bait_backup | One day it'll be one bon mot too many

*In all things there must be balance. Bellatrix is leading the charge, there was nothing Lucius could do about that, and little that he could do about her choice of players. He'd fought hard against Evan's inclusion, and is none too pleased about Igor's, for that matter. The one's a dangerously over-confident child, the other a coward - Lucius at least has the decency to appear stalwart in his convictions, he isn't a toady. That leaves only Rodolphus and himself to balance out a madwoman, a petulant boy, and a vodka-swilling hunyak. This, against two of the most dangerous Aurors in recent history. Five against two are not, this time, comforting odds, for all that it's the kind of math Lucius typically favors.

It's hubris on Bellatrix's part, is what it is; what's attractive confidence in Narcissa is monstrous arrogance in her sister, and it's going to get them all killed if they aren't very careful. It's in light of this that Lucius is uncharacteristically grim as they all step silently out of the Prewett's fireplace, the temporary connection to the Floo network obligingly established for them by Miss Wilkes. Masks in place, the five of them all come through without incident, though Lucius can feel his heartbeat in his ears. This will either be a glorious victory for the Dark Lord, sure to advance him in prestige and trust, or Narcissa will be widowed tonight. There will be no in between in the wake of this fight, he knows it with utter certainty, and he's grateful that the cold impassive porcelain obscures the fear in his face as he steps forward, wand drawn, and cuts Bellatrix a sharp look: keep to the plan.*

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*Evan doesn't even bother nothing their departure, but instead faces the large, windowless wall next to the corpses. The severed leg hovers obediently behind him as he considers it as an artist might consider a blank canvas; but of course, it's not blank. Well, that can be rectified. He steps forward and tears down two Chudley Cannons posters, letting the long strips of bright paper flutter to the floor.*

No, you're right, she's not going anywhere. Maybe just "This one's for you, Alice?"

Seems simple enough. Or simply "Hello Alice".

*A flick of her wand, and the other corpse rises sharply, almost jubilantly, as if she's yanked the strings of a puppet. Carefully, she arranges the corpse in a desk chair and rotates it to face away from the door. It's the little touches.

She makes sure to keep a wide berth, however: that little device of Evan's is still chewing away. Curious. There isn't much left of the face.*

Why her? What'd she do other than lock up every common criminal and half-breed between here and Surrey?

Hello, yes, that's perfect.

*He goes to work, in big block printing, going back to the spreading and cooling pool near the remaining body to re-wet the thing as needed.*

She's given me a bit of personal offense. Taken a personal interest in me. Almost outed me in front of my wife before she knew. You saw that silly little newspaper with the screed against her? I sent those files along to them. Most everything in there is true. She's a beast who needs to be put back in her proper place. Or beaten. Or muzzled. Or something.

Not a bad idea. You can always use the Capistriatus Curse. It can be absolutely hysterical if it's done right.

*There isn't much left to be done--that little Rosier toy is doing more than enough on its own and it doesn't look as though it's going to stop anytime soon. She leaves the desk chair just-so, ready to be turned by whoever finds it. They always, always turn the chair, she knows that much--they could never resist, not ever, even with the Mark and the blood and all of it, when it's clear as the day what they'll find there.

It's got her more than a little tickled. She's wearing a beatific smile as she crosses to Evan, kicking a blood-soaked stack of comic books out of the way like a child playing in a rain puddle.*

And how is the little woman? I can't believe you, already settled. Rabastan's practically middle-aged and still waiting, apparently, for the right man to come along--

Don't forget to cross the I. Just there. You write like a peasant.

I had her against a wall with a knife at her throat and she still managed to get the better of me. The curse would be delightful, but just killing her would be safer. I'm just hoping this mess will make her careless.

*It's slow going, painting letters as tall as the leg used to paint them.*

And Amrita and I are lovely. I do believe mother is even coming to terms with our marriage.

*She observes over his shoulder with a certain professional curiosity, arms folded.*

Well, that's why you don't muck about with knives, isn't it? Muggles are one thing, have your fun--but you're a wizard, not a butcher.

And I'm sure Esmerelda will come 'round eventually. There's no call for her to be prejudiced.

No, you're quite right. It should be a wand for her, I do have to give her that much credit.

*What he doesn't want to admit, of course, is that it has been a very near thing with the rug-turned-tiger, and that he himself has never excelled in combat magic--one slip and she'll have him, completely. But that's a worry for another day.*

And, well, you saw Amrita's family. Mother's dislike is not entirely unreasonable. Which isn't to say that they're all wholly provincial, but her family has been less than kind, considering the circumstances.

Oh, them. That one with the twins was hysterical. But you'll have your own little creatures crawling around soon enough.

*Sooner than was exactly proper, according to gossip. And mathematics. But Evan's always had less brains than, well. Thirst. She can't help an unladylike snigger at his expense.*

Anyway are you quite finished, sometime this month would be best.

*The leg drops unceremoniously to the floor the moment he's done with it.*

There. Perfect. Properly ghoulish, don't you think?

*He dusts off his hands and inclines his head, gesturing toward the fireplace.*

After you.

Lovely.

Thank you, Evan.

*She kicks aside one more bloodsoaked comic book as she crosses to the hearth, and throws in a fistful of powder before stepping neatly inside.*

One day it'll be one bon mot too many

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