Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. But in my defence, I don't think anyone else around here does either, so…

Summary: Faced with the sudden fear that his greatest ally may be a coward, Voldemort takes the opportunity to search his servant's memories.

A/N: Ok, this idea's been brewing for months in my head :P Basically, the idea evolved from a plausible explanation as to why Barty pleaded guilty in his trial (you'll see) into just a general view of how he became the rather awesome Death Eater he is.

Prologue

The Gaunt House, 24th August 1994

The House of Gaunt had not aged well since its owners had left it fifty-two years ago.

Of course with the house's history, nobody in the village had wanted anything to do with the hovel where the Gaunt boy had been brought up. In a similar vein, in the state the hovel was in, no estate agents in their right minds could have expected to make a profit by doing the place up and selling it. Years ago, a few members of the East Sussex County Council made a motion to destroy the hovel so that the land underneath could be used as farmland. After the eighth month of heavy deconstruction work failed to cause so much as a dent to the house, however, the council gave up. After all, they reasoned, Little Hangleton had managed to put up with the hovel for decades while the Gaunts were still alive. They would just have to get used to it.

Interestingly, none of the villagers or deconstruction workers had ever been led by their curiosities to attempt to get past the resolutely locked door. This was just as well, since nothing of human shape could ever have passed the threshold of the house and come out in the same shape. Or breathing.

The Ministry of Magic had been aware of the powerful curses set around the Gaunt shack for some time, but had thought nothing of them further than the pride of the Gaunts trying to keep their treasures safe. Furthermore, the Ministry never had any reason to think the hovel could possibly be worth the hassle of countering said curses.

Which was exactly how the Dark Lord had hoped they would think.

Admittedly, some minor witches and wizards, most of them crooks, had come across the hovel at some points in time and tried to pass the boundaries, but none had been successful. The closest anyone had got, as well as the most recent, had been within the past month. Mundungus Fletcher, who assumed that the Gaunts would have left some gold or magical artifacts behind, had come to the hovel three weeks ago and spent the best part of a week researching each of the curses and carefully working to undo them. However, just as he had got into the swing of things, he had been distracted by the Quidditch World Cup, and had promptly forgotten all about the Gaunt house. This was the best outcome for all concerned; given Fletcher's connections with Dumbledore, his death would have been particularly difficult to cover up.

No, the Gaunt hovel was perfectly safe from any human contact. Only the insects and the rodents entered the house, and most of them had given up on the place too; though cobwebs covered almost every available corner, you would be hard-pressed to find a spider anywhere in the house.

And if you did find an animal in the derelict house, you could be sure that they weren't in the room that used to be Marvolo Gaunt's bedroom. Long since, the animals had agreed that that room, and anything in it, was Danger. Strange things happened to those who braved their way into the room, stranger even than what would happen to humans which passed the door. The mouse's skull with the three eye sockets still lay just short of the door as a reminder to any creature who ever found themselves curious. The few animals who were regular occupants to the house were aware that, in the last couple of days, that there had been one creature that had taken its hold in the room now. Far from seeing this as a sign that the danger had passed, however, they saw anything that could survive in the room as an even greater danger and stayed even further away from the room. It's amazing how intuitive animals can be, sometimes.

Today, however, an exception seemed to be occurring. A small, terrified, grey-haired rat was making its way under the door and into the room. The rat's purpose was a mystery to all the other animals. Courage could not possibly have been the issue; on its way into the house, many of the animals had watched as the rat scampered in as if its tail was on fire, looking behind it sometimes with a wild look in its eyes and jumping abnormally high at the slightest noise. Even now as it made its way into the room it had slowed to a snail's pace, obviously trying its very, very best not to draw attention to itself, but still it continued forward and forward until it was out of sight and earshot of any of the creatures outside, and –

'You're early, Wormtail,' the cold voice noted. The rat let a terrified squeak, and transformed instantly into the cowering form of Peter Pettigrew.

'M-my Lord!' he stammered. 'My apologies - I thought you were resting...'

'Then you should have woken me,' Voldemort replied, coolly. 'Yes, I rest to bide my time, but I do not want that time wasted. And you know that time where we are not progressing with the plan is just that - wasted. I trust your mission was successful?'

Wormtail, who had been listening fearfully to his master, jumped at the chance to give a positive answer. 'Yes, master!' he said, hastily, pulling out the vial of silver memories he had just acquired and dropping them into the bowl.

'Then I suppose you can be forgiven for your avoidance...' Voldemort's voice took an even colder turn, 'However... Let us hope that your swift return has not lessened the quality of your work...'

Wormtail reverted to his fearful stance. 'No, master,' he agreed miserably.

'You know how important this is to our success.'

Wormtail remained silent, fingering the stump on his hand where a finger had once been. Ever since he had been told his hand would soon be removed, Voldemort had been able to take this action as the simplest indication that his servant was uncertain of anything. He sighed impatiently.

'We need these memories to know we can trust Crouch before we utilise him.'

'Y-yes sir, of course, but - surely we already know? Bertha Jones's evidence was most revealing, and he did summon the mark... You have never felt the need to probe through my memories to ascertain my devotion to you...'

'That is because you have no measurable skill in Occlumency, Wormtail. It is only too easy to read exactly what you are thinking.' Wormtail's face fell with a mixture of shame and fear.

'Besides,' Voldemort continued, 'your satisfaction with the feeble evidence we have is pitiful. Yes, I was ready to trust Crouch, but more recently much evidence has come to light that has swayed my judgement... Any cowardly former Death Eater could have summoned the mark, and we know of plenty of those already. Much more notably, all the evidence implies that Crouch is just another one of these cowards. You know he alone of the Longbottoms' torturers pleaded innocent at his trial? Besides that, if he is my loyal supporter, why does his father keep him in this state so apparently close to freedom? Much as I wish I could rely on my supporters' loyalty, you know that has let me down before...'

'I – I have apologised a thousand times over, my master-'

'You need not take offence; you are not the lone culprit... Wormtail, I do wish your attention would cease wavering to your hand.'

Wormtail's left hand, which had been nervously rubbing against his right throughout his master's tirade, suddenly stopped moving. Wormtail was now staring at his hands as though terrified of them.

'My Lord...' he began to speak, before apparently losing his voice.

'You know you have nothing to fear,' Voldemort persisted, though doing nothing to change his most intimidating harsh tones. 'As long as you do everything I require of you, as I am assured you will, you will not be without a limb for very long.'

'But...' again Wormtail's voice faltered, but Voldemort glimpsed into the servant's mind and saw a glimpse of where his fear arose. He gave a loud and lengthy exhalation, which for Voldemort's feeble form passed for laughter.

'You fear the pain?' His voice sounded almost gleeful. 'Surely I have hardened your mind from pain more than enough?'

Wormtail could only whimper to this. Having finished explaining the plan and taunting his servant, Voldemort tired of Wormtail's presence and went to view the freshly collected memories. 'Be ready to feed me as soon as I have finished, Wormtail,' he instructed.

Wormtail nodded wordlessly, moved Voldemort's chair closer to the Pensieve clumsily, and ran towards the kitchens as if being chased. His master, grimacing with effort, pulled himself towards the black Pensieve and delved his head in to see the memories of Barty Crouch Junior...

A/N: Anyone intrigued? :P By all means read on…