The searing pain that shot through the arm of every Death Eater was unmistakable. It was one that had plagued Alistair throughout his Azkaban sentence and though he tried in vain to Apparate, he knew it was beyond his capabilities to do so. Now though, he knew he could and he wasted no time in throwing his blazer back on and buttoning the first of the two buttons. He ran his fingers through the air upon his pause in front of the mirror and adjusted his tie accordingly before striding over to the crackling fireplace he’d been sat in front of for the majority of the early evening. Grasping the pot of Floo powder, Alistair tossed a palm’s amount into the fireplace. The flames turned into themselves before flickering back an emerald green, the colour of the Killing Curse. A smirk touched at the sides of the man’s face and he cast one last look around the room before stepping through the fire and out through the one fireplace his was connected to: Malfoy Manor.
Unlike many who could not navigate the Floo well, Alistair was somewhat of an expert and he stepped out onto the Oriental rug that had been laid down before the fireplace without so much as a speck of dust on his clothes. He dusted himself off though, as was the habit, and lifted his eyes to the mirror mounted on the wall opposite. He took in his appearance once more and ran his fingers through his hair again before striding across the room to the door he knew to be the meeting place. It hadn’t changed at all, in all the years he had spent at the manor. He remembered the room Narcissa had given him when he and Hyperion had first Apparated onto the grounds. Idly, Alistair wondered if it was still intact but he paid it little mind as he wrenched open the door to the dining room in which he’d met Death Eaters, young and old, most crucially the Dark Lord, many times before.
What he was presented with was not quite what he expected and for a second the surprise showed on his face, though it was quickly masked. Ne’Os Emof. Of course. The Dark Lord must have been turning wherever his body lay. Alistair considered departing in that moment, but he knew it would be rude. He’d been raised better, despite his odd childhood. Alistair did show his distaste for the situation though. Emof had no right to be seated at the head of the table as he was. Alistair did not greet them, he instead let his fingers glide across the back’s of their chairs as he past, lingering with the girls to flick their hair before taking his seat opposite the dark haired woman. The blonde unsettled him, both because of his aversion to women with a similar hair colouring but also because of the aura she gave out. The room was near bare. Alistair could hear the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hall.
“You don’t command much respect...do you, Emof?” Alistair spoke softly, lazily, seeing no point to raising his voice. His point was made. If they wanted to listen, they would. If not, well...