bait_backup | Mama this surely is a dream

*Television boxes are strange things. Even for wizards, there's just something about them that wields a certain power. They're only happy when they're used, providing a stream of muffled laugh tracks, flashing lights and comfortable background distractions. But when they're unhappy, dead-screened and neglected, they can cast something almost oppressive around the room, making it seem emptier, quieter and distinctly uncomfortable - much more so than if it hadn't been there at all. They're particularly temperamental children; they demand interaction, input, ears and eyes.

Sure enough, like a failed father, Barty had never gotten the thing to work. As much as he loved it, cherished it, bragged about it, the tiny little muggle television, left behind by previous inhabitants, had never lit up as intended. Oh, he'd enchanted it innumerable times - but without the aid of wires the reception had never lasted for very long and usually picked up the worst sort of channels.

He sits in front of it now in cross-legged reverence, as if bowing before some fallen mentor. It lays where he pushed it, its screen-side flat to the floor, glass shards spewed up around it like fresh sick.

Clutching the cable box to his chest, Barty frowns.*

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About my mother. Well. The other stuff too. All of it.

*Belief isn't exactly the realm Regulus has been operating when it comes to Barty, ever since their first day of Hogwarts it had been much more of a faith than a belief. Still, as unshakable as that faith in Barty may be, he looks just slightly hesitant to agree with conviction. Just in case.*

Your father's the Minister, but why would anyone lie about - other things?

Don't be stupid. There's a billion reasons to lie.

But your mother never did anything. I've never heard anyone say... things about her.

I hope you're going somewhere with this, because all I see are your words spiralling into nowhere. A helix encoded with failure.

*Barty makes a spiralling gesture with his finger to demonstrate.*

No, I...

You don't sound sure enough and with this you have to be sure.

*In truth, Barty's mother is nowhere near the type of woman Regulus would assume might do such things, he could scarcely imagine it even if given the foul imagination of Damien. The mere idea, however, makes him uneasy, and it's much more simple a thing to focus on than the parts about his own friend.*

Won't you get up out of that glass. You'll be cut at any moment.

There were a lot of moments before you came. None of them featured me being cut.

Then the moment's due.

That's rather surly for a boy.

Your mother wouldn't want you doing this either.

Come, we'll have the carpet cleaned. There's no use in you... slicing your hands, or feet.

*It's a difficult thing indeed to lose Barty's gaze when he offers it, and it's just as difficult to get it back when he cuts it off. Untethered now by Reg's face, Barty speaks to the edge between the wall and the floor.*

You can't clean it. That would be leaving a job half-finished.

But I'm in the middle of it all. If I tried to escape I'd have to step. That's too much stepping. Today isn't a day for stepping. Not when so many people have already done a lot of stepping of their own.

...Very well.

Then may I?

Why would you want to? The kitchen isn't any different, really. It might not have as much glass on the floor, but it has so much more potential. It's sneakier that way. You can't trust it.

*Regulus understands this nonsense perfectly, and nods with sombre earnestness. With a hand on his wand, however, he raises shards and flecks of glass from the rug so carefully it almost doesn't appear to be magic at all. Over Barty's words, they drift up and outward, slowly away from danger.*

*Barty watches the glass rise up, a solid curtain of sharp edges swimming in perfect formation.*

So if you didn't come here to defend my honour, what did you come here for?

*They tumble over each other, without a single collision, and head toward the kitchen to convene in the sink with the meandering quality of a half-asleep child sent to bed. Regulus looks far less peaceful, and probably never was as a child either.*

*Barty turns to look at him, his body now unobstructed and free to pivot away from his own senseless destruction.*

That always seemed like a dumb thing to say. Seeing. If all you really wanted to do was see me you could've just hovered outside the window and watched.

To check you, then. You can't do that through a window.

*His tone sounds distinctly lonely, at ends with his impatient words.*

How long does checking normally take?

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