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

[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.*

[rolloverandbeg.livejournal.com]

*Walden makes only another noncommittal noise, leaning back in his chair a little. Whining has always rubbed him the wrong way.

But there is only more silence--well, silence except for the hushed squabbling all around them--and whining or no whining, the Dolohov boy is probably the least objectionable person in the room right now. So he pushes out one more word, folding his arms across his chest.*

Yeah?

[twistedrough.livejournal.com]

*Antonin's eyes stray to look at Evan for longer than normal, a hint of disdain passing over him. If it weren't for the damn bitch he was rolling around with, Antonin would have his best friend back and his nightly indulgences, too. He presses in on the side of his temple before lulling his head back around to look at Macnair.

This man is a kindred spirit in a sea of society fags and gold-digging whores. They both have nothing and they're both destined for nothing. It terrifies Antonin to his very core.*

How's ministry work treating you?

[rolloverandbeg.livejournal.com]

*How else would it treat him? Killing is his business and business is good, whether for the Ministry or for the people in this room. He shrugs, and then neatly refolds his arms.*

Same old. Cleaning up the world, one day at a time.

*He gives Antonin a rare smile. It's surprisingly boyish on his square face.*

Can't say I mind it.

[twistedrough.livejournal.com]

I'm sure it beats sitting behind a store counter every day.

*And Antonin means it. His work is tiresome and boring and aside from the occasional interesting trade-in, there's not much to report. The merchandise is seedy as fuck, and the clients even more so. It's not that he's afraid of the clientele or the merchandise; he simply finds it dull. There is no merit to him about a necklace that apparently killed over a dozen muggles; he does that any day of the week and ten fold. That and the general annoyance of having Borgin bark orders at him all day grates on his nerves and patience relentlessly.*

[rolloverandbeg.livejournal.com]

*Walden nods in something resembling commiseration. The idea of working a till in some dreary shop is beyond depressing, and it spurs him to offer a little more than he's accustomed to.*

You should look into the DRCMC. I love what I do, maybe it'd suit you.

[twistedrough.livejournal.com]

*Antonin considers him for a moment. On one hand, the prospect of abandoning the store and pursuing a more invigorating job was endearing to him; if nothing else, to never have to hear Borgin ask for something again. But then again, a ministry job? That could seriously impede on his after work hobbies, and not just in time lost; cleaning up his messes would have to become a priority lest catch the ministry's attention.

He could rot away and be a subordinate to the probably-never-going-to-die Borgin. Pursuing the DRCMC, however, would nearly seal Antonin's fate to being identical to Macnairs.

Shitty flat, shitty porn and all.*

I'll definitely think about it.

[rolloverandbeg.livejournal.com]

*Walden shrugs, genially enough, and returns his attention to the Dark Lord. He isn't one to press.*