A/N: This story was written for Slytherin house in the Houses Competition round 4 as a themed story using the prompt trunk. The italics are flashbacks, by the way. Enjoy!
Word count (not including A/N): 2,843
Trunk
Barty hurried down the Defense Against the Dark Arts hallway, keeping his head down in case he didn't make it to his quarters in time. It wouldn't do for anyone to see him and wonder why his features were melting and changing; luckily, it was after hours, so no students or faculty were about.
Breathing a sigh of relief as he closed and locked his office door, Barty strode into his private chambers. There sat his cauldron, which had sat bubbling with the same murky brown potion since he arrived at Hogwarts. He ladled the polyjuice into his hip flask and took a long sip. His hair, which had begun to yellow, returned to its drier gray. Barty sighed again and collapsed onto his bed, easing Moody's wooden leg off of his stump.
That was too close, he told himself. He could not mess this up, not when there was so much at stake. The Dark Lord had trusted Barty with this mission, with his life, and Barty would not disappoint.
Startling Barty from his thoughts, Barty heard a faint voice shouting. Rolling his eyes, he crossed over to Moody's trunk, snatching the keys out of his robe's inner pocket. When he unlocked the trunk, the real Moody's cries became amplified, something that Barty quickly fixed with a stunning spell. Then he jumped into the trunk's belly and forcefully ripped a fistful of now-dirty hair from the ex-auror's head. After Barty Wingardium Leviosa'd himself out of the trunk, he added the dry grey hair to his cauldron, stirring and humming happily, almost managing to forget dinner. Moody began making himself heard again, and Barty groaned. Reluctantly unlocking the seventh compartment and wrenching open the trunk again, he peered down at the broken man.
"What do you want?" he sneered nastily.
"Take a wild guess," Moody rasped, spreading his arms as wide as they could go in the confined space.
"You know that you're useful to the Dark Lord, Moody. Be glad for it; you wouldn't be alive otherwise. Now, if you're just complaining, I'll be leaving you to your cozy compartment now." Barty smiled at the Auror, his smile never quite reaching his eyes as he made to close the trunk.
Then he heard Moody's voice, now very smug, reach him again. "Daddy's visit got you cranky?"
Barty stopped, his eyes hardening with rage. He re-opened the trunk and asked Moody, only just loud enough for the prisoner to hear him, "How do you know my father came to the feast today?"
"Aww, poor Barty never learned the days of the week," Moody sneered. "Maybe it's because his daddy didn't have time to teach him," he stage-whispered.
"Shut up and don't talk about things you don't understand, Moody!" Barty shouted, his eyes narrowing. "My father is an evil, vile, pitiful excuse for a human being!"
"This coming from a Death-Eater," Moody laughed, though there was no trace of humor in his laughter. "You don't have your father's name to hide behind anymore, Crouch."
"You better watch your step, Moody, or I may just shave your head and send an Avada Kedavra your way," Barty hissed. His hand flexed over his wand as if he were already imagining casting the Unforgivable. "I am not a man to be crossed."
"But you failed potions too; just another reason Daddy's disappointed in you, I suppose!" Moody called up as Barty, disgusted and sick of quarreling with his prisoner, slammed the trunk shut.
Yet Moody's words had wormed their way under his skin, upsetting Barty. Seeing his father brought up a lot of memories, none of them good. Bartemius Crouch Sr. had never had time for his only son, too busy trying to advance his career than teach his son how to fly. His father had hoped to become Minister one day, and one of his ambitions, was for his son to follow the same path. Barty had been compared to his well-known, respectable, pureblood father his entire life, and he hated it. He was sorted into the same house (Slytherin), had the same ambitious dream to be a powerful, influential leader, and even had the exact same name as Bartemius Crouch Sr., though he had always preferred "Barty"; it was a lot less to live up to. While he'd never wanted to be a Ministry worker like his father, if that was what it took to become powerful, he was willing to do it.
That all changed when Voldemort rose to power.
Pureblood though he was, Bartemius Crouch Sr. knew that the prejudice threatening the Wizarding World was not something many would stand for. So, ever the calculating Slytherin, he did the only thing he knew to keep his dream alive: he followed public opinion, fighting the prejudice, becoming a beacon of hope for fearful citizens who didn't know how to stand up for themselves. But that wasn't to say Crouch Sr. believed in Mudbloods' rights, Barty thought savagely. He was personally indifferent on the subject, although no living person except Barty himself knew that, for the public thought him a fearsome opponent of anything resembling Voldemort's ideals.
As Voldemort gained power, so did Crouch Sr.– and he loved it. He had worked too long, too hard, for something as trivial as family to stop him from becoming the all-powerful Minister. This left Barty feeling the full force of neglect – and of bullying. Since Barty was in Slytherin, many of his peers belonged to the Sacred 28 and supported Voldemort, believing he had the right idea. And with his father leading the Ministry's resistance, Barty was heavily criticized and was on the receiving end of people's anger for his father's work. Isolated, rejected by both the pureblood and Mudblood students, the morals his father had drilled into him over breaks and summer holidays became twisted and morphed. If both sides rejected Barty because of his father, who was he to align himself with, and who was he to blame?
The only answer was, ironically, what his father had searched for all his life– power. If Barty devoted himself to gaining power and became powerful, going beyond his father, people wouldn't belittle him. He could choose what he wanted to do. The only problem was that Hogwarts students were not typically handed such positions, leaving Barty to take matters into his own hands.
With growing hatred of his father, the Ministry, and his peers, Barty's ambition led him to the one thing he had been warned against countless times– Death Eaters, in the form of Severus Snape. Most of Hogwarts knew that Snape was a loner, so it seemed to Barty that he and the greasy-haired halfblood were in the same boat. But while Barty had been avoiding Slytherins who had shamed him, Snape had wormed his way into their inner circle. And when Barty asked, Snape had introduced Barty to power– just what he was after.
Barty looked down the table to where Narcissa Black, Lucius Malfoy, the LeStrange brothers, Evan Rosier, Crabbe and Goyle (no one was quite sure what their first names were), Alexander Travers, Walden Macnair, and Severus Snape sat. Snape was obviously the youngest there, and wasn't part of the main conversation, but he seemed to be accepted all the same, if a little ignored. The group spoke in hushed tones. Suddenly, Rabastan LeStrange looked over at Barty, who had been staring. Barty quickly went back to eating, but Rabastan had already turned to Malfoy, Macnair, and Snape, whispering and pointing in his direction. They seemed to discuss something, then started arguing. Finally, a very reluctant Snape was pushed in Barty's direction, evidently displeased with the task of having to approach him, but he didn't dare protest against the several older Slytherins.
Out of the teachers' line of sight, Snape pulled a chair up next to Barty's and sat next to him. Barty clenched his wand under his robes, prepared for subtle hexes to be sent his way for daring to stare at his older housemates. But, to his surprise, Snape leaned in and whispered, "So, fancy yourself part of our group, Crouch?"
Barty gaped, trying desperately to think. He did need to get in control of something, anything really, and this could be an opportunity staring him dead in the face. He'd be a fool not to take it. "Yeah, sorta."
Snape's eyes narrowed, but nevertheless, he delivered the group's message– "If you want to come with us and join His circle after you graduate, meet us on top of South Tower at 2:30 am tomorrow."
As much as Barty wanted to distance his father's image from his own, he needed power. He needed power to stray away from that image, and what better way to gain power than through the exact group his father stood so starkly against? When he reached the South Tower, he was forced under the Imperius curse, courtesy of Bellatrix (who had already graduated and had apparently become a Death Eater soon after, already working her way up in the ranks; she was always happy to torture and give her Lord more followers), and had to fight it enough to cast a Cruciatus on an Engorgio'd spider without being forced to eat it– to "prove his loyalty and obedience". He just barely made it, and even though he was laughed at for his near-failure, Barty knew it would be worth it. He'd be his own person, different from his father. The Dark Lord would ensure it.
When he graduated Hogwarts, Barty Crouch Jr. took a break before starting a career, a tradition that wasn't as widely practiced nowadays, but it gave him a plausible excuse to leave to Wales– Voldemort's territory. Barty was going to get his Mark.
Barty entered a crumbling mansion. It had been abandoned many years ago, and was now thrumming with Dark magic– the Dark Lord's magic.
He shakily grasped a heavy stone knocker, knowing that he wouldn't be able to turn back once he entered. He wanted to be powerful – something the Dark Lord promised in abundance – but by joining the Death Eaters he was disregarding everything his father had taught him.
Barty let go of the knocker and a long, loud boom echoed throughout the castle.
There was no warning before the door was thrown open of its own accord. Barty gulped and stepped into a massive, dusty entrance hall. Waiting for him at the bottom of a front-and-center sweeping staircase were two masked Death Eaters.
"You came," the voice of Bellatrix LeStrange sneered. Her nose was in the air, as if everything was beneath her, and she was looking at Barty as if he was a slug. "We didn't think you'd be smart enough."
"Our Lord awaits," Severus Snape's voice cut off Barty's retort, stopping an argument before it could form, an act which likely saved one of Barty's limbs– Bellatrix LeStrange was not one to provoke.
The three climbed flight after flight of steep stairs. Lord Voldemort resided in a small chamber at the top of the highest tower, and no one dared complain about the arduous climb. One of the chamner's stone walls had been completely eroded over time, opening to the setting sun. The windows had no glass, and Barty could only assume that the floor had some charms on it, for if it didn't, it would surely collapse under the weight of all the people in the room.
In the small room there were as many as twenty Death Eaters crammed in a rough circle, all masked and dressed in plain black robes. Snape, though he was only two years Barty's senior, could hardly be the youngest person there. Some probably hadn't even taken their OWLS yet. Barty had known that a following was forming around Voldemort, but not as large as this.
Barty's observations ceased when a pale, ominous, unmasked figure appeared in the room. Instantly, an air of rapt attention and fear filled the room as everyone bowed low. Barty hurriedly did the same, and as he was bent over, he was shoved into the center of the room under the terrifying gaze of the Dark Lord.
"Bartemius Crouch Jr.," Voldemort drawled. It wasn't a question. A few chuckles could be heard at the mention of Barty's surname. "You wish to join my ranks and contribute to our noble cause."
"Yes, my Lord."
"You've noticed the followers that I have gathered with me. Do not be under the impression that it is easy to join them. You must pass a test to prove your loyalty."
"What must I do, my Lord? I am your–"
"Silence." Barty shut up immediately.
"You need not worry," Voldemort said, thought the words were anything but comforting. "All you need to do–" He waved his wand over the floor, and in a puff of smoke, a small House Elf with a round, squashed-in nose and wide, fearful brown eyes appeared by his side. "–is kill her."
"Winky," Barty breathed. How did his father's House Elf get here?
Winky had been the one who cared for Barty and his mother when his father was off brainwashing the Ministry. She had made sure that Barty had someone to talk to at home because he had no friends at school, the one who convinced his father to stay home for that one Christmas in fifth year, the one who made him feel safe in a world of indifferent or hateful people, and the only one Barty thought truly cared about him.
Barty's first impulse was to flat out refuse. But that would get himself killed. So, this is what it comes down to, he thought to himself. Me or Winky.
Refuse and you'll still have your father's protection, the security of his position, he told himself. A father who all but abandoned you and your mother for power, another part of him argued. A father who wanted everything for himself and nothing for you, and who would stop at nothing, including your security and well-being, to get power.
That decided it.
He had come too far, suffered too much, to let a House Elf stop him here. Winky, though very sweet, would not be something he would (literally) kill himself over.
"Avada Kedavra."
Winky collapsed, dead. Barty had mastered the Slytherin mask of indifference by now; only this kept him from crying out. His caretaker, his childhood friend, the only person who made him feel secure about himself and his situation– gone. Barty couldn't control how his hands shook now.
Winky's body hit the floor– and crumbled into stones. Voldemort vanished the rocks with a flourish.
Sensing Barty's stunned confusion, he smiled. "Lord Voldemort does not deal with mere House Elves, Barty." A ripple of chuckling spread through the Death Eaters.
"Silence." Voldemort's fearsome aura took effect at once, and the room fell silent. "You are willing to kill the thing you love most, your weakness, in my name, Crouch. You are ready."
In his office, Barty shuddered as he recalled the searing pain of obtaining his Mark. He clutched his arm subconsciously as a phantom pain went through it.
Barty used to be a person that cared about other people. That person died in Azkaban. There, dementors had haunted him with memories of the horror he'd inflicted, the Longbottoms' screams, his father's scathing words, the oppressive loneliness he hadn't ever been able to successfully suppress. All he could feel for a year before he was rescued from the prison was self-pity and hatred for those who tortured him through his memories.
When his parents finally rescued him, Barty had officially gone insane. The Imperius curse didn't help in the slightest. Barty felt trapped in his own body, and even with Winky (who brought up a whole load of other unpleasant memories) caring for him, he didn't feel safe in his own home. And he wasn't. His father despised him for taking the Mark, and now Barty would never be secure again in his father's home. More times than he could count, Barty had thought to himself as he sat under the invisibility cloak like a mindless puppet, A real father wouldn't feel the need to control me. A real father would be content with his Ministry position and wouldn't care. A real father would make sure his son came first.
Fighting off the Imperius curse was no easy feat, but the feeling of finally being in control of his own body was worth it. His control regained, Barty could have run off and started fresh after the World Cup. But he needed more; he needed power. The wizarding public may have thought they were safe, but the Dark Lord still lived. If Barty gained his Lord's trust, then he would have power beyond comprehension. And what better way to earn his trust than bringing him back to life?
Moody and his trunk were the key, Barty's guaranteed path to power, and, more importantly, security and happiness– something that Bartemius Crouch Junior had been denied for too long.