Chapter 8: Birthday Greetings
A/N: Quite a few people have been wondering why I haven't updated this fic on Fiction Alley, and I thought it time that I gave an explanation. The thing is, chapter three simply won't upload. I've tried everything I can think of, and have asked the monitors, but no one can figure out what's wrong with it... I expect I'll figure something out eventually, but for now I'm stumped. If anyone has any ideas, please tell me. Thanks!
Disclaimer: All characters belong to the lucky Ms. J.K. Rowling.
Mr. Crouch strode quickly along the path to the crowded area where he was to retrieve their Portkey home, outwardly deaf to the stifled sobs of the heartbroken elf trailing in his wake.
Winky had sat outside of their tent all through the rest of the night and into the morning. She was now following at a distance, pleading with her former master to take her back. The poor house-elf's pathetic sobs attracted a dangerous amount of attention to Crouch, and his face burned as the surrounding witches and wizards goggled shamelessly at him, no doubt wondering what the man had done to make his poor servant so miserable.
Barty Jr. was only making matters worse; he had slowed them considerably by dragging his feet all the way there like a spoiled ten-year old. Which, his father reflected bitterly, was not far off the mark. Crouch was struggling to keep his son moving while weaving through a gaggle of people, all of them teetering on the brink of panic, including himself. Reinforcements had been called in by the Ministry, and Crouch was terrified that one of the Aurors patrolling nearby would spot him and wonder why he was struggling along like a cripple.
"Barty, over here!" a voice called from the depths of the crowd. Crouch turned around to see Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, waving a one-eyed teddy bear about while making his way slowly toward him. "There we are," he said with an exhausted sigh, offering the bear to Crouch with his left hand while mopping his brow with the other. "That's set to leave in..." he pulled a folded list from his robes and consulted it. "ten minutes."
"Thank you, Basil," said Crouch. Then, noticing the dark bags under his colleague's eyes: "You've had a rough morning, I take it?"
"Rough hardly breaks the surface. I was up before the sun rose, throwing together emergency Portkeys; we weren't prepared for so many to depart today." He ran a hand absentmindedly through his hair. "There'll be big changes in the transportation setup next year, you mark my words."
"Ah, well, perhaps it's for the best," Crouch replied. "A bit of a wake-up call for the Ministry, I should think. Anyway, I'd best be going."
He began to work his way out of the crowd, searching for a clear spot to depart from, but Basil caught his shoulder as he went, nearly making him lose his grip on Barty Jr. "Barty, wait!" the man called anxiously. "Is- is it true what they're saying around camp? About Winky, I mean. Did she really-"
Crouch's polite, concerned manner evaporated on the spot. "I do not wish to discuss that matter right now, Basil. I assure you that Winky is no longer working for me." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the disgraced elf, who was sobbing into her tea-towel just a few paces away. Sure enough, she also had in her possession an old leather glove, held away from her as though it was some disgusting, slimy thing she was being forced to pick up.
"But Barty, I was just wondering;" Basil persisted, "do you think that- well, if she *did* send up the Dark Mark- do you think she could have possibly picked it up from your so-" But Crouch was already gone.
He had stormed off in the middle of Basil's theory, his hand now clamped painfully tight around Barty Jr's wrist. "Ow," Barty protested, trying to wriggle out of his father's grip.
"Quiet!" snapped Crouch, dragging his son along with even greater force. "Do you really want to get us both thrown into Azkaban if someone should hear you? Haven't you finished ruining me yet?" His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, betraying despair.
Barty Jr. was completely silent as they waited to return home. When they arrived, he went straight up to his room without a word. It seemed he had nothing to say.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Barty let the bedroom door quietly click shut behind him before shedding the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it over a chair. He proceded to collapse upon the bed, burying his face in a pillow, competely lost in thought. His last chance to return to his master had been destroyed; he knew perfectly well that his father would never allow him out of the house again, and now there was no Winky there to convince him to do so.
His father's words at the campground were weighing heavily on his mind as well. 'Haven't you finished ruining me yet?' Barty had never been particularly concerned about the elder Crouch's emotions before, especially as regarding himself, but his father's tone had been so filled with despair... he began to wonder just how much the man was regretting smuggling his son to freedom.
Turning over on his side, Barty scowled at the heavy curtains blocking his window. What right did Crouch Sr. have to say such a thing? After all, he had been the one to imprison his son twice over, first in a stone cell and then in his own home. "So who's ruined who, Father?" Barty whispered angrily.
He recalled awakening in the tent early that morning to find his parent glaring down at him. Crouch Sr. hadn't said a word, but had began packing their things for departure immediately. Barty's elation from the night before was lost. He had failed his master.
Now that he had time again to dwell on that thought, Barty buried his face in his hands, utterly disgusted with himself. It had been a foolish, hot- headed mistake, he knew. He had allowed anger to overshadow logic. Escaping and finding Lord Voldemort should have been first priority; the punishment of his fellow Death Eaters could have waited. With the wand, Barty could have easily been far away from the campground when his father came after him, but instead he had lingered, giving Winky time to gain control over him.
And now his last chance was gone, and he had no one to blame for it but himself. His master would wait in vain for someone to come to his aid, but alas, there was no help to be had.
And it was all his fault.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Taking a seat at the enormous dining room table, Crouch Sr. took a bite of a rather crudely made roast beef sandwich. It was going to be very difficult indeed to manage without Winky, he thought as he chewed. Even with the help of magic, his cooking and cleaning skills left much to be desired, and hiring a new house-elf would mean taking a great risk. True, house-elves were extremely loyal creatures, but they did have a sense of morality, and a new servant might not yet be attatched enough to Crouch to allow him to get away with harboring a Death Eater.
No, he would have to make due on his own. Magically stacking his dishes in the sink and employing a rag to wash them, Crouch headed upstairs to his bedroom. When he reached the landing, however, he turned not right but left, in the direction of his son's room. Despite himself, he was worried about Barty; it was nearing noon and the boy had not made a sound since their return.
Cautiously turning the doorknob, Crouch opened the door and snuck quietly inside. At some point, Barty Jr. had pulled the bedclothes over himself and fallen asleep. Crouch noticed that his son had left his shoes on, and was about to summon Winky to remove them when he remembered that there was no Winky.
Sighing, he knelt at the foot of the bed, where Barty's shoes were sticking out from under the quilt. Grasping the laces of one shoe in both hands he untied them and tried to pull first one shoe and then the other off of his son's foot without awakening him. Placing both shoes on the ground, he got back on his feet and started to leave.
Crouch's eye caught sight of the calender as he went out the door, and he realized what day it was; the second of August, Barty's birthday. It was a mere stroke of luck that he had remembered. Even when their son had been a very small child, Secilia had nearly always had to remind her husband -often more than once.
Crossing the hallway to his own bedroom, Crouch sat down at his desk and made a valiant attempt to finish the last of his delayed paperwork for the office. Once he began, however, he recurringly found that his mind simply would not stay on task. With a sigh, he finally gave up and put his work aside; his thoughts were not on work today.
Normally Crouch would never have allowed himself to commit such an undignified act as falling asleep in the middle of the day -in his clothes, no less- but as lack of sleep began to cloud his thoughts, he curled up on the bed and drifted from consciousness.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Crouch winced as he ran a stream of cold water over his index finger, which was burnt after coming into contact with the sizzling frying pan that had cooked his eggs for breakfast that morning. To make matters worse, as he turned around to pick up his hard-earned meal, he discovered that the his scrambled eggs, plate and all, had dissappeared while his back was turned. Clearly, Barty Jr. was making good use of the Invisibility Cloak that was being forced upon him.
Still holding his injured digit, Crouch began making his way slowly through the house, taking note of what needed to be cleaned, polished, or disposed of. He had come to the conclusion that it would be best for him to get the knack of housekeeping now, while he had an entire day to practice. For Crouch had done something that morning that was utterly un-Crouch-like: that is, called the office and told them he could not be at work that day. It was no surprise that his secretary, a young woman whose lipstick was most often worn in shades of blue and purple, (Crouch often wondered if she *wanted* to make herself look half-dead,) had checked up on him the moment she receieved his owl.
He felt rather ashamed of the way he had tried his hardest to fake a believable cough while eluding his concerned employee's questions, ("No, really. I'm sure I will be just fine by tommorrow. Tell young Weatherby to take over for the day...") but it couldn't be helped. Barty Jr. was showing a dangerous ability to evade the curse placed upon him, and it would be unthinkable to leave him to his own devices with no one to guard against an escape, especially after the boy had shown what havoc he could wreak at the World Cup.
Crouch soon advanced to the upper level of the house in order to collect the laundry. Finding his own collection of unwashed clothes was no problem, as he kept them in a single basket in his bedroom closet. Locating his son's laundry, however, was proving to be quite a challenge. Only a few soiled robes were in Barty's room, and all of them were strewn about in the corners instead of arranged neatly in the closet.
After a considerable amount of searching, -with no help from Barty Jr, who simply shrugged and continued to polish off the last of his stolen breakfast when asked the whereabouts of his worn garments- Crouch found the last of the robes piled up on the bathroom floor. With his mission complete, however, the elderly man found that his back ached so terribly that it would have been quite a feat to head back downstairs with an armload of laundry.
Depositing his burden on the ground at his feet, Crouch leaned against the wall for a quick rest. He had to think of a way to lighten his workload; there was no way that a man of his age could keep such a large house in order by himself, magic or no. Unless...
"Barty! Come here, boy!" Crouch hailed his son. Barty Jr. was so surprised to be addressed by name that he emerged from his bedroom without the usual: "Why should I?" or: "Make me!"
Crouch lifted the pile of clothes from the ground, fighting to suppress a groan as he bent down, and placed them in his son's arms. "There we are. Take these downstairs; I'll need to wash them later. And while you're at it," he added as an afterthought, "take care of the dishes in the sink."
Barty Jr's mouth dropped open with indignation. "What?" he spat, and his jaw snapped shut to form a stubborn pout. Letting the laundry tumble from his arms, the young man exclaimed: "No! Why should I have to do *your* work? *I* wasn't the one stupid enough to fire the house-elf!"
"You'll do it because I've *graciously* invited you into my home, and after twelve years, I should say it's high time you repayed me!"
In the Crouch household as of late, the smallest disagreements could evoke the most violent battles, and this last insult was too much for Barty. He mentally stomped on any sympathy that had been forming in his mind and rounded on the older man. "Repay you!" he shrieked. "For what? For keeping me locked away for nearly half my life!? I wish I had died in Azkaban, rather than spend the rest of my life here with *you,* Father!"
Crouch Sr, too, had reached his limit. "I wish the same! I wish your mother was here in your place, so that we could go on living out our lives without your interference! You destroyed everything I created for myself! I wish you were dead!" As soon as the words left his lips, a look of anguish contorted Crouch's features, as though the only thing he truly wished at that moment was to take them back.
But the damage had been done. Too enraged for words, Barty Jr. let loose an anguished howl and struck out at the older man. Crouch toppled over backwards, astonishment and fear etched into his features.
And he had every right to be fearful, for at that moment, Barty Jr. could have killed his elderly father, and would have, too. If he had moved a second faster, Barty would have had an easy time of it; he could have simply pressed down on his parent's exposed throat with his foot and waited for the poor man to suffocate.
But he missed his chance yet again. Crouch Sr. caught hold of his wand during his son's moment of hesitation, and roared, "Supefy!" at the top of his lungs. The spell hit Barty head on, knocking him flat.
Crouch carefully found his feet again and went to kneel at his son's side. Barty stayed motionless. The spell had flipped him over so that he now lay on his stomach with his arms spread-eagled on either side of him, and a large cut running across his jaw. He was out cold. Crouch took a deep breath to make up for the ones he had missed throughout the entire ordeal. His hands were trembling, and his heart was still racing. For a moment he'd thought that Barty was really going to...
Shuddering, Crouch got to his feet, towering above Barty Jr. Although there was no one watching, he tried to keep his calm composure on the outside, to reassure himself if for any reason at all. Inside, though, the hardened man who had sent his own son to prison was ready to cry as he hadn't in years. His own son had been ready to kill him. *And why should he not have?* Said a cruel, taunting little voice in his mind. *After all, you told him that you would have preferred him dead.*
Pushing these thoughts away, Crouch picked up his inanimate son and carried him back to his room, placing the thirty-two-year-old on the bed and tucking him in as though he was a five-year-old again and had fallen asleep on the couch. Looking at him, Crouch found that despite everything he still found it in himself to forgive the son who would have murdered him. It was a strange feeling; he and Barty had never been very close at all. Mr. Crouch had not been a doting parent by any means, and he had fought with his rebellious son often, more and more as the boy grew older.
But Barty had not been a very good son either, he reasoned. Even in the rare times when his father tried to break the stern silence between them, the young man nearly always had an excuse to get away. The two of them were nothing alike, so why should they be expected to get along like an ordinary parent and child?
And why was he just now realizing that he loved his son, no matter how deep that love was buried inside him? Crouch knew that Barty would never accept his sincerity now, so the secret that he had kept from even himself would remain just that.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
That evening, after an entire day of moping around the house while finishing the chores he had nearly forgotten about after the morning's events, Crouch settled back into an armchair for a rest. He hadn't been aware of just how much work was required to maintain such a large house. This made him feel horribly guilty; perhaps he had been putting too much strain on Winky...
There was a slight rapping on a window to his left, and Crouch, lost in thought and completely oblivious to the world around him, jumped slightly. He twisted around to find an owl outside of the window, flapping its wings and desperately trying to stay airborne. Crouch hurried over to let the poor creature in and got out of the way as it dove for the nearest perch it could find to rest its weary wings on.
Collapsing on the arm of an antique chair and digging its talons into the leather so that Crouch winced as though he himself had been punctured, the owl held out a leg with a miniscule piece of parchment tied to it. Accepting the note without so much as a thank you, Crouch sat down to read while the large bird, visibly affronted, turned it's back on him and dug its claws spitefully into the priceless chair once more.
Taking no notice of this, the recipient unfolded the letter, which was covered with neat, practiced handwriting that was easily recognized by Crouch.
*Mr. Crouch,* the note began formally, *I hope my owl did not disturb you, as I have been told that you are very ill. However, I must know what you intend for me to do about several situations which have come to my attention while standing in for you. A 'Daily Prophet' reporter, Rita Skeeter, came to the office this morning to interview you about the events of the night after the World Cup. I explained that you were ill, hoping that she would leave, but instead she demanded to know exactly what was ailing you. When I said that I did not know, she looked at me suspiciously and began asking all sorts of questions concerning your habits as of late. I told her to leave and she finally gave in, but I fear you may be receiving a visit from her sometime today or tomorrow. Another thing: Ali Bashir stopped by again, preaching his usual nonsense, but...*
The letter continued, stating various other office delemmas, all the way down to:
*Please send your instructions quickly. Respectfully, Percy-* the last name of the sender was smudged so badly that it was illegible, but he knew who it was.
Crouch rubbed his temples wearily. He would send Weatherby's instructions in the morning. He irritably waved away the owl which was still perched upon the chair it had claimed. "Go away. I'll send my reply to be sent by a post office owl."
The creature shot him what was unmistakably a glare, and tore its talons from the fabric of the chair, ripping off a bit of material before taking off through the open window. Watching it leave, Crouch noticed that the sun had set without his noticing. Shutting the window and pulling the curtain over it, he realized that he had not eaten a full meal all day. On his way to the kitchen, however, Crouch took a detour upstairs to check on Barty Jr.
The younger man was still unconscious, but he had obviously been moving about in his dream state; the bedclothes were nearly all on the floor. Placing the quilt back over his son's body and wondering why he was suddenly being so tender, Crouch jumped as he heard the doorbell downstairs ring. He groaned, sure that it was Rita Skeeter. He considered not answering the door, but knew all too well that this would only make the persistant reporter even more suspicious.
Making his way quietly out of the room and down the stairs, Crouch heard his stomach utter a loud rumble. He'd best send Rita away as quickly as possible; hunger pains were gnawing at him constantly. He strode over to the heavy oak front doors and unlocked them without taking a peek outside beforehand, as he would have if the visit had been a complete surprise. Grasping the large, brass knob, Crouch turned it with a quick, irritated jerk and opened the doors wide.
The word that greeted him, however, was not the cheerful "Hello" that he had expected.
"Imperio!"
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Wake up! Hey, wake up!"
"He's unconscious, you fool; shaking him won't do a thing. Move me closer." A slight pause, and then: "Ennervate!"
Barty groaned, putting a hand to his injured head. His eyes flickered open slowly. He lay on his side, facing the window; from this veiwpoint, he could not see the two other occupants of his bedroom. Still groggy, he was ready to fall back into his state of deep slumber when a slight tap on his left shoulder startled him awake.
Barty whirled around to face person who had awoken him. Expecting to see his father standing there, he began to form a satiric comment in his mind; but Mr. Crouch was not there. Instead, a short, timid-looking man stood at Barty's bedside with a small bundle in his arms, held slightly away from his body as though it was an animal that he feared might bite.
A cry of fright had half left Barty's mouth when the bundle, which was wrapped so thoroughly in folds of cloth that its contents could not be seen, spoke in a frighteningly familiar voice: "Hello, Barty." The words were calm, slightly amused, as though the creature that uttered them was relishing Barty's reaction to them.
For, even before he was addressed, Barty had scrambled out of his bed and slunk back against the wall. "Who are you?" he asked in a low, fearful hiss. "How did you-"
"Get here?" the voice finished, dripping with the same maddening familiarity. "I assure you, entering this house was no delemma at all. Your father was easily subdued; he is sitting downstairs at this very moment, just as I instructed him to."
"You- instructed-"
"You still do not recognize me, I see," the voice sighed. "And no wonder; after all that I've been through... ah, never mind. You will hear that story in time. For now, hold out your left arm; you will soon remember me."
Hesitantly, Barty crept forward, holding out a trembling arm to the creature in the small man's arms. A thin, frail-looking hand reached out of the many folds of cloth and pushed up the sleeve of his robes. A thought struck Barty suddenly, but no; it simply wasn't possible.
Then the hand found the Dark Mark on his arm, and Barty's suspicions were confirmed. Pain only degrees away from the Cruciatus Curse shot through his entire body for a moment, then the Dark Lord removed his hand and it was gone as quickly as it had come.
Barty sank to his knees, from respect as well as exhaustion. "Master."
"Exactly."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Once downstairs, Barty sank down onto the couch, breathing hard. There was so much to take in all at once; his master was alive, and here, of all places! He grinned. It was the third of August, meaning that his birthday had been the day before. "Happy belated birthday to me..." he giggled.
A shadow in the corner caught his eye suddenly, and he turned to get a closer look at it. Barty inhaled sharply as he recognized the figure, and a smile spread across his face. Sitting in an oversized armchair, hands folded serenely in his lap, was his father.
Grinning, Barty walked over and knelt next to Crouch's chair. He waved a hand in front of the older man's blank, staring face, and stood up when he got no reaction. Barty looked down at his father, feeling thoroughly elated, for now *he* had the upper hand, and the man sitting in the chair, once the younger man's jailer, was now at his son's mercy.
Barty heard slow, shuffling footsteps coming down the stairs and twisted around. Sure enough, it was his master, whose face had still not been revealed, in the arms of the strange, timid man. He narrowed his eyes; the man looked familiar, somehow. It seemed that his picture had been featured in the *Daily Prophet* once or twice, but Barty couldn't recall when or why.
The man carrying the Dark Lord sensed Barty's eyes upon him, and looked away, shivering slightly, as though this was the last place on earth that he wanted to be. When the man set his master down upon the couch Barty had been sitting on earlier, Voldemort addressed him sharply. "Leave us now, Wormtail. I shall not require your services any more tonight."
Wormtail turned and hurried out of the room, looking grateful for the excuse to leave his master's presence, and the Dark Lord turned to Barty. "Come here, boy," he said in a much gentler voice. Barty obeyed, sitting down next to the small bundle of cloth, and caught the first glimpse of his master's new face as the cloth covering it slipped off. He gasped audibly, and nearly looked away before he caught himself.
The creature sitting before him was chalk-white, a color lighter than even the sickly pale hue Barty had been after returning from Azkaban. It's face was thin and starved, like the arm that had reached out for Barty's Mark earlier, and looked like the face of a snake placed on the body of a malnourished human child. The only feature that this thing before him shared with the cruel, but otherwise human man that he had once known, was the blood-red, slitted eyes that contrasted sharply against the white of his skin, giving the impression that they were glowing.
Voldemort cleared his throat, and Barty suddenly became aware that he was staring. "I apologize, Master," he said quickly, and turned away.
Voldemort gave a sigh akin to the one he had uttered in Barty's room, and said. "Never mind. I'll soon have a true body, if all goes according to plan."
"There is a plan, My Lord?"
"Oh yes," the Dark Lord replied, grinning. "A plan involving you, boy. In fact, *you* are the plan."
"I- me?" Barty was startled.
"Yes. Don't worry, it will all be explain it all in good time. For now, fetch me that letter sitting on the table next to your father."
Barty looked in the direction his master had given, and spied the letter lying on the walnut end table next to the elder Crouch's armchair, folded neatly. He retrieved the parchment, opening it and skimming the words inside before handing it over. It appeared to be a plea for instructions from his father's office.
Voldemort read the letter when it was handed to him, and gave a satisfied smile. "Good, they already believe him ill. Do you know your father's handwriting, Barty? Could you forge it?" he inquired, when Barty, rather flattered that the Dark Lord had called him by name, nodded affirmative to his first question.
"I believe I could, My Lord," said Barty. His handwriting was not unlike Mr. Crouch's in the first place, and the Ministry employee had been leaving reports and important documents for the office lying about the house long enough for his son to learn to copy his penmanship.
"Excellent." Voldemort produced a wand from the folds of cloth and held it out before him. "Accio parchment. Accio quill." Both objects flew from a desk in the corner of the room and landed in Barty's lap. "Now, simply copy down what I say in your father's hand. Understood?"
"Yes, Master," Barty nodded, and sat down at the desk, dipping the quill in an inkwell and readying it above the parchment.
"Let's begin, then. Mr.- wait, what is the name of your father's assistant? It's smudged here."
"Percy Weatherby, My Lord."
"All right. Mr. Weatherby," he began again. "I thank you for standing in for me today. I will be returning to the office tommorrow morning, as my day of rest seems to have done me good..."
Barty interrupted suddenly. "You're sending him in tommorrow, My Lord?"
"Yes. He will go about his business under the Imperius Curse, acting as though nothing is happening. Your role in my plan will last many months, and it would arouse suspicion if he were to go missing for that long."
"Ah, I see." This news only made Barty increasingly curious about the nature of his task, but he persisted to wait.
Finishing the letter as his master gave him the words to write, Barty ended with: 'Cordially, Bartemius Crouch Sr.' It sounded like something his father might say.
Voldemort looked the note over and nodded his approval. "Well done. Wormtail!" he called, and waited for a moment before repeating the name loudly. "Wormtail!"
Wormtail dashed clumsily into the room with a half-eaten pastry clutched in one hand and crumbs in a ring around his mouth. "Yesh, m' Lord?" He spewed through a mouthful.
The Dark Lord tossed the letter at him disgustedly. "Here. Find an owl to carry this letter, or take it to the recipient yourself."
"But My Lord, you said-"
"Silence! Do it or I shall kill you right here. Barty has already proved himself to be far more capable than you, meaning that you are no longer indespensible."
Wormtail paled considerably and glared at Barty, who shot him a smug look, before picking the letter up and hurrying off with it, mumbling: "Yes, My Lord."
The Dark Lord turned back to Barty. "Now, then. I expect you wish to know what your part in my plan will be?" Barty nodded eagerly. "I surmised as much. Listen closely..."
A/N: Well, there was chapter eight! My school was out as of yesterday, meaning that I'll have much more time to update now. Although this fic is coming to a close, (I'm only planning one or two chapters after this) I have a few that I've been waiting to get down to for quite a while. r/r, as always! Thanks!
A/N: Quite a few people have been wondering why I haven't updated this fic on Fiction Alley, and I thought it time that I gave an explanation. The thing is, chapter three simply won't upload. I've tried everything I can think of, and have asked the monitors, but no one can figure out what's wrong with it... I expect I'll figure something out eventually, but for now I'm stumped. If anyone has any ideas, please tell me. Thanks!
Disclaimer: All characters belong to the lucky Ms. J.K. Rowling.
Mr. Crouch strode quickly along the path to the crowded area where he was to retrieve their Portkey home, outwardly deaf to the stifled sobs of the heartbroken elf trailing in his wake.
Winky had sat outside of their tent all through the rest of the night and into the morning. She was now following at a distance, pleading with her former master to take her back. The poor house-elf's pathetic sobs attracted a dangerous amount of attention to Crouch, and his face burned as the surrounding witches and wizards goggled shamelessly at him, no doubt wondering what the man had done to make his poor servant so miserable.
Barty Jr. was only making matters worse; he had slowed them considerably by dragging his feet all the way there like a spoiled ten-year old. Which, his father reflected bitterly, was not far off the mark. Crouch was struggling to keep his son moving while weaving through a gaggle of people, all of them teetering on the brink of panic, including himself. Reinforcements had been called in by the Ministry, and Crouch was terrified that one of the Aurors patrolling nearby would spot him and wonder why he was struggling along like a cripple.
"Barty, over here!" a voice called from the depths of the crowd. Crouch turned around to see Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, waving a one-eyed teddy bear about while making his way slowly toward him. "There we are," he said with an exhausted sigh, offering the bear to Crouch with his left hand while mopping his brow with the other. "That's set to leave in..." he pulled a folded list from his robes and consulted it. "ten minutes."
"Thank you, Basil," said Crouch. Then, noticing the dark bags under his colleague's eyes: "You've had a rough morning, I take it?"
"Rough hardly breaks the surface. I was up before the sun rose, throwing together emergency Portkeys; we weren't prepared for so many to depart today." He ran a hand absentmindedly through his hair. "There'll be big changes in the transportation setup next year, you mark my words."
"Ah, well, perhaps it's for the best," Crouch replied. "A bit of a wake-up call for the Ministry, I should think. Anyway, I'd best be going."
He began to work his way out of the crowd, searching for a clear spot to depart from, but Basil caught his shoulder as he went, nearly making him lose his grip on Barty Jr. "Barty, wait!" the man called anxiously. "Is- is it true what they're saying around camp? About Winky, I mean. Did she really-"
Crouch's polite, concerned manner evaporated on the spot. "I do not wish to discuss that matter right now, Basil. I assure you that Winky is no longer working for me." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the disgraced elf, who was sobbing into her tea-towel just a few paces away. Sure enough, she also had in her possession an old leather glove, held away from her as though it was some disgusting, slimy thing she was being forced to pick up.
"But Barty, I was just wondering;" Basil persisted, "do you think that- well, if she *did* send up the Dark Mark- do you think she could have possibly picked it up from your so-" But Crouch was already gone.
He had stormed off in the middle of Basil's theory, his hand now clamped painfully tight around Barty Jr's wrist. "Ow," Barty protested, trying to wriggle out of his father's grip.
"Quiet!" snapped Crouch, dragging his son along with even greater force. "Do you really want to get us both thrown into Azkaban if someone should hear you? Haven't you finished ruining me yet?" His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, betraying despair.
Barty Jr. was completely silent as they waited to return home. When they arrived, he went straight up to his room without a word. It seemed he had nothing to say.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Barty let the bedroom door quietly click shut behind him before shedding the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it over a chair. He proceded to collapse upon the bed, burying his face in a pillow, competely lost in thought. His last chance to return to his master had been destroyed; he knew perfectly well that his father would never allow him out of the house again, and now there was no Winky there to convince him to do so.
His father's words at the campground were weighing heavily on his mind as well. 'Haven't you finished ruining me yet?' Barty had never been particularly concerned about the elder Crouch's emotions before, especially as regarding himself, but his father's tone had been so filled with despair... he began to wonder just how much the man was regretting smuggling his son to freedom.
Turning over on his side, Barty scowled at the heavy curtains blocking his window. What right did Crouch Sr. have to say such a thing? After all, he had been the one to imprison his son twice over, first in a stone cell and then in his own home. "So who's ruined who, Father?" Barty whispered angrily.
He recalled awakening in the tent early that morning to find his parent glaring down at him. Crouch Sr. hadn't said a word, but had began packing their things for departure immediately. Barty's elation from the night before was lost. He had failed his master.
Now that he had time again to dwell on that thought, Barty buried his face in his hands, utterly disgusted with himself. It had been a foolish, hot- headed mistake, he knew. He had allowed anger to overshadow logic. Escaping and finding Lord Voldemort should have been first priority; the punishment of his fellow Death Eaters could have waited. With the wand, Barty could have easily been far away from the campground when his father came after him, but instead he had lingered, giving Winky time to gain control over him.
And now his last chance was gone, and he had no one to blame for it but himself. His master would wait in vain for someone to come to his aid, but alas, there was no help to be had.
And it was all his fault.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Taking a seat at the enormous dining room table, Crouch Sr. took a bite of a rather crudely made roast beef sandwich. It was going to be very difficult indeed to manage without Winky, he thought as he chewed. Even with the help of magic, his cooking and cleaning skills left much to be desired, and hiring a new house-elf would mean taking a great risk. True, house-elves were extremely loyal creatures, but they did have a sense of morality, and a new servant might not yet be attatched enough to Crouch to allow him to get away with harboring a Death Eater.
No, he would have to make due on his own. Magically stacking his dishes in the sink and employing a rag to wash them, Crouch headed upstairs to his bedroom. When he reached the landing, however, he turned not right but left, in the direction of his son's room. Despite himself, he was worried about Barty; it was nearing noon and the boy had not made a sound since their return.
Cautiously turning the doorknob, Crouch opened the door and snuck quietly inside. At some point, Barty Jr. had pulled the bedclothes over himself and fallen asleep. Crouch noticed that his son had left his shoes on, and was about to summon Winky to remove them when he remembered that there was no Winky.
Sighing, he knelt at the foot of the bed, where Barty's shoes were sticking out from under the quilt. Grasping the laces of one shoe in both hands he untied them and tried to pull first one shoe and then the other off of his son's foot without awakening him. Placing both shoes on the ground, he got back on his feet and started to leave.
Crouch's eye caught sight of the calender as he went out the door, and he realized what day it was; the second of August, Barty's birthday. It was a mere stroke of luck that he had remembered. Even when their son had been a very small child, Secilia had nearly always had to remind her husband -often more than once.
Crossing the hallway to his own bedroom, Crouch sat down at his desk and made a valiant attempt to finish the last of his delayed paperwork for the office. Once he began, however, he recurringly found that his mind simply would not stay on task. With a sigh, he finally gave up and put his work aside; his thoughts were not on work today.
Normally Crouch would never have allowed himself to commit such an undignified act as falling asleep in the middle of the day -in his clothes, no less- but as lack of sleep began to cloud his thoughts, he curled up on the bed and drifted from consciousness.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Crouch winced as he ran a stream of cold water over his index finger, which was burnt after coming into contact with the sizzling frying pan that had cooked his eggs for breakfast that morning. To make matters worse, as he turned around to pick up his hard-earned meal, he discovered that the his scrambled eggs, plate and all, had dissappeared while his back was turned. Clearly, Barty Jr. was making good use of the Invisibility Cloak that was being forced upon him.
Still holding his injured digit, Crouch began making his way slowly through the house, taking note of what needed to be cleaned, polished, or disposed of. He had come to the conclusion that it would be best for him to get the knack of housekeeping now, while he had an entire day to practice. For Crouch had done something that morning that was utterly un-Crouch-like: that is, called the office and told them he could not be at work that day. It was no surprise that his secretary, a young woman whose lipstick was most often worn in shades of blue and purple, (Crouch often wondered if she *wanted* to make herself look half-dead,) had checked up on him the moment she receieved his owl.
He felt rather ashamed of the way he had tried his hardest to fake a believable cough while eluding his concerned employee's questions, ("No, really. I'm sure I will be just fine by tommorrow. Tell young Weatherby to take over for the day...") but it couldn't be helped. Barty Jr. was showing a dangerous ability to evade the curse placed upon him, and it would be unthinkable to leave him to his own devices with no one to guard against an escape, especially after the boy had shown what havoc he could wreak at the World Cup.
Crouch soon advanced to the upper level of the house in order to collect the laundry. Finding his own collection of unwashed clothes was no problem, as he kept them in a single basket in his bedroom closet. Locating his son's laundry, however, was proving to be quite a challenge. Only a few soiled robes were in Barty's room, and all of them were strewn about in the corners instead of arranged neatly in the closet.
After a considerable amount of searching, -with no help from Barty Jr, who simply shrugged and continued to polish off the last of his stolen breakfast when asked the whereabouts of his worn garments- Crouch found the last of the robes piled up on the bathroom floor. With his mission complete, however, the elderly man found that his back ached so terribly that it would have been quite a feat to head back downstairs with an armload of laundry.
Depositing his burden on the ground at his feet, Crouch leaned against the wall for a quick rest. He had to think of a way to lighten his workload; there was no way that a man of his age could keep such a large house in order by himself, magic or no. Unless...
"Barty! Come here, boy!" Crouch hailed his son. Barty Jr. was so surprised to be addressed by name that he emerged from his bedroom without the usual: "Why should I?" or: "Make me!"
Crouch lifted the pile of clothes from the ground, fighting to suppress a groan as he bent down, and placed them in his son's arms. "There we are. Take these downstairs; I'll need to wash them later. And while you're at it," he added as an afterthought, "take care of the dishes in the sink."
Barty Jr's mouth dropped open with indignation. "What?" he spat, and his jaw snapped shut to form a stubborn pout. Letting the laundry tumble from his arms, the young man exclaimed: "No! Why should I have to do *your* work? *I* wasn't the one stupid enough to fire the house-elf!"
"You'll do it because I've *graciously* invited you into my home, and after twelve years, I should say it's high time you repayed me!"
In the Crouch household as of late, the smallest disagreements could evoke the most violent battles, and this last insult was too much for Barty. He mentally stomped on any sympathy that had been forming in his mind and rounded on the older man. "Repay you!" he shrieked. "For what? For keeping me locked away for nearly half my life!? I wish I had died in Azkaban, rather than spend the rest of my life here with *you,* Father!"
Crouch Sr, too, had reached his limit. "I wish the same! I wish your mother was here in your place, so that we could go on living out our lives without your interference! You destroyed everything I created for myself! I wish you were dead!" As soon as the words left his lips, a look of anguish contorted Crouch's features, as though the only thing he truly wished at that moment was to take them back.
But the damage had been done. Too enraged for words, Barty Jr. let loose an anguished howl and struck out at the older man. Crouch toppled over backwards, astonishment and fear etched into his features.
And he had every right to be fearful, for at that moment, Barty Jr. could have killed his elderly father, and would have, too. If he had moved a second faster, Barty would have had an easy time of it; he could have simply pressed down on his parent's exposed throat with his foot and waited for the poor man to suffocate.
But he missed his chance yet again. Crouch Sr. caught hold of his wand during his son's moment of hesitation, and roared, "Supefy!" at the top of his lungs. The spell hit Barty head on, knocking him flat.
Crouch carefully found his feet again and went to kneel at his son's side. Barty stayed motionless. The spell had flipped him over so that he now lay on his stomach with his arms spread-eagled on either side of him, and a large cut running across his jaw. He was out cold. Crouch took a deep breath to make up for the ones he had missed throughout the entire ordeal. His hands were trembling, and his heart was still racing. For a moment he'd thought that Barty was really going to...
Shuddering, Crouch got to his feet, towering above Barty Jr. Although there was no one watching, he tried to keep his calm composure on the outside, to reassure himself if for any reason at all. Inside, though, the hardened man who had sent his own son to prison was ready to cry as he hadn't in years. His own son had been ready to kill him. *And why should he not have?* Said a cruel, taunting little voice in his mind. *After all, you told him that you would have preferred him dead.*
Pushing these thoughts away, Crouch picked up his inanimate son and carried him back to his room, placing the thirty-two-year-old on the bed and tucking him in as though he was a five-year-old again and had fallen asleep on the couch. Looking at him, Crouch found that despite everything he still found it in himself to forgive the son who would have murdered him. It was a strange feeling; he and Barty had never been very close at all. Mr. Crouch had not been a doting parent by any means, and he had fought with his rebellious son often, more and more as the boy grew older.
But Barty had not been a very good son either, he reasoned. Even in the rare times when his father tried to break the stern silence between them, the young man nearly always had an excuse to get away. The two of them were nothing alike, so why should they be expected to get along like an ordinary parent and child?
And why was he just now realizing that he loved his son, no matter how deep that love was buried inside him? Crouch knew that Barty would never accept his sincerity now, so the secret that he had kept from even himself would remain just that.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
That evening, after an entire day of moping around the house while finishing the chores he had nearly forgotten about after the morning's events, Crouch settled back into an armchair for a rest. He hadn't been aware of just how much work was required to maintain such a large house. This made him feel horribly guilty; perhaps he had been putting too much strain on Winky...
There was a slight rapping on a window to his left, and Crouch, lost in thought and completely oblivious to the world around him, jumped slightly. He twisted around to find an owl outside of the window, flapping its wings and desperately trying to stay airborne. Crouch hurried over to let the poor creature in and got out of the way as it dove for the nearest perch it could find to rest its weary wings on.
Collapsing on the arm of an antique chair and digging its talons into the leather so that Crouch winced as though he himself had been punctured, the owl held out a leg with a miniscule piece of parchment tied to it. Accepting the note without so much as a thank you, Crouch sat down to read while the large bird, visibly affronted, turned it's back on him and dug its claws spitefully into the priceless chair once more.
Taking no notice of this, the recipient unfolded the letter, which was covered with neat, practiced handwriting that was easily recognized by Crouch.
*Mr. Crouch,* the note began formally, *I hope my owl did not disturb you, as I have been told that you are very ill. However, I must know what you intend for me to do about several situations which have come to my attention while standing in for you. A 'Daily Prophet' reporter, Rita Skeeter, came to the office this morning to interview you about the events of the night after the World Cup. I explained that you were ill, hoping that she would leave, but instead she demanded to know exactly what was ailing you. When I said that I did not know, she looked at me suspiciously and began asking all sorts of questions concerning your habits as of late. I told her to leave and she finally gave in, but I fear you may be receiving a visit from her sometime today or tomorrow. Another thing: Ali Bashir stopped by again, preaching his usual nonsense, but...*
The letter continued, stating various other office delemmas, all the way down to:
*Please send your instructions quickly. Respectfully, Percy-* the last name of the sender was smudged so badly that it was illegible, but he knew who it was.
Crouch rubbed his temples wearily. He would send Weatherby's instructions in the morning. He irritably waved away the owl which was still perched upon the chair it had claimed. "Go away. I'll send my reply to be sent by a post office owl."
The creature shot him what was unmistakably a glare, and tore its talons from the fabric of the chair, ripping off a bit of material before taking off through the open window. Watching it leave, Crouch noticed that the sun had set without his noticing. Shutting the window and pulling the curtain over it, he realized that he had not eaten a full meal all day. On his way to the kitchen, however, Crouch took a detour upstairs to check on Barty Jr.
The younger man was still unconscious, but he had obviously been moving about in his dream state; the bedclothes were nearly all on the floor. Placing the quilt back over his son's body and wondering why he was suddenly being so tender, Crouch jumped as he heard the doorbell downstairs ring. He groaned, sure that it was Rita Skeeter. He considered not answering the door, but knew all too well that this would only make the persistant reporter even more suspicious.
Making his way quietly out of the room and down the stairs, Crouch heard his stomach utter a loud rumble. He'd best send Rita away as quickly as possible; hunger pains were gnawing at him constantly. He strode over to the heavy oak front doors and unlocked them without taking a peek outside beforehand, as he would have if the visit had been a complete surprise. Grasping the large, brass knob, Crouch turned it with a quick, irritated jerk and opened the doors wide.
The word that greeted him, however, was not the cheerful "Hello" that he had expected.
"Imperio!"
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Wake up! Hey, wake up!"
"He's unconscious, you fool; shaking him won't do a thing. Move me closer." A slight pause, and then: "Ennervate!"
Barty groaned, putting a hand to his injured head. His eyes flickered open slowly. He lay on his side, facing the window; from this veiwpoint, he could not see the two other occupants of his bedroom. Still groggy, he was ready to fall back into his state of deep slumber when a slight tap on his left shoulder startled him awake.
Barty whirled around to face person who had awoken him. Expecting to see his father standing there, he began to form a satiric comment in his mind; but Mr. Crouch was not there. Instead, a short, timid-looking man stood at Barty's bedside with a small bundle in his arms, held slightly away from his body as though it was an animal that he feared might bite.
A cry of fright had half left Barty's mouth when the bundle, which was wrapped so thoroughly in folds of cloth that its contents could not be seen, spoke in a frighteningly familiar voice: "Hello, Barty." The words were calm, slightly amused, as though the creature that uttered them was relishing Barty's reaction to them.
For, even before he was addressed, Barty had scrambled out of his bed and slunk back against the wall. "Who are you?" he asked in a low, fearful hiss. "How did you-"
"Get here?" the voice finished, dripping with the same maddening familiarity. "I assure you, entering this house was no delemma at all. Your father was easily subdued; he is sitting downstairs at this very moment, just as I instructed him to."
"You- instructed-"
"You still do not recognize me, I see," the voice sighed. "And no wonder; after all that I've been through... ah, never mind. You will hear that story in time. For now, hold out your left arm; you will soon remember me."
Hesitantly, Barty crept forward, holding out a trembling arm to the creature in the small man's arms. A thin, frail-looking hand reached out of the many folds of cloth and pushed up the sleeve of his robes. A thought struck Barty suddenly, but no; it simply wasn't possible.
Then the hand found the Dark Mark on his arm, and Barty's suspicions were confirmed. Pain only degrees away from the Cruciatus Curse shot through his entire body for a moment, then the Dark Lord removed his hand and it was gone as quickly as it had come.
Barty sank to his knees, from respect as well as exhaustion. "Master."
"Exactly."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Once downstairs, Barty sank down onto the couch, breathing hard. There was so much to take in all at once; his master was alive, and here, of all places! He grinned. It was the third of August, meaning that his birthday had been the day before. "Happy belated birthday to me..." he giggled.
A shadow in the corner caught his eye suddenly, and he turned to get a closer look at it. Barty inhaled sharply as he recognized the figure, and a smile spread across his face. Sitting in an oversized armchair, hands folded serenely in his lap, was his father.
Grinning, Barty walked over and knelt next to Crouch's chair. He waved a hand in front of the older man's blank, staring face, and stood up when he got no reaction. Barty looked down at his father, feeling thoroughly elated, for now *he* had the upper hand, and the man sitting in the chair, once the younger man's jailer, was now at his son's mercy.
Barty heard slow, shuffling footsteps coming down the stairs and twisted around. Sure enough, it was his master, whose face had still not been revealed, in the arms of the strange, timid man. He narrowed his eyes; the man looked familiar, somehow. It seemed that his picture had been featured in the *Daily Prophet* once or twice, but Barty couldn't recall when or why.
The man carrying the Dark Lord sensed Barty's eyes upon him, and looked away, shivering slightly, as though this was the last place on earth that he wanted to be. When the man set his master down upon the couch Barty had been sitting on earlier, Voldemort addressed him sharply. "Leave us now, Wormtail. I shall not require your services any more tonight."
Wormtail turned and hurried out of the room, looking grateful for the excuse to leave his master's presence, and the Dark Lord turned to Barty. "Come here, boy," he said in a much gentler voice. Barty obeyed, sitting down next to the small bundle of cloth, and caught the first glimpse of his master's new face as the cloth covering it slipped off. He gasped audibly, and nearly looked away before he caught himself.
The creature sitting before him was chalk-white, a color lighter than even the sickly pale hue Barty had been after returning from Azkaban. It's face was thin and starved, like the arm that had reached out for Barty's Mark earlier, and looked like the face of a snake placed on the body of a malnourished human child. The only feature that this thing before him shared with the cruel, but otherwise human man that he had once known, was the blood-red, slitted eyes that contrasted sharply against the white of his skin, giving the impression that they were glowing.
Voldemort cleared his throat, and Barty suddenly became aware that he was staring. "I apologize, Master," he said quickly, and turned away.
Voldemort gave a sigh akin to the one he had uttered in Barty's room, and said. "Never mind. I'll soon have a true body, if all goes according to plan."
"There is a plan, My Lord?"
"Oh yes," the Dark Lord replied, grinning. "A plan involving you, boy. In fact, *you* are the plan."
"I- me?" Barty was startled.
"Yes. Don't worry, it will all be explain it all in good time. For now, fetch me that letter sitting on the table next to your father."
Barty looked in the direction his master had given, and spied the letter lying on the walnut end table next to the elder Crouch's armchair, folded neatly. He retrieved the parchment, opening it and skimming the words inside before handing it over. It appeared to be a plea for instructions from his father's office.
Voldemort read the letter when it was handed to him, and gave a satisfied smile. "Good, they already believe him ill. Do you know your father's handwriting, Barty? Could you forge it?" he inquired, when Barty, rather flattered that the Dark Lord had called him by name, nodded affirmative to his first question.
"I believe I could, My Lord," said Barty. His handwriting was not unlike Mr. Crouch's in the first place, and the Ministry employee had been leaving reports and important documents for the office lying about the house long enough for his son to learn to copy his penmanship.
"Excellent." Voldemort produced a wand from the folds of cloth and held it out before him. "Accio parchment. Accio quill." Both objects flew from a desk in the corner of the room and landed in Barty's lap. "Now, simply copy down what I say in your father's hand. Understood?"
"Yes, Master," Barty nodded, and sat down at the desk, dipping the quill in an inkwell and readying it above the parchment.
"Let's begin, then. Mr.- wait, what is the name of your father's assistant? It's smudged here."
"Percy Weatherby, My Lord."
"All right. Mr. Weatherby," he began again. "I thank you for standing in for me today. I will be returning to the office tommorrow morning, as my day of rest seems to have done me good..."
Barty interrupted suddenly. "You're sending him in tommorrow, My Lord?"
"Yes. He will go about his business under the Imperius Curse, acting as though nothing is happening. Your role in my plan will last many months, and it would arouse suspicion if he were to go missing for that long."
"Ah, I see." This news only made Barty increasingly curious about the nature of his task, but he persisted to wait.
Finishing the letter as his master gave him the words to write, Barty ended with: 'Cordially, Bartemius Crouch Sr.' It sounded like something his father might say.
Voldemort looked the note over and nodded his approval. "Well done. Wormtail!" he called, and waited for a moment before repeating the name loudly. "Wormtail!"
Wormtail dashed clumsily into the room with a half-eaten pastry clutched in one hand and crumbs in a ring around his mouth. "Yesh, m' Lord?" He spewed through a mouthful.
The Dark Lord tossed the letter at him disgustedly. "Here. Find an owl to carry this letter, or take it to the recipient yourself."
"But My Lord, you said-"
"Silence! Do it or I shall kill you right here. Barty has already proved himself to be far more capable than you, meaning that you are no longer indespensible."
Wormtail paled considerably and glared at Barty, who shot him a smug look, before picking the letter up and hurrying off with it, mumbling: "Yes, My Lord."
The Dark Lord turned back to Barty. "Now, then. I expect you wish to know what your part in my plan will be?" Barty nodded eagerly. "I surmised as much. Listen closely..."
A/N: Well, there was chapter eight! My school was out as of yesterday, meaning that I'll have much more time to update now. Although this fic is coming to a close, (I'm only planning one or two chapters after this) I have a few that I've been waiting to get down to for quite a while. r/r, as always! Thanks!