Dated:Â 26 August, 1979
Location: London
How easy would it be, to slip away and not go back? Lost in this fantasy, Barty squinted at the front door of a modest home. His eyes had focused on a chip in the paint and the fresh cutting sitting in a vase by the window. He had been here before; silent as he watched the world shift and move around him. There was a delicate balance, a careful dance to the practiced rhythm and routine. It was one that he could commit to memory with a measured, calculated mind.Â
âCome in,â A witch offered brightly before opening the door wide. He would have marveled at the nativity of the act if it wasnât so unsurprising. She thought she knew him. âSorry about the mess. Barely been home much these days. Iâm sure you know,â She rambled, hands waving airily. He could hear the exhaustion in her voice and see it in the lines under her eyes. If there was one thing to be admired about Edith Baxter, it was her work ethic. His father rarely kept an assistant for long, pushing too hard and demanding too much. She laughed it off now with a steely reserve that he had imagined served her well living as an outspoken muggle-born witch in the Ministry.
In the midst of a tumultuous social climate, his father could never resist picking the perfect accessory for a campaign still in its infancy. He could imagine the man dictating it now in his mind, dripping with pride and an inflated ego as he penned his own legacy. How satisfying it would be, Barty thought to himself mildly, to wretch the quill from that hand and change the narrative today.
In truth he cared little for blood purity and little for the war that was being waged on status and ability. But this, this would feel good. This was something his father couldnât ignore, only soured slightly by the fact that he couldnât let his mark be known in the void of her disappearance or sign his name with a kiss on her lips and sweet release of death that was to come. Not today. He always had to be careful. Cautious.
Busying herself with a pair of mugs, the witch was continuing on about the previous week at the Ministry.
âSo, what was it that you had to drop off?â Edith continued conversationally, back turned to the wizard now as she reached for a mug on a shelf. âYour father is impressive you know, he keepsââ The words were suddenly cut off, stopped abruptly with a gasp. The mug slipped from her grip and dropped to the floor, shattering into pieces that echoed on deaf ears. She grasped for her throat before turning sharply around and steadying herself against the counter, wide-eyes locking onto his.Â
In a lowered hand, Barty rotated his wand by a measured turn, eyes unblinking. It was a charm he had perfected, pinching her airways shut. He itched to wrap his hands around her narrow neck and hold it tightly as she slipped away and it took every ounce of discipline in the wizard to leave her untouched, unmarked. After all, she wasnât his. Not this time. A gift to be delivered to Bellatrix: this was what he and Rabastan had agreed upon.
His heart hammered in the chest as she sputtered and he wanted to hold onto this moment. Her gaze locked onto his, wide-eyed with fear before she took a shaking step forward with an outstretched arm. He wished he could hear her thoughts and wondered what might be racing through her mind in this moment. Anger? Confusion? Was she thinking of someone she might be leaving behind?Â
It fascinated the wizard and for a short moment he found himself lost in the possibilities, feeling more alive than he had in months. It took a staggering hand reaching out to draw him back to the present. Outstretched painted fingers curled themselves around the collar of his shirt, gripping weakly with nails gently grazing his skin breathtakingly. The moment wouldnât last. His wand gave a short flick and she was suddenly frozen still, bringing the short game to an end with a heavy heart. He exhaled a breath he hadnât known he had been holding in before reaching up and gently untangling her fingers from their desperate grasp, delicate as if maneuvering a porcelain doll. A moment later a loud crack resounded and the house was left empty, the only witness a single bloom in a vase, soon to be wilted.