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Dinner Party
It's not as if Barty Crouch Jr. isn't good at making small-talk. It's not as if he can't network, can't win people over easily when he puts his mind to it. It's not as if he and his father have nothing in common.
It is however true that his father was adamant about not seeing any of his son's qualities, especially when they were his own, as good. It is true that Barty rather stays in the shadows than mingling under his father's suspicious eyes.
The war is in full swing, everyone suspects treason everywhere. Barty has the urge to shout it out, lift his sleeve and flash the dark mark. See his father crumble when he realizes that it's worse than he ever feared.
But he's not risking what worth he could have for his Lord for petty revenge. He'd have his revenge, he'd hear him scream, see him die. All in due time. For now, he just has to endure, leaning against a wall in his own house and feeling like an intruder, just waiting until he can excuse himself and leave.
It is however true that his father was adamant about not seeing any of his son's qualities, especially when they were his own, as good. It is true that Barty rather stays in the shadows than mingling under his father's suspicious eyes.
The war is in full swing, everyone suspects treason everywhere. Barty has the urge to shout it out, lift his sleeve and flash the dark mark. See his father crumble when he realizes that it's worse than he ever feared.
But he's not risking what worth he could have for his Lord for petty revenge. He'd have his revenge, he'd hear him scream, see him die. All in due time. For now, he just has to endure, leaning against a wall in his own house and feeling like an intruder, just waiting until he can excuse himself and leave.
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It was only a matter of time before this happened; Dawlish has a mind for politics and a talent for diplomacy, instincts tuned to manipulation of any given situation. What nature had not supplied, he had picked up from his family, observing their movements and heeding their heeded discussions.
Still, this first foray of his own is, truth be told, a little overwhelming, and gives Dawlish more of an earnest thrill than he'll ever confess. He keeps his expression still, demeanor controlled and deferential. Being among the newest of Ministry recruits, he must play the role. Bow, keep his own speech to a minimum, gape in awe at tales of older Aurors. Shower Crouch's wife with compliments, even if she is a sour-looking creature. Express concerns regarding the war, voice faith that it will soon be ended. And so on, and so on.
He had begun the evening by ingratiating himself with the necessary figures, quite enjoying the uncertainty of navigating their personalities, but now he desires something a bit different and extricates himself from a conversation with the Longbottoms. They're a well-regarded pair, to be sure, relentless in pursuit of the cause. Dawlish supposes he ought to be grateful that they've given him the time of day, but - and here's the rub! - they're so frightfully dull.
Moving along, he scans the small crowd for something that might require a little less repression, something more uncertain, unstable, less—
Oh, there. There, that's wonderful.
Lip curling into a slight smirk, Dawlish makes his way toward a... Call it, him an old schoolmate. Lurking in the shadows as might be expected, the awkward child with a darkened eye and a sizable chip on his shoulder. This could be rather enjoyable.
"Barty! It's been too long."
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But even so, he blended in well enough, was hardly noticed. He watched and learned, saw who talked to who, heard more than people thought he did. It might be worth nothing, but it might also be something useful for the cause.
He had taken note of Dawlish before, but then ignored him without much effort. Now though the man seemed intent on making that impossible. How like him. What a nuisance, what a tool.
"Really? Doesn't seem long enough." His tone was polite enough, even as the words were not. That he then turned his back on the other as if someone else had caught his attention even though there was no one here was decidedly impolite however.
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"We've not had a single word of the esteemed Mr. Crouch - beg pardon, of Mr. Crouch, Junior - since your departure. We thought you might have whisked yourself away to Brazil, or perhaps Tibet. Wondered whether you had buried yourself in a cavern of abstruse tomes, or whether you yet walked among the living, at all!" He had indeed been something of a conversation topic for a while, though most of the speculation had revolved around whether he'd run off with his mum or been at last locked away by his father.
"You must understand what a pleasure it is to see you alive and well. How lucky that your father released you from the dungeon for the occasion!" So saying, he reaches out to clap Barty on the arm.
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Locked up. Oh, it wasn't so far from the truth, not that he let him, but he knew well that his father wanted to. There was no career in the ministry for him, because there was no career without his father's say-so these days and he'd not have that. The opposite of nepotism and if it hadn't been for his Lord and nobler goals, it would have bothered him more.
"I don't recall being familiar enough with you to invite touching." Nor did he plan on becoming more familiar. "I'm alive, as you can see. Thank you for your concern."
There was no smile, but his eyes darted past Dawlish for a moment. He thought of the lives he had taken already and he thought of killing him. It made him feel calmer. "Go on now. There are plenty of boots that need licking."
His own tongue moved quickly wetting his lower lip.
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"Boot-licking wears out the tongue if you don't take care. In a fit of enthusiasm, I once injured it most grievously, couldn't speak - let alone properly pay homage - for a week. There's an art to the practice, Barty. Shall I teach you?"
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He shrugged and let go of him, wiping his hand on his shirt. "I have taste."
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"Taste. The recourse of the unadventurous." He offers a lazy shrug, glancing around the room in a brief scan. Nothing to be noted save the monotony of careful interactions and the movement of a few key figures, but he'll be able to catch them and perform his routine soon enough. Part of the key to these gatherings is in taking it slow, making certain not to be the over-eager puppy rushing at the first appearance of every noteworthy guest. "To each his own.
"You've been free to pursue your interests, then?"
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They wouldn't be loyal when push came to shove, Barty knew, but he would be. Only a question of time and eventually his Lord would take notice.
"Free enough, when I don't have to stand for company like yours."
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"How harshly you judge! We cannot all match your austerity, Mister Crouch. Indeed, in all of my various encounters - and I have had, oh, so many - I have met only one who stands with you on the precipice called inflexibility." Not entirely true, but that was no matter.
"But then, we all know how closely you take after your father. It's touching, really."
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"My father's a politician." It might well have been an insult. "He's flexible in everything, from loyalties to principles. You should know all about that. Now there are similarities. I'm sure you're proud."