Hideous Evil
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and accept no credit towards it. I am not J.K. Rowling nor am I any of her affiliates.
Muggle (sort of) AU
Warnings for non graphic torture and minor character death
Prompts below
Word Count (without A/N): 1503
Feedback is always appreciated! Xx
The house was silent.
Darkness fell around the exterior like a heavy cloak, draping and drowning and blocking out the stars.
There was a creak as a small boy of fourteen descended the stairs.
He crept down the hallway, making the least possible noise as he reached the room in which he was forbidden to enter.
That, in itself, was a joke.
Barty had been frequenting his father's study since he was six.
Slipping inside with the faintest thump, he crossed the room and lifted up the window seat.
He pulled aside boring books on rules and regulations and the proper way to dress on a Saturday and delved deeper until at last his hands hit a wooden box.
He smiled.
Pulling a delicate knife from his pocket, he carved around the contents of the box and stood back to admire his handiwork.
"Crucio," he whispered (the wizard from town had taught him well) and there was a sudden scream from upstairs.
Torn from his thoughts by the sound of thudding footsteps on the landing, Barty shoved the box back into its hiding place and hurtled upstairs, barely making it to his room and re-bolting the locks which were supposed to be impenetrable before hurried conversations started taking place.
"Again? I thought that it couldn't possibly- she's alive?"
"Barely. I can't understand it myself- she just says everything hurts all the time-"
"You two, be quiet! The boy will hear and then where will we be be?"
Shuffling noises indicated the exiting of the servants and Barty huddled on top of his bed, a hideous grin deforming his features. In the pale moonlight which shone weakly through his barred window, his fair hair lit up as though it was a lantern and his brown eyes glittered with an evil not seen since young Tom Riddle had frequented the town.
It'd been precisely three years and four months since Barty had discovered he was a wizard. His family had always known there was something odd about him but after learning of these supposed magical properties his son possessed, Barty's father had locked the boy away in his room, fearing for his reputation, allowing Barty out only for meals and the occasional visit to relatives.
Like Barty couldn't figure out how to pick a lock with magic.
He'd snuck out of his room every day for two months after he'd first been imprisoned, meeting in secret with an older boy named Tom Riddle who had taught him that one didn't need a wand to harness his magic and that not all magic had to be used for good. It'd taken six weeks but eventually Barty could perform the three Unforgiveables and several complicated charms and hexes just by focusing on the spell in question and leading to channel his inner magical spirit.
"Well done," Tom's cold eyes had pierced Barty's flesh. "Well done indeed. I could use a faithful follower like you one day."
"What do I have to do to become one?" Barty had demanded immediately; getting out of this place and joining Tom on his adventures sounded like a dream come true.
Tom had tilted his head to one side, musing.
"Hurt someone you hate," he'd whispered. "Break the one person you hate beyond repair and then I will come for you."
And then he'd disappeared into the night, leaving Barty with the one name burned with loathing on to his heart.
His father.
Pulled back to the present by a knock on his door, Barty arranged himself in a sleeping position on the bed before calling out in a fake voice dripping feigned exhaustion,
"Come in- if you can undo the locks,"
An anxious looking housemaid darted inside, having fumbled with the bolts, her hands trembling. Barty didn't blame her. He knew the whole household had heard the rumours of his devil-like powers.
"M-Master Barty, sir, your- your mother has been taken ill. She wishes to see you at once."
The girl scurried out without so much as a backward glance as Barty slid the knife down his sock and proceeded down the corridor to his parents' bedroom where the distinct sounds of his mother crying could be heard from outside the door.
He walked straight in; tact had never been his strong point.
He was greeted by the sight of his mother, shaking and frail looking, propped up by pillows, her fair hair which he'd inherited wispy and short.
"Barty," she whispered. "My son..."
"Mother," He acknowledged, kneeling at her beside before standing. "You are unwell." It was statement rather than a question.
"You're doing this." His father spoke suddenly from a chair by the window. "This is your doing. First my reputation and now my wife- what else must you sully?"
Barry stared back at his father with defiant eyes. It was true, he didn't particularly want to hurt his mother but it was something that pained his father and anything that did that was good in Barty's books.
His father had locked him up when Barty was eleven to try and silence him, to keep him from ruining his father's prestigious job in the government, and three years later, Barty had had enough.
He grinned, thinking of the voodoo dolls Tom had made him sitting in his father's study, right under Barty Crouch Sr's nose, the dolls which he crept to every night and picked up the one with fair hair like his mother and cast the cruciatus curse on until she bled.
"You won't silence me," Barty hissed, feeling vindictive pleasure shoot up his veins; he'd almost broken his father; he was so close; Tom would come for him tonight, of that Barty was sure.
"Get out of my sight," his father snarled as his mother dissolved into sobs.
The last thing Barty saw as the butler dragged him away was his mother's terrified face and his father's palms resting heavily on the wall, his expression pinched and unreadable.
They were scared of him and, as Barty thought gleefully, they had every right to be.
It was midnight when Barty heard tapping on his window.
He spun, all fear deserting him when he saw the familiar dark hair of Tom, Riddle's dark eyes glinting against the backdrop of the moon.
"Now," Tom mouthed and pointed to the ground. "I'll be waiting."
Anticipation thudded through Barty's heart as he clambered from his bed and undid the locks on his door, inching toward his parents' room at the end of the hall, the silver knife glinting in his hand.
The door slid open silently and Barty edged inside, pausing for a moment to watch his mother and father sleeping, peacefully, serenely, so blissfully unaware of what was to happen.
Hesitating as he stared at his mother, Barty examined her face. She looked better than she ever had when she was awake; the worry lines had relaxed in her sleep and Barty couldn't see the eyes that were so usually fraught with pain.
It was unfortunate, really, that it'd been her who Barty's father cared for most. If it hadn't been, maybe she could've lived.
He shook his head; he was wasting enough time as it was. Stealing round to his father's side of the bed, Barty took a deep breath and smiled.
He'd been waiting a long time for this.
"Imperio," he whispered, staring directly at his father and, at once, Barty Crouch Sr rose from the bed, his eyes blank and lifeless.
"Take the knife," Barty instructed, practically hopping with exhilaration as his father clasped the metal instrument. "Go to your wife,"
Barty Crouch Sr stood above his wife, the knife hovering inches from her heart.
"Say goodbye," Barty smirked and watched as his father kissed Barty's mother's forehead.
"And now; kill."
Outside the house, Tom Riddle smiled as the piercing scream reverberated around the quiet countryside, followed by the sounds of a man's broken sobs accompanied by Barty's manic laughter.
It took but a minute for the boy to reach Tom's side.
"It is done, My Lord," he said at once, bowing low, a sadistic grin blooming across his features.
"Very good," Tom smirked and looked the boy up and down. "You have pleased me, Crouch. You will be rewarded. For now, come with me. We have work to do."
The pair vanished into the growing darkness, Barty's shrill laughter still ringing through the cold air.
The body of his mother wouldn't be discovered until the morning, at which point his father would be arrested for murder and a strange box of dolls would be unearthed in his study that would frustrate and scare the police officers of Little Hangleton for years to come.
The Crouch Murder was a vicious one, a dripping blood slash on the metaphorical skipping rope of crime and one that haunted the children of the village long after the house had been demolished and flats built in it's place.
Shame nobody ever knew who the real killer was.
Aahhh, so that was kind of messed up, yeah I realise that.
I freaked myself out whilst editing this but I was listening to scary music to get me in the mood so... :p
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Written for:
Hogwarts Assignment 2: Ancient Runes, Task 1: write about someone who will not be silenced.
Extra Credit: Barty Crouch Jr
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Sophie's Tearoom:
Olive Bread Swirls: Barty Crouch Jr
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Just a note on the premise of story in case anyone is confused; basically Mr and Mrs Crouch are Muggles and Barty is a Muggleborn who was stopped from attending Hogwarts by his parents. Obviously this is AU as Tom never met Barty before he became Lord Voldemort.
Anyway, hope you enjoyed my first attempt at writing horror. Please let me know what you think!
As always, thanks for reading! Xx