Barty Crouch stands on the sidewalk, along the row of dimly lit muggle lights. He clutches his robes tightly around him, feeling the harsh wind blow upon his face. The moon, startlingly bright in the cloudless night, illuminates him, showing the apprehension and worry etched on the teenager's face. He's been waiting a while; an hour, maybe two, and his hands are already numb from cold; his cheeks icy.
The angry hornets in his stomach are enough to make him ignore the bitter night.
Barty Crouch was thrilled when he had managed to gain contact with the death eaters. It wasn't hard; all it had taken was a few words from his friends; those that supported the cause, and he was received in a seedy little bar in Knockturn Alley. He recognized one of the men- the pockmarked one- to be an associate of his father's.
Why on earth he had to wait outside for them at such an ungodly hour, he had no idea.
Staring at the headlights of an oncoming muggle vehicle, Barty smirks a bit. It amuses him; how oblivious his parents were. His mother; his dear, darling mother was so naïve. She still regarded him as a little boy of seven- one that liked playing with the moving figurines and read picture books all day. Her smile was stretched so unnervingly wide when he had encountered her in the foyer at midnight and coolly lied that he was meeting with a girlfriend. "Our darling Barty finally has a girlfriend. You must invite her for dinner sometime." She had beamed.
And then there was his father; the ministry official. He was busy working overtime; fighting the war that his son will now join in. This makes Barty smile. Even as a small child, he was always the perfect son; the quiet, dignified boy who had gotten the best in the year; the one that had his essays published in Transfiguration Weekly; the favourite of all the teachers. Not that he cared.
He had simply never loved his own son.
Barty doesn't know why. Perhaps it was because he was too sickly? He could never play quidditch as well as the other boys? He thinks it's simply because his father was a heartless bastard.
It makes Barty Crouch Jr. feel alive; knowing that joining the cause will finally make his father notice him.
He hears a rustle, then the crunch of feet stepping on dead leaves. A stocky figure emerges from the darkness. "Come with me." Growls a low voice.
Barty can tell it's a man, though his face is unrecognizable; hidden by the shadows of his hood. "Who are you?" He asks; his voice tremulously high.
The man laughs; a harsh barking noise. "I'm one of them,boy. You're the one that wanted in, aren't you?"
"Yes" This time, it comes out as a squeak.
The death eater gestures to his robed arm; which Barty grabs on to; trembling as he does.
It's much more frightening than he thought; joining the Death Eaters. Before the squeezing sensation of apparition envelops him, Barty wonders if all of them are so intimidating.
…
When his senses return, he realizes that they're in some sort of forest. Breathing in the cool, crisp air, he barely makes out a couple dozen figures; robed in black and forming a circle around a figure.
They all seem to be facing him.
Crap.
"My lord, the new recruits is here." The man says, bowing.
The person in the centre smiles, an expression of quiet amusement. Barty can tell he's tall, and nearly skeletally thin. "Boy," He addresses in a cold high voice, "Stand over there with the other recruits."
Barty presumes he is the Dark Lord.
Lord Voldemort was very much an enigma in wizarding society, the focus of hushed whispers in the corner, the topic of cryptic Prophet articles. Staring at the gaunt, pale man before him, Barty realizes he had no idea what the Dark Lord looked like. The penetrating crimson eyes and distorted features are more than he expected. He looks inhuman; almost godlike.
Barty steps tentatively towards the shivering group he was directed to. He recognizes the looks of fright and excitement on their faces, the same expressed on his.
He's glad he's not the only one.
"My friends," Voldemort begins, "We are here today to welcome the men and women joining us tonight; the new followers of our cause. Their intentions are admirable but they must be deemed worthy first."
His lips curl into a smirk.
"Kill the mudbloods." He says simply; gesturing towards the huddled mass of muggles, whom Barty had not yet noticed.
They're whimpering; eyes wide and faces stark white. One of them; he sees quite clearly, is a girl no older than seven. Her dark red hair is plastered to her face; her eyelids shut tight. In the dim glow of the moon, Barty can make out that she's clinging to her mother.
He shudders.
Is it too late to back out now?
"I-I won't do it…" Someone stutters, stepping timidly out of the crowd.
A flash of green light and he's dead.
He hears wild laughter from one of the Death Eaters. "Anyone else want to back out?" A voice taunts.
There's muttering and multicoloured beams light up the night sky. Barty hears screaming, begging and the cries of a man. When he turns around all the mudbloods are dead. Except for the red-haired child, cowering on the soft dirt ground; her cheeks streaked with dirty tears.
"Please don't hurt me, mister." She sobs in a thin raspy voice.
She's staring directly at him; her eyes filled with a sort of naïvety and hope that Barty lost long ago. "Please." She begs again.
He's torn and standing stiffly in his place. His right hand grasps his wand, yet his arm refuses to move. "Avada Kedavra."
A thin trail of emerald smoke comes out and the girl lets out a sigh of relief when she realizes she's not dead. He tries again, focusing on the pathetic creature that's bent over.
She's not human. He reminds himself.
Mudbloods aren't human.
"Avada Kedavra."
She crumples. Her little face forms a mask of shock, her eyes glassy and unseeing.
Barty is filled with a savage thrill that can only be provoked by murder.
"What's your name?" The Dark Lord asks quietly.
"Barty Crouch."
"Son of the ministry official?"
"Yes."
Voldemort chuckles. "You will be of great use to me."
…
When the first rays of day appear over the horizon, Barty stands on the grassy hill overlooking his manor home, his forearm burning and his mind blissfully clear. He's shaking in excitement and passion. He knows now- that the people living in the house don't care for him.
His real family is the Death Eaters.
A/N: Reviews are much appreciated and would make me quite a happy author.