Next chapter... After this one the updates may be less frequent, as my proofreading has caught up to my writing.
Five nerve-wracking minutes later, Stevie and I sat against opposing walls of the cell. Barty Crouch was still unconscious from blood loss, but he was going to be alright (at least physically).
"What were you yelling 'shut up' for?" asked Stevie after a while. "I wasn't saying anything at the time."
"Yeah. I was yelling it at myself. I had… I suppose it was a very violent flashback."
"Okay… I won't comment. Where did you learn that spell you used?"
"A friend taught it to me." We fell silent. I didn't want to talk about Snape, and Stevie also seemed to have something on her mind.
"I'm sorry," she said eventually, in a low voice. "I should have kept a closer eye on him. I just didn't think –"
"It isn't your fault," I told her at once. "You couldn't have guessed something like this would happen. You were very careful, anyway. You didn't even give him a tin spoon or anything."
"Well, no, he doesn't eat, what would I be giving him a spoon for?" she pointed out logically. I shrugged.
"If anything, Stevie, it's my fault. I should have anticipated that he'd be in a bad state. I mean, the Dementor's Kiss takes you so far away from any happy thoughts you fall into a state of actual apathy, but right now, with the soul this close, he's more in the equivalent of a very, very severe depression. I can't believe I didn't think of this…"
"Come on, Mr. Malfoy –" "Draco," I told her. "Alright, Draco, then. You weren't here. There's no way this is your fault."
"You think so?" I said, feeling slightly less guilty. True, I should have suspected something along these lines might occur, particularly since I'd been somewhat depressed myself since the war, but maybe Stevie had a point. I couldn't foresee everything.
"I should give my wand to Dawlish and the others," I realized presently. "They weren't exactly overjoyed at letting me in here with it." Stevie nodded agreement.
I wandered back up the stairs and over to the Aurors at the gate, handing over my wand. Before returning to the basement, I decided to drop in and see my father. He was having a conversation with Avery, who was in the cell across the hall from his, but he stopped as soon as he saw me.
"Draco. How are you? You look well."
I grimaced at the memory of how I must have looked on my precious visits. "I'm fine, thank you. And you?"
"Fine. How is your project coming along?"
"Er. There was an unexpected and extremely unwelcome development, I'm afraid, but I think it's fixed, and overall everything is coming along."
We chatted for a while. As I left I heard Father telling a curious Avery the main features of my project. I went down to the basement, where Stevie was still waiting in Crouch's cell. He hadn't woken up yet.
"There you are, Draco. I'm off to see the McCarters; I'd just as soon not be here when he wakes up."
"Why not?"
"'Cause I might kill him out of frustration about what he just put us through, and that'd sort of defeat the whole point of everything we did, no?"
"Yes, it would. Please, go."
She left, locking the cell door behind her, leaving me and Barty Crouch inside. I bent down and examined the injuries on Crouch's arms. It appeared he'd actually ripped them open with his fingernails; there was blood caught under the nails, confirming my theory. I shivered; it was lucky he hadn't had a tin spoon, or any other kind of relatively sharp-edged tool, or he'd be dead right now.
As I gazed at him, Crouch suddenly moved a little and his eyes opened. He looked around the cell for a few moments before focusing on me.
"What happened?" he muttered. His voice was hoarse and very quiet, but this was hardy surprising; as far as I knew, he hadn't spoken for more than three years.
"Hey," I said. Apart from that, I was at a momentary loss. This situation was effectively unique; what exactly does one say to a person whose soul has been sucked out by a Dementor?
"We healed your injuries?" I tried. "What do you actually remember?"
"I remember you talking to me," he said after a minute, "and I remember what – what I was thinking. How long has it been?"
"Since the Dementor… Well, it's actually about three and a half years. Sorry."
"Oh."
There was a long silence. Eventually, I took hold of his bony shoulders and helped him sit up. The silence stretched on.
Finally, I said, hesitantly, "If you remember me talking to you, you know about the war, and how it ended."
He nodded, but didn't say anything. I felt quite miserable.
"I'm sorry," I told him. "We shouldn't have done any of this. I thought it seemed like a fascinating idea at the time, but I guess I didn't think enough about how you'd actually feel. I suppose I forgot there was a real person involved. Even fixing your injuries was probably a bad idea; it would have been more ethical to not do anything."
"Ethics are an artificial construct," said Crouch abruptly. I was taken slightly aback, but before I could say anything he continued. "The only morals that exist are the ones you make up or believe because someone else told you about them."
"I suppose so," I agreed, after thinking about this for a second. I was surprised. Philosophical discussions were one thing I really hadn't anticipated when embarking on my project.
"I know the Dark Lord isn't dead, by the way," he said suddenly, giving me a brilliant, insane smile. I hesitated. Not only were his non-sequiturs rather disorienting, but I had no idea what reply would be least harmful to his obviously fragile mental state.
"I tried to kill myself before, because you said he was gone, but by now I've figured out he can't be," he continued.
"Actually," I said carefully, "actually, Crouch – er – what would you like me to call you?"
"I don't care. You can call me Barty. I'll call you Draco, because that way I won't confuse you with your father. You should be happy. I hated having the same name as my father. Lucky he's dead now. Also, your father wasn't very faithful to the Dark Lord, and now he's coming back, and he's not going to be pleased with the way most of his followers have acted since his disappearance. I am his most faithful servant, because now Bellatrix is dead, and no one else has ever suffered for him the way we did. Rodolphus and Rabastan only looked for him because of Bellatrix. He will honour me beyond anything you can imagine, and the others will pay for their renouncement of him."
"Okay…. I'm sure they will, er, Barty. Just hang on a minute, will you?"
He didn't respond, but continued to gaze at nothing with that disturbing grin on his face. I called Stevie over, and she let me out of the cell. I walked with her over to the stairs.
"You were right, he's completely mad," I told her softly once we were there. "What the hell am I supposed to say to him? He thinks Voldemort is going to come back again."
Stevie looked momentarily taken aback by my use of the Dark Lord's name, but recovered quickly. "As you may have observed, I'm not exactly a psychologist, so you should really ask someone else."
"Like who?"
"Good point. Okay, then, I guess I'd say you ought to try and convince him You-Know-Who's really gone."
"Are you sure? I don't want to make him suicidal again."
"Of course I'm not sure. I just finished telling you I'm not an expert on this kind of thing. Jeez, Draco."
"Alright. I'll take your advice. Why don't… why don't we use Legilimancy? If he can see what I did, Voldemort's death and everything…"
"What, give him a wand? Not likely."
"It's not that dangerous if you're standing there the whole time. If he's pointing his wand at me, and you're pointing yours at him, he won't have time to turn and curse you before you can react. I'll be the only one taking any risk."
"Your funeral."
"I hope not. Shall we retrieve my wand, or will one of the Aurors on the first floor let you borrow theirs?"
"I'll borrow one. Are you sure about this?"
"Of course I'm not sure. Jeez, Stevie."
She grinned at this, then went upstairs and returned with an additional wand. We went over to Crouch's cell. He was standing up and looking at us through the bars.
"I know you don't believe me," he said calmly, as we approached. "You'll see. He'll come back."
"No, he won't. I can prove it," I replied.
A flicker of uncertainty crossed his features, but it was immediately obscured by the same creepy smile he'd had earlier.
"Here's a wand. You can use it to cast Legilimens, and see exactly what I saw when Voldemort died," I told him.
"Don't use the Dark Lord's name. I don't want to see what you think you saw."
I was about to start reasoning with him, trying to persuade him to just give it a chance, but Stevie interrupted me by unlocking and throwing open the door. She stepped into the cell and grabbed the front of Crouch's tattered robes, growling at him, "Look, buddy, you've given us enough trouble already. Draco's only doing this for you, the least you can do is cooperate."
Although I was of course actually doing this for a number of reasons, many of which had nothing whatsoever to do with Barty Crouch Jr., I refrained from correcting her. She did not look like a safe person to antagonize at the moment.
Crouch seemed quite startled by Stevie's alarming attitude. Before he could recover, she took the opportunity to shove the spare wand into his hand, and direct her own wand at his chest.
"Don't try anything," she warned, in a somewhat less aggressive tone. I followed her into the cell and smiled encouragingly at Crouch, who still appeared slightly shocked.
"Go ahead," I told him. "You know the spell, yes?"
He nodded and, glancing warily at Stevie, carefully raised the wand to point it at me. "Legilimens."
A second later he jerked backward violently, dropping the wand. I caught it and looked back up at Crouch, who was standing in a corner, staring at the wall.
"Barty? Are you alright?" I asked, seriously concerned. Perhaps this hadn't been the best idea, I reflected with a sinking feeling.
He spun around, his mop of fair hair falling into his eyes, which were reddish and teary. "Go away!" he yelled, before turning to face into the corner again. I grabbed Stevie and dragged her out of the cell, shutting the door behind us. She locked it, and we proceeded down the hallway as far as we could while still keeping Crouch in sight. I didn't want a repeat of the events earlier this afternoon.
"Did he see it?" asked Stevie in a soft voice.
"Yes."
She bit her lip. "I hope that wasn't a mistake. Maybe we should have let him keep on believing You-Know-Who was coming back…"
"No, I think you were right. He'd find out eventually anyway, so it might as well be here and now, where we can keep an eye on him."
She sighed and nodded. "Yeah, you're probably right. Gods, Draco, sometimes I wish you'd picked some other hobby. One that didn't involve Dementors and insane people, you know? Ever consider that?"
"All the time," I answered, also sighing. "Will you make sure he doesn't do anything dangerous for a few minutes? I want to go visit my father again."
I walked slowly up the stairs and down the hall to Father's cell, where he was sitting reading the Prophet. He looked up and smiled as I approached.
"Hello again, Draco."
"Hey. Things aren't going too well downstairs." When I'd spoken with him earlier, I hadn't told him any specifics about the current circumstances; I'd simply said there was a problem. Now, I quickly told him the basics of what had occurred. He was sympathetic to my situation, but seemed confused by the severity of my reaction.
"The incident was certainly unfortunate, but I don't understand why you are so upset over it. He didn't die; your project can continue, and you now know to watch out for things like this in future. What's the problem?"
"I'm not sure; I feel like it's my fault this happened. I think it might have been better if we hadn't interfered, and he'd died."
"That makes no sense. You'd never find out if your idea would have worked."
"I'm not talking about the project, Father," I said, in an irritated tone. "I'm talking about Barty Crouch. He's extremely unhappy, and I'm at least partially responsible for that."
Father looked completely bewildered. "I still don't understand, Draco. Why does it matter to you how he's feeling? Surely you don't feel guilty when you upset Potter, or one of the Weasleys, as well?"
"No, of course I don't. Maybe it's because I haven't seen my other friends for so long, but I think – I think I may have gotten somewhat attached to him."
A look of comprehension appeared on Father's features, and he sighed in exasperation. "For Merlin's sake, Draco. I'm sorry about your friends, and I can sympathize with your wish to make others, but why did you have to pick a deranged former Death Eater who's had his soul sucked out?"
"I didn't mean to," I replied defensively. "It just sort of happened on its own. I have other friends, too."
"Such as?"
I told him about Vincent Wulfgar and Stevie Paulson.
"I've met Wulfgar, he seems nice enough, but an Auror? A half-blood Auror, at best."
I hadn't thought about that. It was true that Stevie had made a number of references which were almost certainly muggle-related, but I had overlooked them, mainly because she'd made them while we were discussing important matters. After a moment's thought I decided her blood status didn't matter; she was friendly and intelligent and I liked her a great deal. I didn't tell Father about this conclusion, however, as he still felt quite strongly that purebloods were superior to other wizards. Instead, I shrugged.
"We're going to be dealing with a lot of half-bloods and muggle-borns now that the war's over. I might as well start now."
He reluctantly agreed, and wished me luck with my project before I returned to the basement. I tried talking to Barty Crouch, but he wouldn't even look at me, so I said farewell to Stevie and left. Back at the manor, I collapsed on a couch in the drawing room and tried, with no success, to figure out how my life had gotten so weird.
Okay... I'm not sure how in character Barty was. He's seriously fun to write, though. Anyway, reviews are your friends...
