prompt nineteen: locket
Barty Crouch, Jr.
The flickering fire is the only illumination in this ornate, expansive room; the only illumination on his pale and distorted face.
I pause reverently. "My Lord," I whisper.
"Bartemius," he replies in his high, cold voice. "I have a…request for you."
"I am at your beck and call, my Lord."
"Naturally," he muses. He picks up a chain from his lap; it clanks loudly. "Come closer, my boy."
I step forward slowly. He holds up the chain for my inspection.
The egg-shaped gilded pendant glitters in his shrouded hands. I make out a serpentine figure, emerald in color.
"A Slytherin relic, my Lord?" I say softly, raising my eyebrows.
"A beautiful one," he whispers lovingly. His unearthly hands graze the locket; they seem to savor the touch. He directs his face to me again--I cannot see his eyes. "You are my most faithful servant, Bartemius."
My face flushes, but my voice stays steady. "I live to serve the Dark Lord."
"Which is why I show you this, Bartemius. I can trust only you with my greatest achievement. You shall die before any person touches it. You shall die to protect this." He holds his hand towards the fireplace; the flames jump up between the crevices of timber, lighting his red eyes, more intense than ever.
"I shall serve you admirably, my Lord," I reply nervously, hoping he does not sense the hitch in my voice.
He stares at me a moment longer with is scarlet pupils. "You may go, Bartemius."
I bow and walk out briskly, pompously, with an air of pride and importance that will make my aristocratic counterparts envious.
I pause for a moment, outside the door, hearing a faint voice, high and cold.
"You're in good hands now, dear locket."