manwithstyle | (no subject)

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bartemius

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The Clothing Box was a small matter of legend upon the Isle of Tabula Rasa. Indeed, to hear the story told, one could be forgiven if they assumed that the Clothing Box was a rather sadistic beast, complete with teeth and, possibly, glitter. In reality, however, it was small and innocuous. In fact, it was just a box, although it did reside on one of the lower levels which was cause for some suspicion in itself.

Albus did not much like the lower levels of the Compound and he avoided them whenever he could. Unfortunately, today was not one of those days. He'd been stranded for a few weeks now and his clothing was becoming frayed from repeated wearings. It was time, he knew, that he visited the box and began rebuilding his wardrobe in earnest.

When he entered the laundry room, he could feel the magic immediately. It was a different magic from that which he was accustomed but it was there; the hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he smiled a wide genuine smile. Perhaps this wouldn't be as dreadful of an experience as he'd initially thought.

By the third dress, however, this opinion was thoroughly challenged. Frowning, he pulled out his wand and poked at the contents. Nothing happened, of course.

He sighed. "Toffee?" he asked the box warily.

Its only response was another dress.

"I thought not."

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Barty was in the compound for other reasons, but he needed to wash two of the three shirts he now had in his possession anyway. He paused at the foot of the stairs and watched Albus bemusedly.

"I assume it's not cooperating."

Albus turned at the sound of the voice and was pleased to find it belonged to Bartemius and not a stranger.

"You are correct in your assumption," he replied.

"I frequently am," Barty said with an easy grin. He padded across the room to the washing machine and reproachfully opened it.

"What's it been offering you?"

Albus used his wand to hook the straps of a red, sequined dress and he lifted it to show Bartemius. "Dresses," he said in a pleasant sort of voice, the same kind one might use to describe a sunny day.

Barty spent a moment staring, and then laughed.

"That's bad," he said with sympathy, throwing his shirts into the washer. "It usually offers me horrifically ugly things, but at least they're gender appropriate."

"I do think I would prefer your ugly things," he said, pushing the straps off of his wand before he began poking at the contents again. "Although there is something to be said about the freedom of robes, I would rather not recreate the sensation with the clothing of a Muggle woman."

"A muggle woman of the night, no less," Barty said. Something about sequins screamed 'prostitute'. It couldn't be helped.

"Have you threatened to set it on fire yet? Sometimes that yields results."

"Incendio was at the tip of my tongue, yes," said Albus with a small smile. Surprisingly, the smile did not flicker when he'd picked up yet another dress, this time a black lacy number. "Not that it would work, of course." He discarded the dress and returned to the box. "Still, I might hope."

"It's rather like the staircases back at school," Barty mused, shooting the washing machine a dirty look as he closed its lid and started it.

"Though it rarely leads anywhere interesting by mistake, or at least contrary intention. "

"I do wonder; are all Muggle inventions so noisy?" he asked curiously, gesturing to the washing machine with his free hand.

"So far?" Barty said flatly, "yes. Noisy and painfully slow." He moved over to drop to an effortless crouch beside Albus, looking at the clothes box with a sort of nonplussed expression, then stuck his arm in it to the elbow.

"Pity," said Albus shaking his head ever so slightly. He looked at Bartemius, eyes trailing along his face as they followed the curve of his neck to finally rest upon the arm he'd plunged into the box. "Any luck?" he asked.

"I can't tell what fiber the material I'm touching is, so probably not." He pulled out a horrendously paisley green, gold cream long sleeved polyester shirt with an extremely broad, pointed collar.

"And the opposition wonders why muggles are such a problem," he mumbled.

Albus' lips quirked into a smile at the shirt. It was, he thought, an interesting colour combination. He returned his attention to the box, taking Bartemius' lead as he dug deep into the sea of atrociously inappropriate clothes. "Speaking of opposition," he said lightly, "I've heard a most fascinating tale since we last met."

"Oh, dear," Barty said, not sounding particularly troubled, "from whom?"

The list of people who could have telling Albus tales was literally endless, since not only where people from home on the island, but people who had read those miserable books.

"One Regulus Black" said Albus pulling out a floor-length gown and discarding it unceremoniously on the floor. "According to his account, I defeated Gellert Grindelwald in what I can only assume was a rather spectacular duel in the year of 1945."

"It was certainly one for the history books," Barty sighed with an edge that could have been mistaken for wistful, if it hadn't been coming from Barty.

"It changed the nature of the wizarding world and turned the tide of two wars, forgive the alliteration. I am not wholly unsurprised it is regulus who would have told you that," he added. Regulus was a bit of an idiot, in certain areas.

Albus' smile returned, though, to be honest, it was never that far to begin with. "You seem irritated," he remarked casually.

"I think disclosing the future without considering the consequences, as I'm sure Regulus did, is a foolish thing to do. No one who's disappeared from and come back to this place- because apparently, that's happened- has ever remembered their time here, but that doesn't mean that in some world somewhere, you don't go back home and become a completely different person because you spend all your time anticipating that duel. If you had asked me about your future," he continued with the faintest of shrugs, "I would have told you whatever details I knew, but you did not, and the most I felt capable of disclosing was your future position as headmaster. The Dumbledore I have known is a man over a hundred years of age. You've quite a ways to go, yet, until you reach that point and what right or business is it of mine to tell you the story of your life?"

He sat back, drawing a long, creme colored tunic with him, exceptionally thin linen with a knotty sort of look as though it were emulating raw silk. Certainly not a fine garment, but passable. He offered it over to Albus.

His mind was reeling with questions; this was the first sort of confirmation that he'd had that this duel had actually taken place. And yet he did not want to cede power to Bartemius. If Albus appeared to be dependent on his information, it would change the dynamic. He would prefer, he knew, a relationship based on reciprocity. Tit for tat, if you will.

"Then you are wiser than young Regulus," said Albus taking the tunic with a grateful nod and setting it aside. "Of course," he added, eyes sparkling with amusement,"that much was apparent from our first conversation."

"Regulus is a quintessential Black. His world centers around his emotional state and he dictates his behavior accordingly." Barty absently pushed his sleeves up about his elbows, and starting idly rifling through the box.

"He was a follower of the Dark Lord as well, but... was ill suited to becoming a soldier for a cause," he said without disdain or judgement, just careful consideration. He flashed Albus an appreciative sort of grin.

"I thank my Ravenclaw alma mater for my common sense and wisdom," he said with a laugh. "Or perhaps it's the other way around."

Albus was only half-listening; instead of replying he made an absent yet thoughtful sort of noise at the appropriate interval. He was distracted, you see, by the sudden reveal of Bartemius' arms. There, on the inside of his forearm, was a most unusual tattoo: a skull with a snake protruding its mouth. Though he had seen nothing like it before, he suspected that there was something significant about it. After all, it was hardly normal behaviour for the son of an established Wizarding family to mar their skin with the ink of gypsies and sailors. Which would, of course, mean something far more interesting. And, arguably, far more sinister.

"He marks you?"

"It's a marker of worth," Barty explained, voice turning almost gentle, smiling slightly but neither looking to nor touching the mark.

"The Dark Mark is many things. It's a communication tool, it's a sign of competence, it's a tracking device. Here, of course, it's-" he stifled a sigh, looking back at the box.

"Well, it's a rather impressive tattoo, I suppose."

It would have been rude to tell Bartemius what he really thought of the tattoo, namely that it was a barbaric symbol unbefitting of his status, and so he opted for stating a fact instead.

"The Muggles did something similar," remarked Albus conversationally as he pulled out a pair of grey trousers. "Ah! Perhaps my luck is changing."

"Muggles had tattoos that moved under their flesh and spoke to the bearer?" Barty said with a biting sort of dryness, lifting one eyebrow, but he blinked at the trousers.

"...Bugger," he said plainly, enunciating it very well, "those are better than anything I've fished out."