A/N: Finally! I'm updating! Time on vacation, a small dose of writer's
block, and simple laziness have kept me from sitting down and getting this
chapter finished, but I'm back now! I hope a long chapter will make up for
it!
Disclaimer: Most of the characters in this chapter belong to J.K. Rowling; I'll let you pick them out from mine by yourself. May it also be noted that parts of the dialogue in this chapter come from GoF, and therefore they, too, belong to J.K.
Chapter Six: At the World Cup
"Uumph!" Mr. Crouch fell to the ground with a thud.
He had been standing outside of the tent wearing his crisp, neatly ironed muggle suit and drinking a cup of coffee as he watched the World Cup spectators arrive when something struck the back of his legs hard, knocking him flat on his back.
With coffee dripping from his face and his black suit now sporting spots of dirt, he twisted his head around and spotted his assailant, a tiny boy riding a toy broomstick. The little boy turned around and waved at him, giggling, but his face fell when a stern-faced young woman, presumably his mother, charged past Mr. Crouch and pulled him straight off the broom.
Crouch watched the boy jumping for the broomstick, which his mother was now holding high above his head. When they had both disappeared into a flashy, neon-orange tent, he ducked back inside of his own, thinking of days past when he and his wife had been forced to chase down Barty Jr. and drag him inside, kicking and screaming.
A smile began at the corners of his mouth as he remembered one particular incident: Barty had been barely three years old, and had come to the conclusion that if he was going to be forced to suffer the indignity of taking a bath, he should be paid for it. He stood in the middle of the kitchen with his little arms crossed, refusing to set foot in the bathroom until his demands were met. Mr. Crouch finally lost his temper with the boy and roughly dragged his rouge son upstairs to bathe him. Halfway up the steps, the boy slipped nimbly out of his grasp and promptly dashed outside to roll about in every patch of mud he could find in their vast garden. A long chase followed and Mrs. Crouch arrived home that night to find her struggling, muddy son slung over the shoulder of her equally muddy husband. That night it took the entire household, Winky included, to bathe a kicking, screaming Barty. When the ordeal was finished and the perpetrator was locked safely away in his room, Mr. Crouch and his wife had a long, heated debate over how their son was to be punished. Mrs. Crouch had not been able to shake off the image of her stern, proper husband wrestling with his son in the mud, and tears of laughter had trickled down her cheeks throughout the entire discussion. She eventually won out, saying that Barty Jr. was simply, "Too adorable to punish."
"Are you listening to me?!"
Mr. Crouch snapped abruptly back to the present, and realized that his son had been standing in front of him for some time now. The dreamy smile that had been playing at the corners of his mouth disappeared as quickly as it had come. "What?" he barked, inwardly chiding himself for allowing his mind to wander.
Barty Jr. scowled at his father. "When does the game begin?" he asked, emphasizing each word. "Perhaps you need me to repeat the question more slowly, as you didn't seem to comprehend it the first dozen times I asked-"
"I was thinking." His father snapped. "Try it sometime, I'm sure you'll find it most useful!" He brushed past Barty, not intending to speak with his son any more than was absolutely necessary, but as an afterthought he added: "You and Winky leave for the field at six o' clock."
"You're not coming with us?" Barty Jr. blurted. His father only snorted dismissively, as though the idea of a distinguished man like himself attending a barbaric event like Quidditch was absolutely unthinkable.
"I have far more important matters to contend with, and-" his eyes widened suddenly as he realized that Barty was visible. "What are you doing without the Cloak on?" Grabbing his thirty-year-old son by the arm as though he were no more than five, he ran with him to the back room of the tent, where the Invisibility Cloak lay draped over a rather moldy looking, shabbily upholstered chair.
Winky sat in a similar chair nearby, carefully folding the sheets that her masters had slept on the night before. (She herself had been contented to reside on the couch.)
The house-elf looked up cheerfully when both Crouches entered, and she set down the stack of blankets for a moment to bow to them. "Is Winky getting anything for you, Masters?"
Maintaining his death grip on Barty's arm, Crouch narrowed his eyes at the elf, whose bright smile faltered and died upon seeing the look on her master's face. "Winky," Crouch said in a low voice, "I realize that you are by no means under-worked..." he glanced at the house-elf, as though waiting for her to confirm his statement.
"N-no." the nervous elf stuttered. "Winky is working very hard, Master."
"...and I realize that I rely on you to do a number of different jobs..."
"Yes, Master."
"However," Upon saying that word Crouch's voice lost its soft tone. "I seem to remember giving you one job in particular, a job that you were expected to perform for many years..." he glanced again at Winky as though waiting for her to figure it out on her own, but she was not a particularly complex creature, and her master was speaking in riddles.
Crouch cleared his throat loudly, jerking his head in the direction of the shabby chair with the silvery garment draped over it. Winky turned around and gave a tiny groan as she recalled her task. Hopping from her own chair to the one that held the Invisibility Cloak, she grabbed it and began trying to force it over Barty Jr.'s head, as though it would make up for her absentmindedness. "I is sorry Master! Winky is forgetting! So much is going on-"
She finished forcing Barty into the Cloak and jumped to the ground, quailing under Mr. Crouch's furious gaze. She winced as he opened his mouth, waiting for the rebuff that was coming. "Elf," said her master, in the same quiet, dangerous voice as before, "Remind me: just how many years have I expected you to see that Barty wore the Cloak *at all times?*"
Not realizing that the question was rhetorical, Winky began to count slowly on her fingers. She had just reached four when Crouch continued. "Almost twelve years."
At this, Barty Jr. looked up although no one could see him. Had it really been that long? "Twelve years you've had that job, Elf!" Mr. Crouch maintained. "Twelve years, and *now* when we're surrounded by other wizards and witches on all sides, when it was *most crucial* that he," he jerked his finger at the spot where Barty stood, "remained hidden; *now* you've forgotten?"
The house-elf cowered before him, whimpering. She could have spoken up; told him that she hadn't been reminded to maintain her job while they were at the World Cup, but she knew her master all too well, and he simply did not accept excuses. Besides, "House-elves isn't needing remindings," she whispered to herself.
Suddenly, all three of them turned as one toward the door leading out into the narrow hallway of the tent. Footsteps were making their way quickly towards the room where they stood, and a moment later Ludo Bagman burst in. He gave Winky and Crouch his usual jovial grin and shifted about excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Oh," he said upon seeing Winky still cowering before her master, "Did I interrupt something...?"
Crouch noticed that Ludo didn't sound a bit sorry for bursting in uninvited; but after all, there was no way that the Head of the Magical Games and Sports department could ever have realized what he had almost walked in on. "It's nothing." He said curtly. "Winky wasn't following my orders, so I-"
"Winky?" Bagman said, still grinning. "Disobeying you? That'd be a first, Barty! I've never met an elf as loyal as her; she'd jump straight off Hogwarts' highest tower if you told her to-"
Crouch noticed that Winky was now beaming and blushing deeply at Bagman's comments, and this infuriated him. She was supposed to be punished, not complimented! "Ludo, is there a reason you're here?" he barked, now visibly angry.
"Hmm? Oh yes, of course! Now what was it...?"
Crouch gave an exasperated sigh. Ludo was a gold mine of information if you wanted to know about anything pertaining to Quidditch, but when asked a question about something of any real importance his mind went suspiciously blank.
Growing impatient, Crouch began to drum his fingers on one of the tattered old chairs. "For heaven's sake, Ludo! Am I needed to translate for the Bulgarians!?" He snapped.
A grin spread over Bagman's boyish features. "That was it!" He said, snapping his fingers.
"Good. I'd best be off then." Crouch was halfway out the door when he heard Ludo chuckling behind him.
"Er... Barty, you might want to change clothes first."
Looking down at himself, Crouch realized that his muggle suit was still splattered with coffee, dirt, and grass stains. Shooting Bagman a reproachful glance and inwardly cursing the little boy and his toy broomstick, he headed back into his temporary bedroom.
When he came out he was wearing a new suit that was just as neat and clean as the first had once been, with the exception that it was charcoal-grey instead of black. When he saw that Bagman was still standing there, he frowned. "Ludo, don't you have someplace to be? You're the Head of Magical Games and Sports, I think you should be preparing for tonight."
Bagman waved his hand dismissively "Oh, that'll take care of itself. All I've got to do is show up when the game begins and I'm set! What a job, eh? But between you and me," he said, a sly smile suddenly crossing his face, "I've been doing a bit of extra...er, *work* this morning. Now Barty, I know that gambling isn't one of your preferred pastimes, but no one would have to know if- wait Barty, just hear me out...!"
Crouch was already out the door. Bagman sighed. "Ah, well, it was worth a try." He pulled a rather long list of names from his pocket, and crossed *Barty Crouch* off of it. Navigating the list with his finger, he found the next name down and smiled. "The Weasleys! Maybe Arthur will venture to put a few galleons down this year, without Molly breathing down his neck." He ducked out of the tent, chuckling to himself.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
An hour later, Crouch walked away from the cluster of oddly decorated Bulgarian tents, rubbing his temples and truly wishing that he had stayed home. The moment he'd approached the team, they had bombarded him with requests and complaints. There were not enough seats, they needed more room to practice, the food was bad... these were only the beginning of a long list that Mr. Crouch had memorized before beating a hasty retreat, afraid that they might think up more if he lingered too long.
Looking back over his shoulder, Crouch suddenly collided with a small, dark man who was sprinting in the opposite direction. He managed to keep his balance, but the other man toppled over backwards. Leaning down to help him up, Crouch had to stop himself from giving an exasperated groan. He recognized the man; it was Ali Bashir, a foreign man who had been vexing the Ministry for years with his pleas for them to legalize flying carpets in Britain.
Bashir brushed Crouch's hand away and stood up abruptly. His face, which had been set and determined before, broke into a toothy grin when he saw who he had bumped into. "Crouch!" He always spoke slowly, tripping over the English words. A good thing, too, for anyone listening to him. His accent was so thick that had he talked at a normal pace, it would have been difficult to tell that he was speaking English at all. Bashir continued; "I was looking for you! Were is Arthur Weasley? I must speak with him immediately. His embargo-"
Crouch frowned, straightening his tie. "If this is about those carpets..."
"What else would it be about?" Bashir exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "I tell you, there's money to be made in them! Think of all the trouble it would save. No more slow muggle cars, no more traffic-"
"Ali, as much as I would like to stay and continue debating with you, I really need to be on my way." Said Crouch, interrupting him. "I have a list of requests from the Bulgarian team, and I can't find Ludo Bagman anywhere." Bashir looked at him. "Bagman? I saw him just a few moments ago, collecting more bets before the match. Ask Louis McNay, he might be able to tell you." He pointed in the direction of McNay's tent. "And if you see Arthur Weasley, tell him I want a word!" He added as Crouch walked away, rolling his eyes.
He found Louis McNay, a tall, dark-haired young man, sitting in the shadow of one of the more modest wizarding tents. McNay smiled and waved when he saw Crouch approaching, and ran over to meet him. "Hello, Barty!" He exclaimed, grinning even wider. Crouch winced at the shortened version of his name. Most of the younger employees at the Ministry simply called him "Mr. Crouch," which sounded far more respectful than plain "Barty."
Deciding to ignore McNay's discourtesy, he said: "Louis, have you seen Ludo Bagman? Ali Bashir said-"
"Yes, as a matter of fact you just missed him!" McNay cut in, trying Crouch's patience further. "I made a bet with him on Ireland to win the match." He chuckled. "Poor fellow's going to be sorry come morning, he'll have a mountain of debts to pay off. I mean really, Bulgaria's seeker may be good, one of the best in fact;" he admitted, "But the rest of the team's seen better days; they really don't stand a chance."
By now Crouch was growing extremely impatient with the incessant Quidditch-talk he had been hearing all morning. Finally reaching his wits' end, he burst out loudly; "For Merlin's sake, Louis! Where's Bagman?"
McNay, the smile gone from his face to be replaced with an affronted look, replied grumpily: "Oh yes, that. He said he was visiting the Weasleys' tent next."
With his information collected, Crouch turned on his heel without so much as a goodbye and began to stomp off before stopping in his tracks and saying rather sheepishly; "Er... Louis, where is the Weasleys' tent?"
McNay, whose arms where crossed over his chest, simply jerked his thumb in the opposite direction. As Crouch passed him, he stormed back to his small tent threw the flap open as he ducked inside.
Despite his annoyance with Louis, Crouch still hoped that he hadn't completely ruined the young man's day. *Even though everyone has been ruining mine.* He thought sourly.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Barty Jr.'s day, meanwhile, had been no better than his father's, though far less trying. He had spent most of the morning peering out of the tent flap, which hung open just wide enough for him to see through and observe the activity outside from beneath the folds of the Invisibility Cloak. He tried to open it wider to improve his range of vision, but the Imperius Curse his father had placed on him prevented him from so much as touching any means of escape.
As he watched all of the people outside, able to go about their lives freely, Barty was suddenly struck with a longing to rejoin them. Living for over a decade with only his father and Winky for company, he had nearly forgotten that the world outside existed; the life he had known before Azkaban seemed only a distant memory.
For the first time, Barty began to question the choice he had made fifteen years ago, just after leaving Hogwarts. He wondered if he would have been any happier with his life if he had stayed on the path that had been set for him since birth. He would have surely been free, at least-
No.
Barty shook his head, angry with himself. That wasn't the way to be thinking, not now. He'd made a choice, and despite his recent doubts he still clung to his stubborn belief that it was right.
Absentmindedly, Barty reached for the edge of the tent flap again with an invisible hand. He had long since given up hope that he would escape; all of his dreams of slipping away from his father's prison and aiding his unfortunate master had dissolved over time, so that only a wisp of his former determination remained.
As his hand approached the tent flap, Barty was suddenly struck with the familiar sensation that meant his father's Imperius Curse had done it's job. A feeling of helplessness washed over him as he drew back from the entryway; a sense that his mind was no longer his own. Which, he reminded himself angrily, it wasn't.
Barty rose from his uncomfortable position on the floor and collapsed onto a nearby couch, rubbing his knees, which were stiff from kneeling on the wooden floorboards. Removing the Invisibility Cloak and leaning back against a rather moldy green pillow, he pulled the left sleeve of his robes up to his shoulder and began to examine the Mark on his forearm as he hadn't done in years.
The Dark Mark was red and dull now, but he remembered when it had been as black as pitch, and had burned like fire whenever his Master had need of him. Running his fingers over the lifeless imprint, Barty smiled, recalling the night it had been placed there by the Dark Lord's own hand.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 1980
Only Lord Voldemort's elite circle of followers ever attended the initiations of new Death Eaters, as it would be all too easy for a spy to simply hand over the names of all new recruits to the Ministry of Magic if the entire group congregated to watch. That night, Barty was one of seven men who were waiting to receive the Mark. Only seventeen, he was by far the youngest of the group which consisted of himself, Augustus Rookwood, and six men he had never met.
Rookwood, who had known Barty since childhood, was taken aback when he saw the young man. "Barty?" he said, squinting slightly, as though not quite sure that he was seeing correctly. "Barty Crouch? What're you doing here, lad?"
Barty frowned; he hated being addressed as though he was a child, but he gave a curt answer. "The same as you, Rookwood."
"Aren't you a bit... well, young to be-"
"No." Barty snapped, losing his patience with the man. "Aren't you a bit *old?*"
Rookwood backed down and began examining his shoes, but Barty saw the man's eyes dart toward him once or twice.
They were called into a room of marble and silver, filled with a score of the Dark Lord's elite and, sitting at the end of the room in an imposing throne of raven-hued marble, was Voldemort himself. Some of the Inner Circle, their faces hidden behind dark velvet masks, had obviously recognized Barty, as they whispered among themselves when he passed, some even gasping aloud upon catching sight of him. He could hear bits of their hushed conversations, and recognized a few voices among them, mostly people who had been five or six years older than him at Hogwarts. Those who had known him well were understandably shocked to see Barty there, but those who had known him even better were not.
The group of seven walked towards the back of the room, stopping at a respectful distance from the Dark Lord and kneeling at his feet. Voldemort rose from the marble throne and began pacing up and down in front of them, setting his gaze upon each one in turn. At the time, his blood-red eyes were the only thing connecting him with the creature he would one day become. As his crimson gaze focused on Barty, kneeling beside his comrades, he strode over and lifted the young man's bowed head with a gloved hand. Looking him over carefully, the Dark Lord spoke. "Bartemius Crouch, I presume?"
"Yes, My Lord."
"How old are you, boy?"
"Seventeen, My Lord." He had decided that it would be best to keep his answers as short and respectful as possible.
"Seventeen..." He trailed off, seeming to ponder this for a moment. "Just out of Hogwarts, then, are you? Which house?"
"Slytherin, My Lord."
"Ah. You'll be fine, then. You are younger than any of your comrades, as I'm sure you've noticed, but if you're a Slytherin, I'm sure you'll find your place among us quite easily."
"Thank you, My Lord." Said Barty, elated to have gained the Dark Lord's approval. Voldemort nodded, returning to his throne, and Barty threw a quick smirk at Augustus Rookwood, who was looking at him with envy.
Voldemort pulled out his wand and motioned for them to stand. "One of you, step forward."
The six other men all looked around at each other hopefully, each praying that he would not be the first recipient of the Mark . They were spared, however. Barty, who had been anticipating that moment and whose few doubts had been put to rest by the Dark Lord's vocal approval of him, stepped forward and kneeled at his Master's feet. Holding out his left arm as Voldemort motioned for him to do so, Barty braced himself. The Dark Lord pushed up the sleeve of the young man's robes and, placing the tip of his wand on his servant's forearm, began to whisper a spell that Barty had never heard before. He had no time to listen to the words, however, for as soon as Voldemort began speaking, pain equal to the Cruciatus Curse shot through Barty's arm, and soon spread to his entire body.
Biting his lip against the torturous feeling, the young Death Eater did his best not to scream aloud. All the while, he could feel his Master's eyes on him, observing him. Whimpering, Barty closed his eyes, willing it to be over.
Suddenly the spell was lifted and he collapsed at Voldemort's feet, barely conscious. His body was left with terrible aches and pains, and his left arm was in agony, but these afflictions couldn't compare with what he had just suffered.
Barty's gaze was unfocused, and the two Death Eaters who lifted him up at the Dark Lord's command to set him in a nearby chair swam before his eyes. As Augustus Rookwood was called to receive the Mark, Barty lifted up his left arm and peered at his own. It stood out, ebony against his pale skin.
Despite the pain still coursing through his body, Barty smiled.
His small smile became a fully-fledged grin as he heard Rookwood screaming and struggling at the Dark Lord's feet.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"M-Master Barty?"
Barty jerked upright on the couch, hastily pulling down the sleeve of his robes to conceal the scarlet Mark that was tatooed into his flesh. "What is it, Winky?" he snarled.
The house-elf, who had been standing in the doorway, cringed under his furious gaze. Holding out a tray of sandwiches, she stuttered: "I-it is noon, Master Barty. You is ought to have lunch now."
Without a word of thanks, Barty snatched the tray from her hands and began stuffing the sandwiches into his mouth; he'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't even realized how hungry he was.
Midway through his meal, he noticed that Winky was still standing in the doorway, looking at him in a half-curious, half-frightened way. His fury deepened; she'd been watching him! Picking up an empty glass that had been left on the end table next to him, he waved it above his head threateningly, as though about to strike her with it. "Get out of here!" He roared at her. "Stupid elf, haven't you got anything better to do than spy on me?"
Winky ducked out of the room, hearing the glass shatter as it sailed into a wall behind her. Another mess to clean up. The house-elf chided herself softly as she went to fetch the broom. "'Tis your own fault, Winky! You is a bad elf, spying on Master Barty like that..." She shivered suddenly. Going about her chores at home, the elf had heard enough of Mr. Crouch's ranting about Death Eaters to know what the red mark on Barty's arm was, and what it meant.
Winky knew, of course, that Barty was a Death Eater, but she had never noticed the Dark Mark before and despite everything, in the elf's eyes he had still always been her beloved Master Barty. She had never been truly frightened of him, but her glimpse at the Mark had made his treachery seem all the more real; and although she served and cared for him as faithfully as ever, Winky now viewed her young master through wary eyes.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Mr. Crouch found that it was not difficult to spot the Weasleys' tent among all the others, as very few of them had large groups of redheads, with hair visible from a great distance, clustered around their firesides. Once his destination was in view, Crouch decided not to make the uphill trek and apparated the rest of the way.
Appearing suddenly in front of the Weasleys' tent, Crouch dusted himself off for a moment before turning to the wizards seated by the fire. Ludo Bagman's ever-cheerful voice piped up from his seat on the grass. "Oh- talk of the devil! Barty!"
Crouch winced slightly; Ludo was really the last person he wanted to talk to when he was in such a terrible mood, but with luck he would only have to stay around for a few moments...
Bagman patted the bit of rather muddy-looking ground next to him, grinning. "Pull up a bit of grass, Barty."
"No thank you, Ludo." Crouch said, trying his best to remain courteous, but unable to hide some of the annoyance he felt. Deciding to complete his given task so that he might be off as soon as possible, he continued: "I've been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box."
"Oh is that what they're after? I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent."
Crouch frowned and was about to say something else to Ludo when a familiar voice spoke up from behind him. "Mr. Crouch!" It was his assistant from the office, Percy Weatherby. Crouch couldn't say that he was particularly glad to see the young man there; at work he was often extremely clingy and worked far too hard to prove himself. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Oh- yes, thank you, Weatherby." He accepted the offer rather gratefully; perhaps a cup of tea would help move along the exhausting day he'd had up until that moment.
Of course, the day was really just getting started...
A/N: r/r, please! If you do, I'll rest assured that you haven't given up on me yet!
Disclaimer: Most of the characters in this chapter belong to J.K. Rowling; I'll let you pick them out from mine by yourself. May it also be noted that parts of the dialogue in this chapter come from GoF, and therefore they, too, belong to J.K.
Chapter Six: At the World Cup
"Uumph!" Mr. Crouch fell to the ground with a thud.
He had been standing outside of the tent wearing his crisp, neatly ironed muggle suit and drinking a cup of coffee as he watched the World Cup spectators arrive when something struck the back of his legs hard, knocking him flat on his back.
With coffee dripping from his face and his black suit now sporting spots of dirt, he twisted his head around and spotted his assailant, a tiny boy riding a toy broomstick. The little boy turned around and waved at him, giggling, but his face fell when a stern-faced young woman, presumably his mother, charged past Mr. Crouch and pulled him straight off the broom.
Crouch watched the boy jumping for the broomstick, which his mother was now holding high above his head. When they had both disappeared into a flashy, neon-orange tent, he ducked back inside of his own, thinking of days past when he and his wife had been forced to chase down Barty Jr. and drag him inside, kicking and screaming.
A smile began at the corners of his mouth as he remembered one particular incident: Barty had been barely three years old, and had come to the conclusion that if he was going to be forced to suffer the indignity of taking a bath, he should be paid for it. He stood in the middle of the kitchen with his little arms crossed, refusing to set foot in the bathroom until his demands were met. Mr. Crouch finally lost his temper with the boy and roughly dragged his rouge son upstairs to bathe him. Halfway up the steps, the boy slipped nimbly out of his grasp and promptly dashed outside to roll about in every patch of mud he could find in their vast garden. A long chase followed and Mrs. Crouch arrived home that night to find her struggling, muddy son slung over the shoulder of her equally muddy husband. That night it took the entire household, Winky included, to bathe a kicking, screaming Barty. When the ordeal was finished and the perpetrator was locked safely away in his room, Mr. Crouch and his wife had a long, heated debate over how their son was to be punished. Mrs. Crouch had not been able to shake off the image of her stern, proper husband wrestling with his son in the mud, and tears of laughter had trickled down her cheeks throughout the entire discussion. She eventually won out, saying that Barty Jr. was simply, "Too adorable to punish."
"Are you listening to me?!"
Mr. Crouch snapped abruptly back to the present, and realized that his son had been standing in front of him for some time now. The dreamy smile that had been playing at the corners of his mouth disappeared as quickly as it had come. "What?" he barked, inwardly chiding himself for allowing his mind to wander.
Barty Jr. scowled at his father. "When does the game begin?" he asked, emphasizing each word. "Perhaps you need me to repeat the question more slowly, as you didn't seem to comprehend it the first dozen times I asked-"
"I was thinking." His father snapped. "Try it sometime, I'm sure you'll find it most useful!" He brushed past Barty, not intending to speak with his son any more than was absolutely necessary, but as an afterthought he added: "You and Winky leave for the field at six o' clock."
"You're not coming with us?" Barty Jr. blurted. His father only snorted dismissively, as though the idea of a distinguished man like himself attending a barbaric event like Quidditch was absolutely unthinkable.
"I have far more important matters to contend with, and-" his eyes widened suddenly as he realized that Barty was visible. "What are you doing without the Cloak on?" Grabbing his thirty-year-old son by the arm as though he were no more than five, he ran with him to the back room of the tent, where the Invisibility Cloak lay draped over a rather moldy looking, shabbily upholstered chair.
Winky sat in a similar chair nearby, carefully folding the sheets that her masters had slept on the night before. (She herself had been contented to reside on the couch.)
The house-elf looked up cheerfully when both Crouches entered, and she set down the stack of blankets for a moment to bow to them. "Is Winky getting anything for you, Masters?"
Maintaining his death grip on Barty's arm, Crouch narrowed his eyes at the elf, whose bright smile faltered and died upon seeing the look on her master's face. "Winky," Crouch said in a low voice, "I realize that you are by no means under-worked..." he glanced at the house-elf, as though waiting for her to confirm his statement.
"N-no." the nervous elf stuttered. "Winky is working very hard, Master."
"...and I realize that I rely on you to do a number of different jobs..."
"Yes, Master."
"However," Upon saying that word Crouch's voice lost its soft tone. "I seem to remember giving you one job in particular, a job that you were expected to perform for many years..." he glanced again at Winky as though waiting for her to figure it out on her own, but she was not a particularly complex creature, and her master was speaking in riddles.
Crouch cleared his throat loudly, jerking his head in the direction of the shabby chair with the silvery garment draped over it. Winky turned around and gave a tiny groan as she recalled her task. Hopping from her own chair to the one that held the Invisibility Cloak, she grabbed it and began trying to force it over Barty Jr.'s head, as though it would make up for her absentmindedness. "I is sorry Master! Winky is forgetting! So much is going on-"
She finished forcing Barty into the Cloak and jumped to the ground, quailing under Mr. Crouch's furious gaze. She winced as he opened his mouth, waiting for the rebuff that was coming. "Elf," said her master, in the same quiet, dangerous voice as before, "Remind me: just how many years have I expected you to see that Barty wore the Cloak *at all times?*"
Not realizing that the question was rhetorical, Winky began to count slowly on her fingers. She had just reached four when Crouch continued. "Almost twelve years."
At this, Barty Jr. looked up although no one could see him. Had it really been that long? "Twelve years you've had that job, Elf!" Mr. Crouch maintained. "Twelve years, and *now* when we're surrounded by other wizards and witches on all sides, when it was *most crucial* that he," he jerked his finger at the spot where Barty stood, "remained hidden; *now* you've forgotten?"
The house-elf cowered before him, whimpering. She could have spoken up; told him that she hadn't been reminded to maintain her job while they were at the World Cup, but she knew her master all too well, and he simply did not accept excuses. Besides, "House-elves isn't needing remindings," she whispered to herself.
Suddenly, all three of them turned as one toward the door leading out into the narrow hallway of the tent. Footsteps were making their way quickly towards the room where they stood, and a moment later Ludo Bagman burst in. He gave Winky and Crouch his usual jovial grin and shifted about excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"Oh," he said upon seeing Winky still cowering before her master, "Did I interrupt something...?"
Crouch noticed that Ludo didn't sound a bit sorry for bursting in uninvited; but after all, there was no way that the Head of the Magical Games and Sports department could ever have realized what he had almost walked in on. "It's nothing." He said curtly. "Winky wasn't following my orders, so I-"
"Winky?" Bagman said, still grinning. "Disobeying you? That'd be a first, Barty! I've never met an elf as loyal as her; she'd jump straight off Hogwarts' highest tower if you told her to-"
Crouch noticed that Winky was now beaming and blushing deeply at Bagman's comments, and this infuriated him. She was supposed to be punished, not complimented! "Ludo, is there a reason you're here?" he barked, now visibly angry.
"Hmm? Oh yes, of course! Now what was it...?"
Crouch gave an exasperated sigh. Ludo was a gold mine of information if you wanted to know about anything pertaining to Quidditch, but when asked a question about something of any real importance his mind went suspiciously blank.
Growing impatient, Crouch began to drum his fingers on one of the tattered old chairs. "For heaven's sake, Ludo! Am I needed to translate for the Bulgarians!?" He snapped.
A grin spread over Bagman's boyish features. "That was it!" He said, snapping his fingers.
"Good. I'd best be off then." Crouch was halfway out the door when he heard Ludo chuckling behind him.
"Er... Barty, you might want to change clothes first."
Looking down at himself, Crouch realized that his muggle suit was still splattered with coffee, dirt, and grass stains. Shooting Bagman a reproachful glance and inwardly cursing the little boy and his toy broomstick, he headed back into his temporary bedroom.
When he came out he was wearing a new suit that was just as neat and clean as the first had once been, with the exception that it was charcoal-grey instead of black. When he saw that Bagman was still standing there, he frowned. "Ludo, don't you have someplace to be? You're the Head of Magical Games and Sports, I think you should be preparing for tonight."
Bagman waved his hand dismissively "Oh, that'll take care of itself. All I've got to do is show up when the game begins and I'm set! What a job, eh? But between you and me," he said, a sly smile suddenly crossing his face, "I've been doing a bit of extra...er, *work* this morning. Now Barty, I know that gambling isn't one of your preferred pastimes, but no one would have to know if- wait Barty, just hear me out...!"
Crouch was already out the door. Bagman sighed. "Ah, well, it was worth a try." He pulled a rather long list of names from his pocket, and crossed *Barty Crouch* off of it. Navigating the list with his finger, he found the next name down and smiled. "The Weasleys! Maybe Arthur will venture to put a few galleons down this year, without Molly breathing down his neck." He ducked out of the tent, chuckling to himself.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
An hour later, Crouch walked away from the cluster of oddly decorated Bulgarian tents, rubbing his temples and truly wishing that he had stayed home. The moment he'd approached the team, they had bombarded him with requests and complaints. There were not enough seats, they needed more room to practice, the food was bad... these were only the beginning of a long list that Mr. Crouch had memorized before beating a hasty retreat, afraid that they might think up more if he lingered too long.
Looking back over his shoulder, Crouch suddenly collided with a small, dark man who was sprinting in the opposite direction. He managed to keep his balance, but the other man toppled over backwards. Leaning down to help him up, Crouch had to stop himself from giving an exasperated groan. He recognized the man; it was Ali Bashir, a foreign man who had been vexing the Ministry for years with his pleas for them to legalize flying carpets in Britain.
Bashir brushed Crouch's hand away and stood up abruptly. His face, which had been set and determined before, broke into a toothy grin when he saw who he had bumped into. "Crouch!" He always spoke slowly, tripping over the English words. A good thing, too, for anyone listening to him. His accent was so thick that had he talked at a normal pace, it would have been difficult to tell that he was speaking English at all. Bashir continued; "I was looking for you! Were is Arthur Weasley? I must speak with him immediately. His embargo-"
Crouch frowned, straightening his tie. "If this is about those carpets..."
"What else would it be about?" Bashir exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "I tell you, there's money to be made in them! Think of all the trouble it would save. No more slow muggle cars, no more traffic-"
"Ali, as much as I would like to stay and continue debating with you, I really need to be on my way." Said Crouch, interrupting him. "I have a list of requests from the Bulgarian team, and I can't find Ludo Bagman anywhere." Bashir looked at him. "Bagman? I saw him just a few moments ago, collecting more bets before the match. Ask Louis McNay, he might be able to tell you." He pointed in the direction of McNay's tent. "And if you see Arthur Weasley, tell him I want a word!" He added as Crouch walked away, rolling his eyes.
He found Louis McNay, a tall, dark-haired young man, sitting in the shadow of one of the more modest wizarding tents. McNay smiled and waved when he saw Crouch approaching, and ran over to meet him. "Hello, Barty!" He exclaimed, grinning even wider. Crouch winced at the shortened version of his name. Most of the younger employees at the Ministry simply called him "Mr. Crouch," which sounded far more respectful than plain "Barty."
Deciding to ignore McNay's discourtesy, he said: "Louis, have you seen Ludo Bagman? Ali Bashir said-"
"Yes, as a matter of fact you just missed him!" McNay cut in, trying Crouch's patience further. "I made a bet with him on Ireland to win the match." He chuckled. "Poor fellow's going to be sorry come morning, he'll have a mountain of debts to pay off. I mean really, Bulgaria's seeker may be good, one of the best in fact;" he admitted, "But the rest of the team's seen better days; they really don't stand a chance."
By now Crouch was growing extremely impatient with the incessant Quidditch-talk he had been hearing all morning. Finally reaching his wits' end, he burst out loudly; "For Merlin's sake, Louis! Where's Bagman?"
McNay, the smile gone from his face to be replaced with an affronted look, replied grumpily: "Oh yes, that. He said he was visiting the Weasleys' tent next."
With his information collected, Crouch turned on his heel without so much as a goodbye and began to stomp off before stopping in his tracks and saying rather sheepishly; "Er... Louis, where is the Weasleys' tent?"
McNay, whose arms where crossed over his chest, simply jerked his thumb in the opposite direction. As Crouch passed him, he stormed back to his small tent threw the flap open as he ducked inside.
Despite his annoyance with Louis, Crouch still hoped that he hadn't completely ruined the young man's day. *Even though everyone has been ruining mine.* He thought sourly.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Barty Jr.'s day, meanwhile, had been no better than his father's, though far less trying. He had spent most of the morning peering out of the tent flap, which hung open just wide enough for him to see through and observe the activity outside from beneath the folds of the Invisibility Cloak. He tried to open it wider to improve his range of vision, but the Imperius Curse his father had placed on him prevented him from so much as touching any means of escape.
As he watched all of the people outside, able to go about their lives freely, Barty was suddenly struck with a longing to rejoin them. Living for over a decade with only his father and Winky for company, he had nearly forgotten that the world outside existed; the life he had known before Azkaban seemed only a distant memory.
For the first time, Barty began to question the choice he had made fifteen years ago, just after leaving Hogwarts. He wondered if he would have been any happier with his life if he had stayed on the path that had been set for him since birth. He would have surely been free, at least-
No.
Barty shook his head, angry with himself. That wasn't the way to be thinking, not now. He'd made a choice, and despite his recent doubts he still clung to his stubborn belief that it was right.
Absentmindedly, Barty reached for the edge of the tent flap again with an invisible hand. He had long since given up hope that he would escape; all of his dreams of slipping away from his father's prison and aiding his unfortunate master had dissolved over time, so that only a wisp of his former determination remained.
As his hand approached the tent flap, Barty was suddenly struck with the familiar sensation that meant his father's Imperius Curse had done it's job. A feeling of helplessness washed over him as he drew back from the entryway; a sense that his mind was no longer his own. Which, he reminded himself angrily, it wasn't.
Barty rose from his uncomfortable position on the floor and collapsed onto a nearby couch, rubbing his knees, which were stiff from kneeling on the wooden floorboards. Removing the Invisibility Cloak and leaning back against a rather moldy green pillow, he pulled the left sleeve of his robes up to his shoulder and began to examine the Mark on his forearm as he hadn't done in years.
The Dark Mark was red and dull now, but he remembered when it had been as black as pitch, and had burned like fire whenever his Master had need of him. Running his fingers over the lifeless imprint, Barty smiled, recalling the night it had been placed there by the Dark Lord's own hand.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 1980
Only Lord Voldemort's elite circle of followers ever attended the initiations of new Death Eaters, as it would be all too easy for a spy to simply hand over the names of all new recruits to the Ministry of Magic if the entire group congregated to watch. That night, Barty was one of seven men who were waiting to receive the Mark. Only seventeen, he was by far the youngest of the group which consisted of himself, Augustus Rookwood, and six men he had never met.
Rookwood, who had known Barty since childhood, was taken aback when he saw the young man. "Barty?" he said, squinting slightly, as though not quite sure that he was seeing correctly. "Barty Crouch? What're you doing here, lad?"
Barty frowned; he hated being addressed as though he was a child, but he gave a curt answer. "The same as you, Rookwood."
"Aren't you a bit... well, young to be-"
"No." Barty snapped, losing his patience with the man. "Aren't you a bit *old?*"
Rookwood backed down and began examining his shoes, but Barty saw the man's eyes dart toward him once or twice.
They were called into a room of marble and silver, filled with a score of the Dark Lord's elite and, sitting at the end of the room in an imposing throne of raven-hued marble, was Voldemort himself. Some of the Inner Circle, their faces hidden behind dark velvet masks, had obviously recognized Barty, as they whispered among themselves when he passed, some even gasping aloud upon catching sight of him. He could hear bits of their hushed conversations, and recognized a few voices among them, mostly people who had been five or six years older than him at Hogwarts. Those who had known him well were understandably shocked to see Barty there, but those who had known him even better were not.
The group of seven walked towards the back of the room, stopping at a respectful distance from the Dark Lord and kneeling at his feet. Voldemort rose from the marble throne and began pacing up and down in front of them, setting his gaze upon each one in turn. At the time, his blood-red eyes were the only thing connecting him with the creature he would one day become. As his crimson gaze focused on Barty, kneeling beside his comrades, he strode over and lifted the young man's bowed head with a gloved hand. Looking him over carefully, the Dark Lord spoke. "Bartemius Crouch, I presume?"
"Yes, My Lord."
"How old are you, boy?"
"Seventeen, My Lord." He had decided that it would be best to keep his answers as short and respectful as possible.
"Seventeen..." He trailed off, seeming to ponder this for a moment. "Just out of Hogwarts, then, are you? Which house?"
"Slytherin, My Lord."
"Ah. You'll be fine, then. You are younger than any of your comrades, as I'm sure you've noticed, but if you're a Slytherin, I'm sure you'll find your place among us quite easily."
"Thank you, My Lord." Said Barty, elated to have gained the Dark Lord's approval. Voldemort nodded, returning to his throne, and Barty threw a quick smirk at Augustus Rookwood, who was looking at him with envy.
Voldemort pulled out his wand and motioned for them to stand. "One of you, step forward."
The six other men all looked around at each other hopefully, each praying that he would not be the first recipient of the Mark . They were spared, however. Barty, who had been anticipating that moment and whose few doubts had been put to rest by the Dark Lord's vocal approval of him, stepped forward and kneeled at his Master's feet. Holding out his left arm as Voldemort motioned for him to do so, Barty braced himself. The Dark Lord pushed up the sleeve of the young man's robes and, placing the tip of his wand on his servant's forearm, began to whisper a spell that Barty had never heard before. He had no time to listen to the words, however, for as soon as Voldemort began speaking, pain equal to the Cruciatus Curse shot through Barty's arm, and soon spread to his entire body.
Biting his lip against the torturous feeling, the young Death Eater did his best not to scream aloud. All the while, he could feel his Master's eyes on him, observing him. Whimpering, Barty closed his eyes, willing it to be over.
Suddenly the spell was lifted and he collapsed at Voldemort's feet, barely conscious. His body was left with terrible aches and pains, and his left arm was in agony, but these afflictions couldn't compare with what he had just suffered.
Barty's gaze was unfocused, and the two Death Eaters who lifted him up at the Dark Lord's command to set him in a nearby chair swam before his eyes. As Augustus Rookwood was called to receive the Mark, Barty lifted up his left arm and peered at his own. It stood out, ebony against his pale skin.
Despite the pain still coursing through his body, Barty smiled.
His small smile became a fully-fledged grin as he heard Rookwood screaming and struggling at the Dark Lord's feet.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"M-Master Barty?"
Barty jerked upright on the couch, hastily pulling down the sleeve of his robes to conceal the scarlet Mark that was tatooed into his flesh. "What is it, Winky?" he snarled.
The house-elf, who had been standing in the doorway, cringed under his furious gaze. Holding out a tray of sandwiches, she stuttered: "I-it is noon, Master Barty. You is ought to have lunch now."
Without a word of thanks, Barty snatched the tray from her hands and began stuffing the sandwiches into his mouth; he'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't even realized how hungry he was.
Midway through his meal, he noticed that Winky was still standing in the doorway, looking at him in a half-curious, half-frightened way. His fury deepened; she'd been watching him! Picking up an empty glass that had been left on the end table next to him, he waved it above his head threateningly, as though about to strike her with it. "Get out of here!" He roared at her. "Stupid elf, haven't you got anything better to do than spy on me?"
Winky ducked out of the room, hearing the glass shatter as it sailed into a wall behind her. Another mess to clean up. The house-elf chided herself softly as she went to fetch the broom. "'Tis your own fault, Winky! You is a bad elf, spying on Master Barty like that..." She shivered suddenly. Going about her chores at home, the elf had heard enough of Mr. Crouch's ranting about Death Eaters to know what the red mark on Barty's arm was, and what it meant.
Winky knew, of course, that Barty was a Death Eater, but she had never noticed the Dark Mark before and despite everything, in the elf's eyes he had still always been her beloved Master Barty. She had never been truly frightened of him, but her glimpse at the Mark had made his treachery seem all the more real; and although she served and cared for him as faithfully as ever, Winky now viewed her young master through wary eyes.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Mr. Crouch found that it was not difficult to spot the Weasleys' tent among all the others, as very few of them had large groups of redheads, with hair visible from a great distance, clustered around their firesides. Once his destination was in view, Crouch decided not to make the uphill trek and apparated the rest of the way.
Appearing suddenly in front of the Weasleys' tent, Crouch dusted himself off for a moment before turning to the wizards seated by the fire. Ludo Bagman's ever-cheerful voice piped up from his seat on the grass. "Oh- talk of the devil! Barty!"
Crouch winced slightly; Ludo was really the last person he wanted to talk to when he was in such a terrible mood, but with luck he would only have to stay around for a few moments...
Bagman patted the bit of rather muddy-looking ground next to him, grinning. "Pull up a bit of grass, Barty."
"No thank you, Ludo." Crouch said, trying his best to remain courteous, but unable to hide some of the annoyance he felt. Deciding to complete his given task so that he might be off as soon as possible, he continued: "I've been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box."
"Oh is that what they're after? I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent."
Crouch frowned and was about to say something else to Ludo when a familiar voice spoke up from behind him. "Mr. Crouch!" It was his assistant from the office, Percy Weatherby. Crouch couldn't say that he was particularly glad to see the young man there; at work he was often extremely clingy and worked far too hard to prove himself. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Oh- yes, thank you, Weatherby." He accepted the offer rather gratefully; perhaps a cup of tea would help move along the exhausting day he'd had up until that moment.
Of course, the day was really just getting started...
A/N: r/r, please! If you do, I'll rest assured that you haven't given up on me yet!