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bait_backup2011-01-17 02:10 pm
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Son of Sam, son of the shining path, the clouded mind
*It is not at all unusual for an Auror to work late into the night. There has to be someone on duty at all times, after all, particularly now. What is unusual is how feverishly Sirius is scribbling into his notebook. Open books are spread across the desk before him, and he is currently flipping through a musty-looking tome entitled Magickal Wardƒ & their Uƒeƒ. Discarding it after a moment, he picks up another, more modern but much more ill-kept, called Replicating the Task of Prometheus.
It will not easy to break into the Black household. Sirius remembers acutely coming home late one afternoon when he was twelve and having to wait for Orion to tell the gargoyles to let go of him. He is fairly certain that the punishment for being caught this time would be rather worse than it was back then. But it has been decided, and it feels good to work like this, alone in the office in the quiet but not-entirely-empty Ministry. Here and there, people are moving along, congregating in knots of two and three around teapots, still working. The night will buzz on like this, he knows, until it becomes morning. Typically Sirius enjoys wandering the huge place, taking a trip out into the city for curry, but Sirius has been so glued to this research that he's skipped dinner entirely and hasn't seen another soul since Dawlish left at 7.
Still, tiredness is creeping up on him as surely as ever. Only a few more hours here, and then he can give the shift over to Gloria Prynn and crawl into bed next to Remus. He shuts Replicating the Task of Prometheus and rubs his eyes.*
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It isn't long before curious, saucer-like eyes appear over the brim of Sirius Black's cubicle. A shock of straw hair similarly flopping over the stale edge. Barty waits and watches in silence. A predator who can only strike if his prey knows its there.*
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--Um. Hello?
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You know, I've always thought you're all a bit like wriggling kittens. I expect you'll want to know why.
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*Sirius is so flabbergasted by this question that it takes him a moment to compose an answer.*
I can't say I've ever considered myself kittenish, so yeah, I'd love to hear why.
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My father is the cat in this analogy. In case that escaped you. I'm not a cat, though. I never owned one either. He never approved of pets. I don't think he realizes how many he already has.
*Barty reaches down and takes one of Sirius' quills.*
I'm going to be borrowing this.
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What's the string, in this analogy?
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The tasks you're replicating.
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*Sirius doesn't see a point in disagreeing, although he does think himself doing something a bit more than just playing at this particular piece of theft. He's made his choice and he's sticking to it.*
And what are you meaning to use my quill for?
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It's a back-up plan. In case I have to take the Roman way out. They can disarm me and trap me but no one expects a sharp quill up the nose and into the brain.
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I don't want a one, especially not in a paper-filled kittencrate.
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*Sirius stands and begins closing and stacking books, spines toward the cubicle wall. His eyes are tired and he doesn't much like the thought of the Crouch boy seeing his work spread out before him.*
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You've already succumbed. Your livelihood is a pile of forests.
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I think I got the better end of that deal.
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Why are you here, then?
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*He tries to keep his voice level but there's a new tension in it, and suddenly he is quite awake. No one who could really threaten the son of the Minister can possibly bode well, but he asks anyway, surreptitiously finding his wand in his pocket.*
Whose orders would send someone like you to someone like me? Not the mother cat, surely.
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