The Master’s Return Ⅵ

Within the confines of the old Gibbon manor, many of the Death Eaters had retreated to the chambers adjacent to the front hall entrance for their master's arrival. None dared to even doze off lest they incur the wrath of the Dark Lord. That and well there was still a faint scent of vomit lingering in the corridor adjacent to the main foyer.

At this late hour, only three figures remain to wait in the front hall. The figure of Rodolphus Lestrange at the windowpanes as sentry, while resting in an armchair Antonin Dolohov leisurely sips some of Ogden's Finest Firewhiskey and the corpse of Primus Wilkes that has been covered by a cloak but still lays in a drying pool of blood. The perpetual reek of blood was more than even the strongest of Death Eaters could bear and they had long ago retreated except for the two that remained, Lestrange and Dolohov.

Idly swirling his drink his glass for a moment, Dolohov watches the swirling golden liquid, before lifting his eyes away to only see the back of Rodolphus Lestrange become rigid for the briefest of seconds. An illusion, he would have sworn if not for seeing Lestrange straighten up. Dolohov's grip around his drink tightens, before sullenly purses his lips already guessing the reason as to why Lestrange's subtle reaction.

"The Dark Lord comes," Rodolphus announced in an icy voice that seemed to boom throughout the front hall and is easily heard in the adjacent chambers.

There is a mad scramble of Death Eaters rising to their feet and straightening out their hoods and masks. The group scurries to the front hall with those with weaker stomachs edging towards the back lest they spill their bile again. More than a few Death Eaters breathe through their mouths, but still, the faintest taste of an unpleasant metallic taste can be tasted on the tip of their tongues.

With a loud bang, the front doors fly open to greet Lord Voldemort. "Master," many of the Death Eater's whisper as they bow before the Dark Lord.

An even tenser hush falls upon the group at spotting an exceptionally large green serpent as thick as a man's thigh that slithers out into the light. It had a flat head with diamond patterns on its skin. The snake revealed a pair of very sharp, and deadly poisonous fangs and snapped playfully at them as it trailed behind the Dark Lord.

"It has a been a long journey in the making, my fellow Death Eaters," Voldemort began before his crimson eyes came to rest upon the cloak-covered corpse. "And this is?" His question was left hanging in the air, but none dared to openly respond lest they be the first to be punished.

"An errand boy that had forgotten their place," interjected the harsh voice of Antonin Dolohov. Dolohov drained the last of his drink before rising to his feet as his long, pale, twisted face filled with genuine malice and cruelty. "It was a shame really, Primus Wilkes was a rather good and faithful dog, but he should have never barred his fangs at me."

"Good," Voldemort matter-of-factly said to the open wide astonishment of the Death Eaters, while Dolohov subtly narrowed his eyes at the unexpected reply from the Dark Lord.

"Primus Wilkes, although a faithful brother had forgotten his place," Voldemort eloquently said resembling the wizard he had once been in the past, the charmer, who could even hide from one of the greatest wizards of all, Albus Dumbledore.

"There are those among us, who have sacrificed much more than others," Voldemort articulately voiced as he slowly began to turn in a circle and look at the gathered group. "There are even those who have accompanied me at my side since the very beginning. At a time when mere boys gathered together and dreamed of a different future. In those long, forgotten days, we called ourselves the Knights of Walpurgis."

"Antonin Dolohov," Voldemort called as all eyes turned to the haughty, burly death eater.

"Dark Lord," Dolohov aloofly said with a vicious grin, "so now you remember us, old friend."

"I have never forgotten, Dolohov," Voldemort primly retorted as a flash of old anger appeared in his crimson eyes. "And that is why I departed on this journey to return to our glorious roots. And I have returned with powerful allies that will aid us in fulfilling in that which we seek, a future."

"Who Master?" Asked the scarred figure of McCann, who had survived the vicious attack of the Prince's female grandchild.

"Those who have been forgotten by mankind and slink in the shadows," Voldemort said with a terrifying grin. "Those who akin to us, who seek far greater things. They are beings, whose might and true terror have been forgotten, and yet their tales still live on to this day."

Voldemort paused as the Death Eaters with bated breath leaned forward eager to hear more. "Giants."

A rush of terror and awe rush through the gathered Death Eaters. Many dropped down to their knees and whisper, "Master." While others remain stunned in place unable to react for they had all heard the whispered tales in their youth, and told on dark nights by their forefathers of the might of the giants, which had required both muggle and wizardkind to join forces to defeat such a terrible foe.

"Giants?" Dolohov repeated loudly breaking the awestruck silence as many Death Eaters gawked at the wizard's audacity. "And do tell, Old Friend, just what is that you have promised the Giants? Because I may have slept through portions of History of Magic with dear old Professor Bagshot, but I can clearly recall that Giants ate humans, both magical and non-magical alike."

"Land for the raising of livestock," Voldemort coolly answered. "Those unfit to be ruled over such as mudblood's, traitors, and the like with their offspring." A chorus of whispers follows Voldemort's announcement as those remaining standing knelt except for two figures which are that of Rodolphus Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov. Although Lestrange does bow his head keeping his gaze on the floor and carefully hidden from view.

Dolohov barely refrains from sneering as his lips twitch in derision, but even he knows better than to speak an ill word of protest at this juncture. He was a Slytherin and a pureblood at that. He had been taught to feel the ebbs of power and the flow had changed in Voldemort's favor.

Bowing his head in the briefest of acknowledgment, Dolohov eyes the bowed figure of Lestrange, before whirling around and storming out through the doors of the old Gibbon Manor without leave. He had better things to do with his time, before apparating away to Madam Zenaries to satisfy his needs. And his needs would be amply met considering the outrageous price he paid for each visit.