin makes himself quite comfortable, his grin broadening when Lucius speaks. "You can't blame me if you have no head for anything stronger than wine."

With a chuckle, he pats his coat with both hands as though seeking something. Whatever it is, it's not in there and he leaves off with a grunt of dismissal. "It's not like old times. If it were old times, there would be more of us. We'll have a toast for absent friends, shall we?"

Quieter, Lucius agrees. "Of course. Possibly several." Lucius expects no sympathy - he wasn't in Azkaban, but apart from Narcissa, there was really no one left. Severus was his wife's friend, and it wasn't as if he regularly spoke to Igor (or wanted to).

"If you tell anyone I said so while still sober, I'll deny it, but it is good to see you, you know."

Realizing he has made the conversation turn rather dark and depressing, he leans forward and claps a hand on Malfoy's shoulder. It's a comforting gesture - a show of brotherly affection, solidarity, dismissal of the topic which has made the air grow somewhat thicker around them.

He doesn't want to think about how many of his friends are dead.

"I won't say a word."

Lucius nods and lets the subject go. There are wounds he'd as soon not pick open.

"How have you been settling in, so far? I trust Narcissa has made sufficient fuss."

"Always the gracious hostess," he replies without missing a beat. Antonin knows which side his bread's buttered, and saying anything less than flattering about Narcissa might land him homeless.

Not that he has anything negative to say about her, of course. But he suspects over-praising her might make things a bit thorny with Lucius.

Edited 2011-11-18 21:41 (UTC)

Lucius smiles and shakes his head; he loves Narcissa dearly, but he is aware of how she is. "She is that. I sometimes feel we're on the verge of opening an inn for wizards from our world."

"She likes to know where we are, I suppose." It seems a reasonable explanation to him - though in his mind, it isn't Narcissa keeping tabs on them as much as it is Narcissa being a mother hen.

He likes the idea of someone worrying for him.

"You're a lucky man, Lucius." Antonin may have alleviated her of her apparently burdensome maidenhood, but Malfoy has her heart. In theory, at any rate. At the very least, he has a trophy wife with people skills.

"I realize." In more ways than just Narcissa, but she was one of the largest. "I worry about our son without us, but I'm terribly glad she's here."

Lucius leans back against the seat. "Was there anyone particular for you, Dolohov? I never knew." Antonin's name had been linked to a wide array of witches, but he always just laughed and claimed all the stories were true. Lucius expects about the same now, but asks anyway.

"There was a pretty girl in Prague once, but she broke my heart when she ran off with a centaur," he says lightly; it's obviously not true. For all his humor, there's not a lot of heart in it. It's one too easy, finding someone 'in particular' from Azkaban.

And then the war. But he doesn't want to talk about that any more than he wants to discuss his imprisonment. "Nothing wrong with being a confirmed old bachelor, is there? Or maybe I'll find a nice Pureblood witch half my age and settle down."

"I'll start to worry the day you start taking anything seriously," Lucius returns. Antonin's as changed as the rest of them, but he hides it better, and it unnerves Lucius less as a result.

He peers out the window. "We should be nearly there."

"I'll let everyone else take things seriously," he counters, moving to have a look, himself. The sights in Baedal are still a novelty to him. "Someone needs to bear the burden of making a mockery of it all."

After a beat, he adds, as though proving he could be serious, "Wouldn't wish this place on your boy. He's better off where he is."

"That's true," Lucius says, more seriously. "I wouldn't want him here either - I just don't want him on his own." Lucius has no siblings, and Narcissa's sisters are neither one an option. Draco would either have to go to more distant Malfoys in France, or to one of the more distant Blacks.

Then again, maybe no time at all had passed at home. Lucius is trying to stay optimistic that he can get home, and that he'll have time to change things when he does.

The cab comes to a stop.

"Obstinate as Dromy always was, she'd do right by him," Antonin offers. He refrains from calling her a blood traitor - after all, she is his host's sister-in-law - but the implication is there in the way he calls her 'obstinate'. "She'd be sure to see to his education if something were to happen to the pair of you, any roads."

He clambers out of the cab and shrugs into his coat, casting a glance around.

Lucius knows Antonin is right; Baedal has forced him to be at least marginally more open-minded, and he imagines the Tonks would make sure Narcissa's son was protected and raised well. At least their definition of it.

Who knew - it could be safer for Draco, in the second war. That isn't something that bears too much thinking on, but it is something well calculated to get Lucius in the mood for a drink.

He leads them inside; it's hardly a place he's a regular, but he's been a time or two and hopes it should serve.

Antonin's definition of a good pub is one which serves liquor; in that case, this one suits him just fine. He takes his companion's elbow again and gestures toward a table far enough away from the door and bar to allow for conversation. There's a short, cheerful exchange between him and the bartender - 'send over the bottle', of course - and he makes a beeline for a seat.

There are better things to be discussed than whether one Draco Malfoy has been orphaned and left to the mercy of blood traitors.

The list of "better things" is likely a long one.

Lucius tries to think of the last time he was out drinking as heavily as he's likely to be tonight. Probably before the war (his war, the first one) ended.

As Dolohov and the bottle join him, he says, "What are we starting with? Vodka?"

As if Lucius needs to ask. Antonin isn't one to resort to Firewhiskey (or whatever piss served in the Malfoy house) save as a last resort.

Of course, his response is somewhat more jeering. "What, you think because I'm Russian, I only drink vodka?"

"I think of the many bottles I've seen in your hand, vodka's the one I remember most often," Lucius responds, dry. Don't pretend you weren't drinking all the time even in the 70s, Antonin. He does have some memories of those parties. "It was a simple question."

There's no malice in Antonin's expression; he's clearly taking the mickey. "I don't believe you remember seeing much of anything. Was it you or Yaxley that ended up on the roof at that little Christmas fete of yours?"

"Merlin," he says with a laugh. "Yaxley. I'd forgotten that. Was that before or after the time someone decided to toss Narcissa in a fountain?"

"You'll never let me live that down, will you?" he asks with a bark of a laugh. "She said she wanted a long, hot bath. Thought I'd be doing her a favor."

Lucius will deny he laughed at this until his dying day. "She looked like a half-drowned cat, it was terrible."

He pours first Lucius, then himself a drink, a grin lighting up his haggard features as he pushes the glass towards the other man. "Don't know what it is about drinking with you, but somehow someone always ends up soaked to the bone."

"Narcissa once told me I inspire a desire to push me into a mud puddle, but I always thought that was just specific to her." He takes his glass and raises it.

Raising his glass in return, it's less of a response to Lucius's action as it is a toast to Narcissa's assessment of the situation. "It's the clothes. Sometimes, Malfoy, you're a little too polished."

"What constitutes 'too' polished, pray?" he asks, half laughing.

"Using words like 'pray' when you're sitting in a pub." Pointed comment is pointed. He takes a long drink from his glass and goes on, "Someone has to bring up the quality of our organisation. Better you than me."

"We all had our parts to play," he says, with a smile but a bit more absently. The forthcoming (for him) second war was a tricky subject. Safer to stick with the first, firmly in both their pasts.

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tensessss

HAHA, I do the same thing

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OH HO LOOK AT ME AND MY EDIT BUTTON

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