I do not own Harry Potter.
(By the way, if you're reading this as a new chapter, the chapter before it is new, too)
Bartemius Crouch, Sr. was on the warpath.
Incensed by the late murder of the McKinnons and aroused further by the prospects of facing a well-supported (due to blackmail and internal Death Eater support), he upped his hunting system. He became frustrated with the Order's inability to capture, alive, any single Death Eater.
"You gave us the orders to kill," Moody pointed out as Crouch went on a rant one day in his office.
"Only when necessary! I gave you the PRIVILEGE, not the absolute command! Use judgment, Alastor!"
Mr. Crouch went home every night and complained about this to his wife and son, who listened tolerantly. Barty Jr. was working nights at a small restaurant in Diagon Alley, as he told his family, and though his mother knew this wasn't true, his father had never even bothered to ask the name of the restaurant, let alone check to see if it existed. His mother was too scared to ask what he was up to, but she suspected the worst: gangs, drugs, carousels with prostitutes, perhaps even involvement with the cult-like Death Eaters. She saw his tatoo on his arm one day, but said nothing to her husband; she let herself believe that her son was simply being rebellious.
In truth, of course, he did Death Eater business every night. Since he was still fresh with curses, many of his evenings were spent learning the Dark Arts that had been banned in his Hogwarts years. He wished he had learned these sort of things back in school; he would have paid so much more attention. He could perform Cruciatus with nearly the proficiency of Bellatrix- even she approved of it enough to allow him to come with her on her nighttime haunts. He was decent at the Imperius Curse, though he didn't enjoy it nearly as much as the more brutal torturing and murdering curses. Lately, he and Peter Pettigrew, the other Dark Arts-lacking Death Eater (Regulus had once made their study group three, but things being as they were . . . ), were being taught by Travers a particularly useful branch of Avada Kedevra. It erupted the body into bits, leaving no trace large enough to provide recognition- very useful when killing Order members.
"It's good you're not in the confounded Order," the older Crouch snapped to his son one day at dinner. "They're worthless. Haven't caught a single soul yet- and I hear they could have had Wilkes but chose to kill him instead. We need INFORMATION, dammit, not just death tolls!"
"One less Death Eater on the street is one less person to terrorize people, though, eh, Dad?" Barty smirked.
"Yes, and one Death Eater before us in the Wizengamot is about 12 heads on the block if we use the proper methods," Mr. Crouch retorted mockingly.
"Like what?" Barty blinked, but spoke innocently.
"Oh, Merlin, anything . . . dementors, time in Azkaban before the trial . . . they'll crack under all our eyes, too."
"You wouldn't ever . . . torture them, would you?"
"Like they've done their enemies?" Mr. Crouch laughed cruelly. "They deserve it, but no. If I were caught torturing Death Eaters, Rookwood would win all out."
"What's so bad about Rookwood, anyway, Dad?"
"All the purebloods support him. He's for pureblood superiority. He's trying to get the votes of those Death Eaters out there."
"We're pureblood; what does it matter if he wins? He can't do anything to us."
Mr. Crouch frowned. "I told you this years ago, when you were first sorted into Slytherin . . . we, in our family, don't consider ourselves any better than the rest. Clearly, you've forgotten that. So we've got a pure wizard bloodline back to the 1500s. WHO CARES?" He hit the table, suddenly growing violent. Barty watched him warily. "I know you've spent your schooldays in league with a bunch of elitist snits who only care about their family, but I've got compassion, darn it! People aren't worthless just because they've got Muggle blood. Even Muggles aren't worthless!"
Barty continued to stare silently. His father was compassionate, he had said . . . he certainly could see the compassion. "What do you think the Death Eaters are fighting for?" he asked, feigning innocent curiosity.
'They're fighting to get legal permission to hurt people. It's rubbish. It's absolute rubbish. They're lawless terrorists who want to be able to be nasty and evil without being punished by law."
Barty felt himself shaking. "Did you ever consider that perhaps they're fighting for a way of life? It's not just about torturing Muggles, Dad. It's about an ancient tradition of Dark Arts. It's about the old way of life, the old proud families. It's their right to practice that, isn't it?"
Mr. Crouch frowned. "Not at the expense of others' lives."
"Keep in mind, Dad, that back in the Middle Ages, these Muggles would have burned you for having powers. And you want to spare them?"
"What are you on about?" Mr. Crouch's voice was suddenly harsh and raspy. "Why on bloody earth are you defending the scum I hunt every day?"
"Because you're not showing COMPASSION," said Barty silkily.
Something erupted out of Mr. Crouch's wand, which was underneath his hand, pressed flat against the table. Blue and silver sparks shot out towards Barty's eyes. He flinched. His father lifted his wand, calmed again. "Sorry about that; lost my temper." He looked at the clock on the wall. "Merlin, I'm late for the Order meeting; I'm supposed to brief them on some new code, meeting over in Hogsmeade . . . ought to yell at the lot of them, too . . . "
He rose and left. "Shouldn't you be off to work, too?" Mrs. Crouch asked her son.
"Yeah . . . yeah, I'm off to work," Barty seized his black cape- Mrs. Crouch fretted in her mind that he must be going through a rebellious phase to dress so- and dashed to the mantle.
He Flooed quickly to the Malfoy manor. "Lucius!" he called, stepping out from the fireplace and tracking soot all over the marble floor. Narcissa looked up from her reading place and quickly snapped the book into the air. She stood as Lucius came dashing into the room, wearing fancy green dress robes.
"Merlin, what is it, Crouch?" he snapped, adjusting his cufflinks.
"There's an Order meeting tonight. In Hogsmeade."
"Don't they always do it at Hogwarts?"
"No, this time they're not . . . my dad's briefing them on something. If we get there fast, we could catch a lot of them."
"You idiot, we can't take all of them at once. They're not weak wizards, you know."
"Then get the Lestranges and Mulciber and Nott!"
"Dear boy, I was off for a campaign dinner with Rookwood, I can't just go off galloping around Hogsmeade, trying to find what might not even be there."
Barty frowned, but turned and went out. Narcissa went over to her husband and took his arm. "I'm invited, too, aren't I?" she asked delicately.
"Of course. Get something nicer on- and try to hide that belly."
Bartemius saw red. He Flooed to the Hog's Head and came stampeding out, but no one seemed to notice. He dashed out into the chilled November air. The Order of the Phoenix had to be meeting nearby, but Lucius was right; he couldn't take on all of them. Besides, if his dad were there, he would be sure to be recognized.
Suddenly, he slammed into another body. He jerked back, but then looked up into the face of a young man carrying several papers and a few boxes labeled "Secret: Hexed, do not open." Bartemius frowned at him, but the man spoke first. "Oh! Young Barty . . . are you here for the meeting, too? Do you have any idea where it is? I'm so used to just popping over to Dumbledore's . . ."
Bartemius just stared at him. The man babbled on. "I hear your dad's got some new policies for us to try. That ought to be nice; I hope he revokes the Auror killing license, it seems so cruel, don't you think? Your dad's a wonder, helping us out this much. He really ought to just straight-up join- but I know, he doesn't want to lose the votes of the Death Eater population. How about that, eh? Hates them all, but still wants them to vote for him." The man simply didn't shut up. Barty watched him, calculatingly. "Say, you haven't considered joining yourself, have you, Barty? We could use more young sorts like you in the Order. Or are you worried about dying too young? Heavens know I am . . . I'd love to just settle down and have a family, but I can't have a family, I say, until the world's safe and fit to be lived in. So I'm fixing up society with the Order now- as I love to say it- and then I'll be able to- "
"AVADA KEDAVRA!" Bartemius shouted. The young man's eyes widened, and the boxes dropped from his hands. A ray of green light zipped out of Barty's wand and flew into the man's chest. He stood erect for a moment, but then suddenly his entire figure exploded. Barty closed his eyes, but even then, the green light reached under his lids.
When he opened them, the wet ground was splattered with bits of the man and his papers. Barty looked around at them, hardly believing he had done such madness. He hadn't expected that power to come from him. He felt so proud of himself. He started laughing- laughing and laughing, throwing his head back and absolutely shouting.
"I shut him up!" he chortled. Then he clapped his hand over his mouth and sped away, cape rippling out behind him. He'd go tell Lucius what he'd done, how he'd taken care of an Order member on his own, while the rest of them danced and made merry, oblivious.
Benjy Fenwick was not discovered until the Order of the Phoenix meeting was over. Mr. Crouch, who was chatting fervently with James Potter about the possibility of catching a Death Eater to bring the others to justice, nearly stepped on him.
"What is that?" he asked, prodding a piece of skin with a foot.
"It's . . . " James took one look at the spilled boxes, spattered with blood, on the ground before them. "Merlin, it's Benjy! He never showed up for the meeting, and this . . . this is his work!" He shuddered deeply. "I can't believe they'd do this right under our noses."
"They probably did it as a warning," spat Mr. Crouch. "But oh, when I catch the madman who did this . . ."
(Thanks to everybody who reviewed!!!)
TBC . . .