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.*

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[ruined-siren.livejournal.com]

*With any of the others, Bellatrix would take her sweet time arriving. The only two people she cares to be punctual for are Lucius, if only for the purpose of upstaging him, and the Dark Lord. The rest can afford to wait for her, as far as she's concerned, especially the younger ones, who spend far too much time drinking and fucking and laughing at Severus's expense.

She feels rather differently about Barty. A truly creative soul such as his comes along once in a lifetime. She recalls a spell that he used at the ICW that turned the enemy's bones into gelatin. Flavoured gelatin.

The boy is brilliant, obviously.

With this in mind, she Apparates into the godforsaken field, hoping that Barty had the good sense to pick an entertaining target. She's dressed to kill, as usual, exposing far more skin than most would consider appropriate for physical activity. Her face is hidden behind her mask, but her cleavage is ample, and the tears in her robes expose a great expanse of leg. She looks quite the sight, a sexy woman with the blank, white face of a killing machine. She smiles beneath the mask as she glances about the field.

Barty is disillusioned, no doubt.*