A/N: A little something written by me and a friend of mine via e-mail. We were bored. So she started this…and we switched off at random points…and tried to work in a random inside joke involving Doctor Who and pizza….She does not have a fanfiction account, but if you ever run into anybody on another site (or get a review from), she is doctor17blood. Long story.
Happy Christmas. 'Tis the season.
"Well, happy Christmas," he said gloomily.
"Naturally."
They looked at each other, the two of them. A rented flat in a poor section of London with neighbours who favoured blasting obnoxious Muggle music every evening till gone midnight—not really the greatest place. But it was cheap, and for a temporary home, it was enough. Not good enough, not in the least. But it didn't leak like the last place's roof did, and the landlord was never home. Of course, then they had to deal with the revolting musical tastes of the neighbours, but at least nobody ever asked any questions.
There were two of them, staying there whilst others fought the war. A flat in Diagon Alley would have been cheaper. Nicer, too, probably. And no Muggle filth practically oozing out of the sidewalk. But they were stuck here, at least for the next few weeks. There were something like a million other places they could be staying right now, and that was just in London. A couple of the other Death Eaters had rented places in nicer sections of town, and they were more established there too, or there was Regulus Black's house. A house. Curse him.
Meanwhile, they waited. Somebody was coming by anytime. Dark Lord's orders. Of course, no name given; no barest hint at caution, no nothing. It could be Henry Whats-his-face bringing the post up and they wouldn't know the difference.
They were no-names, that was why. Stuck in a miserable leaking flat with a broken heater and absolutely no food (and they were broke, Muggle-wise, all they could pool together were a couple coins found under the baseboard; there were plenty Galleons in Michael's pockets but no shopkeeper in his right mind would take them), it was a wonderful way to spend Christmas Eve.
The older of the two (and therefore the boss), Michael, had nondescript brown hair and glasses. Every five minutes, on the dot, he took them off and polished them with the sleeve of his robes, then put them back on and waited for the next five minutes to pass. The younger, Valentine, was what they called an incidental pureblood. No family name of any worth, but four generations had passed without anything less than a half-blood marrying into the family. Definition of pureblood: all four grandparents fully magical and human. Definition of Valentine Davis: pissed-off incidental pureblood with dead parents, dead sister, and a dead girlfriend, who'd allowed Jugson to do some convincing; five months later, sitting in an ice-cold one-room hellhole. Also, a crooked nose and acne scars—not much to look at.
"Screw him," he said eventually. Michael looked up.
"Who now?" he asked, taking his glasses off again. He didn't speak another word till they were safely balanced on his short nose once more. "It doesn't really help, you know."
"I…don't…care…," he muttered angrily. "Where is he? When's he going to get here? I'm sick of this!"
Just then, the door of the neighbours' flat opened and music spilled out into the dingy, unlit hallway. They could hear it far too well through the thin walls.
Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name
Nobody came
Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave
No one was saved
"What is this shit, anyway?" Valentine asked loudly. "Sodding Muggles…Merlin…I'd like to see one of them cornered in a dark alley." He fingered his wand, tempted. A few feet across the hall, smash through the flimsy door, and they'd be in…a few minutes later and Henry Whats-his-face would never see another month's rent from 3B. Lovely, really. But as cocky as he acted, he wasn't used to it yet. The only enemy he'd ever taken down was a couple of Order members in battle.
Michael placed a restraining hand on his shoulder as he started out of the wobbly wooden chair. "We can't. We've got to stay here another few weeks, and we can't blow our cover. There'd be Aurors involved."
"Muggles don't have Aurors."
"Well, whatever they've got."
"Right."
He sat down again, trying not to lean too far to the left in the rickety chair. Michael'd already tried it once, and fallen out. That probably hadn't made the chair any more stable, though—it rocked like it was on runners instead of legs.
So, Christmas Eve. His stomach growled loudly; they'd eaten the last remnants of the cupboards for lunch. The party next door was getting louder. Come to think, they probably had some food; even if it was Muggle filth, one time wouldn't kill him. You're whining, Valentine reprimanded himself sharply. Focus. Get the job done.
Then there was a knock at the door. Both men stiffened for a moment. Then Michael relaxed. "Our mystery man," he announced. "Go ahead, let him in."
Valentine got up carefully and peered through the blurry peephole before opening the door. He could just make out a man wearing a long, unbuttoned trench coat and carrying a flat square box standing in the dim hallway.
"What are you waiting for?" the older man asked impatiently. "Let him in."
"I…he doesn't look right…," mumbled Valentine. The man wore Muggle clothes, blue jeans and a shirt, under his coat, which would have been perfectly normal…on anybody but a Death Eater. Michael brushed him aside at the door to take his own turn looking through the peephole.
"Oh, he's all right," he said. "One of us, and just about as good as you can get, too. A bit of an enigma, but that never hurt anybody. Barty Crouch—come in, come in!" he said cheerily, opening the door.
Crouch raised his eyebrows, said, "And a very happy Christmas to you too," and stepped in. He shoved the box into Valentine's arms, who practically keeled over with joy. A wonderful odor was wafting from it, something like warm bread, and a little garlicky….Crouch took off his coat and handed Michael a jug of something bright red. "I brought you something. Dinner. Dolohov says the landlord's awful—he stayed here about a year ago."
Michael laughed loudly, murmured something to Crouch, and pulled him into a corner. There Crouch whispered something in his ear, also handing him a few crumpled sheaves of paper.
"Excellent," he said, coming back. Valentine sat down on the moth-eaten couch, still holding the warm box, almost protectively. He glanced down at the lid—an Italian-sounding name was written in script on the stiff cardboard. Crouch appeared beside him; the couch sagged with a grunt of warning.
"Pizza," he explained. "Needed something to do during the day…and my parents kicked me out; I have to pay my own way now. Needed a job. Good pay, good food, and they give me extra. Never tried it, have you? I have. It's great. I tell you, I love the Dark Lord like the ordinary citizen loves Big Brother, but this stuff is brilliant. Damn Muggles." He shook his head, melted snow dripping from his blond hair. "Good stuff. Smell it, Davis. It's brilliant, I'm telling you. It's this fantastic bread stuff that they put tomato sauce on, and cheese…they can put other things on too. Like anchovies. But I don't like anchovies. Don't know if you do…well, never mind. Here, have a slice." He flipped open the lid, and Valentine saw a circular wheel of bread, covered in sauce and melted white cheese. It was calling his name rather loudly.
He took a slice, droplets of orange grease dripping onto his robes—his nice robes, the black ones. It was delicious and piping hot, as always. Kim often ordered from the same restaurant when they got take-away. Crouch handed the box to Michael, who frowned uncomfortably.
"What? What's wrong?"
"This is Muggle food, isn't it?" said Michael. "Muggle food, Barty. I'm not eating this stuff. What on earth possessed you?"
"Oh, it smelled nice…," he said dreamily, smiling crookedly so that his canines showed. "Go on, have a slice. It's addicting, I must admit."
"I'll say," muttered Valentine through a mouthful of the food, reaching for another slice. He choked; Crouch poured him a cup of the red stuff, which he drank gratefully. He looked at surprise at the plastic bottle. It was cloyingly sweet and fruit-flavoured and…not alcoholic, which was what he had expected. "What's in that stuff?"
Crouch glanced at the label, his brow creasing with concentration as he attempted to read the tiny print. "Let's see… water, high fructose corn syrup, citric acid, sucralose, and natural flavour. In other words, a few cups of sugar and some water."
"But…what is it?"
"Fruit punch, I think," he said. "That's what it says on the bottle, anyway. No matter."
Valentine shrugged and drank another cupful of the red liquid. Michael, on the other hand, denied both the pizza and the punch, muttering something under his breath about Muggles. The music in the next-door flat grew louder.
Oh, and while the king was looking down,
The jester stole his thorny crown.
The courtroom was adjourned;
No verdict was returned.
And while Lennon read a book of Marx,
The quartet practiced in the park,
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died.
Crouch turned to him. "Hey, could you go over there and do something about that?"
"What's wrong with this one? I like this—"
"Go, please," Crouch ordered, and Valentine slipped out. He knocked on the door of the other flat; in a few seconds, a Muggle with a bad five o'clock shadow peered out into the dark hallway.
"What d'you wants?"
Valentine said, "Could you please turn the music down? We're next door, and my—my, friends, right, they don't like it. It's getting on their nerves."
The man laughed harshly. "Tell your friends to go screw themselves."
"No—no, you see—"
Then he jumped—Crouch tapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, Davis. Michael's left to take care of some work. Leave it. We're going out."
The Muggle shook his head and muttered something about idiots becoming far too common, and slammed the door on them.
"Right," said Crouch. "Off we go."
They wasted a few hours at a Chinese restaurant a few city blocks from the flat. Valentine remembered the place; Kim had taken him there once. It turned out that Michael wanted to take care of whatever it was the Dark Lord wanted and Apparated out, leaving the other two Death Eaters to find some method of entertainment on Christmas Eve.
There wasn't anything to do. Valentine was bored. So was Crouch. And bored Death Eaters did not bode well for the rest of humanity. But on Valentine's idea, they ended up at Lee Ho Fook's. Crouch was drowning himself in a dish of lo mein; his companion doubted he even knew what it was.
They got to talking.
"You have a girlfriend?" Valentine asked when all other topics had been exhausted.
"I wish," Crouch said moodily, performing strange acts of violence on an egg roll. "You know how it is. She and I were friends, growing up, and then she got married."
Valentine glanced questioningly at his empty left ring finger.
"Not to me," he explained. "Aren't I lucky? Isn't life wonderful?"
"It's a wonderful life," he agreed with sarcasm, the joke flying over Crouch's head. "You know…Zuzu's petals, Clarence, the bit at the end at the Christmas party when they're all singing 'Auld Lang Syne'…." He stabbed the other egg roll contemplatively and began to hum. "Nice Christmas song, I always thought. 'And here's a hand, my trusted friend, and here's a hand of mine….'" He trailed off, thinking of the (much better) Christmas Eve he'd had last year, at Kim's house, singing carols around the lit-up tree with her and her parents.
Kim got hit by a car five months later, coming home late from work at near-midnight on a slightly chilly Tuesday in June. She had been literally five yards from her house when a bright red Mini with a drunk driver came roaring around ther corner. It could have been worse; the body, when he saw it at the funeral, laid out in a coffin (and not resembling his Kim in the slightest, heavily made-up and wearing a dress), was unblemished. But there had been horrible brain damage, the doctors concluded. His Kim, dead.
Two weeks later, he was learning what it was like to kill.
Crouch stood up abruptly. "Let's get out of here." He walked briskly to the door—Valentine paused, before piling a few Galleons on the table for the food—and stepped out into the cold night air. "There's a house not far from here—one of the safe houses, you know. We can stay there. I don't fancy wandering about here."
Valentine agreed, and they set off through the streets. He allowed his feet to carry him; too tired to pay attention to the array of shops and houses they passed by. Without warning, Crouch stopped at a zebra crossing.
"What?" Valentine asked sleepily. He felt vaguely drugged…but all he'd had was the Chinese and the pizza and the punch…Crouch had eaten the same thing as him, hadn't he…except for the punch, he hadn't had any of that….
"Wait here, I'll be right back," Crouch whispered. "I want to make sure nobody's using the safe house—a couple times I've caught people in there…oh, never mind. Just wait here till I come back."
Valentine nodded sleepily and sat down on the pavement. No cars passed. After a while Crouch came back, hauling him to his feet.
"Come on, mate."
The house was pale blue, nearly white in the moonlight. It seemed so familiar…it was the same colour as Kim's house, wasn't it…but it couldn't be….They went inside, into the parlour. The chairs, the paint on the walls…it was the same…but it couldn't be….
"Have a seat," Crouch said, gesturing to one of the chairs. "I'll be right back. Just don't go into the kitchen, Davis."
"All right," he agreed, not paying a bit of attention.
Crouch returned moments later with a bottle of scotch and two glasses. Valentine accepted one gratefully, sighing as the liquid burned his throat. But he noticed how Crouch set his on the side table without sipping from it.
He had at least three more glasses before the clock struck midnight. Crouch got up, peered out the window, and sat down again, whistling "Greensleeves."
Alas, my love, you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously
For I have loved you well and long
Delighting in your company
Valentine's gut started to clench uncomfortably, tight. "Not that…," he murmured. "Those days are past now…and in the past they must remain…."
Crouch laughed, a grating sound, like a hyena…."When will we see your like again, that stood and died for, this wee bit hill and glen?"
He'd had too much to drink…where was the loo in this house…but he knew it was just through the kitchen…no; this wasn't the same house; Kim and her parents had never lived here….Blindly he got out of his chair and stumbled towards the kitchen
The lights were off. He found the switch in the same spot it had always been, on the white, tomato-stained wall next to the stovetop.
He heard footsteps behind him.
There were two bodies lying, outstretched and unblemished, on the sterile lino floor. One of them, a woman, had Kim's bright hair and her tiny nose; the other, a man, had her cheekbones and her dark brown eyes….
"Fraternising with Muggles," hissed Crouch's voice from behind. "Unacceptable, Davis; you should know. What was her name—Kathy? Kelly? Something like that. Kim, yes, Kim. We had her done with. The bit with the car was sheer luck on Travers's part. But you really shouldn't have, Davis…you really shouldn't have…."
"Mr Delucci…," Valentine breathed. "Mrs Delucci…."
"Turn around and look at me," ordered Crouch.
He turned. Crouch's wand was raised.
"I didn't do anything to die for…I didn't do anything…!"
"Lies, Davis. Valentine Davis, you have failed. You have failed my master. Despicable."
"Who's the monster…who's the monster now…?"
Crouch leaned forwards, in his face, screaming. "'Auld Lang Syne' isn't a Christmas carol, you idiot! 'Auld Lang Syne' isn't for Christmas!"
A flash of green light and the body crumpled to the floor.
A/N: Yeah, kind of strange…ah well. We had fun writing it. The songs in order of appearance are "Eleanor Rigby," "American Pie," "Greensleeves," and a few excerpts from "Flower of Scotland."
Valentine Davis, Michael, and Henry Whats-his-face are the property of my friend and I. They do not appear in Harry Potter, in case you were wondering. The closest to 'real' it gets is my friend's evil landlord. Who just happens to be named Henry.
You may have recognised the name of the Chinese restaurant…I was listening to "Werewolves of London." No subtext intended.
Okay, if you didn't really get it...Crouch and Michael know Valentine associates with Muggles. Not good for a Death Eater. They conspire to kill him. This is why Valentine knows the names of songs, Muggle stuff, etc. Barty was lying when he brought the pizza. This is also what the Dark Lord wanted with them.
End of story.