Betaed by MissingMommy, Always Padfoot, The Lady Rogue. Prompts at the bottom.
Barty felt them before he saw them. That unmistakable wave of ice-cold fear and pain washed over him, turning his hopes and dreams into nothing but a bad memory. For one terrifying moment, he thought himself back there. His eyes widened, and he felt his mouth open to scream, to cry, to plead – anything to avoid that dreaded place.
But then he reminded himself of the precautions he had taken. When the Dementor swept into the room, he stood his ground, though his teeth chattered involuntarily. Fudge had remained in the doorway, whereas Barty had clenched his jaw and sat up straight, refusing to let the Minister believe that he had won. And when the hood came down, and the end was nigh, Barty stared at the ceiling, refusing to shed any tears on this occasion. He would not look weak. He was no longer that eighteen year old boy, innocent in more ways than not.
This time, he was prepared.
Barty's father never came home, and when he did, all he did was brag about how the war was good for his career. I could be the next Minister for Magic before I turn thirty! His voice resounded in Barty's ears whenever he went to bed.
He was a smarmy politician, a dishonest hypocrite, someone who trounced family values, but never had the time of day for his wife or son.
Barty hated him.
The worst part, Barty thought, the worst part was that whatever he did, wherever he went, his father's shadow had already been cast. When he was made Prefect, everyone told him about his father's budding aversion to rule-breaking. When he got 12 O.W.L.s, everyone asked him whether he would join the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The only solace Barty had at school was when he was made Keeper for the Slytherin Quidditch team.
And that was when he met Rabastan.
Bright, vivacious Rabastan, who loved life, and loved the Dark Arts even more. Rabastan who, when Barty refused to use the Dark Arts, asked him why he would discriminate against one type of magic, when the others could be just as harmful. Rabastan, who delighted in creating traps for Aurors that allowed his brother and sister-in-law to get away unscathed. Rabastan, who introduced Barty to the Dark Lord.
Rabastan Lestrange threw the bag of Galleons into the portly old man's arms. Rodolphus had wanted to kill him, but Rabastan knew that stealth was the better option in this situation. Killing the man would only make them seem more suspicious.
And besides, he had already stolen the man's wand, laying on the counter as he walked in. It would take little more to clear the idiot's account at Gringotts if needed.
Suppressing a self-satisfied grin, the light from Rabastan's eyes died as he set eyes on what had once been one of his closest friends.
Barty was paler than ever, and though Rabastan knew they had all changed for the worse since Azkaban, Barty's eyes were dull and filmy, as if he were blind. His chin shone slightly with the drool the hospital hadn't bothered to wipe away yet. Worst of all were his clothes – filthy, as if he hadn't changed since the Kiss had been administered… and had never taken them off.
Rabastan's finger twitched towards his wand; it took all of his willpower not to act on instinct and Crucio the caretaker on the spot. For all of Dumbledore's professed nobility, he and his band of merry-goers hadn't the dignity to kill Barty, or at least have him properly cared for.
'Come on, Barty,' he whispered, unable to restrain the anger in his voice as he shifted the younger man's arm around his neck. 'I'll take care of you.'
Voldemort – Barty always used the Dark Lord's name, it was too meaningful, too powerful, to go to waste – never took on students as his prized Death Eaters, but he made an exception for Regulus Black, and he made an exception for Rabastan. His words spoke of a new era, where the best and brightest would help them usher in a new age, one where Muggleborns would learn their place and wizards would no longer have to cower like animals before the mundane Muggles. Barty couldn't care less about Muggleborns, but he hated the current Ministry with a burning passion, and that was enough for him.
Barty drank up Lord Voldemort's words, wondered at his magic and marvelled at his achievements. Later, when Voldemort looked into his mind and saw the shame of Barty's father, he took him aside and explained that his own father had been a disappointment too, that sons did not have to follow in their father's footsteps. He saw potential in him, and Barty strived to live up to that potential.
When Rabastan reached Barty's old home, it was dark. Rodolphus and Bellatrix had preferred to stay by the Dark Lord's side, to serve, rather than go chasing after ghost of the past. Rodolphus had only let Rabastan go because he thought he needed closure.
For the first time, Rabastan thought that Rodolphus knew more about his relationship with Barty than he let on.
For whatever reason it was, Rodolphus had persuaded the Dark Lord that Barty was not gone for good, even if he was momentarily lost. Barty had been a good soldier, a loyal Death Eater, and he deserved at least to be put to rest if he was beyond help. It was obvious from Rodolphus's face which he thought more likely.
But Rodolphus didn't know what Rabastan knew. There was still hope for Barty's soul, and something, somewhere in this accursed house, would point Rabastan in the right direction.
In the meantime, Rabastan tried not to grimace as he tucked Barty into bed, his head lolling like a doll's against the pillow – a far cry from the wickedly intelligent boy Rabastan had fallen in love with.
He paused in the doorway on the way out, his brother's words echoing in his head.
If you think our wretched hearts can still love after fifteen years in Azkaban, then maybe there is hope for you after all, little brother.
Rabastan just had to make sure his hope wouldn't end up as a dagger in the heart.
The Dark Mark burned as it etched itself onto his arm. Barty watched his fellow branded with contempt as they screamed and cried throughout the process, despite the fact that they were several years his senior. When Voldemort's wand turned on him, Barty's eyes were shining, but his tears were of pride.
The pain was cathartic in a way. Barty welcomed it, yearned for it. The pain meant that his efforts were being rewarded, that he had been accepted into the elite form of this noble cause. He was one step closer to his Lord, and that was all that mattered.
Besides, it was nothing compared to the excruciating agony of having one's soul torn apart. He had been jealous of Rabastan being inducted the previous year, but in creating a Horcrux, an impressive feat for Voldemort, Barty had been graced with the Dark Mark at the tender age of sixteen.
When Barty had learnt of Horcruxes from his father, that they were the darkest, most abominable form magic an intelligent wizard could create, he knew that a Horcrux would become his goal. They weeded the strong from the weak, those who could take the strain on their soul, and those whose magic was insufficient.
Rabastan's hand fell heavily on Barty's shoulder, driving the memories from his mind. It was a reassuring gesture that told Barty that he had his friend's approval. Rabastan knew how much Barty had longed for this moment. As the snake came to life, a brilliant red that would shift to the darkest of blacks when Lord Voldemort called, there was a smattering of applause.
Rabastan walked around to shake Barty's hand, flashing his teeth in his trademark smirk, before letting his brother take his place.
And as Barty was congratulated by the rest of the Death Eaters, the chosen ones, he finally felt as though he could call somewhere home.
Rabastan yelled aloud, blowing a chair into smithereens. The release of pent up energy through magic felt so good, that he decided to do the same to the chest of drawers, the wardrobe, and the table. He had scoured the house from top to bottom, but there was no residue of Dark Magic. Of course, he had expected Barty to have hidden the Horcrux from his father, but Rabastan had still expected to find it somewhere.
His eye fell on something glinting in the pile of Barty's mother's dresses.
Of course, he thought, enthusiasm coursing through his veins once again. Mrs Crouch would have done anything for her son. She did do everything for her son.
It was only fitting for Barty to seal a piece of his soul within something of his mother's. Gathering up the scant items of jewellery Mrs Crouch owned, Rabastan conjured a box with renewed determination. The light refracted off the most precious of the jewels would also scramble Barty's magical signature. Rabastan would need someone more skilled than himself to find out which of the items contained Barty's Horcrux, and someone with more knowledge as to how to reunite a Horcrux with its host.
He needed Borgin or Burke.
The Dark Lord was gone, gone. That was what they were all saying.
It couldn't be true; Barty refused to believe that it was true. Voldemort was cleverer than that. He had said that he would come back, and that was what Barty believed. He knew that Bellatrix and Rodolphus believed that too. Rabastan simply remained loyal to his friends and family.
And so, the four of them found themselves acting upon His orders even after his supposed defeat, one December night.
Barty couldn't remember whether it was the moment they started screaming or the moment they stopped, but in a flash of brilliant clarity that broke his concentration and broke his spell, Voldemort's voice resounded in his head.
"I have pushed magic beyond the very boundaries of that which one would believe. I have transcended mortality, transcended life, and with you, my friends, I will build a new world order."
Horcruxes, Barty thought, just as large cracks resounded in the building, informing them of the Aurors' arrival. He laughed, even as they duelled. Truly, his meeting with Voldemort had been destiny.
'Come on,' Rabastan said impatiently to the red-headed man behind him, as if he could understand him.
As he was supposed to be keeping a low profile, he had Transfigured himself and Barty to look passably like Weasleys – Merlin knew that there were enough of them, at least before Azkaban. Now, Rabastan tried not to sneer at the sight of his long, reddish brown locks and baby blue eyes, and averted his eyes from Barty's large nose and hideous red hair that was just enough to cover his ears.
'Recovering from spell damage. Eyes and ears,' Rabastan said apologetically to the woman Barty had bumped into at Diagon Alley. 'You have to look where you're going, brother,' he pretended to tell Barty off, grabbing his hand.
He tried to ignore the dull pain in his chest as he realised that it was the first time he had ever held Barty's hand. Back when they were young and foolish, he had thought he had all the time in the world. Now, the sand in the hourglass might just have run its course.
Don't think that, he told himself, setting his jaw. You're not with the Dementors now.
And if he was too rough when he dragged Barty down the lane that separated Diagon Alley from its less reputable counterpart, well, Barty was in no state to complain.
Barty hadn't been able to believe it when his parents arrived in Azkaban and told him of his mother's plan.
A week later, sitting in the kitchen of his childhood home, he still couldn't believe it.
He stirred the sugar into his tea, pleased to note that his hands didn't tremble anymore. That was good. That meant that he could implement the first stage of his plan – one that he had been able to carefully craft in the long hours spent under the watchful eye of Winky the house-elf.
She held a certain affection for him, which could be put to good use, and his father was just as absent as ever. But one misstep, and Barty's plans could be extinguished in the blink of an eye. He had to make sure it was perfect. For it to be perfect, he needed a safeguard. The Horcrux could no longer stay here – it was much too risky.
'Winky?' he called. The house elf appeared by his side within seconds. He feigned weakness, stooping to her low opinion of him. 'Would you mind if we went to Diagon Alley? I need fresh air, I need to see people.' He let his voice take on the slightest quiver. 'I need to see people, after what happened…'
'Of course, Young Master, of course!' Winky cried, wiping her tears with her filthy smock. 'But we must be invisible.'
As if to prove her point, she nodded emphatically.
'That is very true, Winky,' Barty humoured her. 'Let me just fetch the Cloak. And…' he paused in the doorway. 'Not a word to father, yes? Who knows what chains he'll have me in if he thinks I've gone against his wishes.'
Barty wouldn't put it past his father to put him under the Imperius Curse and shut him in the basement for the rest of his life, if his namesake had the choice. All to protect his precious reputation.
Upstairs, Barty dutifully donned the cloak, but not before snatching up the single gold chain lying by his mother's bedside. It went without saying that his father hadn't moved it. If there was ever anyone he had come close to loving, she was it.
Barty sneered.
I hope he feels guilty to the end of his days, he thought viciously. Time to put this somewhere easily accessible, but hard to remove.
Barty took in a heaving gulp of air as he broke free of his ocean of despair.
He heard a faint voice as he found his bearings, first becoming aware of the whispering silence, then of the darkness of the alleyway in which he was. He frowned. He didn't remember being in an alleyway, but then again, he didn't remember much.
Screaming, pain, despair.
What had been his life before these three constants?
'Barty? Barty is that you?' a redheaded man was asking him, over and over, his face white with shock.
Barty took one look at him and dismissed him. Probably some Weasley relative.
But then out of the corner of his eye, he saw the trademark smirk he had thought he'd never see again in his life. Snapping his head back to analyse the man with the critical eye of one who was intimately acquainted with the Polyjuice potion, he looked for the telltale signs – the curve of his lip, the way his eyes lit up and at the same time squinted whenever he was happy, the slouching position of a skilled duelist and the muscles born of years of being a Beater.
The man before him had different hair, different eyes, and was far more gaunt than he had ever expected Rabastan Lestrange to be, but the evidence was there.
'Rab–'
A hand was quickly clamped over his mouth, as Rabastan looked around furtively.
'Not here,' the other man whispered. 'The Dark Lord is back, but we aren't at full strength yet. He will be pleased you've returned, though. The usual place, the usual manor.'
With another look at the empty alley, Rabastan turned on his heel and Apparated, obviously expecting Barty to follow. But when he tried to, Barty felt a tugging at his consciousness, the overwhelming fear and despair threatening to swallow him whole.
'I can't,' he said to the emptiness, shaking his head and taking a step back. Instinctively, he pressed to the wall, to the false brick that he knew was hiding his necklace in plain sight. The protective enchantments placed on it could only be lifted by his wand, but his wand was broken. Hoping that Rabastan would return, he turned to whisper to his soul as his only confidante, 'If I leave, I'll lose myself.'
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