"Bloody hell, just hurry up will you? I don't want to spend more time than I have to in here, you asinine woodblock!"
Grunts issued from the inside heavy black cloak, accompanied by loud breathing noises. Is it even humanly possible to breathe that loud? Merlin, it sounded like an avalanche in here.
"Oh screw you Crabbe. Just hurry up and get the job done! And what in the Dark Lord's name are you doing, you bampot?"
I tried growling menacingly, but it didn't seem to work. Looking skywards, I prayed for patience. Why, oh why did I have to get stuck with Crabbe, that dim-witted arse(,) for a partner? Why couldn't it have been Malfoy for hell's sakes!
Oh Merlin. This raid is going to take ages to complete. Actually, the threatening, torturing and killing part had been done with, now we just needed to haul our arses out of this damned place.
I strode forward towards the shadowy form that was Crabbe, and grabbed the silver spoons and forks out of his hand, hissing, "What are you taking these for? We are Deatheaters darling, not some petty thieves! Besides, these could have tracing charms on them you nincompoop!"
The darkness shifted, and a low rumbling voice filtered out, "Eh, but they are pretty aren't they?"
I wanted to cry. Merlin, the people were dead, so we had to get the heck of out the place, before the Aurors came Apparating over, or some pesky neighbour who came over with a pot of soup or something discovered the mess. We were at the crime scene for heck's sakes!
And brainless here was nicking silverware! Just how in the bloody world, no universe did he get to become a Deatheater?
Some cream of the crop we are. Looks like all the bull-shit the Dark Lord gave us about being "the best, therefore we are Deatheaters, deemed worthy and our mission is to rid the world of unworthy beings" is nothing but what it is – crap.
Come on! Look at Crabbe here, prime example of genius extraordinaire, blood on his robes, and silverware in his hands. Murderer slash thief. Ladies and gentlemen, let's give it up for Mr Crabbe, whose only ambition in life is to be caught red-handed!
I couldn't take it anymore. All this waiting in the house was getting on my nerves. I paced back and forth, wincing and cursing as I stepped onto something slippery and sticky, almost landing flat on my face, as I slithered around, trying to regain balance..
Oh curses, not blood! Yelena would kill me, for giving her extra work – cleaning the caked and crusted blood from my boots. Probably another week on the living room couch or something.
Suddenly, I heard loud clunking noises from the other room, and I hurried over, hoping that we hadn't been discovered by some nosy neighbour trying to be brave. Oh bloody hell!
Faced with a scene I never wished to see ever again, especially not in such tense situations, I groaned as I watched Crabbe try to pick up the grandfather clock. He was a big bloke all right, but this really wasn't the time for grandfather clock nicking, and certainly especially not the great-grandfather of all grandfather clocks. Merlin, that clock was ruddy huge!
"Oh damn it! Crabbe, you bloody pothead!"
I waded through the mess we had made of the living room, accidentally stepping on the dead guy's hand. Most Muggle killers as I understand it, get rid of their victims and all the evidence, like using mouth bombs or something to erase dental records (I never knew teeth were so… revealing) and generally leaving the scene of crime impeccably clean, but we, are wizards, and forensic science ain't nothing but a speck on the distant horizon. Deatheaters want their victims found. Maximum fear and terror you see. And we aren't wizards for nothing. Evidence schevidence. A flick of the wand, and voila! What evidence?
I hopped away from the gruesome sight (even by my standards, and trust me, my standards are pretty macabre), grabbing Crabbe's arm, and making a quick decision, Disapparated the heck of out the trashed house.
Sod the sodding Dark Lord and his Go-In-Twos policy, specially designed such that "you will always have a fellow Deatheater as back-up".
As I see it, we certainly could stand to lose a few Deatheaters here and there, especially the… not as suitably enlightened and bright ones (for example, Goyle, if there was anyone dumber than Crabbe, it was Goyle). Besides, having Crabbe as back-up didn't make me much more optimistic about the whole raiding ventures.
Heck, he was more likely to blow me up, as opposed to charging, bloodthirsty, trained-to-kill Aurors.
Reappearing in the middle of Deatheater Headquarters, the address of which I am not entitled to reveal here, lest I get captured, and this discovered, I shook Crabbe hard and yelled, "You nitwit! Remember Rule Number 51 of the Handbook? We're always supposed to Disapparate immediately from the scene of the raid! And what were you doing? You were nicking silverware… and that enormous clock for Merlin's sakes!"
I released Crabbe from my grip on his robes, and fuming, I glared hard at him. Crabbe gave a grunt, and muttered, "Oi but Rule Number 103 also says that we are allowed to loot the place."
I rolled my eyes skyward, and prayed for even more patience and the control to not murder my fellow comrade in a fit of annoyance.
"Merlin! I should think that Rule Number 51 was more pertinent at that present moment! Why? You fancy sitting on your arse in the middle of Azkaban, being leered at by the Dementors? You must be bloody insane!"
Crabbe, that arse, merely stared at me. I wasn't surprised to note that there wasn't any look of dawning understanding on his face. Sometimes, I tell you, nothing, absolutely nothing, not even an industrial sized drill could knock sense into Crabbe's thick skull.
Crabbe stared a bit more, before finally saying, rather daftly too, "So does that mean we can't go back and get the clock?"
Saying that, he fished out five, and I swear, five sets, and no less, five sets of silver cutlery.
Oh Merlin, I swear, Crabbe would drive me to my grave one day. Right now, I just felt like tearing my hair out in irritation and hammering my head against something hard and rough. Seriously I mean, how thick could you get?
So I chose the only logical option available, since the Dark Lord had already mentioned specifically, "no killing of fellow Deatheaters", since they were "your fellow comrades and partners in crime", (cue evil spine-chilling cackling), or else face the consequences, which "wouldn't be pleasant", there weren't many options to begin with.
I settled for a feral snarl at Crabbe, who covered, much to my satisfaction, (I was a rather big guy), I Apparated to my very own humble abode, MacNair Mansion.
When I reappeared on the lawn, (no Apparation allowed in the house, says the wife, and whereby immediately placed Non-Apparation wards all around the perimeter of the house), I was glad to see the house intact and not burning, and especially, no dark, foreboding figures lurking around.
You know, being a Deatheater isn't half as easy as that poof Malfoy makes it out to be. All he does is sit there, and look pretty in his blonde coiffure and silver stick, that looked it could be and had been used to whip people, and hard too. I quote from the great Malfoy, "Talent, my boy. Bucketfuls of talent you need to become a Deatheater."
Uh huh. Right. Malfoy's only talent is as I've said, sitting there and looking pretty. What a ponce. And the Dark Lord's right-hand man to boot. I bet he bootlicked his way there, that little sucker.
I entered the house cautiously, watching out for Yelena. If she saw all the bloodstains and dried blood, she would throw a tantrum fit to end all tantrums. Cor, that woman was loud. Shrewish too.
I had no such luck of course. Yelena practically pounced on me the instant I set foot in the hall, whipping out her wand and screaming, "You bastard! Those robes were new! And already they're destroyed!"
A tad dramatic don't you think? Destroyed? I voiced what I was thinking – a foolish move.
"Destroyed? Don't you think you're exaggerating?"
I glanced down, gave a non-committal shrug and said, "It's a hole darling, are you blind? The man put up quite a fight."
She raised her hands to the ceiling and asked, "Merlin grant me patience."
Looking at me, she shot me the Look, and practically snarled, "The couch will be yours tonight."
Watching her back as she stormed off towards the bedroom, I sighed gustily, and shook my head. Some week I was having. First I get paired with Mr Dumb, Crabbe, and then the mistress throws a hissy fit and now I'm sleeping on the couch.
Bugger it all.
I snapped my fingers sharply, summoning the family house-elf. I think it's called Lucky, or something equally as silly and ridiculous.
"Lucky, go put this in the laundry, and prepare the couch. Remember the hot water bottle, the last time you forgot it, my toes almost got frostbitten. Get ready my nightclothes by the shower, and switch on the heater."
I peeled off the sticky robe and the sweat-drenched shirt, handing them over to the elf, as it cowered timidly.
"Yes sir, immediately sir. And sir, me name is Decky, sir, not Lucky."
I grunted in agreement, already headed for the bathroom.
"I want the water to be warm by the time I reach the bath, Decky, is it?"
"Yes sir, immediately sir. Decky is on her way sir."
And lo and behold, the water was blessedly warm by the time I'd reached the bathroom. Praise Merlin for house-elves.
In the shower, (I'm a shower kind of bloke, not the bath kind, showers are more macho, I mean, what kind of wimpy ponce takes a bath?) I had a good chance to mull things over, as well as a good chance to properly scrub the stains of my body.
Maybe, I was wrong, my drowsy mind deduced, maybe Crabbe wasn't as dumb as I thought. Maybe he was just a misunderstood bloke, and his dimness was something he was born with. The poor guy after all, had Deatheaters for parents, and hence maybe he got forced into Deatheaterism. I mean, it isn't easy to get to be a Deatheater – you need connections, and all sorts of qualities that only the Dark Lord knows.
Not exactly a popular profession this is. Quite elite too, rather selective membership. Not to mention the excruciating initiation rites (think: big snake tattoo on left inner forearm, otherwise known as, it-bloody-hurts), which are enough to scare the little kiddies away, add in the absolute loyalty thing, there goes everyone!
As I thought about the tattooing upon initiation, I remembered how Crabbe had junked up his ritual, by walking in the wrong direction, and raising the wrong arm for the scarring. What a moron.
My mind snapped to attention – so why was I thinking that he wasn't dumb?
Must be the water.
I clambered out of the spacious shower area, and towelled myself dry, rebuking myself for my momentary loss of concentration and total common sense. I had almost felt sorry for the stupid bloke!
I decided that I needed some sleep.
Then I remembered that Yelena had condemned me to the couch for another week or so, depending on how long her rage lasted. (The longest so far was two months. I barely made it.)
Bloody hell.
At least the couch was big.
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(Long, very long) A/N: This fic was inspired by Danny King's Criminal Diary series (Burglar, Bank Robber and Hitman, I'm waiting for Pornographer :p), which are lovely and insightful looks into the various psyches of criminals. Go read. They're hilarious. (:
Haha! This fic (so far) was really fun to write, even though I was so tempted to slot in a few uh, somewhat more explicit words here and there, I reminded myself that this was to remain uh, 'clean', hence not really much expletives. ):
A Deatheater who doesn't swear. [cries] Just think of it that way, even though it hurts me to write such an OOC Deatheater? (Aha! You must be thinking, doesn't she write OOC characters all the time!) But you see, I want to keep this fic as canon as possible. [whines]
So, as I promised, this is the new fic, and I swear, I will keep up with updates on "On Forethoughts and Strategic Thrusts", as well as this.
And lastly, do give me your serious comments and feedback. This is the first time I'm attempting something like this, and I'd like to know whether you, as readers, think it's uh. Nice. Remotely readable. And thanks to chryz for helping me edit the plot holes and stab those grammatical errors in the gut!
Yah? Understand? Good.
Now darlings! Do your thing! [points at review button]