Chapter Text
Barty’s father had prepared him for a lot of things, meetings, institutions and rallys, all of which he never asked for, and never refused. It seemed to be the old man’s way to show he cared for something of his legacy, if not his son. All these hours spent listening to detailed instructions as much as the wind chiming outside the windows made him a proper heir, a fitted marionnette. Barty was so used to hearing his father’s voice in his head, directing his every movement while he was going on about them that now, left to his own devices: he felt indescribably empty.
They were about six or seven, some of them seemed to be made of shadows in their satin cloaks, innumerable, waiting in the cold hall of Malfoy Manor. The elves had shown them in, all to leave them there. Staring at his reflection in the marble floors, Barty wondered what his father would do, as if he wouldn’t already have smacked his hands for being so jittery.
It was easy to be proud in these walls, ceilings so far from the ground the curtains seemed to descend from the Gods. All the self-importance associated with the 28 sacred made sense now, any snake would feel important if he inhabited a rock big enough to make him visible.
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’
Barty had been ready to see a monster. That’s what everyone had warned him about, worried he’d do something inappropriate as he tends to, like bursting laughing when the Dark Lord enters the room. He did want to laugh right now, but for any of the reasons the others were warning him with fleeting glances. No, Barty wants to laugh because the Dark Lord is beautiful.
Of course, the red eyes are off-putting, but it’s not like he’s never had a pet rabbit before, as for the rest, there’s nothing terrifying about him unless you’re scared shitless of bouffants. The robes he’s wearing are black with silver embroidery, and there’s not a shiver of sounds in the room.
He hears the shaky breaths of his colleagues around him and remembers.
Look forwards and draw hard looks, our name is new but they know it. Do not let them make you doubt it, seek the recognition in their eyes.
Barty had spent his entire life looking for his father’s recognition in his eyes before he started enjoying the disgust and anger naturally radiating off of him.
Under His eyes, he feels seen and awaited for. The glance he catches is full of expectations and for once, he reels to fulfill them.
The Dark Lord turns back to the elder members of the assembly, those supposedly his age, and Barty can’t help but notice the slender waist and unnatural straightness of his spine. He stands like all he knows is to look down on you, no curve to his image : he reminds him of Evan. He talks until boots start shifting, and never looks anyone else in the eyes, Barty makes sure of it.
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’
As they wait in the drawing room of a darkened study, Barty can already see who will fail their Lord, those who’s regret stink the air. Pettigrew is looking around in a frantic manner, with as much calm as a rat trapped in an oil trap usually exhibits while trying to escape. Barty makes a point of looking at him, slouched back in the biggest armchair, unmoving for nothing but a twitching smirk.
The room is soundproof, and they each leave it in order of eagerness. The Warrington kid who he remembers intentionally failing his Transfiguration homework for a reason to kill a rat, goes first, nobody objects. There seems to be another door leading out, the only signal to come in is the door opening at irregular intervals. Barty goes last, making a show of clicking his heels against the hardwood floor to show he hadn’t gotten closer to the door in his waiting.
Regulus had told him it’d be an honor to serve, Barty agreed, if his Lord was honorable. He had always been servile in a way, in the same way guard dogs are. You wouldn’t tell one to its face that it’s submissive, but to its core, a dog will follow for as long as he’s needed, for as long as he can bite. If he’s going to pledge himself to a stranger for a war he only wants to play in, he will make a show of his qualities as a vassal.
‘’’’’’’
The armchair he’s sitting in now is ever so slightly smaller than the one the Dark Lord is sitting on, and Barty’s still taller. The laugh bubbles in his throat and he fights to keep it in as he tries to decipher what’s written on the sheet with his name on it, placed in front of Him.
When he looks up to meet his gaze, he finds it fixed on the earring on his left ear, the one he’d let Pandora give him to ward off Galiglows.
The Dark Lord stares for a few seconds before a thin smile graces his lips.
“Do you know what those mean in the muggle world, Mister Crouch ?”
Am I supposed to ?
“I’m afraid not, my lord”
His smile grew wider, showing off perfect too-white teeth.
“Aren’t you devoted ?”, he drawled mockingly. “I’ll let you do your own research, I’m sure you’ll find them enlightening”, he added before Barty could ask anymore questions.
Does he interrogate us next time ?
“Macnair!”, he called abruptly : just like that the conversation was over, without any opportunity for Barty to really say anything. With the way the Dark Lord looked at him, you’d believe he’d just told him his worst secret, he might just have.
*
The sermon in itself was short, nothing out of sort for a Sacred Vow : loyalty in combat and to His name. A promise of protection should their enterprise fail, should the Dark Lord die. He pointedly looked at him while Macnair announced those words, like there was something to catch on to, a hint. Barty didn’t get it then, he smiled in a show of too many teeth, like he did.
The black velvet ribbon tying them together to lead the magic was thick and tight around his arm, and the Dark Lord’s skin was soft under his. He’d expected it to be cold to the touch, seeing how snake-like his eyes are, but it is surprisingly human. The blood he feels beat against the strain of his hold runs to his ears, like he can hear his Lord’s heartbeat.
How terrible it is, to love something that death can touch.
Once the sermon finished, he expected to be shown a door, instead he was led back to the desk and given a folded sheet. The one with his information on it, at the back of it read : What splits a soul ?
Merlin, he does interrogate us.