You're beautiful, that's for sure, you'll never, ever fade

[mad-actually.livejournal.com]

*The wars Barty fought when he was seven, as it happens, were a great deal more exciting than the war he's fighting right now. When he was seven, months and years would pass in the space of a single afternoon. There was never a time for rest or thought - every second was a struggle for survival and every minute was an opportunity to throw rocks at girls. It was a world where the rules were dictated less by politics and more by Barty's passing fancies and perhaps dubious grasp on the concept of battle itself, considering how often the tube slide became the twisted, hardened oesophagus of a man-eating giraffe.

There are no oesophagus' to hack his way out of now, no more monkey bar watchtowers or unseen crawl spaces under the ramps. War is no longer continuous action, it's no longer one solid stretch of movement and yelling and laughter. It's not even a sequence any more. It's broken and complicated, a mess of non-action mixed in with small doses of too much. There's also failure. The times when he's split open, the times when he's not even believed and, worst of all, the times when he has to wait.

Waiting is what he's engaged in now. Sitting in the field, under his cloak and mask and a disillusionment charm. It's a nice house. Stately. There are columns by the doorway, and columns always exude instant class. A house with columns means you've made it, as far as Barty's concerned. He's correct of course, the inhabitants, behind their columns and their fancy tall steps and fancy tall door certainly have made it - right into Voldemort's cross-hairs. The wife is a Ministry official, some tired, lined face in a sea of other tired, lined faces. Barty's likely met her before and it's even more likely that he forgot her directly afterwards. He could handle her himself, he's sure. The only thing stopping him from walking across that field is the promise of a companion in tonight's precious revelries.

Bellatrix is a fascination Barty has yet to get over, much like dark matter or the Voynich Manuscript, she's strange and beautiful and distant, a wholly different shape and texture from the others. She's faithful and for that Barty respects her, is frightened of her, is attracted to her - but mostly he is filled with a desperate need to impress.

He picks at the grass listlessly, waiting for the familiar crack of apparation.*

Comments

[ruined-siren.livejournal.com]

*Bellatrix follows without hesitation, wondering fleetingly whether Barty suffered some incident with gelatin as a child that has left the substance so prevalent in his spell-work. She gives little more thought to the idea, though, because the girl's hands are now choosing the least opportune time to fumble with the doorknob. She probably opens doors twenty, thirty times a day, and all of the sudden, when it matters most, she just can't. Bellatrix sneers.*

Levicorpus.

*The girl squeaks again as she flies into the air, suspended before the intruders in a heartbeat. Her nightgown, which is frayed around the hem and collar, starts to slip down, and her flailing arms are incapable of holding it in place.*

[mad-actually.livejournal.com]

*There was in fact an incident with gelatin, involving a spurt of accidental magic, a broken tricycle and a very unfortunate muggle boy. However, the niece, in her upturned nightie and exposed knickers, does not have quite such a squishy fate in store.

Starting with the fraying ends, the dress begins to unwind, unravel and expand, until each loose end is only held aloft by magic. It's then that the net of threads undulates back towards the girl's wiggling form, nuzzling through the pores of her skin, weaving and stitching itself into her body and through her flesh.*

[ruined-siren.livejournal.com]

*There is something oddly inciting about watching the threads weave inside the girl's body, adding to the already pink, puffy, positively chubby vision that is her skin. The anguished squeals that she is making only make her appear more pig-like.

Pig-like. The girl's mouth and nose are, abruptly, transfigured into a pig's snout, and the surprised gasp that she makes comes out a snort, and she snorts again, louder, when Bellatrix mumbles a spell.

The threads — just the threads — light on fire, sizzling and crackling violently beneath her skin as the girl squeals like a dying pig.*

Smells like bacon.