Bloody Barons
I: Narcissa
15th December, ten days to Bellatrix’s wedding
The Little Palace
The past four days have been literal Hell. Narcissa wanted to curl up into a sad, pathetic ball and sob into her sheets, wishing to feel the warmth of Alice at her back. But, unfortunately, Narcissa couldn’t just- not show up to her post. She may have the winter holidays off but she was a soldier. Her job was to protect that stupid fucking village from the stupid fucking Fjerdans. If she abandoned her post not only would she be marked for a deserter, she’d be offering up those innocent Ravkans for slaughter. So, Narcissa was forced to walk her path, each day waiting for her heart to walk up, tea in hand, only to come to the harsh realization that she wasn’t coming. Each day, the black hole in her chest swallowed a bit more of her- her energy, her empathy, her will to live. Each day, she stopped and stared at where the small shred of happiness she had found for herself had shattered. Each day, she found herself shoving back tears and applying Regulus’ method of boycotting emotions.
After four of these days, she got a summons from General McGonagall herself.
Now, Narcissa wouldn’t call herself a fearful person. A coward? Oh, absolutely, especially if it related to her family in any way whatsoever. But scared of most other things? No, Narcissa was generally neutral. Death? If he takes her, great. Wonderful. Splendid. If he doesn’t? Oh well, he’ll get her another time. Heights? It’s only distance. Snakes? They’re rather adorable, her opinion. Loneliness? That’s Narcissa’s best friend, right there. Being forgotten? Good. That would surely erase all her problems? Abandonment? Well-
We don’t talk about that, okay?
But, standing in front of her General, McGonagall’s face hard, jaw set, shoulders squared and eyes gleaming with scrutiny but true emotions unreadable, Narcissa felt the cold chill of fear coil at the base of her spine. The silence reminded her so closely of her Aunt Walburga - and a bit of her Father - that her shoulders snapped back and a wall much stronger than the ones she had been constructing while she was alone slammed over her emotions. They were two separate entities - her body and feeling - separated by a barrier of cement, stretching as far as the eye could see and tall enough to caress the heavens.
“Miss Black.” General McGonagall said smoothly, her voice like water dripping over the barrier, threatening to erode cracks in its foundation but Narcissa wasn’t new to the gentle siren call of a false sense of security.
“General.”
“I must admit, I’m worried about you.”
Narcissa blinked. Someone…worried about her? No one cares about pretty little Narcissa, just simply a doll to show off, a painting to gaze at, a puppet to have her strings pulled. The only ones who have ever asked about her are Regulus and Alice. What was the proper protocol for a situation like this? Father never asked and Aunt Walburga would care more about a dead snail on the sidewalk than someone’s feelings. “Why?”
“I look after my soldiers as much and as often as I can, Miss Black. I notice changes in behaviour far more than one would think, though you have always been particularly difficult to read. In the last four days, you’ve been quiet, even for you. With my suspicions, I took the liberty of contacting Antonin Dolohov, the Heartrender who patrols the north-western edge on your same shift, though you already knew that. Upon being asked, he also mentioned some peculiar behaviour he’s noticed. So I’m going to ask you, hopefully without overstepping, are you alright?”
McGonagall’s words crashed into the stone fortress. Cracks splintered, spreading outwards at alarming rates Narcissa couldn’t keep up with. The walls trembled before crumbling completely, leaving Narcissa surrounded by a sprinkle of dust and drowning in a sea of conflicting emotions The fear that had consumed Narcissa the moment she stepped in her General office was diminished and replaced by the overwhelming urge to cry.
A concerned wrinkle of sadness appeared along the General’s forehead. Something flashed in her eyes but disappeared before Narcissa had the chance to understand what it meant. Her hand dipped under her desk and set a tin covered in bright red poppies on top. When she spoke, her tone was somber, even as she said, “Have a biscuit, Miss Black.”
A broken, surprised laugh lodged itself in Narcissa’s throat and a single tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, demanding the tidal wave gathering in her eyes to stay put. How embarrassing, crying like a baby in front of her General?
Alice wouldn’t have thought it embarrassing. She would’ve said ‘Fuck it. Cry your heart out.’
Holding back tears suddenly became so much harder.
“Thank you, General,” Narcissa said, cringing at the slight - but terribly obvious - tremble in her voice. “But I think I should be going. After all, my ride will be heading out soon and I’d rather not be late.”
“Miss Black, though I know nothing of your situation nor am I pressuring you to tell me, I’d suggest you take a leave of absence. Take this week off, extend your winter holidays. Besides, there’s a Heartrender in need of patrol training and I don’t expect you to do that, you haven’t been taught how.”
“But-“ what about Mother? Father? What would they say? And don’t even get me started on Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion, they’re just as bad in their own way. Bella would never let me live it down, either.
But General McGonagall held up her hand, halting Narcissa mid-sentence. “It’s not up for discussion, Miss Black. Go, get some rest. Your post will still be there when you return.”
Narcissa swallowed and, with no other option, nodded. “Thank you, General.” She turned and bolted before she could hear McGonagall’s reply.
Narcissa slipped into her dorm, sighing in relief when she noted the absence of her dormmates. Though she had assumed they were both gone(assignments and whatnot), seeing the space vacated was a small victory.
Narcissa removed her kefta and let it fall into a crumpled heap at the foot of her bed. She reached up and pulled on the ebony ribbon that now kept her hair tied back - she doubted she'd ever wear red again, aside from her kefta and family dinners, of course - and tried(and failed) to ignore how similar it felt when Alice had taken her previous ribbon for herself.
Narcissa's eyes caught on the small framed photo on her side table. In it was her, Andy and Bella in early autumn about six years ago, maybe ten months before Andromeda had escaped the Little Palace - and the House of Black - and chosen Ted Tonks over Narcissa herself. Bella had taken the photo, a selfie-style image. Andy had collected a small handful of freshly fallen leaves in shades of yellow, orange and red. Just as Bella had taken the photo, she had dumped the handful out on Narcissa's head. Bella was cackling, lips curled up in a genuine smile Narcissa hadn't seen in a while, though her face was half cut off by a wilted rose pressed between the image and the frame. Andy stood, smirking in triumph and pride, her arms on her hips. Narcissa herself had her mouth dropped open in shock, arms bunched up around her ears and trying foolishly to protect herself, but there was an unmistakable gleam of pure delight shimmering in her eye.
Narcissa focused on her reflection through the glass. Deep purple bags under her eyes from her futile attempts to escape Alice, who haunts both Narcissa’s every waking thought and her dreams. The pale hue of her skin, not from a lack of sun but instead a lack of personal care. The dullness of her eyes, boring old gray with not even a sparkle to take note of. The red rims around them, the tears dripping down her face and clinging to her eyelashes.
She sniffled. No wonder Alice left. No wonder Andromeda left. There’s nothing worth staying for.
Someone knocked on her door and entered before she could shout at them to go away. Through the reflection, Regulus appeared at her side. He stood stiffly, awkwardly, but stayed nonetheless. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, touch gentle despite looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Are you okay?”
Narcissa laughed - truly laughed - and Regulus cringed. “Alright, stupid question.”
“No, no,” Narcissa said with a shake of her head, voice riddled with tears. “You don't understand how much it means to me that you asked."
A sympathetic glimmer in his eye. "I think I do."
"I know you do."
A pause.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Narcissa paused, weighing her options. "Can we?"
"Of course we can, Cissa. Only the Saints know how many times I've done it to you, let me repay the favour."
Narcissa let out a pathetic sob and nodded, clambering into bed and patting the space in front of her. Regulus kicked off his shoes and discarded his kefta next to hers. He climbed up and sat crisscross opposite her. Narcissa grabbed a pillow and curled around it, face shoved into it's plushness as she sobbed. Regulus waited, ever so patient, not trying to console her nor get her to stop, just there as a constant presence. That enough was a comfort.
When she had calmed down enough, words came tumbling past her lips, all scrambled and sometimes straight up incoherent, so different from her usual sophisticated, articulate self. But Regulus listened. He listened as her tears surged time and time again like an illness she couldn't be rid of. He listened and deciphered her word vomit as she talked, ranted and vented about everything Alice for what seemed like hours. From the style of her hair, to the tiny specks of gold in her deep brown gaze, to the way she walked, to the way she always seemed to know when something was amiss, to the tea she'd bring every morning, to the miniscule moments that made Narcissa feel like nothing could touch them in their little bubble, to the way her hand had fit so perfectly against her own, to the gaping hole left in her chest now that her heart was gone. It was all Alice, Alice, Alice.
"What am I doing wrong?" Narcissa choked out in a broken whisper.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what's wrong with me?" She sobbed. "First Andy, now Alice. Who's next? You?"
Typically, how these little rants go, Regulus spills any and everything he wants and Narcissa tries to help him make sense of the jumble in his brain. Sometimes, they do it over tea. Sometimes, they go on walks. Sometimes, they're in the library of Grimmauld Place. Sometimes they're in one of the many alcoves Regulus has managed to find over the course of his eight-year stay at the Little Palace. They sit opposite one another, just existing side by side. Never do they touch outside the gentle hand on the shoulder and Regulus is always the one who initiates. Narcissa learned long ago that touch as become something of a trigger for Regulus- he flinches, he inwardly spirals, he breaks down. To him, touch has always meant danger. The only exception to this is Sirius, the safe haven of an island amidst the dark, murky waters of the House of Black.
Never has Regulus ever shed a tear. Never has he hugged her. But today is something else entirely. Narcissa watched as he surged forward and wrapped his arms around her. Narcissa felt his shoulders shake. Narcissa felt the cloth of her shirt dampen. Narcissa heard the smallest of cracks in his voice when he spoke.
"I'm not going anywhere. Forever and always, I'll be right here, okay? I promise you."
Despite the sea flowing from her eyes, Narcissa smiled. "I believe you, Regulus."
She doesn't know how long they stayed like that, bundled up in one another and just crying. Crying for Alice, crying for Andromeda, crying for themselves, crying simply because they can. But she does know that when Regulus pulled back, she felt significantly better than she had in the past week.
Regulus sniffled and rubbed away the remnants of tears from his eyes. "We shall never speak of this again."
"No. Never," she agreed. "What happens here, stays here."
"Sirius would never let us live it down."
"Bella would probably break our fingers for being 'itty, bitty babies'."
They both hummed and nodded.
Hesitantly, Regulus asked, "Have you noticed something...different about Bellatrix?"
Narcissa was very glad Regulus had brought it up because she had. "I know. It's almost like she seems a bit-"
"Crazier? More insane? Genuinely psychotic?" Regulus suggested.
"I was going to say 'more Bella than usual' but sure, those work, too."
"But it's not just Bella, though. Mother has a new scar. Goes from her forehead, across her nose and to her jaw, just narrowly avoiding her eyes," Regulus dragged his finger down his place, drawing out his description. "She says it's from a fight with a drüskelle but, well, you know Mother. No one ever gets close enough to leave a mark. And even if they do, wouldn't someone heal it? I mean, it's fresh."
"Now that you say it, Lucius has also sustained an injury recently. He's also got a scar, right over his left eye. He's half-blind, now. From some Shu soldier, apparently, but you make a valid point about Healing."
"And Father? You know he's always had a drinking problem, right?"
Narcissa snorted. "Of course. Why do you think there was enough alcohol around for me to develop a problem."
"Yeah, you should really cut back on the wine and kvas, Cissa."
She waved her hand. "Not the time. What about Uncle Orion?"
"Right. He's always had a problem but he could control it. I haven't seen him without a flask or a glass in, like, a month."
"Hm. I haven't noticed anything about my mother but Father's lost a tooth. Again, in battle."
"Notice anything about Abraxas or Celestia? Or the Lestranges? You're around them more than I."
"Not really, no. I must admit, Lucius keeps me far too occupied. He's convinced he's got a long-lost cousin, you know."
Regulus shook his head with a scoff. "Malfoy truly is another type of special."
Narcissa scowled. "Unfortunately."
In the distance, the bell tower chimed eleven bells. Regulus glanced out the window and then up at the clock above Narcissa's door. He scrambled to get up, throwing on his kefta. "Shit. I've bunked off my Kaelish lesson but I need to be in my Fjerdan in five minutes. I'll see you at dinner, yeah?"
"Of course, Regulus."
"I hope you feel better."
"I feel much more myself. I promise."
II: Rita
To most people, a secret is a burden. Something someone has to carry around and protect, less it gets revealed. A secret can mean a lot of things. It can be a surprise; a party for a loved one, a proposal, a date, a gift. It can mean shame; an affair, a part of themselves people want to hide. It can mean happiness; a little world built in the cracks people fail to look through.
To Rita Skeeter, a Durast of Ravka’s Second Army, secrets give her purpose. She thrives off them, in hiding behind corners and dipping her nose where she knows it damn well doesn’t belong. She delights in knowing what others don’t, in knowing she could make everyone know, if she wanted. She grins when people tick her off, aware of the fact she could tear down the name they’ve made for themselves. She smirks because she knows she could make men three times her age tremble with the things she’s picked up. She laughs, knowing for how many secrets she collects she has three of her own. She loves the fact that no matter how much anyone tries, her secrets are locked in a chest only she knows the password to. Where most people would feel annoyed or self-conscious, she enjoys being a secret herself. Especially when that secret involves one Bellatrix Black, soon to be Lestrange.
Right on time, as always(Blacks are never late, beetle), Bellatrix slipped down into what Rita had dubbed the ‘Room of Requirement’. In reality, it was a safe room attached to the plethora of tunnels underneath the Little Palace, accessed behind the portrait of King Dumbledore in the Announcement Hall. The passages were Rita’s best friend, which wasn’t much of a title considering Bellatrix was the only one who really tolerated her. Oh well, that’s fine. The passages have little windows in nearly every room or the castle, unnoticeable from the outside. The perfect hiding place.
The safe room had been mostly empty when Rita had first found it at fourteen. It had stayed empty for the next five years until she had brought Bellatrix down. Since then, a couple of training dummies, a desk or two piled high with studious supplies, two extra sets of clothing for both of them, a large bed and several sets of sheets had been added.
Bellatrix stormed across the room, throwing her kefta to the ground. Rita grinned, standing up from her seat at one of the desks and leaning back on her hands. She watched, amused, as Bellatrix struggled violently with the fabric, cursing it out as it slowed down her inevitable pounce on the Durast. When she had finally triumphed over the piece of fabric, Bellatrix surged forward and slammed her hands down on the edge of the desktop on either side of Rita’s hips, effectively caging her in(not like she was trying to escape anyway. Bellatrix could genuinely rip her heart out of her chest and Rita would thank her). A delighted shiver of anticipation shot up her spine at the feral gleam in her eye and the manic way her untameable corkscrew curls fell around her face.
Had Rita noticed something different about Bellatrix in the last few days? Of course she had. Rita could rant about Bellatrix for hours. Every small detail of her personality, every habit she has, her many pet peeves, her schedule, how her eyes weren’t quite blue but weren’t entirely grey either, how much she hates Roldolphus Lestrange. Everything and anything Bellatrix Black. So, naturally, she had picked up on the change in personality. Rita doesn’t care. She doesn’t know what caused it(though, if she had to guess, it was the wedding just around the corner) and she doesn’t care, not in the slightest. Not when it looked so goddamn attractive.
Bellatrix dipped down and began pressing harsh kisses(because gentle isn’t in her vocabulary, not that Rita’s complaining) along the column of her throat. Rita let out a shaky breath, grinning elatedly as she tipped her head back to give her more room. Bellatrix grumbled as blonde tresses fell in her way. Rita whispered a rushed apology and scrambled to tie her hair back with the bobble around her wrist. Bellatrix hummed and bit down hard in reward. Rita’s gasp fell into a moan, her hands gripping at Bellatrix’s shoulders, nails digging in.
Bellatrix peeled off, ripping Rita’s kefta open and pushing forcefully at her shoulder to get it off. Rita slipped her arms out and tossed it somewhere over Bellatrix’s head. Rita didn’t hear nor see where it landed. It doesn’t matter, not when Bellatrix gripped the back of her thighs and hauled her up on the desktop, shoving her legs open to create a place for herself between them. She stepped forward, grip deadly as her thumbs dragged up and down the crease of her thighs. Rita took Bellatrix’s chin in one hand and tilted it to kiss her just so, bruising and nearly all teeth. When Rita pulled away, Bella allowed her to take the smallest of breaths before diving again, stealing whatever oxygen she just inhaled and swallowing the moan building in her throat as Bellatrix squeezed.
When Bella had finally allowed her to catch her breath, she turned her focus on pressing bites along her jaw, speaking between each one. “I’ve had a thought, beetle. How easy is it to access the prisons through here?”
“The- the prisons?” Rita repeated between pants and small, little noises. “I- I’m not sure. Not hard, I’d ex- expect.”
“And do you think we’d be able to sneak a few down here? You know, for extra practice when I’m not out in the field.”
“I- I guess. If I were- were to construct a place to keep them.” Rita’s eyes rolled to the back of her head when Bella licked a stripe from the dip in her collarbone up to her ear.
Bellatrix pulled back and grinned, teeth flashing. “Perfect, beetle. Always so perfect for me, yeah?”
Rita’s mouth dropped open. Bella’s grin grew and she licked her lips, rolling up her sleeves. “How about an early reward, huh?” She sank to her knees at Rita’s eager nod and, well, Rita was far too preoccupied to pay any mind to the bandages wound tightly around Bellatrix’s left forearm.
III: Barty
Ketterdam
Barty never considered himself the 'falling in love' type. I mean, he's flirted with literally anything that has a heart beat- girls, guys, theys, anybody - who's come through the Viper's Den while he was on duty or that he's greeted at fifth harbour. He's flirted, he's kissed, never more than that. He's thought about it, sure, being the fifteen-year-old that he is. Has he ever done anything? No. He's toyed with hearts, pulled on love strings to play a beautiful melody. His heart has never gotten involved. Not once.
But that was before Evan Rosier.
Barty wasn't ashamed. He had accepted it rather easily, actually. C'mon, have you seen Evan? Beautiful bronze skin, unbelievably soft-looking blond curls, eyes out of a fucking portrait, body toned from years as a drüskelle, a personality like a kaleidoscope- painted in hundreds of different emotions(not that he really knew how to deal with them, Ghezen knows Barty didn't) and always changing, always showing new mesmerizing colours.
Barty knew he was powerless against the unstoppable force of Evan Rosier. He knew he had it bad(Cas makes sure to remind him daily). He knew, but he did nothing about it.
See, he could watch, and he would. Barty would be content to simply marvel at the art that was Evan Rosier for eternity. If he never got to feel Evan's palm cradling his own, Evan's lips brushed against his, the warmth of Evan's embrace at his back as they settled in for a night's sleep, that was fine. It was fine, as long as he got to keep him, in some way or another. A friendship could be as fragile as a relationship. Say one wrong thing and months, years, or however long you've been building that bond and it all goes swirling down the drain, the only remnants being the small crumple of dust stuck to the side of the sink, forgotten and neglected. Barty would much rather cherish the small sculpture they’re constructing together than have that as his fate.
And, aside from that scenario being absolutely fucking devastating and heartbreaking, it would makes jobs and assignments terribly awkward.
Evan scowled at the sky, flipping it off before bunching up his shoulders and trying to hide from the average Ketterdam drizzle.
Barty sighed blissfully to piss him off, tilting his head back with a grin and letting the drops land on his face. “Beautiful, isn’t it.”
“As beautiful as the Reaper’s Barge after a Firepox outbreak.” Evan grumbled.
Barty knocked their shoulders, ignoring the little spark that shot through his skin where they touched. “C’monnnnn, you’ve been here, what? Two years? You haven’t adjusted yet?”
“I fucking hate this country.”
“Oh, you don’t mean that. This country brought you to me. Are you saying you hate me, my rose?” Barty started to walk backwards so he could bat his eyelashes at Evan.
“Yes.”
Barty purposely side-stepped, as if tripping over an uneven cobblestone on the path they were taking to the AK. Evan lunged forward, steadying him before he could either a) fall or b) realize it was all a trap to prove he did, in fact, like Barty.
Barty smirked. “See? You don’t hate me. Someone who hates me would’ve let me fall.”
Evan’s cheeks turned a delicious shade of pink before he promptly shoved Barty backwards, into a couple travelling between gambling halls along the East Stave and then right on his ass.
Barty sputtered as Evan began to laugh. Despite his offence to the whole ordeal, Barty couldn’t help but crack a fond smile. Evan’s laugh was the definition of melodic, at least to him. It was loud and sprinkled with wheezes but worth a fortune, and Barty felt like a king knowing he was the cause of something so wonderful. Did he make a big ass of himself? Sure, that’s nothing new. But if embarrassing himself made Evan happy, he’d do it time and time again. And he has. His antics had begun a bit after Evan’s arrival and had always been purely for his amusement. That’s how Cas found out, actually. The timelines all matched up. Barty was doomed from the very beginning.
“Can you help me up, asshole?” Barty asked, holding out his hand.
Evan crossed his arms, tapping his chin. "Hm. I don't know..."
Barty gave him an unimpressed look.
"Fine. What's the magic word?"
"Abracadabra."
"It was 'dumbass' but close enough," Evan said with a shrug, gripping Barty's hand and hauling him up on his feet.
"Y'know, someone who hates me would've made me get up myself."
"I will shove you to the ground again."
"Kinky."
"You're disgusting."
"I try."
Thunder boomed overhead and the rain grew heavier. Evan shuddered and stepped closer to the clubs they were passing so he'd get momentary shelter under their awnings. Trailing by his feet, Zar whined, trying to shake the water out of his fur only to be drenched again.
"Zar agrees with me. If this country has a team of Tidemakers, why don't they stop the rain? Or at the very least create a bubble of shelter around their capital?" Evan grumbled.
"The Council of Tides works on just that- the tides, not rain. And do you realize how big Ketterdam is? That would take a shit ton of Tidemakers, and highly trained ones at that," Barty explained. "Heartrending is difficult enough to pick up even while we have a consistent, predictable target. From what I understand, Summoners don't have that. That's why it takes them so long to master their craft, it takes a higher level of concentration and what not."
"The Council of Tides, how many do you think work for Kerch of their own volition?"
"Huh?"
"Well, Kerch isn't widely known for being particularly kind, now is it? With all their indentures and slavers and shit? How many Tidemakers went 'hey, working for the country that sells people to pleasure houses and rich assholes sounds like a splendid career choice' and how many didn't have the choice at all?"
"I- I don't know. I wouldn't be surprised if the latter was greater than the former, though."
Evan glowered at the sky again. "Then I wouldn't be surprised if Kerch's proclivity for gloomy weather was not at all an unlucky occurrence but instead an act of revenge."
Ah. Another thing Barty absolutely adored about Evan. His massive fucking brain, puzzling out mysteries Barty hadn't even realized were there. "I've never thought about it that way."
Evan side-eyed him. "Really?"
Barty shook his head. "Is that surprising?"
"Kind of. Sounds like something you would do."
Barty ignored the small flutter his heart gave because, yes, it was exactly something he would do. I mean, just look at him? A trench coat full of purposeful holes that was doing an absolutely abysmal job of keeping the rain out, a dress shirt only half buttoned with the sleeves cut off, deep purple trousers with several burn marks and his favourite boots, black leather with laces that had been white at one point(they were black when he bought them but instantly switched them to piss people off) but were now permanently red. Barty was insanely happy at the fact Evan knew him enough to understand his actions.
"How about you? What would you do if you were a Tidemaker forced onto the Council of Tides?" Barty asked.
"I'd stalk the person responsible for my position and drown them the next time they took a sip of water." Evan replied, eyes narrowing and jaw ticking at the thought.
Barty tried very, very hard not to imagine what that looked like but, alas, his mind betrayed him anyway. He could see it so clearly, Evan slinking around in the shadows when he could, the look on his face when he'd twist his hands at his chance, the triumph in his eyes and the twist of his smirk when he succeeded. Barty was fucking salivating, a need to see Evan so violent, so cruel, rising in his gut.
Evan nodded up ahead. "There it is, fucking finally."
Barty cleared his throat and shook his head, ignoring Evan's questioning side-eye. "Yeah. What's the plan? Head in, find Mulciber, beat the shit out of him until he pays up?"
Evan shook his head. "Too loud, too messy and definitely the opposite of our orders. I say sneak in, steal the money, get out before they even know we're there."
"Eh. We should've brought Pandora if we were going to do that. No one is more quiet than her."
"All the acrobatic training, if I were to guess."
"Mhm."
A pause.
"So we go in and have a civil conversation instead?" Barty suggested, wrinkling his nose in discontent. He was stubborn, sure, but after a bit he'd get bored and loose interest. He doesn't exactly have the best attention span for a mission like that.
Evan sighed. "Yeah. I guess."
The Avada Kedavra wasn't what you expected from a club with a name that literally translates to 'I destroy as I speak', at least from the outside. Unlike all the dark stone from all the other clubs surrounding it, the AK was made of elegant white marble that made people stop and question whether they were actually on the East Stave and hadn't accidently walked down the West Stave. Coils of gold spiralled up the pillars and surrounded the club's sign, the words Avada Kedavra made of some shiny black material that turned green with nightfall.
Inside, however, was a complete opposite from the clean and bright look the exterior made it seem to be. The walls adorned wall paper of deep grey bricks. The lights dangling from the ceiling, while painfully elegant, casted an eerie emerald glow across the whole club, so dim it just barely glinted off the varnished dark wood of the bar and playing tables. The employees were all dressed in ebony with small accents of gold threaded throughout, matching perfectly with the cards of dealers and platters servers. Stationed around the room, dressed similarly to the rest of Mulciber's employees except for lavish coats, firearms at their hips and a tattoo of a crown dripping blood around their necks like a choker, were the Bloody Barons, Mulciber's gang.
There were two people on the door when Evan and Barty walked in. Barty grinned at them as they were instantly recognized for a multitude for reasons. One, the holes in Barty's coat put his Snakes tattoo on full display. Two, Barty himself would be well known without his affiliation to Dorcas. Not many people can walk the streets of Ketterdam without knowing the Crouch name. And, well, with a price for his return to his father, even though it's been three years since he ran away, it's hard to forget such a thing. Three, there aren't many Fjerdans walking around, much less ones with an isenulf.
One of the Barons immediately took off towards where Barty knew was Mulciber's office. The other narrowed her eyes at him and Evan, looking them up and down, pausing on Zar for several thick seconds. The isenulf simply glared right back at her.
"What are you doing here?" She demanded.
Barty gave her a charming smile. "Playing, of course. Why else would we be in such a place?"
The Baron looked unimpressed. "You and I both know that's absolute bullshit."
Barty dipped a hand into his pocket and waved a small stack of kruge under her nose. "You sure about that, lass?"
The Barron scowled and Barty felt the urge to laugh. Sometimes, it was so fucking easy to worm his way under someone's skin.
A hand gripped his shoulder. Barty glanced back. Evan stared at him, eyes firm and serious as he shook his head. Barty swallowed but obeyed the silent command nonetheless. He didn’t even know if that was something he couldn’t do, as long as Evan was asking.
“We don’t want trouble,” Evan said, Fjerdan accent thickly coating his words. “We only want to speak with Mulciber.”
The Baron scoffed. “Who do you think you are? The boss doesn’t speak with just anyone. If the Snakes wish an audience with the Bloody Barons, Meadowes can come herself.”
Just then, the other Barron, who Barty recognized as Corban Yaxley, came up and said, “Boss says to follow me.”
Barty gave her a cheeky smile and Evan grinned smugly. The Baron glared.
Barty followed Yaxley past the gambling tables and behind the bar, Evan and Zar hot on his heels. They were brought to a room where the door was shut instantly behind them.
Mulciber’s office was exactly what Barty expected from a guy like him. The desk was made of gleaming mahogany, the chair of expensive leather. The table was pilled high with documents, maps and quills. Paintings of famous artists, or fakes, were hung up around the room(Barty doesn’t doubt that behind one of them was a safe stuffed with kruge). Also on the wall, framed in a massive display case that didn't have glass, for whatever reason, were rifles. Many, many riffles, none of them the same. They were all different makes and models, taking tens of different bullets. Barty even saw a stadwatch service weapon.
Mulciber himself sat at the desk, feet kicked up on its surface. His shoes looked freshly polished, not a scuff on them. His hair was slicked back, showing off his, admittedly, impressive cheekbones(not more impressive than Evan, though. No one would ever be able to beat Evan). He wore a high end suit of navy and red, golden buttons gleaming along with his pocket watch. His nails were painted crimson, made to match the rubies imbedded into the Bloody Baron tattoo around his neck. The chunky rings on his fingers clinked against his whiskey glass as he took a sip.
Stationed around the room were far more Barons than was necessary. Mulciber’s right hand, Avery, and another high-ranking Barron, Wilkes, stood behind Mulciber on either side of his desk. At the door was Yaxley and another Baron Barty didn’t recognize. Yet another Barron was stationed on either of the remaining walls. So, in total, there were seven Barons, two Snakes and one isenulf.
And a partridge in a pear tree.
Mulciber smirked as they walked in. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
“Mulciber.” Evan greeted stiffly. At his feet, Zar bared his fangs.
“You knew we were coming, then.” Barty said, the easy, teasing demeanour long gone. This was serious. This was business. This was a job. Barty had never let Dorcas down before, he wasn’t going to start now. Especially after all she’s done for him.
Mulciber let out a little chuckle into his whiskey- firewhiskey, if Barty had to guess, based on its more reddish tint. “Of course I do, Barty Crouch Jr.”
Barty rolled his eyes. So Mulciber knew who he was, big deal. It was common knowledge.
“Then you know why we’re here.” said Evan.
“Of course I do,” Mulciber said with a smile, a smile that had Barry’s eyes narrowing and his fingers twitching. “Evan Rosier.”
Barty blinked in surprise. Sure, maybe he was well known but Evan, not so much. Well, people knew of him, saw him. The Snake with the isenulf. The drüskelle. No one knew who he was, though. And the fact that Mulciber somehow did didn’t sit right with him. Zar’s ears pressed back and Barty knew he felt the same.
"Where's the money, Mulciber." Evan continued, unperturbed.
Mulciber hummed condescendingly, tapping a finger slowly on his chin. "Don't have it."
"Bullshit," Barty growled. "If you can afford all the firewhiskey in this fucking place, you can afford rent."
He shrugged. "Something must be wrong with your calculations then, Crouch."
Barty's eyes narrowed and Mulciber flashed him a grin. Goddamn it, is this how everyone felt with Barty? Ick. "Listen-"
Evan cut him off before he could continue. "You can pay some, I know you can. Unless your employees rob you of the day's earnings, you have today's kruge. Don't want to pay more than that, expect the AK to be shut down within the week."
Mulciber laughed, grin tightening to a thin, frustrated smile. "And if I refuse? What do you say about that?"
"It won't end well, Mulciber. I can tell you that now."
"Your outnumbered; both here and in general. I have four Barons per Snake. Don't be foolish, Rosier. This is not a fight you can win."
"You're severely underestimating Dorcas Meadowes," Barty said lowly. "She hasn't gotten to where she stands without working for it."
Mulciber grit his teeth and slowly, Barty cocked his head to the side. Seems he...struck a nerve?
Mulciber forced yet another laugh, drowning the rest of his whiskey and slamming the glass down on his desktop. "And why should that stay the same? Meadowes has had her time. Her and all the other stuck up Barrel Kings who think they run these canals. I think it's about time we stir the pot, knock 'em off their pedestals. Remind them who the Barrel really thrives off of. So, no. You're not getting any fucking money. Get out of my club."
Evan cursed under his breath in Fjerdan, or at least that's what it looked like to every unsuspecting Barron in the office but Barty knew better. Though he didn't quite hear what Evan said, the way Zar's ears twitched was enough to know the Fjerdan was giving his isenulf an order.
"We're not leaving without something to show for it." Barty hissed.
Mulciber stood up and leaned over the desk, palms flat on it's gleaming wood surface. He spat at their shoes and gave them a dark grin. "There."
"You know damn well what he meant, Mulciber." Evan said, expressed twisted in annoyance.
Mulciber stood up, walking a slow circle around the room, around the visitors in his office. He dragged his fingers alone the ornate wallpaper, only stopping to step around his Barons. He stopped along the one wall, tapping his fingers as he looked back. "Y'know, I'm quite finished with this conversation. And if you won't leave on your own accord, well, I'll guess I'll have to do it myself," he quickly snatched a weapon out of the display case- the Stadwatch service weapon. Evan drew his own gun, followed quickly by the cocking of all the other Barrons. "Try not to bleed all over my club."
Holy fucking shit. Why do I never carry a fucking gun?
Mulciber fired his shot but Evan had already stepped out of the way. The bullet zipped past him and directly into the dominant arm of one of the unnamed Barons. Evan was quick to pull on another Barron's arm, twisting the gun away from himself and using the body as a shield while he tried to get his own shots in.
Zar instantly went after Yaxley and with everyone focused on Barty and Evan, no one really cared to shoot downwards at the isenulf. Zar clamped down hard on Yaxley's leg and he screamed. Zar ripped his head back and Yaxley shrieked again as a chunk of flesh fell from Zar's red-stained teeth. The isenulf bit at Yaxley's arm and the Baron shot at him frantically as he tried to shake him off. Instead, all he succeeded in doing in taking down one of his fellow Barons and making his own wounds worse for himself. Zar scampered up Yaxley's arm without so much as a graze at clawed at the Baron's face until he collapsed to the floor. Whether he was dead or simply passed out, no one quite knew.
The door slammed open as the female Baron who was guarding the door came to see what was the matter. Behind her, the club was pandemonium. Gamblers and employees alike shoved each other around as they ran for the door. Tables were overturned, glass shattered, chips thrown everywhere. The bar was smashed, one of the chandeliers had somehow came down from the ceiling and the floor was more kruge than it was tailing. Those who weren't running where frantically stuffing their pockets with loose cash and whatever alcohol they could snatch up.
Zar lunged straight for it, tackling the bewildered Baron to the floor as they began to grapple, a mess of blood, claws and screams.
And Barty? Well, Barty knew what he should have done.
He should've jumped over the desk, grabbed Mulciber's chair to smash Wilkes' face in, steal his gun and use his body as protection, like Evan had. He should've fought like that, taking the Barrons out one by one and hoping they take some of themselves out in the process of battle in such a quaint space. He should've had a gun on him before they left the Slat. He should've had some knives on him. He shouldn't have let a fight break out at all.
Because maybe, just maybe, if he hadn't, he wouldn't have instinctively used Heartrending as his first line of defense.
Don't get it wrong, it's by far the most efficient. With a twist of his hands, the Barons in his line of sight tensed up, gripping their hearts as they fell to their knees. He was able to step over them and target even more people, so it was only him, Evan, Zar and the Barron Zar was currently fighting who weren't experiencing their heart being squeezed by a threat they hadn't even known was present.
But was it the smartest? No, not at all.
Barty had used Heartrending for Cas before. He's helped her interrogate people, people they killed immediately after. He's killed assassins on her trail, he's healed smaller injuries the best he could(Barty is a Heartrender through and through, he was pathetic at other Corporalki abilities like Healing and Tailoring). He's done what he can...without his abilities also being common knowledge. It's dangerous enough to be Grisha in Ketterdam, much less one without an indenture. Dorcas would never do that to him, but she's one of the most generous people Barty's ever seen step foot in Ketterdam. If people were to know and someone kidnaps him, they'd either keep him for themselves or sell him to the highest bidder. Either way, poof goes the freedom he ran away to gain.
"You're a...H-heart-rend-er." Mulciber gasped out, staring at Barty with wide eyes as he hunched over.
"Couldn't tell. Thanks, genius." Barty said, clenching his hands tighter.
"Fuck," Evan cursed in Fjerdan before reverting back to Kerch, discarding his shield on the ground. "They all have to die, B, or this'll cause serious trouble."
"I know." Barty said through clenched teeth.
"Thanks, though."
Barty glanced up with a grin. "Anytime, my rose."
Avery, still fighting for every breath, shot his hand out and yanked on Barty's ankle. Barty stumbled, hands falling, and the Barons took gasping breaths. The one remaining unnamed Baron was the first to grab his gun and shoot.
Barty watched the bullet bury itself in Evan's arm.
Evan stumbled backwards with a groan, face twisting. Mulciber half-caught him, only to slam his head against the wall.
Barty heard Mulciber chuckle, even as he himself got preoccupied with Wilkes, Avery and the unnamed Barron. Barty heard the punch, another thump against the wall and the hiss of pain. Barty heard it all and he saw red.
Barty tried to focus on Mulciber, only to be decked by Avery. Barty let out a frustrated snarl before slamming backwards, elbow connecting to Avery's face. And, with strength Barty didn't even know he had, he grabbed Avery, head-butted him in the nose and whipped him at Wilkes, who fell under the surprise of Avery's weight. Barty knelt down to grab a gun and got kicked in back, forced onto his stomach. Barty rolled before he could be stepped on again, blasting the unnamed Baron, aiming for between the eyes but getting him in the throat instead. Oh well, good luck with that.
Barty aimed for Mulciber once again as he continued to beat the everloving shit out of Evan when the cock of a gun stopped him. Barty tilted his head back, eyes trained on the barrel Wilkes held against his forehead.
"I'm going to enjoy this," Wilkes said with a chuckle, tilting his head. "Listen here, Heartrender. People like me don't get to work our asses off to get to this position while you just waltz in with your fancy fucking coat, your shiny fucking shoes, waving your kruge around."
Barty grinned, despite the very present threat, and teased, "Wilkes, if I didn't know better, I'd think your jealous."
"I am not jealous," Wilkes seethed and a drop of saliva landed on Barty's cheek, which he quickly wiped off. Gross. "Ghezen, you ridiculous, Grisha freaks are so fucking full of yourselves!"
"I mean, if you'd rather fill me with something else, I'm sure we could work something out." Barty winked.
Wilkes let out a frustrated scream. "I have a gun pointed at your pretty face and you're flirting?"
"You think I'm pretty?"
"That's what you take from that?!"
"Fucking hell, just shoot him already!" Avery shouted.
Across the room, Mulciber let out a cry of pain and surprise, which was almost drowned out by the loud thumps that followed and low snarling. Wilkes and Avery glanced over and that was all Barty needed. He shoved the gun away, raised his hands and the two fell to the floor(unconscious because killing them takes time they don't have). He leaped to his feet and knocked Mulciber out, too, the Barron's Boss falling unconscious between Zar's claws.
Barty took Evan into his arms as gently as he could. The Fjerdan was already under, Barty wasn't sure for how long. Nasty bruises were blooming all over his face. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose, dripping down dark skin and pooling on his collarbones. The gunshot wound was still pulsing blood and Evan's coat was dripping with it.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit." Barty whispered, pained. No. If he had to guess, Evan had maybe three minutes at the absolute most before he bled out. Barty's heart screamed at the mere thought, tears threatening to cloud his vision.
Zar whimpered, setting a black bag by Barty's side. A bag exactly like the ones people were stuffing with kruge when they heard the first gunshot. Barty guessed this is what Evan had told Zar to do. They promised Cas they would've come back empty handed.
They also promised Cas they wouldn't start something they could finish and yet, here they were.
Barty quickly set Evan back down, rubbing his hands together before trying his absolute best to slow the bleeding. Barty wasn't the best Healer but if he could do just that, then he could get Evan back to the Slat where Casper - who has the knowledge to be a doctor - could hopefully fix him up either completely, or enough to get him in front of a Healer.
"C'mon, Evan," Barty said, voice cracking. "Don't give up on me yet. I have so much shit left to say to you, shit you deserve to hear. I'll never fucking forgive myself if I never get to say any of it so c'mon. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, my rose. I need you. Please."
By some fucking miracle, Barty managed to get the blood to clot and he could've fucking cried.
(he did)
Barty quickly scooped Evan back up and was out the door not even thirty seconds later, Zar right behind him. Barty was sure that that night, the two of them made an unbeatable record for how fast someone could return to the Slat.