Barty was wandering, in the absent, banging-into-walls sense. He had slowly made his way to the common room, from where he had been left to contemplate his current predicament in the hall. Dead. He had never even had the chance to kiss Lord Voldemort's hand, that hand and that body he had restored to him so recently. He would never be rewarded for that task. He would never again slay a Mudblood. His life -- rather, his death, he should say -- felt so empty.
It wasn't fair! It wasn't right that that should be stolen from him! In a Dementor's belly he would not be out of reach of Lord Voldemort, but in death...? Not even Lord Voldemort dared venture there, not least because he was afraid of death.
And in this room where the dead gathered, Barty's rage grew. These quiet, mindless little activities being enjoyed by dim Muggles who even now surrounded him... He couldn't stand it. Nearest at hand was a checkers table, and with a growl Barty upset it. "Stupid Muggle!"
"Muggle is new," House says, very mildly, as he looks at Mr. Crouch. "So, do you kick puppies for encores, or was picking on a cripple the height of your talents?"
Poke an enraged man with a stick? Nah, he'll just verbally snipe till the asshole takes a swing. And why not? Then the orderlies will jump him and he can laugh!
"Muggle," Barty said in much the same tone an enraged husband might address his wife as 'Woman!', "if I had my wand, you would know the height of my talents. I once tortured a person beyond all reach of sanity-- and here I am, DEAD! Don't test me, Muggle, because I don't care about your petty infirmities when my life lies out there unfinished!" By now he was frothing, and the black eye House desired could not be far off.
"Here's a clue: All our lives lay out there unfinished," House says as he grasps his can, getting up on his feet. Lunatics loved fear.
House didn't bother to show any.
"You have fun with that. I think I'll go get me some tapioca," he paused briefly, before he resumed walking. "They have food around here, right? Or did you leave your last meal unfinished, too?"
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Barty was wandering, in the absent, banging-into-walls sense. He had slowly made his way to the common room, from where he had been left to contemplate his current predicament in the hall. Dead. He had never even had the chance to kiss Lord Voldemort's hand, that hand and that body he had restored to him so recently. He would never be rewarded for that task. He would never again slay a Mudblood. His life -- rather, his death, he should say -- felt so empty.
It wasn't fair! It wasn't right that that should be stolen from him! In a Dementor's belly he would not be out of reach of Lord Voldemort, but in death...? Not even Lord Voldemort dared venture there, not least because he was afraid of death.
And in this room where the dead gathered, Barty's rage grew. These quiet, mindless little activities being enjoyed by dim Muggles who even now surrounded him... He couldn't stand it. Nearest at hand was a checkers table, and with a growl Barty upset it. "Stupid Muggle!"
((Sorry, I've been rereading The Lord ( ... )
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Poke an enraged man with a stick? Nah, he'll just verbally snipe till the asshole takes a swing. And why not? Then the orderlies will jump him and he can laugh!
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House didn't bother to show any.
"You have fun with that. I think I'll go get me some tapioca," he paused briefly, before he resumed walking. "They have food around here, right? Or did you leave your last meal unfinished, too?"
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He'd been watching the blue-eyed man for a few minutes, discreetly (he thought), but he just had to wonder.
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He's waiting for someone to play against! Not to play against himself!
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House begins to crane his neck, peering left and right. Nope, nobody playing!
"See, just as I thought. I'm not as insane as the rest of you."
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