Antonin kicked the dead Muggle's body, enjoying the satisfying crack of the broken bone he'd hit.
"Filthy bastards." He grinned beneath the mask. "It's a rush, isn't it?"
Karkaroff's answer was a laugh: a very strange laugh, pleased but high, brittle, as though it were stretched thin trying to accommodate more than one emotion.
"We should go; the Aurors might show up early for once," Antonin said. "You do the honors, Igor."
The expression behind Karkaroff's mask matched his ambiguous laughter as he aimed skyward and cast Morsmordre for the first time. Before the Mark had settled, they were gone.