Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition
Position: Beater 2 for Holyhead Harpies
Prompts:
House-Elf
3. (dialogue) "You know, I don't really need you."
11. (dialogue) "Do you really need to do that?"
Word Count: 1077
Thanks to Chloe, Mel and Lizzie for beta'ing!
"But please, sir, he has been good!" Winky pleaded for the hundredth time, desperate for her master to give his son some chance of freedom. Poor young Master Barty had been trapped in this house for years now, and she worried about him. Even for someone under the Imperius Curse, he was remarkably passive. He barely said anything at all anymore; sometimes she wondered if he was alive at all.
"No. For the last time: I'm not going to risk it." Mr. Crouch walked over to his desk and sat heavily. He looked as if he'd aged twenty years in the last six months. Winky could tell the stress of organising the Triwizard Tournament, along with the ever-increasing troubles at the Ministry, were taking their toll on him. "Do you not remember what happened with Bertha Jorkins? That poor girl was one of the Ministry's best and brightest, and I've condemned her to a life as a scatter-brained imbecile!" Barty rose from his chair just as quickly as he'd sat, his hands clenched into tight fists
After a moment of glaring at Winky, he seemed to collapse. His body went limp and he sank back into his chair. He looked into space with his eyes unfocused, just chestnut glass orbs in the sunken face of a man who had grown old before his time. Winky said nothing, afraid of what he might say, what he might do.
"Get me a drink."
His voice was barely louder than a whisper, yet it still echoed around the study. Time seemed for a moment to stop as Winky quivered in the corner.
Mr. Crouch looked up at her, this time his eyes alive with anger and pain. "Did you not hear me? Get me a drink." His voice was shaking.
"But sir, you—"
"Are you questioning me?" Mr. Crouch was once again on his feet. "You are my servant. My house-elf. A servant obeys her master!" He started walking towards her, slowly and purposefully. "If I ask you to get me a drink you will get me a drink." He stopped in front of her and looked down at her.
"But it's bad for you," she squeaked.
Mr. Crouch picked her up by the burlap sack she wore as a dress and threw her into the wall. She fell to the floor and lay there in a crumpled heap. He walked over to her, and when she looked up at him he kicked her. Again and again, until spots of blood covered the tip of his shoe. She struggled at first, trying to scurry away from him, but by the end, she knew better than to move.
Mr. Crouch walked out of the room but quickly returned with a tumbler of whiskey. He sat in his desk chair and didn't move for quite some time, save to sip at his drink. Winky lay on the floor and waited for her bones to knit themselves back together. She wasn't meant to use her magic without permission like this, but otherwise, she wouldn't be able to help Mr. Crouch or his son.
"Do you really need to do that?" Mr. Crouch asked. It was the first time either of them had spoken for an hour.
"Do what?"
"Try to fix me."
Winky looked up to see Mr. Crouch hunched over his desk, shoulders shaking as he sobbed. She got to her feet and ran over to him, wincing at every step—her ribs hadn't quite healed yet.
"I'm just trying to help you." She climbed onto the desk and rubbing his back in a feeble attempt to comfort him.
"You can't. No one can."
Winky said nothing. Mr. Crouch had been angry with her before—always because of her disobedience, it was always her fault—but he'd never been sad. This was the first time she'd ever seen him cry.
"Everything is wrong, Winky. Everything." Mr. Crouch paused as if expecting a reply but when none came, he continued. "I've lost so much. I have nothing left."
"What about your son?"
"My son?" Mr. Crouch's face contorted into a tortured smile. "You mean the mindless shell that traipses around my house? The dangerous criminal I have to keep enchanted for fear he'll kill someone? No. I have no son."
Winky looked at her master and saw for the first time that he wasn't the powerful, confident wizard he pretended to be. He was a tired old man who was sick of everything that life had taken from him. People behave differently in public because you have to stand up straight, but behind closed doors, you can slouch.
"You have Winky, though." Winky leaned in to hug him.
"You?" Barty laughed cruelly and sat up, throwing Winky to the ground. "You know, I don't really need you. You're here to look after him, not me."
"But—"
"Again with the 'buts.' When are you going to accept that I know better than you!? Take this for example!" He reached over and picked up his glass, now nearly empty. "Why do you think I drink this? For pleasure?"
He stared at Winky, his face twisted into a savage mask.
"Answer me!"
"I don't know!" Winky shouted, tears rolling down the valleys of her face.
"Exactly! You will never know. You don't know how it feels to live like this. It's the only thing that helps." Mr. Crouch collapsed into his chair once more and put his head into his hands. "It helps me forget…" He whispered, crying."
Winky moved up onto the desk again and stood next to him as he cried. He looked at her, and his eyes were no longer full of anger or rage, only sorrow and regret.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."
Winky pulled him into a hug and he clung to her, his tears soaking her sack. She stroked the back of his head and made soothing noises until he calmed himself.
"I think you're right," he said.
"About what?"
"About the World Cup. He should go. We all need to get out of this house for a while. Try to escape, even just for a little bit"
"If you think that's wise, Master."
There were no more words between the two of them, just the motion of Winky's arm as she continued to stroke his head. She wouldn't leave him, she knew. No matter what he said, Mr. Crouch needed her and she needed him.