bait_backup | Son of Sam, son of the shining path, the clouded mind

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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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*Leaning over the half wall, Barty taps at the title of Sirius' book.*

The tasks you're replicating.

I always liked Prometheus.

*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?

*Barty admires the quill's razor sharp tip, poking it with a finger for emphasis. His expression is sober when he looks back up - he's not visiting the Ministry just to get his jollies, after all.*

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.

You often have to fight your way out of places your father runs?

The threat of being tied down, tortured for days and then offered a job is all encompassing.

I don't want a one, especially not in a paper-filled kittencrate.

I think tying-down and torture is down the hall, so no worries there. I wouldn't keep you, anyway.

*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.*

*Observing this groggy shuffling of books, Barty shakes his head sadly.*

You've already succumbed. Your livelihood is a pile of forests.

Succumbed to what, a job? The kitten-crate? I'm getting your metaphors a bit confused, frankly.

Well of course YOU'RE confused. Reg inherited all the metaphors - you got a penis instead.

*At that, it's hard not to let out a snort--half laugh, half surprise.*

I think I got the better end of that deal.

Yes, and I have BOTH ends. I'm like a liaison between two worlds. A prodigy.

I don't think Reg would really appreciate your liasing between us. In case you've missed it, we don't talk much.

I'm not here to liaise. He thinks you're stranger than him. A relationship based in such twisted assumptions is inherently unfixable.

*Sirius didn't like it when Andromeda said it, and he doesn't like it now. While it's true they are strangers on a level, there are certain things he knows he still shares with his brother, certain inescapable truths of having been raised by the same parents, coming from the same dismal house. Unfixable is not a word that Sirius is really prepared to give in to, least of all from the Crouch boy.*

Why are you here, then?

I've been ordered. Under threat of violence and feet-melting.

Interesting.

*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.

I came to you because you were in the way. This is just procrastination. Don't worry, kitten, mother cat hasn't noticed you yet.

I don't know if I should be relieved or annoyed about that.

I don't know about relieved or annoyed but I do hope you aren't surprised.

I think mother kitty might have other cats on her mind rather than kittens, come to think of it.

Everyone has other cats, it seems. It's getting confusing, the amount of cats I have to juggle in my mind just to sort everyone and their metaphorical felines out. It's all scratches and yowls and sometimes I just want to throw all the cats into a sack and beat them against a wall. Mostly though, I wish I were in the sack. If I were in a sack I wouldn't have to be here. Being trapped in a sack is a viable excuse, isn't it? Do you have a sack?

I'm not sure if it's a sack precisely--

*He inclines his head, though. Maybe it is a sack. If Sirius has discovered anything in the past few months, it is that he knows less and less about the world in which he lives. Still, he is getting the hang of speaking to the Crouch boy.*

Still. I don't think it's an excuse, being trapped in the sack. You've got to act as if you can prance about waving your tail, even if the limits of your world are rather . . . burlappy.

*Barty smiles at this attempt at communication, there are few people who make an attmept to immerse themselves in his riddles.*

I like burlap, it smells so Old that it's like time travelling with your nostrils.

I've never really been intimate with burlap or time travel, so I wouldn't know.

--You said you came to be because I was in the way?

*Sirius sidesteps, gesturing to the vacated space in the center of the cubicle.*

Does this put me less in your way, or is it more of a metaphysical in the way?

It's like an obstacle course, I must scale the you-shaped wall to get to the mud pit.

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