Death Eaters were hardly the lot to throw parties - at least now when the Dark Lord was still dead and gone, or at least not Lucius Malfoy who threw a different party once a week - but Barty Crouch Jr was too excitable not to have some fun on Halloween. He was a Death Eater, was he not? So long as he was broken out of Azkaban, working to revive the Dark Lord, he was allowed a holiday, right? He was doing more than half of the other Death Eaters were doing that was for sure - more than half! And he would have the glory when his Master returned to power, oh, mark his words!

Barty stalked through the streets of London, blending in with his Death Eater robes pulled over his bone mask and keeping to the shadows to keep the Ministry of Magic off of his back. Every few seconds his gaze lingered on his arm - pulling up his sleeve to check his Dark Mark - as though he hoped he wasn’t the only one of his kind in the street tonight, and the Dark Lord had returned to power. But it wasn’t to be, and Barty’s anger grew as he kicked a stone across the alleyway, and ducked through the back door of a small muggle tavern he’d grown increasingly fond of. No one would think him out of place here, even in his robes; they were all too drunk to notice yet another costume on Halloween.

“What’ll it be, mate?” Barty rolled his eyes at the barman, letting his hood drop to his shoulders and darting his tongue out to lick the side of his mouth. His eyes were dark, and his lips curled in amusement as he spotted the row of Jack o’ Lanterns on the shelf behind the barman - a safe distance, of course, from the alcohol... For now - before he lifted his gaze, eyes seemingly glowing through the skeleton face. The barman took an alarmed step back, but continued to polish the tankard in his hand, a little less amicable than he had been before. “Well? Ah don’t hae all night, ye ken?”

Barty tipped his head. “Scottish?”

“Aye. Come fae Aberdeen mysel’.”

The barman relaxed, slipping into that well-known habit of engaging the customers, finding out a little about them. He put down the tankard and leaned against the side of the counter, tipping his head in turn. While the barman was a broad red-head with an even broader accent, Barty was brunette under the mask, and skinny as any beanstalk. His skin was pale from months in Azkaban and the threat of the Dementor’s kiss, and he hadn’t eaten right in weeks.

Alcohol would, of course, hit him quickly, and he would relish it. Then he was out trick or treating, making the most of his ‘calling’ as - according to some muggles who had seen him at work lately - an angel of death. He was surprised the barman hadn’t passed comment, but this was the closest he’d been to London in all his time out of Azkaban. He hadn’t been about to push his luck until now, but he’d made a visit to Knockturn Alley earlier, inquiring about Polyjuice Potion. The Dark Lord - or what was left of him - had an idea, and Barty felt he could do the job a hell of a lot better than Pettigrew could. Resisting the urge to spit, he pointed lazily at a bottle of something green, then a mug. The barman obliged.

“Edinburgh, born and bred. Spent a lot of time near Dufftown lately.”

“Aye?”

“Old...” He paused, swirling one hand and licking his mouth again as he searched for the right word, “Acquaintance of mine, his son goes to school somewhere around there. Private school - not been able to see him, yet.” He shrugged as though it was no skin of his back, throwing all the muggle money he had and a couple of knuts across the counter at the barman. The man counted them out and handed back the silver, muttering something about monopoly money, and gave Barty his drink. “Thought I’d spend All Hallow’s Eve in London.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Tell me if any aurors come in, eh?”

“Aurors?”

“Coppers.”

Barty downed his drink - absinthe? Bacardi? - in one, and gestured for the barman to give him another one. A mad sort of giggle escaped his lips and he just managed to stifle it before he got any strange looks. He coughed, pretending to clear his throat, and pushed the bone mask up onto his head and off his face. His eyes seemed wild, ringed with the black lines of exhaustion and madness, and the barman started to keep his distance again as wizard money was exchanged for muggle drinks. Barty put his hand on his wand in his pocket, muttering Imperio under his breath. The man didn’t complain as he slid the knuts into the till, but paid attention to the outfit.

“Costume party?”

“Mischief and magic.” Barty nodded, laughing loudly, eyeballing the barman. His voice went smooth, the Imperious charm still in place. He’d be flagged up, for using an Unforgivable Curse, but he had time to vacate the area before the Ministry appeared if he drunk fast. “Don’t pay any attention to me. Serve the muggle at the end of the ba-”

“Muggle?”

“Non-magical person, idiot!” Barty hissed, more than a little tipsy as he downed his second green drink, then leaned over the bar to steal some beer directly from the tap. He downed that in one too then stood up, swaying, a glint in his eyes. The barman was leaning on the counter, trying to serve a woman a drink who didn’t actually want one. Barty rolled his eyes, muttering. “Stupid muggles...” He raised his tone to get the barman’s attention, lifting one hand, and the man came back over as though he was in a trance. “If the aurors ask, you never saw me. Just a kid dressed as a...” He pulled his mask back on, glancing at the pumpkins on the shelf, “Skeleton, trying to order a drink. You kicked me out. And you murdered the muggles outside Parliament. Got it?” The barman nodded, and Barty pressed a galleon into his hand. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks mate!”

“Don’t mention it. Really.” Barty licked his lips and narrowed his eyes, then turned for the door. Pulling his cloak around him with a delighted laugh - tipping a drunkard on his way out - he turned and, unable to resist, aimed his wand at the row of pumpkins. “Incendio.”

As the muggles left the burning pub in a blind panic, Barty Crouch Jr slipped into the night, his eyes only for the burning Dark Mark on his arm. It was time.