Expect you think that I should be haunted but it never really bothers me

[like-a-boss.livejournal.com]

*It’s amusing, certainly. The pettiness of His followers

Lord Voldemort is well aware that reverence is as conditional as loyalty. It is a commodity that has always reeked of the in-genuine, a nicety he enforces with punishment in much the same way dogs are kept off the couch – with the knowledge that it is merely a trained habit, rather than a tenet truly understood. He’s always seen through it, that cautious socialization, the half-muttered scheming, the hush of awe, that scrambled and silent yearning for validation – the hope that play-acted respect can make up for incompetence, as if the gold-medallist in the Olympics of grovelling could ever hope to rise in His favour. Much like their painfully human forms, faith is as fragile as it is easy to manipulate. It’s almost fascinating, the way the air bristles now with poorly disguised discourse, the way preparation for the attack has given way to gossip and nervous second-glances. The appointment of Severus Snape as a spy seems to have struck a cord.*

Comments

[spindleform.livejournal.com]

*The hospital's map is still unfinished and looks out nakedly at the room of Death Eaters without the glowing lines of it's final wards. It has been sketched and refined in chunks for weeks and it's ultimate result is large, complex, like the spread for the ICW had been. Regulus works self-consciously on one small section near the centre, glancing down absurdly frequently at his reference measurements and notes as he tries to pretend he's not in anyone's company and tries not to blurt out any rogue opinions on one Death Eater in particular.

Snape is sitting across the room from him which is a lovely distance, but Regulus can't help but think of Barty's dramatic but oddly fitting suspicions and how from a distance Snape can just seem more of the map. He makes a horrifically unimpressive attempt to shield what he's currently working on from him, but he knows even if he were the largest man in the world he couldn't stop Snape from seeing everything he already has.*

[mad-actually.livejournal.com]

*Barty's mask, something he usually wears for the duration, has been pulled up into his hair, his anger making his face burn and the underside of his mask unbearably stuffy. Hissing into Regulus' ear, his voice is more stage whisper than confidential, full of the frenzied and weary omnipotence of a spurned prophet watching his predictions unfold.*

[spindleform.livejournal.com]

*Regulus hushes him with an ink-stained finger, then notices the blotched black skin and tries to wipe it off with little result.*

[mad-actually.livejournal.com]

[spindleform.livejournal.com]

[mad-actually.livejournal.com]

[spindleform.livejournal.com]

*It's a thought in the right direction, but Regulus' approval gets lost in a wave of repulsion evident on his pinched face.*

[whysosadistic.livejournal.com]

*Regulus and Barty's whispering doesn't go unnoticed by Mulciber, who is sitting across from Snape on the other side of the room. He stares at the two with a closed lip smirk before lighting a fag and turning to Snape with the most smug expression he can muster. Sure, Snape may be the spy but it was his idea, and he made sure The Dark Lord was well aware of it. Hell, he made sure as many people as possible were aware that none of this originated from Snape's mind, but his. For now, he's pleased enough with the knowledge that any information Snape receives that helps their cause would be completely unknown without his influence. Surely The Dark Lord looks at him more favourably. Surely.*

I'm fucking brilliant. You know that, right? Brilliant.

[dontbegoofy.livejournal.com]

*Snape is fairly sure that whatever defective creature originally came up with the concept "all publicity is good publicity" never actually interacted with another human being. He'd been expecting the announcement, of course. This is all hardly a surprise. But his own resigned dread has still, somehow, failed to prepare him for a room full of eyes and voices and minds.*

If you say so.

[whysosadistic.livejournal.com]

If you say so? Do you not realise how important this is? And fairly easy, I'd imagine. You've got Mudblood Evans wrapped around your finger. Who gives a fuck if the rest of the Order thinks you're dodgy. She doesn't. You've got it fucking made, Severus.

[dontbegoofy.livejournal.com]

I'll be sure to remember how easy this all is when Potter and Crouch take turns beating my skull in. But your support is nonetheless appreciated.

[whysosadistic.livejournal.com]

*Mulciber looks back at the pair, who are still whispering away. Barty still looks uncharacteristically furious, but Mulciber waves it off.*

Don't mind him. What's he going to do, have a tantrum in front of the Dark Lord? Not bloody likely.

Can't make any promises about Potter, but I reckon any...violence towards you would be out of jealousy. You spending more time breathing the same air as that Mudblood and all.

[purely-better.livejournal.com]

*Lucius arrives a bit late, and a bit flustered, and trying to look neither. Draco's caught something or other and he's been sick, and so Lucius has spent the last ten minutes trying to help Narcissa with him while attempting to ignore his arm burning. It was not, in a word, fun. He offers no explanation, however - he doesn't think that 'my son was vomiting on my robes' will go over well - and just bows apologetically to the Dark Lord before slipping into a seat a few down from Snape. At least Severus isn't irritating.*

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*It just so happens that this chair is directly next to Evan--although from looking around, it's not obvious. Evan looks, bluntly, like hell, slumped in his chair, and is entirely unlike himself. There's no quick wit, no sparkling smile, no smirk. He's missed a spot shaving under his chin and now he's worrying at it, pulling at the stubble. He's trying to focus on what the Dark Lord has been saying, or has been not-saying as he so often does, as Dearborn told him time and time again, from the time he was a child. But it's hard to focus on anything but the fact that Amrita's in his flat, still, not having eaten for days, lying there dead-eyed and unmoving except the shuffling walk from the bed to the bath, where she lies til her fingers wrinkle and the water goes cold and she's scrubbed herself slowly and methodically pink, and then back to the bed.

When Lucius sits down next to him, it's so startling that he jumps, and then tries to cover up his surprise by reaching for his mask on the table in front of him, and then putting it down. It's a bad show, the lot of it.*

[purely-better.livejournal.com]

*He doesn't even realize it's Evan at first, not until he flinches and starts fidgeting with his mask. Lucius raises an eyebrow, taking in the sight of him and incorrectly crediting himself for Evan's state. His mouth curls into an unpleasant smile as he notes the poor shaving job, the dull complexion, the total absence of snark. He can't help it; he murmurs quietly to him, rather pleased with himself.*

Had a spat with Mummy, did we, Evan?

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*The worry has so completely consumed him that it takes full five seconds before he even understands what Lucius is referring to. And then there's anger, just a bit of it, the little flame for the coy and petty man next to him, what he's done, what he's tossed in front of Esmerelda, and then, what she did to Amrita, and then, what has been done to her, and he's right back where he started, except angrier. He snaps back, almost too loud, his face flooding pink against his will.*

No.

*His voice gets quieter, he's practically muttering under his breath.*

But you'd love it if that were it, wouldn't you, you fucking prick.

[purely-better.livejournal.com]

*His other eyebrow rises and he tips his head back a bit, looking down his nose at Evan. Rather than irritated, he just looks more amused.*

Now, now. Temper. Both of you can't be savages.

[dapperdeath.livejournal.com]

*Typically, there'd be some quick, apt jab back at him--that's how he and Lucius put up with each other, with little needle-pricks at each other's egos. But if it were anything other than the Dark Mark burning on his arm, if there were any reason at all to leave the flat to care for his own needs, he'd be elbow-deep in intestine at the moment and feeling better for it. That's the part of him that answers.*

For all your talk I think you wouldn't know real savagery if it came to your house in the middle of the night.

[purely-better.livejournal.com]

*That wipes the smirk off Lucius's face. For all that he enjoys toying with Evan, the fact remains that there is something wrong with the boy. Narcissa doesn't seem to see it, and he'd never be so brash as to bring it up with Esmerelda, but he's always given Lucius a low, creeping feeling at the back of his neck. And, since Draco's birth, a strong instinct to keep him away from his son. Whispered needling turns to a hiss.*

Is that a threat?

[rolloverandbeg.livejournal.com]

*Walden does not rank high among the Death Eaters, and certainly not among the illustrious names that are gathered in this room. He is aware of that and content with it--like any good Slytherin he has found his niche and excelled within it. Today that has meant Apparating from his empty flat the instant the Mark began to burn, leaving nothing behind but a half-eaten sandwich and a stack of pornography to which he is largely indifferent. He found himself among the first to arrive, promptly took his seat, and has remained silent and attentive since.

He doesn't light a cigarette--it would be disrespectful, never mind what the kids are doing, never mind that he'd like to. Other than the slight twitch of his fingers that betrays the craving, Walden offers nothing. He will speak when spoken to, take his orders, and follow them, and that is all. And if he is fortunate, there will be some work for him to do. If he is very fortunate he will find it pleasurable.*

[twistedrough.livejournal.com]

*There are still several seats open when Antonin arrives. Normally, he would go and sit in his accustomed spot next to Evan, but when he enters the room, Lucius and his best friend are clearly in some sort of discussion of the heated sort, and Antonin has no desire to be a part of it. As of right now, Evan is very much Antonin's greatest grievance and cock block, and inserting himself into the middle of another Evan-drama is the last thing he wants to do right now.

Antonin notices an empty spot next to Macnair and pulls out a chair next to him. He slicks his greased hair back and tucks a few pieces behind his ears. Normally, this meeting would be the highlight of Antonin's week, but the severe lack of Evan time and Evan's mother time has caused him to be on edge and sleep-deprived with stress.

And Antonin does not do stress.*

[rolloverandbeg.livejournal.com]

*Walden looks up and, after a long moment, greets Antonin with a curt nod. He likes the Dolohov boy more than most; he isn't quite as milky-soft as the rest of the men in this room, if men is even the proper word for some of them--although Walden will never be heard saying such a thing of those who are his clear social betters.

His mouth twists a bit as his eyes fall on the Mulciber boy, puffing away on that cigarette as if they were at a disco and not in the same room as the Dark Lord. It's almost maddening, and Walden is still craving a damn cigarette--more to distract himself from it than anything else, he tilts his head slightly to the side and keeps his voice low.*

All right, Dolohov?

[twistedrough.livejournal.com]

*He looks up slowly, feeling the weight of his eyelids more than ever. What could he even say to that? "Tired"? "Agitated"? "Under-sexed"? "All of the above"? He scoots in his chair for a moment, resting an elbow on an armrest while his other arm searches for his lighter deep in his coat pocket for fidgeting purposes.*

Could be better. You?

[rolloverandbeg.livejournal.com]

*Shrugging, he makes a noncommittal noise: same, it says, or not bad, or whatever.

There's a long pause during which Walden struggles to maintain his level of attentiveness to the Dark Lord's silence, and tries very hard to not want a cigarette. But it is a long silence and everyone else in the room seems to be whispering fiercely to one another and finally his eyes fall back on Antonin. He's comfortable conversing with the boy in a way he will never be with any of the scions of old families filling the room, but the words are still so low and curt as to be barely words.*

Store's good?

[twistedrough.livejournal.com]

*Antonin gives a huff.*

Psh, the least of my worries you could say.

*He doesn't mean to sound brash, but he's irritable and groggy and not nearly as on his A-game as he'd prefer to be when in the presence of the Dark Lord. The hushed but heated conversations whispering through the room are only setting him on edge more. He twitches his neck and tightens his lips into a hard line.*