multiversallogs | (no subject)

Antonin Dolohov was, unsurprisingly, well on his way to 'low-functioning drunk' when he felt the Mark begin to burn. It wasn't exactly what he would classify as a burn - it did, in fact, feel quite different. However, he wasn't one to quibble with the Mark. When the Mark did anything, it wasn't a good idea to wonder why it was behaving oddly. Ignoring it could mean standing next to Barty Crouch, Jr. for an hour while the Dark Lord proselytized. That was punishment enough without a few curses thrown in for insubordination.

He jumped up from his seat, sloshing liquor across the surface of the table in the process and earning himself the stink-eye from one of the employees. Not that it mattered. He was pleased to discover the Dark Lord was here. This was thrilling. They could begin to do something about the surplus of Muggles and subhuman creatures.

He Apparated in the regular way, using the Mark as one might and expecting it to take him directly to Voldemort - and not being particularly careful about eyewitnesses. It was a wonder he didn't splinch himself. With a pop (and bottle of vodka still in-hand, which he quickly hid behind his back) he found himself in...a public loo.

Antonin lowered the bottle, his brows drawn together in confusion. The Dark Lord wasn't at the sinks. He wasn't standing at the urinals. Antonin had a disturbing thought: when Voldemort had risen again, did he come with all of his plumbing? He took a swig from the bottle to drive that image away, then called out, "My Lord?"

He waited, frowning rather stupidly.

"My Lord, are you in here?" He took a few unsteady steps toward the nearest stall and rapped the bottom of his bottle against the door. "My Lord? Do you need toilet tissue?"

Evan has never actually felt a physical, visceral chill like this before. He is halfway through a meal when it comes, the summons, and he doesn't even blink before he slaps money down on the table (way more than what was owed) and Apparates to the Malfoy townhouse. Bursting in the way he does is most likely distinctly rude, but circumstances must allow for that. Quite possibly they do not allow, however, for Evan standing in the foyer, slamming the door, and shouting up, "ARE YOU FUCKERS FUCKING WITH ME?"

He does regret it almost immediately, and stands there dreading any response.

As well he should; Narcissa is in the midst of a quick meal and a drink before an appointment when the door slams, and between that and the shrieky swearing in the foyer, a shattering wine glass prefaces her arrival in the doorway, white wine dripping down the side of her dress and an expression that suggests she doesn't even need much of an excuse to invert Evan from the testicles out.

"I beg your pardon."

The requisite fawning and apology and obnoxious 'charm' do not make the appearance they should. Evan stares at Narcissa, then through her.

"Where's Lucius." How tense and clipped his dismissal is has everything to do with how genuinely afraid he is. He has, in the past, thought this through, what he would do if Voldemort showed up — not that he really thinks that's happened. He's pretty sure this is some kind of sick joke, mostly because he refuses to confront the sad reality that would be taking up Death Eating again. The idea is preying on his mind, though. "Or those lunatics, or — fuck, fuck Antonin! Whoever the fuck just sent up the fucking Mark!"

She stares blankly back at him for a moment in the face of that - Evan's seriousness in and of itself isn't shocking (it isn't as though she's never seen it before), merely sufficiently sobering that she forgets she was about to tear strips off him for soaking her dress to her thigh with wine. Then, her eyes narrowing: "If Bellatrix has done it again--"

"Again?" Evan actually clutches at his face. He sincerely lifts his hands and clutches his face, though this is a little difficult while also holding a wand. But it's like being reminded that Bellatrix is here and fucknuts also reassures him, or rather, the concrete possibility it was her helps him push away the frightened notion that it really is Voldemort. Immediately he subsides into a more normal demeanor, apology washing over his strained expression as he starts toward Narcissa, focusing now on her dress.

"I am very sorry for shouting. I —" Now he hesitates, because while he's sure Narcissa would be sympathetic to the whole 'no more Death Eating please' sentiment, probably someone else in the house heard him, and he needs some plausible deniability. "— I was just so terribly put off balance! Let me take care of that, please."

He indicates the stain, lifting his wand to use the cleaning spell.

As much as Narcissa would sympathize, she also quite understands why even in Baedal it isn't on the table for ready discussion; Bellatrix being here is both contextually reassuring ('it's probably not Voldemort') and completely inconvenient ('Bellatrix is here') that way. It takes her a moment to reorient in this new direction, but she allows her ruffled feathers to smooth back out and lowers her hands out of the way for his spell. "You had a shock," she concedes. "I'll see if Lucius doesn't know more about this."

The silencing charm shuts out most ambient noise of the townhouse, and it goes both ways; Lucius, the elder of the Lucii that remain there, would have his conversations go private. For all that he's the only one present with real intent to invade any privacy.

"I won't be sharing a floor with anyone; don't be absurd."

It's difficult to maintain standards on a budget, but adaptation has stretched enough for Lucius to carry out conversation with the real estate agent over CiD which has, he will grudgingly admit, turned out to be quite useful. But rather than write at length about purchasing living space in a nicer, perhaps even urban corner of Baedal, narrative twist dictate the scenario turn more interesting when sudden, signalling pain lances beneath white scars gone black.

He gives a shout that goes unheard against his own spells, the device forgotten and fallen, and eventually, the guy on the other end may just roll his eyes and hang up. The conversation for Lucius is all but forgotten as he wrenches back a sleeve to confirm what doesn't need it.

Intellectually, he immediate deduces it is not the Dark Lord. There is no familiar urge, no direction, and there is something not quite correct about the nature of it.

All of which counts for nothing as low, simmering panic immediately sets in, quite resembling that constant state of his final year at war. Quite cold beneath his own skin and physical nausea entirely of his own making flood senses, leaving him sitting abrupt enough on bedroom ground, back against his bed and hands shaking at the very idea of the Dark Lord's return, seeing as the bastard ought to stay dead.

Doesn't he deserve that much? 'He' being either one of them.

It doesn't occur to him to take down the silencing charms and run out and see who else is feeling this. Quite the contrary, he remains right where he is, until the unpleasantness is quite over, and things return to a normal pace.

Edited 2011-11-15 01:39 (UTC)

After her dress is dry and the wine-glass has been repaired, Narcissa (with a sudden lack of appetite) cancels her appointment for the evening and, after making her apologies and rescheduling, sends two messages.

First, to her husband:

Was it Bellatrix again?

And then, to the senior version thereof:

Do you know anything yet? Are you all right?

The text from Lucius returns, locked:

I don't think so. I'm going to see - I got a worrying text from LeMat.

Given the context, it can't mean anything good. He doesn't intend to wait 10 minutes, but unfortunately, he isn't sure where Sebastian is at present, and it's going to take him a little to find out.

Lucius smoothly but quickly apologizes to the citizen whose wards he was working on, assures him that he will return to finish them posthaste, and heads out to work on a location charm or some variant thereof.

It takes a moment, but he's collected himself a little by the time Narcissa has sent off her messages. Enough that he can bring himself to remember the blasted machine.

it isn't him

Because that's all he knows/wants to believe. Her second query goes untouched.

Edited 2011-11-15 01:48 (UTC)

False alarm, experiment backfired, everything fine.

i will wring your neck if you experiment in sucha mannr ever again

you'll have stirred the anthill in hellsing as wlel

(Well he could TRY.)

It's being taken care of.

And after a long moment:

good

what happened?

Working with a client on curse damage, something didn't mix well.

Sometimes the best lies are the ones closest to the truth; he cannot tell this man about Harry.

If it's any consolation, the pain at the epicenter was stunningly unique.

that does seem fair

A few minutes later-

I expect to hear from you soon.

Likely not.

After a few minutes, she sends a second message, after debating exactly how on earth she's meant to clarify between them in conversation with them - for some reason specifying 'my husband' strikes her as peculiar:

Jr is investigating something. Shall I tell you what he finds out?

You've got everyone in a proper uproar. What on earth happened?

It takes a few seconds of staring for Lucius to parse what that means, before apathetically accepting its meaning and considering the message, especially in relation to Snape's response.

The answer is easy:

yes

thank you.

A few minutes later, and the resignedly dry tone probably translates even through text-

Last time, it was Bellatrix.

Both my Lucii felt it and Evan burst through the door shrieking at me like a six year old girl. I haven't heard from the rest, but I assure you I meant it when I said everyone in an uproar.

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