Antonin Yevgenyevich Dolohov struck his head violently on the stone wall to stop the enervating thought. The blossom of pain clarified him of the Dementors' hissing whispers.
He touched the seamless granite, barely feeling the heat wick away from his fingers. This was a different cell. Similar, yes, but he had sat for fourteen years in the same grim box. He knew every inch, every flaw, every fracture. This was a different cell.
Thus he had not dreamed his escape. He had been outside. He was in Azkaban now, yes, but he had got out. His Master had called them to his side. He would call again. That thought was neither happy or sad. The Dementors could not steal it or torment him with it. The Dark Lord would summon him. That was a fact he could carve into the walls of his mind.
There were new cracks in the walls he had made for himself to put his thoughts elsewhere, out of reach of the shrouded hungry guards. Antonin closed his eyes and let anger warm him. Lucius Malfoy. The prancing pasty mudak had dropped the prophecy orb. That fissure in his mental defences would be difficult to mend. Their Master would have punished Malfoy but Antonin had not been there to see the mewling cur crawl. He would have to wait. Perhaps the Dark Lord would grant him permission to Crucio Malfoy personally.
That was a good thought. Antonin built with the anticipation, carefully imagining every detail of the blond wizard writhing under his curse.
The recollection of the skirmish in the Department of Mysteries intruded on his visualisation of the bastard begging. Fighting children. The Phoenixes had sent their chicks to protect the Potter brat. They had resisted and the battle had gone stupid. Antonin's mouth contorted into a grimace, the lines so deeply etched his face looked twisted.
He had used his father's vzryv krovi curse. The Blood Burst caused the victim's arteries to rupture, exsanguinating them without breaking the skin. He had watched the darkness spread through the bodies of his targets until they vomited ichor. It was almost poetic. And always lethal. Always.
The self-doubt seeped in through the cracks. She hadn't died. The Mudblood had been hurt but she should have been spitting blood; a sacrifice to his Master.
He had been Silenced but that should not have mattered. He had cast the curse Silenced before and it had worked before. Antonin had seen his spell strike the girl, seen her fall and be dragged away by the blood-traitor.
That was not a pleasant thought. He shivered as a Dementor drifted past his cell, stealing more from him but not that thought. Blood. The vzryv krovi was a family secret and never to be used on family in anger. It wouldn't work. Antonin knew this because his father Yevgeny had cast it on him to show him the effects. The pain had almost made him shit himself but the damage had been healed by one of his babushka's potions. A drink and a lie down and he was ready for another lesson.
The Mudblood had not died.
He had used a curse that had killed grown men in minutes, a curse that none of the Phoenixes could heal, a curse he was certain had struck dead on, and the little bitch had not died.
Antonin sat in his cell in the dark with the answer and would have gladly given it to the Dementors so he could forget. But they would not take that thought away because it was not happy. It was a bitter, bitter truth. The Mudblood was family.