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“Out of all the people I could get stuck with, it’s you, Selwyn.” Rosier scoffs, tossing down his lit cigarette and stamping it out. It’s such a muggle thing, cigarettes - Selwyn’s never got it, but he doesn’t raise it.
Evan Rosier is still a kid, but he’s also the son of one of the top Death Eaters. Pointing out any muggle-affiliated fuckery is only going to end in pain.
“I’m thrilled to be here with you too, Rosier,” Selwyn returns, fixing his mask in place. They’re bulky things, and he’s still not mastered the spell to conjure them efficiently; instead he puts up with making it feather-light and doing it by hand. “Still, somebody has to control that temper of yours.”
If it weren’t for the masks, they would have shared a grin.
“You never get better jokes,” Rosier mutters, conjuring his mask. Eighteen and he’s already mastered it. Selwyn’s not sure whether that’s due to his relatives - half of them are in the ranks, and he knows Evan idolises his father - or just a show of how obnoxiously good he is with a wand. “Spent too much time around Vaisey?”
“Sorry, tagalong, I’ll work on the material.” He skips past the other comment, turning away from him. Better not to get him too aggravated. Selwyn would love to wind him up more - are you sure you’re ready for this? Not going to get any nightmares? But that wand of his is just as likely to turn on him as it is an enemy. That’s the shit thing about the supposedly untouchable. They get the Dark Lord’s favour just for providing entertainment. For that multi-generational loyalty. His parents have been loyal - his father has the Mark, his mother doesn’t, but both his sisters do. And yet what does he get? Rosier’s sister is a fucking Auror but he can do no fucking wrong. He takes a breath, calming. “Fenwick then?”
“Make a big enough fuss, we could attract some attention,” Rosier says, thoughtful. “Fenwick’s working right in the middle of Hogsmeade.”
Selwyn turns back, eyes wide behind his mask. “Are you fucking crazy?” He is - that’s the point. Half the shit he pulls wouldn’t work if he weren’t. “I’m not doing it just the two of us. If we get thrown in Azkaban… it’s not worth it, alright? We’ll try another day. Get Snape to pull the gang together.”
He could scream at him. He really could.
“Sure. Whatever.” There’s the grouchiness, the sulking over not getting what he wants. Better than the outbursts, the violence and the threats. He’d take that any time from Rosier, but not now. Not when the Dark Lord’s entrusted the task to them. Winding up in Azkaban isn’t the bad part. It’s what happens when they’re out.
“Apparate in the back alley. Or do you need a hand to hold?”
“Shut the fuck up, Simone.”
Selwyn grins, offering his arm. It’s taken grudgingly, and they enter the swirling, head-spinning, stomach-churning vortex of - well, it’s not that bad. He quite likes it, loves it even when they pop into existence and Rosier groans and stumbles.
So much for the prodigy’s perfection.
Taking a look around their surroundings, he casts to reveal any wards. Most idiots associated with Dumbledore have those, and Fenwick’s not so different. It means that the old warlock will get alerted once they break in, but in all likelihood the Ministry won’t. Albus Dumbledore might be just as, if not more (though they’d never breathe the thought), powerful as the Dark Lord, but he was still one man. They’d be able to apparate quick enough to escape, he reckons. Unless the Dark Lord wants to be called. He wouldn’t put it past Him.
Who even knows what goes through His mind with these matters?
Rosier peers around, casting temporary wards of his own - enough to quieten the sound of any spells they fling. When he’s silent, he’s focused, and Selwyn’s grateful for that. It’s too easy to fall into the rhythm of trading barbs instead of working, and he’s never been awfully fond of that crimson glare fixing on him.
“Well?” he prompts.
Pointing his wand at the garden gate, Rosier glances his way. Behind the mask, there’s surely a familiar cocky smirk plastered across his face. “Let’s tear it to pieces. Right by Hogwarts. Let’s remind them all how close we can come.”
It’s not the smartest of ideas, but it’s Rosier’s style, and provided they stayed close by one another, they’d be fine.
“Do it.”
The explosion is horrendously loud, thundering apart the gate and smashing through the back door. Selwyn heads through first, wand spinning around in readiness for engagement, eyes wide and alert for the merest hint of a trap, or an unexpected visitor. Preliminary spells keep him on his toes - focused on revealing secrets or the presence of people. There’s just one, upstairs, not laid down, so surely not asleep. But they haven’t moved and that isn’t right. Fuck. He isn’t sure whether the spell can be tricked or if Fenwick’s focused on calling for help. But why wouldn’t he disapparate?
They should have put down an Anti-Disapparition Ward really, but it’s too late to fix that.
Rosier barrels past up the stairs, not a bit quiet. At school together, Rosier rarely thought ahead, even rarer asked others for what should be done or if they knew anything he should. Really, it was ridiculous - the kid hanging around their little group. But he was good - he’d teach them spells, he’d pick up Snape’s so fast it was like he had no issue with any of them. He’s only a month out of Hogwarts and he’s already daring Dumbledore to try and stop him now.
Based on his cousin, Selwyn wonders if any Rosiers have any sense of self-preservation.
He flits up the steps after him, and by the time he’s up there Rosier is already outside the (presumably bedroom) door. His wand’s practically smoking, raised to the door and only waiting for Selwyn to be ready, it seems. He nods. Rosier blasts the door open.
CRACK!
There’s nobody there. Nothing but the sound of the disapparition ringing in their ears, followed swiftly by Rosier’s scream of frustration.
Rosier isn’t looking around the room. Selwyn does.
“MOVE,” he bellows, grabbing his fellow Death Eater by the arm and dragging him out of the firing line. A burst of fire, as orange as a lion’s mane, licks out of the door, catching their cloaks. It sets them alight quick, something quite spectacular given their robes are fireproof, and Selwyn’s quick-thinking in dousing it with water does nothing. Panic’s in his throat. Rosier’s still fucking screaming obscenities, but it’s not certain whether he’s even noticed the fire at all. Finite doesn’t work either.
Selwyn forcefully disapparates with him, dragging Rosier into the swirling depths of his most hated form of travel, spitting them out at his sister’s place. Vittoria's still awake - always is, when one of them is out, and her husband’s surely out too tonight - and rushes forward from the lounge.
“Trap,” he pants in answer, shedding himself of his robes, throwing down his mask without care so he can help Evan. Evan. He should have warned him. Made him wait a moment. Done it himself.
Rosier’s deathly quiet, but he’s just standing there. A statue. Doesn’t even care about the fire.
Vittoria deals with the robes, disintegrating them with a level head, and the house-elf fetches them drinks. Simone doesn’t speak, and Evan doesn’t say a word, crumpling into an armchair in his underwear, staring at a wall.
By the time Vittoria goes to bed, leaving them alone, Rosier’s anger is still present. An hour may have passed, but that dark glint in his eyes hasn’t faded a bit. And despite Selwyn’s attempts to prompt him into conversation, apologising and trying to soothe his fury, it doesn’t go when he finally talks.
“He was waiting for us.”
Looking up, Selwyn glances over at him. “Yeah.”
“No. Listen. He was waiting for us.” Rosier repeats it twice more, looking across to him. “How the fuck did he know we were coming?”
“Dumbledore? Seers? A ward we missed?” Selwyn shrugs. “Can’t do fuck all about it now.”
“I bet we have a mole.”
“Evan, you’re being paranoid.” They couldn’t have. Only the Dark Lord had spoken to them. It doesn’t make sense to anybody rational. But he knows why Rosier’s really thinking that way. Why he’s been so quiet. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“I’m not blaming myself.”
Because he wouldn’t. Evan Rosier is the perfect Death Eater. How could he have made a mistake?