----> Ardor

[Narcissa Crouch]

It was always when you thought things couldn't possibly any worse that they did. Yes, when you truly believed for one moment that this was it, which it was impossible to be in a worse situation, that Fate had a way of just slapping you in the face.

The day, as a whole, had been a outright dull. Narcissa had gone out in the morning with Bella for breakfast, some small and expensive corner shop downtown London. They barely spoke more then two sentences on the way there. Bella had taken on an unusual strain of silence. The two ladies had been shown their seats, still a lingering silence held over their heads as they walked to the table by the large bay window. Wouldn't you have known it, Bella had specificly requested that she did not want a window seat? The standards of some places.. simply appalling.

The first words to blurt out of her sister’s thin lips were: "Have you talked to Malfoy?"

Narcissa stared for a moment, unable to find the muscle strength to pick up her tea cup yet. When Narcissa questioned about her sister's choice of words, and the meaning behind them, Bella had sunk back down to her depth of silence and refusal to speak. Did she know something that Narcissa didn't? Well, she was a good sister, was she not? She'd-she'd tell her darling little sister if something was going on, would she not?

It was now evening time; the rest of the day had become a horrible blur. Dinner would be shortly, if you could manage to find it, and most of the men were out now. That meant it was safe to venture out. Narcissa had thought about him, once or twice, during the long hours of sitting alone in her empty bedroom. He had managed to slither his way into her empty thoughts, giving her something, anything, to fill up her lonely night. Barty was gone.. again.

The lack of food and means to make it was sickening, and rather pathetic. Narcissa was hungry, tired, and with no other way to entertain herself, left her room for the comforts of her kitchen. Narcissa’s thin body sat at the chair in front of the small dining table, long but thins itself, in the adjoining room with the kitchen. Her arms draped lazily over the arms of the chair as she stared blankly at the scratched tabletop and dented in furnish.

With a long, dramatic sigh leaving her lips, Narcissa heaved herself up out of the chair. She massaged her forehead with the palm of her hand pressed firmly aganist it. The long legged woman walked briskly, high heels clipping a steady beat aganist the wooden floor, towards the kitchen. This ridiculous, starving that seemed to occur every single night that she had been here was finally going to be stopped.

She had never enjoyed cooking, never. In fact, the only reason that she knew the difference between a pot and a kettle was because Mother was traditional. Apparently, house elves were never looked highly on in their home and in her much younger and able years, Mother wouldn't dare let a house elf stand in the kitchen let alone cook her meals that she'd be dining on. Dirty little beasts, Mother would say, no reason to let their grubby little paws bathe themselves in your meal when you could easily do it yourself. It seemed common, and Narcissa was rather lazy.. so she just.. never did it.

Narcissa did it well, though. It was sad to say even Rodolphus Lestrange couldn't get enough the single time that he tasted her cooking. Best bloody cake he ever had, the man had laughed.

Narcissa's lean frame stood up right, balancing on her tippy-toes to try to grab the iron rusted handle on the top cupboard. Her body swayed for a moment, tittering to the left and right as her teeth slid down and bit on her lower lip. Her forearm stretched out and upwards, fingers lengthy while she tried to reach. Her fingers curled, with much effort, around the handle and sturggled to pull it open. The dusty, over-used pot sat still on the edge of the shelf. Now, for a moment, she had been pleased that she achieved one goal.. only now to stepped into another challenge. Narcissa frowned, her teeth biting into her lip and eyes wincing as she tried to lift herself higher with her toes to grab the rim of the pot. Narcissa's height had never been such a bloody problem before, though she was over the average height for a woman. A healthy height of five foot seven had never been a problem before. In fact, Narcissa had sworn she had gained a inch since last year!
Narcissa's head turned around to look back over her shoulder, her arm slowly lowering as the figure stood watching her from the doorway.

The shattering echo of a crashing pot made Narcissa jump, head ducking out of reflex as she gasp. Her head turned back to the pot that had landed sideways on the table, Narcissa's pale hand covering her mouth from fright. Her eyes winced visibly at the sound, teeth clenching on her bottom lip from embarrassment. The sound of the crashing pot's echo only now beginning to dim down. Merlin as if the woman needed an audience..

[Bartemius Crouch Jr.]

“Tell me where the money is.”

Oh, now, that wasn’t the way to do it. Nott was practically leaning over the man, breathing down his neck, while he refused to open his mouth. In fact, he clearly displayed the effort of keeping his lips sealed; the funny vein in his neck was nearly ready to burst. Nott was what…twenty-four? Twenty-five? ‘Much more experienced in the business’ than Barty was? Please. He hadn’t even taken out his wand yet, and it had been twenty minutes into the interrogation. Barty, if he was rushed, could have him begging for his life within five minutes.

Interrogation was an intricate, well thought out process of getting the answers you wanted. Now, a team of three had been sent out to locate the source of a mass amount of money that a band of smugglers was passing back and forth over the English channel – those damned French. The two older men, Nott and Goyle, had complained bitterly about the ‘newbie’ who had to tag along. The ‘newbie’s’ mouth had nearly gaped open. Um, who was recruited at the age of seventeen? If he hadn’t have read up on his comrades’ files, he wouldn’t have known at Nott had joined at the age of twenty-one, and that Goyle had only joined last year. That was right. Who’s the newbie now?

Setting aside the small squabbles teams always encountered; Nott had taken the liberty of being the first man to question their victim. His first question: ‘What is your name?’ Yeah, he was just making sure the man hadn’t had a bout of amnesia in the five minutes Goyle had took to clumsily tie him up to a broken chair. Honestly, if the entire squad of Death Eaters had been carbon copies of Barty, they’d have millions of people at their mercy. Well, maybe not millions, but you get the point I’m trying to make. His partners had told him to shut his trap and watch for anyone who happened to come along, and as his patience was running thin, Barty had did exactly what they ordered, and stood lazily near the door, peeking out the thin crack every six minutes or so, while watching Nott’s fruitless interrogation efforts.

“I said,” Nott growled through clenched teeth, his hands moving to the man’s stiff collar, “Tell me where the money is,” his words were broken and purposefully so, while the man shook his head stubbornly, looking Nott right in the eye.

Nott, in frustration, let go of the man furiously and began to pace around the chair, his hands up towards his face, thinking hard about what to do next. Meanwhile, Goyle was still fiddling around with his excuses for knots, and Barty was just shouting out in his mind, ‘Oh, oh, pick me! Pick me!’

However, he did not employ such foolish methods, and took the liberty of getting the information himself. He was pretty efficient in that way.

“Now, tell us where the money is,” Barty mused, his wand suddenly digging into the man’s right knee, “Or else you’ll only have one leg to walk on. And if you keep quiet after that, you’re other one’s gone…” he told him in a sing-song voice, an eyebrow raising as the wand dug further and further into the muscle.

Hm, no answer? “Cru-”

The man squinted, feeling the Death Eater’s wand heat up at the sound of his voice, and the pain slowly flooding through his precious leg, “Eeeeeeee-okay, okay,” he surrendered, his eyes widening. “It’s in a warehouse down by the…”

“I told you boys,” Barty chimed to the older men as they walked into the manor one by one, a look of disgust on their face. “I saved the both of you from being late from dinner,” he added, beaming from ear to ear as Nott muttered something rude under his breath, and Goyle slammed the door behind the three.

“Touchy…” Barty said under his breath when the two were out of earshot, and suddenly feeling hungry from all that interrogation, worked his way to the kitchen. He had no idea how to cook, except for his famous grilled cheese, but the manor’s stocks seemed to be running low on dairy products, and he figured he’d save the bologna for a certain someone. He didn’t trust house elves, either. Merlin knows where their hands have been.

Once Barty determined he was not alone in his quest for food, he stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, his shoulder leaning on the frame, his arms folding over his chest, and simply watched his wife struggle to reach a pot from the top shelf. He winced slightly when he heard the harsh sound of metal on wood, and watched as Narcissa attacked her bottom lip in embarrassment. Only a mere chuckle came out of the nineteen year-old as he surveyed the damage.

“And I thought Goyle was clumsy,” he teased, his head shaking slowly.

[Narcissa Crouch]

“And I thought Goyle was clumsy”

Over the sounds of clanging metal hitting the broken porcelain, his voice rang true and clear over the dying sound. Barty always had a way with words, did he not? The man was teasing her, shaking his head as he enjoyed the show. Dinner and a show; what more could a husband want. Merlin, Narcissa might as well of just stripped and splashed some yellow water on her for visual effect to draw some more attention her way. Stripping in the Riddle manor; it even sounded like a sin. The entire manor was quaking with hatred, burning with lust and yearning for another body in their bed. The very stone pillars this manor sat on were straight up from the seventh circle of hell, the bricks each one of the deadly sins, and the people it's own personal demons.

Narcissa's lip gently pulled out from under her front teeth as she looked at her visitor. Despite their differences, age and background, he was good husband. He didn't raise his hand, kept her happy when he could.. Narcissa was better off then most were. Yes, yes she could just keep telling herself that. It was true, she knew, that he was a good husband. Narcissa just couldn't give many reasons as to why. Ah, Narcissa always was a rather spoiled little girl though, wasn't she? Anything she received, no matter how wonderful, would always end up on the bottom of her toy chest, or missing a head thanks to Bella. Nothing ever seemed good enough.

It was nice to see him. She'd never admit it aloud, but Narcissa hated when he was gone and she wasn't aware of his whereabouts. You could call it protectiveness if you wished, or maybe paranoid even, though the feeling wasn't anything as extreme as either of those. It was just a discomfort. Yes, a slight, unsettling, lip-biting, discomfort.

Narcissa surveyed him for a lingering moment before reacting. For being about four years younger then herself (something which she hated to think about, being old), he looked so much older then he was. Barty's skin was still smooth like a boy's but he had defined features, cut to the bone and sculpted out like an older and more mature man.

"Picking on me now, are we?" Narcissa asked quietly, the ending heighten of her voice when she phrased the sentence as a question bringing a small smile to her pink lips. Narcissa's left hand rested on the popped out bone of her hip, her pretty head tilted to one side as she looked at him with crystal blue eyes.

Yes.. he was.. a good man. Barty was a.. good husband. Narcissa believed it. Faithful, honest.. at least to her. The boy was a brilliant liar, you learned that whenever you've been married to him for almost three years. Hell, he could still probably fool her if he ever really wan-

Nevermind..

[Bartemius Crouch Jr.]

It was true; Barty wasn’t around the house as much as he wanted to be. Of course, who wouldn’t be able to miss the rotting floors, the leaky roofs, and the labyrinth-like maze that was the Riddle manor? He certainly had a secret sense of delight every time he walked in through the front door. Alas, work meant work, and the majority of his time spent at work was doing exactly what it was meant for – working. Now, Narcissa knew this to some extent, although he didn’t quite fill her in on all of the juicy little details, such as how Mister Kay’s fingers cracked so easily under his grip, or how the owner of Devon & Devon screamed like a girl when he really wanted to. Honestly, it gave him nightmares, so it was no wonder why he didn’t share what he did on the job with his wife. If he did, she probably wouldn’t be too keen about him leaving the house.

He did regret from time to time leaving her alone. What did women do in the house, anyway? Cook, gossip, run errands…things they would have done at home. With the exception of the Master’s favourites, such as Bellatrix Lestrange, who could certainly hold her own out on the field, women pretty much stayed indoors. He supposed going back home would have been a much more pleasant experience for Narcissa, but all the way in London? It was much more convenient to stroll back to the Riddle manor than to take the extra effort in apparating back to his house. Selfish, I know. He only ever thinks of himself, doesn’t he?

"Picking on me now, are we?"

Oh honestly. Narcissa looked like a doll – one of those porcelain ones, not that Barty ever played with them in the first place. It was hard to avoid those huge, sapphire-like bug eyes that stared out at you from behind the shop’s window, and how much you just wanted to scoop one up and squeeze the life out of it. Not that he wanted to do that to her, of course, just a figure of speech. It was also like those puppy dog pouts you couldn’t worm your way out of. It was very hard to stay mad at said people, and very hard to keep up an amused, teasing sort of air about you. It must be magic, or something.

“Now now,” a grin spread across his face as he sauntered into the kitchen, the horrible clashing, ringing noise beginning to fade out, “I was clearly picking on Goyle. After all, he isn’t the holder of the ‘Most Graceful Death Eater’ award,” he remarked, stopping at the porcelain table that had just been battered with a circle of metal, and eyed a chip in the piece of furniture with interest. “That belongs to me,” he finished his jest, the grin permanently etched onto his features as his index finger picked at the square-shaped hole in the table.

It was nothing new, after all. The entire house was in shambles. Unlike the troopers over at Grimmauld Place (of course, he didn’t know of this) who decided to banish every living creature that wasn’t of human being out of the house, the Death Eaters couldn’t quite care less. He was pretty sure there had been something in his shoe this morning when he had placed his foot in, and therefore, he had sworn to wear his shoes around the house, only taking them off when he was sure no mice would be able to crawl into them.

He turned his attention away from the injured table, and towards the pot, which was still vibrating from the punishing blow it delivered to its rival. He grabbed it by the black handle, and as he guessed, no damage was done to the kitchenware. He gazed at it for a few moments, before asking, “Wha’cha making?”

Yes, because he wanted some. He live on grilled cheese for the rest of his life, but the last time Narcissa had made something, it had been godly compared to his sandwich.