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F.
Going to Azkaban had left a mark on him, that was undeniable. Spending the next twelve years imprisoned in his own mind with the only occasional company of his house-elf had been even worse.
Any time he thought of it he was instantly filled with a blinding rage that only made him want to find his father's body – still transfigured as a bone – and hurt it, even though he wouldn't be able to feel it.
But of course he couldn't. Not for lack of will, but because returning to Hogwarts would most certainly end up with his death. Or the infamous destiny that had tried to be bestowed upon him.
Barty considered himself lucky, at least for the time being. His exceptional mind and wit had allowed him to make quite the escape, even after the events of the evening. When he truly thought about it, he admitted that perhaps his luck had a better name, something along the lines of foolishness or recklessness. Admittedly, throwing himself out of a tower hadn't been his brightest idea, but he was sooner ready to die than become a soulless shell to be pointed at and laughed about. The result was a few broken bones, a twisted shoulder and ache everywhere, and only because his great skills at wandless magic had made a half-whispered Arresto Momentum work just enough not to kill him. He'd then rushed out of the school grounds and Disapparated to the one place he deemed safe.
A Muggle house would normally be at the end of his preferred places, no matter its size, but he had to cope. He wasn't even sure he would actually find his master there, but he didn't have another path to follow.
Unsurprisingly enough, when Barty reached it, Riddle Manor was empty. He would have gladly moved on with his search but, not for the first time in the past months, he was exhausted. He had visited his Lord enough to know where to find a guest room and, before he could help himself, he fell onto the large bed and into a dreamless sleep.
.
When he woke, he was greeted with a pair of red eyes staring right into his own. He tried to sit up, but that only sent white light flashing across his vision, and he had to balance himself on the bedpost in order not to fall in front of his master.
"You should probably lie down," said Lord Voldemort. Barty couldn't help but gasp a little at how different he looked. He neither was the man Barty had met years before, the powerful and resourceful man in control of half of the Wizarding World, nor was he the weak, bodiless form he had last seen and talked to just a few days back.
"You took quite the fall," he added, glancing down at his body. He looked thoughtful.
When Barty peered down at himself, he noticed that his wounds had been healed and there now was a bandage wrapped around his torso. "You healed me," he said, not quite believing his master would do such a thing for a mere follower.
"You sound surprised," Voldemort said. His voice had changed, too. The velvety sound of it had transformed itself into a soft hiss, only loud enough to be heard without having to raise his tone. "Of course I healed you." He didn't add anything more, as though it was a clear matter, but Barty was still quite confused.
"I almost failed you," he croaked. Lord Voldemort quirked a fine eyebrow, then he reached out to tuck a stray strand of bandage back into the white bundle.
"That's way more than I could expect these days." There was something in his tone that sounded awfully like disappointment. Barty felt the urge to launch himself at anyone who may have displeased his master.
"The boy lives," he then remembered, shamefully. Voldemort nodded once, but he didn't seem too bothered by the fact because he didn't mention anything about it being Barty's fault.
"Did they come?" Barty asked after a moment. He didn't need to specify who he was talking about.
"Most," Voldemort answered. "Pathetic, really, if you ask me. You would have enjoyed seeing their terrified expressions. But the ones who mattered weren't there, obviously."
"They are all just traitors, master, they're not like me." He didn't know if he had gone too far, but he couldn't keep the distaste from his voice or his face, too mad at the spineless cowards who dared to call themselves Death Eaters. But Voldemort was already nodding, not taking any offense in Barty's presumption.
"I've always known who my real friends were." Barty's eyebrows shot up. It had been a long time since his master had referred to him as a friend, and he felt his chest filled with a warmth he hadn't dared to hope to feel again.
"Yes, master," he agreed.
"Are you well enough to move?" Voldemort asked him.
"You did an excellent job, as always, master," Barty responded truthfully. He tried to sit up properly and then to stand and step around the room a little; the bandage seemed to survived the small trip.
"Good. Come, then. There are issues to be discussed, before we meet the others later tonight."
.
Barty sat across from Lord Voldemort in one of the small green armchairs in the Manor library. It was a wing of the house Barty had never visited before, but he already felt at his most ease, and he knew it was the same for his master.
For the most part, they talked. They talked about everything they hadn't had the time to discuss in the previous months, starting from the Lord's very downfall to the most recent events. Barty enjoyed these conversations almost as much as he liked torturing Mudbloods; it was no secret that the older man had always been a brilliant and witty student, all the way back to his years at Hogwarts, and adulthood had only amplified his great knowledge in all magical fields. He pondered his words and made them come out his mouth with a purpose and a meaning; it was a pleasure listening to him. He also enjoyed having verbal confrontations with worthy, if not equal, people; and although Barty was considerably younger than Voldemort, he was almost as clever as the latter had been at the former's age.
Barty still remembered the first time they had had an intimate conversation, how his chest had swelled with pride and recognition at the end of his master's speech. Never in his wildest dreams would he have taken his master for a Halfblood. After receiving the news, he had held himself very still, too aware of Voldemort's gaze. He had been only eighteen at the time and hadn't understood why the most powerful wizard of all time would share his deepest secrets with him. He hadn't asked and, while Voldemort had certainly sensed his unasked question, he had decided not to give an answer just then. That day Barty had realized how similar they truly were: both with a father who never cared for them, but who still lend their name to them, both shaded by other wizards and bullied by other kids for their diversity, both destined for greatness.
It hadn't taken long for Barty to realize that he was the only one who had been granted the honor of such encounters; not even the Lestranges had been graced that far.
Even now, his Lord was here, with him, not planning to get his most devoted followers – after Barty, of course – out of Azkaban. Barty would be lying if he said he didn't appreciate this at its fullest. After everything he'd endured, he deserved to be here, alive and prized above all others. He wasn't going to feel sorry for Bellatrix, Rodolphus or even Rabastan – his favorite among all three – just yet.
It was unlike anything that Barty had ever felt in his entire life, this deep sense of belonging that was slowly but steadily filling his whole body, spreading through his chest and sinking into his bones. It was a closeness he had never experienced, not even with his beloved mother all those years before. This was something that bound him and his master closer than any family bond ever could, something almost tangible, the strongest form of companionship.
And although there were plans to be discussed and loyalties that still needed to be proved, he couldn't help smiling. Barty Crouch, Jr. was finally home.