(no subject)

[manwithstyle]

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."

Comments

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"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.

[manwithstyle]

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."

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"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."

[manwithstyle]

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?"

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"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."

[manwithstyle]

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."

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"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."

[manwithstyle]

"Of course not," said Albus knowingly, letting the subject drop for the time being. He held out the trousers at arm's length and smiled before folding them and adding to the pile started with the tunic. "They will prove suitable, yes."

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

Barty leaned back slightly, wrapping his arms easily around his knees to keep his balance and looked Albus over for a moment before grinning, just slightly, just with the corners of his mouth.

"Eventually it's going to start giving you shiny checked material. Happens every time."

[manwithstyle]

"Shiny checked material?" he echoed with mock-surprise. "How dreadful." As if on cue he pulled out a robe in the very same offending material and he could not help but chuckle. He patted the box fondly and murmured, "How you do have a sense of humour."

He discarded the robe and turned to Bartemius. "And how has the Island kept you occupied as of late?" he asked.

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"It hasn't," Barty sighed, then added, "really. I read a lot and have a hut under construction. The rest of the time I daydream about finding whoever's responsible for my being trapped here and doing truly horrific things to them. For starters, making them wear this," he said, offering Albus a grin and poking the hideous fabric.

[manwithstyle]

"A hut," he said, intrigued. "And what unsuspecting Muggle did you employ for the task?" It was no question that he had commissioned someone to construct the hut for him, physical labour was not in the nature of wizards. At the latter, however, he matched Bartemius' grin with his own and laughed. "I agree; that would be fitting punishment."

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

Barty laughed a little, then settled back against the dryer.

"Julio Esteban Richter. He's... not exactly a muggle. He had powers before he came here. Not magic, but the ability to control the earth." He shrugged a little.

[manwithstyle]

Albus raised his eyebrows; if the Island was good for one thing it was introducing one to new kinds of magic and powers, even if those powers no longer worked. "An interesting ability, indeed," he said thoughtfully before he reached once more into the box. "Besides our fellow wizards, I've come across a rather fascinating mermaid and a most incomprehensible man named 'Stu'." The last word was said bemusedly, almost as if Albus could hardly believe that anyone could have such a name. "He gave me the rather unfortunate nickname of 'Al'," he added as he pulled out a pair of thick, woolly socks.

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

Barty made slightly choked sound, then barked a laugh, grinning broadly and absently dragging his thumb along the ridge of his eyebrow.

"That- I will never call you that, Albus."

[manwithstyle]

"Your cooperation in that matter is most appreciated, Bartemius," he replied evenly before he shook his head disbelievingly and laughed, the illusion of put-togetherness destroyed. "'Al', honestly."

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

Barty laughed again- or still, rather. "Well, perhaps it's some horrifying colloquial trait, to shorten names to a single syllable. Admittedly, most everyone calls me Barty, but at least that holds a kind of precedent."

[manwithstyle]

"Barty?" he repeated, testing the name and remaining silent for a moment as if giving the matter some thought. "I think I shall continue calling you Bartemius. I've never been one for nicknames. Even," he added, smiling genuinely, "ones with precedent."

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"By all means, do," Barty sighed, grinning, "I certainly don't object. Even my parents didn't call me Bartemius, so it's not as though I have any reason to dislike my full name."

[manwithstyle]

"It is a good name," decided Albus with the slightest of nods "Bartemius Crouch. It just fits nicely together, yes?"

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"Don't forget the 'junior'," Barty said with some mild derision, glancing off, along the bridge of his nose, eyes going heavily lidded for a moment.

"Bartemius Crouch Junior. It's almost insufferably auspicious, isn't it?"

[manwithstyle]

"It is," agreed Albus returning to the box. "I do believe it is some unwritten rule of our world to saddle children with very expensive sounding names. I am only grateful that mine had some sense of humour and threw in Brian for good measure." He smiled. "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore." He conducted each name in a sort of waltz-like tempo with his wand.

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"Was that born of a sense of humor?" Barty asked lightly, teasing. "I always assumed it was a family name."

[manwithstyle]

"Truth told, it is something of both," he admitted. "My dear uncle Brian was a shareholder of Zonko's Joke Shop and it was for him that I am named. However, he did have a rather unique sense of humour. Indeed, at my eighth birthday party he thought it would be good fun to throw me into our cooking cauldron. According to him, my legs so resembled those of a chicken that he mistook me for that evening's supper." He laughed without a trace of bitterness."He died during my third year"

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"...You know, I don't have any wacky uncles," Barty said thoughtfully. "And now I think that must be a shame, because I have neither a fun story nor an interesting middle name."