A / N : Mrs Crouch, as requested by Expecting Rain. Let me know what you think, as always . . . .
Mrs Crouch
The first truly beautiful thing she ever saw was her baby son's hand, small and sticky, the fingers splayed like a star against her own. It was a tiny, perfect thing, and it spoke to her of promise.
The last truly beautiful thing she sees, before she dies, is her son's hand, cold and clammy in the gloom. He is dying, her son, and deep deep down she suspects – more than suspects – that the things they say are true, that the things her husband says are true. That her son has commited murder, and acts far less swift and merciful. But he is dying, now. Isn't that punishment enough? She knows it isn't really, knows that for anyone else it would not be punishment enough. But he is her son, her only child, and she cannot help but feel that whatever he did, she had a hand in it. The blame cannot be entirely his. Somewhere along the way, she failed. She let him down, and contributed to this somehow (though even now, she can't quite see how). So it is only right that she share the punishment, if she shares the blame.
He is dying, shivering and scarcely conscious. He gives no indication he can hear her when she summons all her strength and speaks to him, though it is so cold it hurts to even open her mouth. Perhaps that is why he doesn't say anything back. He is too cold, or too tired. Perhaps.
She watches him tense, watches him struggle as her husband forces the potion down his throat, and for a moment she wonders if she is doing the right thing, saving him to leave him at his father's mercy. But she believes she is. She has to believe she is. She has to believe that somewhere, deep down, her husband loves their son too, and that somewhere, deep down, her son has the capacity to change.
She watches her husband's hands pin her son down, his knuckles white and his fingers rigid upon Barty's neck, his chest. She watches her son struggle against him, and she is almost knocked to the ground when he calls her name. He hasn't done that in so long.
She doesn't know why he stopped.
"Shh . . . shh, darling. I'm here. I came."
Lost in delerium, fading away – his eyelids flicker, eyes rolling beneath them, and he sweats and shakes . . . .
And then he puts out his hand, finds hers, and holds on tight, as though he is falling, and she can save him.
She can save him.
The last truly beautiful thing she will ever see is her son's hand, reaching for hers. It sings to her of hope.