A Certain Sign of Madness
Title: A Certain Sign of Madness
Fandom: Harry Potter
Character/Pairing: Gabriel Mulciber
Rating: PG
Other: Apparently, Antonin has nothing better to do at Mulciber's house than to watch forks dance. Nubes beata amo. Et toi? Used for the June 8th theme (that transforming laughter) for 30_hath.
It was Dolohov’s laughter that first distracted his thoughts. Mulciber had been reading, scratching notes in the margins and on a scroll when the laughter jarred him. For several moments he could only glower at empty space in confusion, shaken unexplainably from deep concentration. Even once he had realized where he was, Mulciber was plagued by the question of how he had been shaken. Very little could disturb him so, and this became doubly true when he engrossed himself in research.
Then it came again. Cold, shaky, almost jittery and somehow reaching at him, clutching his throat. Could that possibly be laughter? It seemed something else, something less definable in fragile imbalance, and yet he recognized Antonin’s laughter well. Even so distorted, it was unmistakable, and it was coming for him. No, not for. Toward. Mulciber found to his disgust that he almost flinched at the thought of meeting this laughter and berated himself immediately.
Antonin’s grinning face soon followed his laughter; at least the laughter hadn’t freed itself entirely from the man. He appeared much the same as ever, eyes flickering in the customarily unsettled manner, skin pallid, body carried with a slight limp. Yet the flicker seemed enhanced somehow, or perhaps the laughter had only shaken him.
“Good evening, Dolohov.”
“Your forks were dancing, Gabriel.” The man continued to grin, though he looked somewhat disconcerted. “But they were dancing alone and-Gabriel, why do you have forks? They don’t dance very well, and they could stand to be polished.”
It was nothing out of the ordinary for Dolohov. Mulciber didn’t have to remind himself twice of this, and yet the laughter continued to play through his mind even after he had ushered Dolohov away with a promise to have the silver polished. He had heard that laughter countless times, yet he realized now that something had changed through Azkaban. The stay had changed something, perhaps pushed Dolohov further toward his ever-oncoming edge.
If the phenomenon had occurred only in Dolohov, Mulciber might have been able to return to the book’s intrigues. As it was, he continued to sit entirely still, finger marking his current page in the book, eyes elsewhere, mind far removed. He was a man little accustomed to voices ringing in his ears, and the sudden onslaught of remembered laughter echoed uninvited. Several minutes’ time spent in silence did nothing to chase the sounds away.
Each voice belonged to a face, and each face had changed. He had seen them before entering and upon their escape, and Mulciber trusted the soundness of his mind to speak truly. Their faces had changed, become more worn, and had-in many cases-taken some reflection of that unsettled motion that had always flitted through Antonin’s eyes. What was more, they had laughed, if unknowingly. Whether while fleeing their cells or murdering afterward, perhaps even during the flight from that accursed island, their laughter had seemed decidedly inhuman.
Azkaban had done this, of course. Years of darkness and fear, of the chill that came with dementors and the lonely evenings for those who had previously embraced companionship. A sudden exposure to light and former comrades could not overcome the wounds that many had harbored for so long.
Those ones had left Azkaban more shakily than they would be wont to admit. To speak truly, Dolohov would admit the case if he knew of it; the man most likely had little if any idea of the fact, however. He had been destined for such madness from the beginning, however. What of the others? He had never heard such an abandoned laugh from Rookwood, and felt certain that Avery had never seemed so ardent. The Lestrange woman had never been the most controlled individual. A new edge to her laughter bespoke a still more broken control. Even Jugson, who scarcely opened his mouth, had laughed nervously and then unstoppably, a poor sign. These developments pointed unmistakably to a growing instability and an inevitably bleak future.
Not for the first time, Mulciber approved the rarity and restraint of his own dry laughter.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Character/Pairing: Gabriel Mulciber
Rating: PG
Other: Apparently, Antonin has nothing better to do at Mulciber's house than to watch forks dance. Nubes beata amo. Et toi? Used for the June 8th theme (that transforming laughter) for 30_hath.
It was Dolohov’s laughter that first distracted his thoughts. Mulciber had been reading, scratching notes in the margins and on a scroll when the laughter jarred him. For several moments he could only glower at empty space in confusion, shaken unexplainably from deep concentration. Even once he had realized where he was, Mulciber was plagued by the question of how he had been shaken. Very little could disturb him so, and this became doubly true when he engrossed himself in research.
Then it came again. Cold, shaky, almost jittery and somehow reaching at him, clutching his throat. Could that possibly be laughter? It seemed something else, something less definable in fragile imbalance, and yet he recognized Antonin’s laughter well. Even so distorted, it was unmistakable, and it was coming for him. No, not for. Toward. Mulciber found to his disgust that he almost flinched at the thought of meeting this laughter and berated himself immediately.
Antonin’s grinning face soon followed his laughter; at least the laughter hadn’t freed itself entirely from the man. He appeared much the same as ever, eyes flickering in the customarily unsettled manner, skin pallid, body carried with a slight limp. Yet the flicker seemed enhanced somehow, or perhaps the laughter had only shaken him.
“Good evening, Dolohov.”
“Your forks were dancing, Gabriel.” The man continued to grin, though he looked somewhat disconcerted. “But they were dancing alone and-Gabriel, why do you have forks? They don’t dance very well, and they could stand to be polished.”
It was nothing out of the ordinary for Dolohov. Mulciber didn’t have to remind himself twice of this, and yet the laughter continued to play through his mind even after he had ushered Dolohov away with a promise to have the silver polished. He had heard that laughter countless times, yet he realized now that something had changed through Azkaban. The stay had changed something, perhaps pushed Dolohov further toward his ever-oncoming edge.
If the phenomenon had occurred only in Dolohov, Mulciber might have been able to return to the book’s intrigues. As it was, he continued to sit entirely still, finger marking his current page in the book, eyes elsewhere, mind far removed. He was a man little accustomed to voices ringing in his ears, and the sudden onslaught of remembered laughter echoed uninvited. Several minutes’ time spent in silence did nothing to chase the sounds away.
Each voice belonged to a face, and each face had changed. He had seen them before entering and upon their escape, and Mulciber trusted the soundness of his mind to speak truly. Their faces had changed, become more worn, and had-in many cases-taken some reflection of that unsettled motion that had always flitted through Antonin’s eyes. What was more, they had laughed, if unknowingly. Whether while fleeing their cells or murdering afterward, perhaps even during the flight from that accursed island, their laughter had seemed decidedly inhuman.
Azkaban had done this, of course. Years of darkness and fear, of the chill that came with dementors and the lonely evenings for those who had previously embraced companionship. A sudden exposure to light and former comrades could not overcome the wounds that many had harbored for so long.
Those ones had left Azkaban more shakily than they would be wont to admit. To speak truly, Dolohov would admit the case if he knew of it; the man most likely had little if any idea of the fact, however. He had been destined for such madness from the beginning, however. What of the others? He had never heard such an abandoned laugh from Rookwood, and felt certain that Avery had never seemed so ardent. The Lestrange woman had never been the most controlled individual. A new edge to her laughter bespoke a still more broken control. Even Jugson, who scarcely opened his mouth, had laughed nervously and then unstoppably, a poor sign. These developments pointed unmistakably to a growing instability and an inevitably bleak future.
Not for the first time, Mulciber approved the rarity and restraint of his own dry laughter.