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 of the Rings. I should work out the Tolkien prose in a couple poses. :) ))
"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?"
"You look good and old for a Muggle!" Barty snapped back. "But me-- I could have lived to be two-hundred. I could have served Lord Voldemort for decades more!" He had not yet been told this was a place of therapy, but clearly he was mistaking the good doctor for a listening ear. "--Tapioca?" he repeated incredulously. "Tapioca!? You can even think of food at a time like this! And people say your kind aren't mindless, crawling animals!? Can't you even walk upright on your own?!" He grabbed for the cane; whether or not the Muggle stood, Barty could have a weapon where the other man did not.
"I beg your pardon!" House blinked at him. "I'm only forty-six!" That was not that old. And he prefered to think of himself as 'sexily weathered', not 'good and old'.
But Barty made the mistake of grabbing the cane. Five years, and did you really think that nobody's done it? House's leg might've been shit, but his arms were perfectly strong. He grabbed on, twisting the handle between his fingers to snap it up into his other hand. Sure, Barty had a hand on the cane, but--
House had two.
He snapped sharply out, to try and bury the straight end with it's rubber gripper into a kidney, face twisted up with irritation.
"Back off. I've got a cane and I know how to use it!"
"You're a withered old Muggle!" Barty barked at the very sexily weathered doctor. "Least--wizards--know--how--" But Barty was thirty-three, and between Azkaban, his father's shackles, and walking around on Moody's peg leg, he had not had proper exercise since he was nineteen, and so he was losing the fight. Especially when the tip of the cane connected not with his kidney but his stomach -- possibly liver. Barty was not a doctor, after all. He groaned and let go.
"Know how to what? Fall on the floor and writhe in pain?"
Yanking his cane back, he stagger a little getting himself righted. Then the cane found the ground again and he looked at the groaning wand-waving whackjob.
"Now go-- -- turn someone else into a frog, you nutter."
And he turned to leave the once-mighty Death Eater to lay where he fell.
Barty answered first only in a wordless squeak, because his diaphragm, too, was somewhere in the vicinity where the cane connecte. He tried to inhale to make words... "I...Wizards...know...how to...age well...you beast..."
He dragged himself up to his elbows, still gasping. "Frog? Just--you--wait!" He grabbed for the departing doctor's pant leg -- to pull him back, not to pull them down as his typist would desperately want to.
Alas, his pants stay on, but House is abruptly staggering.
"Let go of me, you lunatic!" And there was a crack of the cane against knuckles. AHH! HE WAS GOING TO BE MOLESTED BY INSANE WIZARDS! "Where in the name of God and Law Enforcement is an orderly?!"
Barty wailed and clutched his hand now, rather than House's pantleg. He had been one of those rich snobs tutored at home before Hogwarts, so he had never been rapped across the knuckles with a ruler, much less a cane. Now, he had suffered Cruciatus at the hands of his lord once or twice, but that was years ago, and this was a new kind of pain. "AAAGGGHHH! Somebody help me!"
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 of the Rings. I should work out the Tolkien prose in a couple poses. :) ))
Reply
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!
Reply
Reply
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?"
Reply
Reply
But Barty made the mistake of grabbing the cane. Five years, and did you really think that nobody's done it? House's leg might've been shit, but his arms were perfectly strong. He grabbed on, twisting the handle between his fingers to snap it up into his other hand. Sure, Barty had a hand on the cane, but--
House had two.
He snapped sharply out, to try and bury the straight end with it's rubber gripper into a kidney, face twisted up with irritation.
"Back off. I've got a cane and I know how to use it!"
Reply
"You're a withered old Muggle!" Barty barked at the very sexily weathered doctor. "Least--wizards--know--how--" But Barty was thirty-three, and between Azkaban, his father's shackles, and walking around on Moody's peg leg, he had not had proper exercise since he was nineteen, and so he was losing the fight. Especially when the tip of the cane connected not with his kidney but his stomach -- possibly liver. Barty was not a doctor, after all. He groaned and let go.
Reply
Yanking his cane back, he stagger a little getting himself righted. Then the cane found the ground again and he looked at the groaning wand-waving whackjob.
"Now go-- -- turn someone else into a frog, you nutter."
And he turned to leave the once-mighty Death Eater to lay where he fell.
Reply
He dragged himself up to his elbows, still gasping. "Frog? Just--you--wait!" He grabbed for the departing doctor's pant leg -- to pull him back, not to pull them down as his typist would desperately want to.
Reply
"Let go of me, you lunatic!" And there was a crack of the cane against knuckles. AHH! HE WAS GOING TO BE MOLESTED BY INSANE WIZARDS! "Where in the name of God and Law Enforcement is an orderly?!"
Reply
Reply
That was rich! House shook out his foot and straightened his pantleg. "Good lord."
Then? He hobbled faster. He really could get good time when he wanted, and leaving behind a raving looney seemed ilke a fantastic reason for haste.
Reply
Barty whimpered. It wasn't fair. He was dead. The pleasures and potentials of the body were past him, but not the pain. Bleepity-bloppity-blue.
Reply
The doctor was also beyond him -- moving at a rapid pace down the hall. It was time to hide in his room.
Purgatory-- HAH! This was prison.
Reply
Leave a comment