bait_backup | Some say it's a combat zone, trying to protect all the things that we own

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Some say it's a combat zone, trying to protect all the things that we own

*There had been offers, of course. Many in His circle had waxed lyrical on what an honour it would be and how His presence would be a profuse grace upon their homes.

These offers were staunchly disregarded, the most pathetic of these occasionally with a Cruciatus Curse.

Instead, their chosen space is small and windowless. An old, crumbling cellar paved in mossy stone and hung with dim gas lamps. A meticulously rendered map of Britain swallows one of the walls, its surface home to multitudes of agitated dots, some move erratically across the map, as if pacing, some stay very still, and occasionally some merely fade out of existence entirely, bleeding back into the parchment. Below it, hidden away in the corner, Regulus Black's small frame is swallowed by ink bottles and thick rolls of paper.

The meeting is over now, His intentions have been aired - however, the process of how has only just begun. The headquarters of the International Confederation of Wizards will not be easy to take, much less in a month. Yet, there's an air of shrewd confidence to the room, discussions of strategy giving way to pockets of less efficient interaction. In the centre, Lord Voldemort himself is seated. For a man who has done everything in His power to cease being a man, He looks jarringly human on His perch, His long fingers folded, His spine against the chair's. Several of his followers, now standing, look distinctly uncomfortable with the arrangement, as if shell-shocked that something as normal as leaning back against a chair could possibly happen to a being whose gendered pronouns are pronounced with capitals.*

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*Lucius is not one of them. In fact, he looks rather lackadaisical about the whole situation, as though the Dark Lord had just suggested that their next grand attack be a stroll through Hyde Park, rather than taking down the ICW headquarters. The thing is, he's got very little to fear - bureaucrats have proven themselves time and again to be easy targets, physically, and he doesn't expect much of a fight. As to the risk of arrest, it's negligible. He's well aware it would be life in Azkaban for any of them who are caught in the raid - in any raid - but he's got connections with connections with connections, and more money than entire branches of the Ministry. He's untouchable, the way he's framed the situation for himself. Lucius is, in a word, utterly unconcerned with the risks.

In fact, he's a little bored. He's standing with a knot of his colleagues, half-listening to whatever they're babbling on about, making no pretense of actually paying attention. He's watching Regulus off to the side with a small frown, his lip stopping just short of actually curling in distaste.

The boy's effective; Lucius has to grant him that. But he's so very odd, so twitchy, and Lucius can't help but think that somehow, thank God, he has managed to marry the one normal person to come out of that entire knot of cousins. Regulus is unsettling and awkward (and Lucius still hates letting him hold Draco for fear that the boy will drop him). Bellatrix is, clearly, unstable at best (and Lucius hates letting her anywhere near Draco). Andromeda does not exist as far as he's concerned (and Lucius therefore doesn't bother thinking about her in conjunction with Draco at all). Sirius is obviously beyond consideration, filthy traitor that he is (and Lucius would curse the bloody idler stupid if he so much as looked at Draco). Twitchy, mad, non-existent and non-existently lazy. His lip does, finally, curl.

Narcissa, he reflects as he watches Regulus and half-listens to Bellatrix, is clearly the only normal one of the lot. Thank God.*

*Doing nothing but support Lucius' opinion of him, Regulus soon feels watched and peers up around the room, letting his quill hover in suspense over the parchment he's working on. Meetings like these are usually comparably comfortable affairs for him. They allow him to him scribble away at something he knows how to do, and the only questions that ever come his way once in a blue moon are easily answerable and always brief, technical. With Lucius watching him, however, his focus slips and he nods to him hoping that will satisfy.*

*Blending in with the current environment was one of Augustus Rookwood's specialties, and the meetings with the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters provided a rare opportunity to act unlike his usual carefree, affable self. There's a hint of unease, but he mainly regards the Dark Lord with respect and a good degree of reverence, though not to the point of grovelling, unless that is what the particular situation at hand demanded. As a double agent within the Ministry with a firm grasp of the inner workings of that bureaucracy and a plethora of social ties, a network that he takes considerable time out of his own leisure time to sustain and grow, Augustus maintains his part in the discussion as an information provider and strategist.

He regards the exchange between Lucius and Regulus with interest, particularly because not only is his mind filled with information of bureaucratic importance, but various forms of gossip, petty or otherwise. Though Augustus personally could care less about those inner workings and what went on with them, he ultimately keeps tabs on these trials and tribulations because they are usually good conversation topics, although not always credible sources of information. In this instance, he held on to the news of engagement as a reminder to congratulate his colleague. Not wanting to derail the conversation in the least bit, Augustus does incline his head in a curt, meaningful nod. Secretly, he's beyond entertained with the notion of the fidgety, introverted boy taking charge of a relationship, let alone a marriage. May the woman have the patience of a saint.*

*It does not satisfy, but then, Lucius finds so very little about Regulus satisfactory in the first place. If anything he looks more put off than before - how is it possible for the boy to be this inept? He's never actually said so, but clearly Orion and Walburga did something terribly wrong. Lucius has been a parent for all of five months, but already feels quite strongly that his own son is not going to end up like this.

Still. Familial obligation is familial obligation, and he forces a tiny, unconvincing smile. Clearly this is something he's been instructed to do.*

Narcissa sends her love.

...That's very kind of her.

*On the wall behind Regulus' head, four markers disappear in unison as a small group of targets disapparate together to reappear up north. It looks as though they are escaping from Regulus, his uncomfortable feeling that he has missed something radiating off him. Out of the comfort zone of his maps, Lucius and Rookwood's eyes say that he has simultaneously done something right and done everything wrong, and he isn't sure what about him their looks refer to this time.

Victoria, as it happens, gives Regulus this same feeling merely by existing. Always some mystery, always some strange unspoken blame even when she smiles. But, not wanting to think of Victoria more than is necessary, he glances at the latest batch of plans, lists, and maps for the ICW.*

Have you told her of this?

*Sandwiched between dour and smug cloaked figures, Barty's excitability is even more evident than usual. He's wearing his mask still. Not to hide his identity, but rather because the prospect of having one at all continues to be novel to him. Though the masks are all the same in theory - identical, expressionless white façades - Barty's seems to have somehow, against logic's better judgement, acquired a grin. Pushing himself into sight, he loudly interjects into Regulus and Lucius' politics of stares and pleasantries.*

Reg. Reg.

REG.

I have an idea.

They're coming along well already Barty-

*Barty is perhaps one of Lucius's least favorite people in a room full of people he doesn't necessarily think highly of, and it shows. He is well aware of Barty's family connections and therefore isn't willing to just hex him silent, more's the pity, but he will not be overridden by a teenage boy with more gab than sense. Leveling him with an annoyed look caustic enough to warn off perhaps anyone but its recipient, Lucius turns his attention back to Regulus and pretends that Barty is simply not present.*

Of course not. Much as I should hope you haven't been telling Miss Higgs about any of it.

*It's a lie. The arrogance and self-importance Lucius lords over everyone else absolutely does not apply to his wife; Narcissa is his partner in every sense of the word, and nothing goes on at these meetings that he doesn't immediately relay back to her. He'd never want her directly involved, or marked - too dangerous for so many reasons - but she knows as much about the ICW plans as he does.*

*Barty pays Malfoy's glare no heed whatsoever. In fact, he mirrors it, looking up at Lucius in an absurdly paternal manner. Wrinkling his nose in an exaggerated imitation of Proper Pureblood behaviour, he speaks in a faux-posh accent, waving him off with his hand like a fly.*

QUIET! The adults are talking.

*Rookwood's gaze settles on Barty, genuinely interested in whatever the Prime Minister's son has to bring to the table. While it may turn out to be superfluous nonsense, the boy was bright. Out of his mind mental, but nonetheless intelligent.*

And what is that idea?

*Having made his point, Barty pushes his mask back over his face and nods excitedly to Rookwood.*

The wards. They're either hopelessly tall barbed and wired brick walls of impenetrable horror or they're weak enough for us to jump over when we need to. If WE can jump over them when we need to, nothings stopping them jumping in when THEY need to, and nothings stopping our targets from jumping out.

Soooo, what if we made them recognize only us. Only this.

*He hikes up the sleeve of his robes and shoves the lurid, writhing burn mark in Regulus' face for emphasis.*

Like a password. But better.

*Regulus follows Barty's unorthodoxly told proposal easily, but the introduction of the Mark into the equation - as well as into his personal space - leaves him blindsided. He finally looks away to ruffle through stacks of parchment, looking for the information gathered about the ICW's defences even though he has it memorised, it was he who drew them up.*

I'm not sure if that's an option...

*Mulciber is standing nearby, listening to Barty's idea with a steely look of scepticism.*

And what, exactly, happens when they try to get out and aren't recognized? Do they just stand there, shitting themselves?

That's the point.

They're trapped. Shitting. With us. We can go in and out if it gets sticky. They can't. I guess things will get sticky either way, then. What with the visceral fluids. We could even - YES.

*He leans over Reg's parchment, tracing inked hallways with a finger, babbling to himself under his breath.*

Barty...

*He shifts the map slightly closer to Barty to give them both more space bent over the papers.*

These wards are based on magic alone, a particular form of force, they're not pinpointed toward certain wizards. To do that - I'm not even sure where to start.

I would have to know the developmental processes the Dark Lord goes through to Mark us at all, the fundamentals of what He uses, how much of the Mark is Him and how much is our own signature... I doubt He would even tell me.

He wouldn't.

*Lucius murmurs in an undertone, casting the smallest of glances over his shoulder toward the Dark Lord. For all that he was ready to hit Barty for interrupting him, even he has to admit that the idea is useful. The risk of being trapped inside their own wards had occurred to him, and he prefers, always, an escape hatch.

And that their Lord won't talk about the marks, he feels certain. That's part of the price of their inclusion - they bear these signs, but none of them fully understand all of the implications, how it's made, all that it does. Lucius hasn't even tried finding out, too nervous at the idea that the Dark Lord would somehow know if he tampered with it.*

The concept of that excellent theory could still be applied, except without the use of the Mark - or overstepping our boundaries. I might be able to find research in the Department of Mysteries that may help you, Regulus.

*He purses his lips in thought but keeps coming back to Barty's original idea and feeling as though the Dark Lord is listening in like a dangerously watchful parent spying on plotting children.*

Perhaps...

But Barty is right, it's something we all share. The restrictions would have to be modified to make a loophole, and that would be much more confusing on an individual basis.

*Barty looks up from the map, his mask leering ever on. He's strangely focused, as he always is during meetings. His erratic, derailing energy somewhat contained - as if he too feels the Dark Lord's presence acutely and responds with the stringent obedience he's never afforded his father.*

What if you just make the ward clever? Make it learn things. But only one thing. And the fist and last thing it learns is the Mark. Then you wont have to ask Him anything, obviously. Can we talk about hallways now? I want to talk about hallways.

No, we cannot talk about hallways now.

*Lucius snaps finally, a bit, but he can't help it. Abnormally focused by Barty's standards is still gratingly annoying by his own. Returning his attention to Regulus, who is at least sane, he tries again and fails to sound patient.*

Can you do it or not?

Theoretically, I believe.

Something tells me we need a little more assurance than "theoretically" here.

Well I - know how I might do it. It would be rather complicated, Apparation can be done wrong very easily and wards weren't intended to be modified, originally.

But it does make sense. It's logical.

Well, that's bolstering. Care to give it a test run, mm? Barty?

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Some say it's a combat zone, trying to protect all the things that we own

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