Searching for Barty and Evan all over Muggle London was a lingering, exhausting, tedious task. It's become as mundane for you as it is for these two oafs to search for trouble.

This time, a cat dragged them in a den, in every sense of the word, and you had to look into unfamiliar faces for endless minutes in search of the two pedigreed boyish physiognomies.

To hang in a place filled to the brim with untidy living skeletons, twitching and staring into the void, thick clouds of throat-tearing smoke and the stench of urine and vomit, in search of your friends was not what you would prefer to spend a Sunday evening on, but even less did you want to spend Monday morning searching for their corpses, so all you had to do was wade through the gnawing stench and look into every corner of this cesspool, repeatedly calling out the names of Evan and Barty to no avail.

The only consolation was that Regulus somewhere was doing the same thing as you right now, and he was even more squeamish than you were. The inner picture of picky Black's ruefully knitted brows, drawn in front of your eyes, cheered you up a little, and when you eventually fell into a room in which the kitchen was vaguely guessed from a table with a tablecloth blackened at the edges, and found two wizards there, you had enough restraint not to curse them here and now.

A dark-haired guy with a once perky grin sat on his chair, hunched over. He was grinning now, too, but you chose not to look at this grin. Evan could only be identified by his presence next to Barty. He was wearing Muggle clothes, old, baggy, several sizes too big. His grayish face resembled a skin-covered skull. He had somehow lost his blond locks completely, sparkling with a newly acquired bald head, and although it was easy to get his hair back with a spell, it still made the ambiance feel even more uneasy.

Whatever they took this time, one thing was clear — Barty felt very good, while Evan — very bad.