FICLET: Parties (Severus/Barty Jr.)
Oct. 12th, 2007 01:22 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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rarepair_shortsTitle: Parties
Character Pairing: Severus Snape/Barty Crouch, Jr.
Prompt: "stranger in a strange land"
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 881
Summary: "Barty’s not a very social being, and he never really has been."
Author's Notes: The only real issues are mild language, angst, and that I may have done creative math in figuring out Bellatrix and Andromeda's ages.
Link to Prompt Table: Link!
Barty’s not a very social being, and he never really has been. It’s just so difficult, getting on with people. He lacks the same temperament as Regulus – the charming, debonair snobbery that seems like it should be so common in their elite circles – the darling indiscretion that’s praised as “being forward,” or “having a strong sense of self,” or whatever other euphemism have circulated and will continue to do so. Even Rabastan’s patterns of behaviour would be improvements. True enough, it’s hard to take him seriously. He jokes frequently and about most things; he avoids tension at all costs, even his dignity; he purposefully got smashed at his brother’s wedding reception this past summer, with the intent of being less inhibited than usual.
It worked, that plan of his. But instead of getting him to dance on tables or whatever else he’d had in mind, he started brooding. Regulus took it upon himself to ignore the situation and pick a fight with his own brother, and so Barty was the one going into the corner, the one making sure that Rab (and all the liquor having its way with Rab’s system) was as good as could be expected.
“’mfine,” he muttered darkly, smacking Barty’s hand away. “Perfect.”
“No, you’re not,” Barty insisted. He forced his hand through, shoving Rab’s black hair aside to get a better look at him; he was so far from fine that it wasn’t funny. “C’mon. Let’s go up to Regulus’s room. Get away from the noise.”
Rab smacked his hand away again, positively whimpering, “Fuck it all.”
“Rab-”
“It’s not fair!” he choked out, sniffling. His bleary eyes were desperate, wild. “’dolphus gets his Black sister and what’do I get? ‘Sorry, Rab, yours turned Blood Traitor and ran off with a fucking Mudblood! She’s having his kid! Could have Lestrange heirs, but NO! She wants to have a mutant little Halfblood freak with her disgusting! Mudblood!” He paused, his lips trembling with the last word as though it were to unholy to utter. Finally, in a small voice, he managed it: “…Husband…”
His voice had the same sound as breaking glass. It occurred to Barty then that, despite Pureblood tradition, Rabastan really loved Andromeda, in an even more old-fashioned sense. Courtly love, true love, poetry-writing love – everything that women claim to want, and the poor lad never had a chance. That realized, Barty just sat down and poured himself a drink, which he had slowly. Then again, he never had been good with big, spontaneous displays of emotion. The side effect of living in a cloister, he supposes now. The only thing that saves the situation for him is that, as Mum constantly reminds him, it isn’t his fault that he’s delicate. He has her constitution after all, so there’s no telling when he might get ill or why; as a child, he simply needed to be protected.
At least the saving grace of everything is that the incident with Rab was just one of many disappointing incidents with parties. Barty’s hated them since he got inexplicably sick to his stomach at one of his father’s well-to-do Ministry official parties when he was six. He vomited in the privacy of the loo, and then promptly returned to the party, where he promptly insisted that he was fine and passed out into Mum’s arms in the same breath. Other incidents, similar or worse in nature, are commonplace; he just doesn’t talk about them now, nor does he turn them into spectacles. He’s fourteen. He knows better.
Slughorn’s parties up at school are nominally better, at least they always have been. This year, though, Barty hates going to them as well. He’ll try to find any excuse to get out of them. Any excuse. Moving Quidditch practice doesn’t work, since Macnair is vile, disgusting, and doesn’t seem to think that his strategist is important, just because he doesn’t play. He’s just the strategist; they can trounce Potter’s team without him.
Barty doesn’t even know what’s wrong, which makes things that much worse. All he knows is that somehow, Severus is involved. The Prefect’s badge Slughorn keeps promising him for next year means nothing as soon as Severus enters any room. Nothing means anything then. They’re odd friends, or so says everyone, and they know it well – which just means that the pink and glowing feeling that the older boy puts into Barty’s chest must be odder still. It has to be. There are names for blokes who get pink and glowing over other blokes, and Bartemius Hallam Crouch, Junior, is forbidden to be one of them.
Worse, though, is the feeling that comes anytime Barty sees Severus with Evans. Brainy, beautiful, Mudblood Evans, with her red hair, green eyes, perfect smile, and Gryffindor Prefect’s badge. She’s about the only reason why Barty doesn’t want a badge of his own. Getting the badge means dealing with the audacious little bint who ruined his chances before he’d considered their potential existence.
Or maybe, he considers, watching another party he couldn’t get out of from one of Slughorn’s corner chairs. Maybe he never really had chances to begin with, and, like Rab with Andromeda, seeing so took a Mudblood. At least, though, Barty has the good sense to not get drunk.
Character Pairing: Severus Snape/Barty Crouch, Jr.
Prompt: "stranger in a strange land"
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 881
Summary: "Barty’s not a very social being, and he never really has been."
Author's Notes: The only real issues are mild language, angst, and that I may have done creative math in figuring out Bellatrix and Andromeda's ages.
Link to Prompt Table: Link!
Barty’s not a very social being, and he never really has been. It’s just so difficult, getting on with people. He lacks the same temperament as Regulus – the charming, debonair snobbery that seems like it should be so common in their elite circles – the darling indiscretion that’s praised as “being forward,” or “having a strong sense of self,” or whatever other euphemism have circulated and will continue to do so. Even Rabastan’s patterns of behaviour would be improvements. True enough, it’s hard to take him seriously. He jokes frequently and about most things; he avoids tension at all costs, even his dignity; he purposefully got smashed at his brother’s wedding reception this past summer, with the intent of being less inhibited than usual.
It worked, that plan of his. But instead of getting him to dance on tables or whatever else he’d had in mind, he started brooding. Regulus took it upon himself to ignore the situation and pick a fight with his own brother, and so Barty was the one going into the corner, the one making sure that Rab (and all the liquor having its way with Rab’s system) was as good as could be expected.
“’mfine,” he muttered darkly, smacking Barty’s hand away. “Perfect.”
“No, you’re not,” Barty insisted. He forced his hand through, shoving Rab’s black hair aside to get a better look at him; he was so far from fine that it wasn’t funny. “C’mon. Let’s go up to Regulus’s room. Get away from the noise.”
Rab smacked his hand away again, positively whimpering, “Fuck it all.”
“Rab-”
“It’s not fair!” he choked out, sniffling. His bleary eyes were desperate, wild. “’dolphus gets his Black sister and what’do I get? ‘Sorry, Rab, yours turned Blood Traitor and ran off with a fucking Mudblood! She’s having his kid! Could have Lestrange heirs, but NO! She wants to have a mutant little Halfblood freak with her disgusting! Mudblood!” He paused, his lips trembling with the last word as though it were to unholy to utter. Finally, in a small voice, he managed it: “…Husband…”
His voice had the same sound as breaking glass. It occurred to Barty then that, despite Pureblood tradition, Rabastan really loved Andromeda, in an even more old-fashioned sense. Courtly love, true love, poetry-writing love – everything that women claim to want, and the poor lad never had a chance. That realized, Barty just sat down and poured himself a drink, which he had slowly. Then again, he never had been good with big, spontaneous displays of emotion. The side effect of living in a cloister, he supposes now. The only thing that saves the situation for him is that, as Mum constantly reminds him, it isn’t his fault that he’s delicate. He has her constitution after all, so there’s no telling when he might get ill or why; as a child, he simply needed to be protected.
At least the saving grace of everything is that the incident with Rab was just one of many disappointing incidents with parties. Barty’s hated them since he got inexplicably sick to his stomach at one of his father’s well-to-do Ministry official parties when he was six. He vomited in the privacy of the loo, and then promptly returned to the party, where he promptly insisted that he was fine and passed out into Mum’s arms in the same breath. Other incidents, similar or worse in nature, are commonplace; he just doesn’t talk about them now, nor does he turn them into spectacles. He’s fourteen. He knows better.
Slughorn’s parties up at school are nominally better, at least they always have been. This year, though, Barty hates going to them as well. He’ll try to find any excuse to get out of them. Any excuse. Moving Quidditch practice doesn’t work, since Macnair is vile, disgusting, and doesn’t seem to think that his strategist is important, just because he doesn’t play. He’s just the strategist; they can trounce Potter’s team without him.
Barty doesn’t even know what’s wrong, which makes things that much worse. All he knows is that somehow, Severus is involved. The Prefect’s badge Slughorn keeps promising him for next year means nothing as soon as Severus enters any room. Nothing means anything then. They’re odd friends, or so says everyone, and they know it well – which just means that the pink and glowing feeling that the older boy puts into Barty’s chest must be odder still. It has to be. There are names for blokes who get pink and glowing over other blokes, and Bartemius Hallam Crouch, Junior, is forbidden to be one of them.
Worse, though, is the feeling that comes anytime Barty sees Severus with Evans. Brainy, beautiful, Mudblood Evans, with her red hair, green eyes, perfect smile, and Gryffindor Prefect’s badge. She’s about the only reason why Barty doesn’t want a badge of his own. Getting the badge means dealing with the audacious little bint who ruined his chances before he’d considered their potential existence.
Or maybe, he considers, watching another party he couldn’t get out of from one of Slughorn’s corner chairs. Maybe he never really had chances to begin with, and, like Rab with Andromeda, seeing so took a Mudblood. At least, though, Barty has the good sense to not get drunk.
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