If you decided to take a midnight stroll through the most rundown and musty slums of Muggle London, a stinking haven of rats, tramps, thieves, whores, hopeless debtors, fugitive criminals and other decent people, you would probably get hit on the head with a bottle and would be robbed to the skin at best, and at worst — said goodbye to your precious life. However, before that, by a combination of many circumstances, you could have witnessed a curious scene.

A guy of about seventeen squatted down in front of the body of a man lying face down on the uneven stone pavement with his arms outstretched as if he was going to make a snow angel. A puddle of a couple of shades darker was slowly spreading out from under the scarlet robe.

"Hey, bro, did you die there?" With a hint of doubt, Barty addressed to the auror and, naturally, having received no answer, did not come up with anything better than to reach out and poke the side of the dead body with a wand.

Dead, that's for sure now.

Barty got a... baptism of fire, kinda. It was the first time he had murdered a man, at least with his own hands. It was a mystery whether it was because this was his first time (ha.. no, not funny), or just because he didn't know how to work cleanly, but leaving this mess behind would not be very polite.

In connection with what had just happened, Barty was experiencing a number of emotions and physical sensations that he was not going to admit or decipher. So... He might should to hurry up, but a smoke break is a sacred thing. The young man fishes a crumpled pack out of the pocket of his leather jacket, takes one of them out with his teeth and lights himself with a wand, scaring nausea away with a cigarette.