standsonhigh | There's nothing here but what here's mine.

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psl: barty

There's nothing here but what here's mine.

This wasn't, exactly, how he had planned his return. He had expected to be on home turf, a place he understood and wanted to be. Surrounded by worshippers and already plotting. Not here with some strange man using the power he gave specifically to his followers to bring him back. The books of Saxon weren't meant to be public knowledge, they were his private notes, and yet this man decided to drag him into a world he didn't want to be in.

The Master always had a funny feeling that magic wasn't something he should of ever tried to toy with because as it stood, he didn't like where this was going. It defied the logic he knew.

Voldemort was a strange creature, a very unpleasant one at that. He looked sickly and his eyes were red like an albino. Still, he didn't say much on it, he'd looked worse himself and damages were just a sign of ambition and desire. It always took everything out of you, especially with humans.

The drums were raging in his head as he followed Voldemort into this meeting he'd decided to attend. He'd only been back a few days and already he seemed to of captured the imagination of this tiny little creature who was all but eager to introduce him.

An ancient ruler from another reality must of been interesting.

He didn't walk behind Voldemort, he kept in step, not willing to seem a lesser. Hey, the dark lord brought him here. If he was going to play with this merry band of psychopaths, he wanted to seem equal.

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Barty's eyes were wide even before the Master forced the noise on him, just caught off-guard by the sudden proximity and the desperate edge to the Master's intensity. But he did catch onto it, as much as he could. This was important, very important. He had touched upon it before, when he'd forced himself into the Master's mind and now...

Now all his own thoughts stopped, drowned out by the drums. His head exploded with them, his world moved with them and he screamed, finally, he was sure he screamed, he cried and he laughed and there was nothing but the drums and no way to escape. When he hit his head against the pipe, trying to get away, as if that could happen, some awareness came back to him.

With that awareness came an instinct and he pulled up the shields. Shields? Hardly. Against this, they were barely a veil, barely there. But it was something and under the beat, he could hear himself think again. He could even hear himself speak when he whispered in reply, minutes after the Master had spoken.

"I'm listening."

The Master had long since quietened down, sort of slumped forward, arms resting against Barty's shoulders as he leant against him, sharing the noise that was slowly but surely wrecking his existance. Some nights, he was too afraid to sleep, the idea of them ripping him apart from the inside and bursting his head open was a very real and possible fear. To him at least. But to be without them? Now that was even worse. He didn't know how to take silence, the moments when the drums went clear and he could think again. Really properly think.

Sometimes he truly believed his madness was the only thing keeping him together. Without it, he'd be horribly sane. And he doubted he could ever really cope with that kind of reality.

The Master lost himself in the moment, not really aware of anything but the drums till finally, Barty broke their shared moment with the words he'd longed to hear in the voice he'd wanted it to come from. With his eyes closed, it was so easy to believe it was him. His sad pathetic little fantasy. "I told you they're real. I wasn't just crazy, they're in my head and they're going to destroy me."

His eyes pried themselves open and he looked directly at Barty, his moment of desperation seemed to melt into a strange smile that didn't scream 'sane and together'. "And I love every moment of it."

After all, what would he be without them? They were his universe, his destiny and everything to him.

Told him... Oh. Barty realized that he was talking not to him, but the man, whoever it was, that looked like him. Now that was a chilling thought, made more so by the fact that he had no idea how the Master would take it when he realized that he wasn't him.

But those drums. He could still hear them and perhaps the Master's words made more sense to him than they would have made to many others. He was only human and he was young, very young, but he knew about insanity. He'd embraced it and he did his best to control it and he could hear the drums, he could, even if it took all his willpower to drown them out enough to make him capable of bearing the sound.

"I... I think I understand." Still, he couldn't be sure and he didn't sound sure, either.

The Master wasn't mad enough to really be able to believe this was who he wanted it to be but he had to admire how well Barty took it in his stride, trying to pretend he understood and knew what he was doing here. With a faint sigh, he finally pulled away, letting Barty cling to whatever tattered shreds of sanity he had left. The Master didn't have such a luxary.

Instead, he rolled off Barty and sat side by side with him, arms on his knees and head resting in his arms. It wasn't like he could do much else and the company was nice enough, even if he didn't feel overly social.

"You don't understand, you never could. You're a tiny little speck in the universe, you've barely lived and you're not long off death either. You don't understand the importance, the idea of carrying such a burden," the Master remarked, his tone laced with a sort of bitterness. Some people had it so easy. "Over a thousand years of this and I still don't know when it'll be over."

Barty just made a vague sound of agreement, because he didn't really know how to argue with this anyway. Especially not with his head still feeling as if it might just explode any moment, even from just the memory of feeling that beat in them. So he stayed silent, leaning against the wall and wondering what he was even doing here. Over a thousand years.

The Master definitely messed with everything he'd ever been told to believe. It went a long way toward making him feel insignificant, but even though he'd been feeling superior to most of his peers all his life, that wasn't a huge blow. He was ready to recognize someone else as greater, if they had earned it.

"You're right. I'm not long off death. Might be dying right now."

Might be a manipulative bastard, too.

"You're not dying, you just feel like shit. It happens after torture," the Master pointed out bluntly, giving Barty a look that clearly said he wasn't going to play that game with him. He did, however, pull free his screwdriver from his pocket and rather casually use it to unlock the one cuffed hand. Maybe he should of been more worried but he just wasn't.

If Barty attacked him, ran away or did something stupid then the Master would have him killed. He was in one of those moods where he just wanted everyone to get hurt and those were the worst times to try anything.

"You're going to live a few more years, amuse me and make the most out of your existence, then you'll probably die in battle," the Master predicted, finally turning his head to smirk at Barty. "Men like you always die in battle. It's fine, though, it's a good honour."

"It is a known side-effect," Barty conceded, then he stayed very still, because it wasn't as if he could predict just what the Master would do with that thing. But freeing him, now, that was perfectly acceptable. He held his breath, just in case, but did move to rub his wrists.

He wondered if the basement was warded against apparation. Perhaps something to try later, if he had a chance. If he had a reason and thought of a plan. For now he looked at the Master and shrugged, though he nodded as well.

"I don't expect do live long." He looked to the side, remembering Azkaban. "Dying in battle would be good enough." Better than alternatives he could think of.

The Master waited a few more moments before getting to his feet and dusting off his suit, trying to remove all the grime and the smell of this revolting basement. His head still hurt but the drums were calming, Barty seemed to of amused them enough to make them slow down and reduce volume.

As he climbed up the stairs, he paused and tugged open the door, looking back at Barty. He was getting to be a well trained animal, he'd barely made a move, looking like he couldn't quite read what was happening. Which was fair, tomorrow the Master might care more but today he was having an off mood.

And feeling strangely generous.

"I'm going to bed," the Master remarked casually. "Fancy coming?"

Barty frowned at the question, although after another moment he got up, one hand against the wall so he'd not just fall back over. He hadn't been able to get up the entire time down here, so it was no wonder that he needed the support.

"Sure," he replied, not sounding quite that casual. He automatically dusted his own clothes off, too, but obviously that endeavor wasn't very successful, given he'd been here for... He had no idea how long, but it certainly felt too long. He glanced up at the Master again, insecurity showing plainly for a few seconds before he managed to force a blank expression instead.

He headed up the stairs, still not feeling the most steady, mostly feeling malnourished, weak and as if he might just get kicked back down again. Well, what was life without risks.

Barty could barely keep upright and he moved somewhat like Bambi running after his mother. It was slightly embarrassing but he pretended it wasn't happening and kept moving. Well, he wasn't about to offer help, not unless he properly collapsed. Those were the only times he would help the Doctor on the Valiant and he was a crippled old man.

The hallway was dark and hard to see in, what with it being rather late. It was slowly becoming morning but the Master always did struggle to follow time. Human time changed so much and mattered so little to him, day and night were uninterested.

"Do you fancy a snack?" the Master asked as he made his way towards his bedroom. He thought he'd ask, just out of curiosity. Barty had been such a good boy lately, begging for mercy and stroking his master's ego. He deserved a reward. Well, he hardly wanted to seem like a total bastard of a leader. He could be warm and friendly... sometimes.

"...yes." What kind of a question was that? Sure, his jaw still hurt from never having been healed properly, but all he had eaten in days was half a chocolate bar.

He was actually walking almost normally by now though, his pride making him keep up posture and everything. He still tried to stay close to the wall, not wanting to risk collapsing. Not that there was all that much dignity left after crying, begging and shaking on the floor, but he did want to try and rebuild it. He didn't like the role of a broken pet.

"Hang on then," the Master said, pulling a small device out of his pocket and pressing a button in the middle. Oh yes, a super fancy slimlined walkie-talkie. He had to make one, going all the way to the kitchen to demand the house elves do things got a little old. And the 'death eaters' weren't much better at their jobs. "Master to kitchen, we need dinner. Nothing fancy, just food to eat. Now."

And he turned off the device just as someone was about to respond, making it clear they literally had one answer for him. Yes. No other was acceptable unless they were, well, dead or something.

Shoving his door open, he went inside and expected Barty to follow, dropping down on his bed with a tired sigh. "Shouldn't be long now. If they value their lives, anyway."

Barty frowned at the thing the Master talked into, mostly because he was trying to determine whether it was magical or not. Probably not, in which case, interesting. He hadn't known something like this could be done without magic. He had a lot to learn and that thought, while making him feel a little small, also gave him something to look forward to. Which was good for someone who'd been feeling so very morbid.

He did walk in through the door, but hovered close to it, not approaching the bed. Partly because he was aware of being filthy and that just messed with certain ingrained sensibilities. And partly because he wasn't actually sure what the Master expected from him.

"Thank you." He might have been more talkative hadn't each word still hurt like hell. "Nice place."

"Thanks."The Master lay back, legs spread out, fiddling with the remote control to his TV. He didn't care if 'muggles watched TV' as one of the Death Eaters had informed him, it was a nice little device and he did love the cartoon channel that played all hours. It had taken him a long time to locate one but he hadn't been willing to let anyone tell him he couldn't have something. Especially not some hopeless wizard.

The last Death Eater to argue with him was turned to dust rather publically. Soon shut everyone up. And got him a widescreen from a muggle store.

He didn't notice that Barty was hovering and he was about to insist he took a seat somewhere he realised just exactly how Barty looked. Revolting. He was so not touching his bed. "You can sit on the floor. Just try not to get it dirty," perhaps he should consider putting newspaper down. Or offering him a shower.

His eyes focused on the television immediately. Moving pictures he was used to and he wasn't completely ignorant to the Muggle world, either, but this was something else. He watched for a while, almost staring, before turning his attention back to the Master.

At his words, Barty looked down himself, then on the ground. After a moment, he shook his head. "I can only do one of the two, Master." There was also a definite limit to how long he could stand, but he didn't want to end up getting punished for something unavoidable without at least trying to get an argument in first.

The Master was watching Teletubbies, happily indulging in some mindless entertainment. As he did every night when bored and done torturing Barty. The volume shot up, mostly because the Master couldn't hear it very well over the drums, they had calmed but they were never quiet.

Turning his head at Barty's objected, he simply stared for a while. As if he wad debating what to do for this bold questioning of his order. Okay, it wasn't that bold but he was tempted to force Barty back into the basement, just to see the look on his face. But, instead, he opted to be 'nice'. He had to start convincing Barty he wasn't just brilliant but nice too, capable of having fun with. He did like a fun servant and killing the lads father had been amusing enough.

"Oh? Well, fine, take off your dirty clothes, throw them in the hallway then take a seat," Later he'd sort out that shower but right now, they were getting their tubby-toast and he loved this part.

Barty frowned at that order, but he had seen the staring and would rather not want to risk the Master debating whether to send him down again. He didn't need to read the man's mind to guess at that much, he could understand and follow that thought process just fine.

Besides, after what he'd done with the Master already, it seemed silly to hesitate over nudity. So he took off his clothes, just as he'd been ordered, and threw them out into the hallway, also just as ordered. Naked, he did hesitate for a moment. He knew these kind of mind games, but he was so not seeing himself in the role of being played. But as he was out of choices and as his legs were trembling, he walked just a few steps closer and ended up finally sitting on the ground next to the bed, staring at the screen in understandable bafflement.

What.

The Master didn't watch, he didn't have to, he knew Barty would do it. He was tired, hurting and probably still a little sick. He'd do whatever he had to for this freedom and the Master knew that. He turned his head when Barty was done, unable to not laugh. Not because he was naked but because he looked so baffled. Did wizards not get this sort of thing? What a sad life they lead. He'd grown up without any proper sort of TV and he'd always been relatively bitter over it. Hence him making up for it now.

"Kids TV is amazing," the Master remarked casually, head resting in his arms as he watched them make their custard now, all very happy about that weird goop they were putting into a very impractical bowl. "Look at that, televisions in their stomachs. It's ingenious! And they have such a simplistic lifestyle."

When the Teletubby asked what they were going to do next, the Master gleefully chimed in with. "More custard!"

Yes, this was the merciless torturer and murderous thousand year old alien. But hey, everyone had a whimsical side. This was his.

Barty was still staring wide-eyed at the television. So this was for children? He was trying to decide whether that made it better or worse. This was definitely a culture shock.

However, the Master's enjoyment of it was significantly less surprising to him than its existence. If he had known something like this existed, he would have guessed the Master would be just that obnoxious about it.

In the end, he actually had to smile slightly as he kept watching, but glanced at the Master every now and then. Teletubbies. What in Merlin's name.

"Educational."

The Master was beaming at the TV, clapping his hands every now and again, telling the idiot children off for answering things wrong and even 'awwing' when it actually all came to an end. By the time it was over, there was a knock at his door and the Master turned his head, raising an eyebrow. Ah, yes, he'd ordered food.

"Come in!" the Master called, eyes still on the TV as some poor little elf struggled to get a very large plate of food into the room. The Master completely ignored it in favour of checking what was on next, "It's very educational, I'm sure you've learned loads."

Like how to make a cardboard monster. And what to do with a scooter. And that no one messes with the tubby custard.

"Barty, use your manners," the Master finally said as he lazily flipped onto another kids channel to catch the tail end of the Clangers. "Help the elf, would you? It's your food."

By the time it was over, Barty was also almost passing out. Not that watching the Master watch Teletubbies wasn't actually quite entertaining, but his body wasn't really up for much of anything and his mind wasn't doing that much better.

However, he started when the Master talked to him, especially once he used his name. He gave a nod and tried not to be bothered by being naked in front of a house elf. There was something deeply humiliating about that bit, admittedly, especially given the meaning the elves had attached to clothing.

But he was hungry, very hungry, and so he did get up, only slightly wobbly, and got the plate. He didn't even bother going all the way back and he didn't bother waiting or asking for permission, either, because that could have meant it being denied and the thought of sitting close to a full plate of food without being allowed to eat for even a minute seemed like torture right now and he had quite enough of that.

He drank first, dehydrated as he was, then reached for whatever looked as if it didn't require much chewing. Table manners could wait for better times.

Well, there was nothing quite like a grubby naked man attacking a plate of food with little manners. It was such a sight, he couldn't help but watch this instead of his cartoons. Rolling onto his stomach, he lay on the opposite end of the bed so he could lie near Barty, reaching out to steal a bread roll. He hadn't eaten today either, the drums tended to make him feel sick. And it wasn't like Barty would be lacking.

He did steal another roll too, throwing it to the elf for his trouble. They were such beautiful little slaves, they did everything he asked. It was amazing, why didn't his universe have house elves? Still, while he was generous with the, he didn't quite manage manners, he simply gave it a harsh look and waved his hand. "Get out."

Attention back onto Barty, he snorted in amusement as he took a bite of his own snack, unable not to find his sight funny. "You definitely need a shower after this, you really do reek. And besides, it'd be nice to see that face under all the grime."

It was a good face, after all.

Barty didn't even care that he had apparently turned into the evening's entertainment. For one thing, what else was new and for another, he got to eat. Right now that seemed to be all that really mattered. He did slow down eventually though, mostly because his brain kicked him to remind him that he didn't want to end up throwing it all up again. Especially since he had no idea how long it might be until his next meal.

"I'd like a shower." Last time he'd felt this filthy had been in Azkaban and that was definitely not a happy memory. His face. Likely the thing that had kept him alive. Barty wasn't quite sure whether he should be grateful for that. "Although the face is bruised, too." Yes, that was some attempted manipulation again.

The Master finished his bread roll, stealing his glass of water to wash it down. He drank every last drop, not caring if Barty wanted more. Too late, he should of drank it faster. He was lucky the Master let him have either of those things in the first place, after trying to rush the stage during his grand finale to kill him. Had he gotten in the way, he might of actually saved Voldemort. That damn face is the only thing keeping him alive.

"You can have a shower," the Master said simply, rolling onto his back and looking up at the ceiling with a bright amused smile. "But the bruises can stay. I like them, they're pretty. Makes you quiet and pained."

Well, fuck you too. Barty wisely refrained from saying as much, although the thought showed on said bruised face very clearly while he finally sat back, finally feeling somewhat full. Not enough to drink, but, well. Showers had water, traditionally.

"Should I just..." He trailed off, because, yes, this did keep him quiet and vague hand gestures in the direction of the bathroom would do their job in this case as well. He had no idea what he was allowed to do, his role was suddenly not that clearly defined anymore. Prisoner down in the basement, the lines had been very clear. Not that he was complaining.

There's nothing here but what here's mine.

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