Tuesday, October 12, 1993
I woke with a sharp intake of breath, heart pounding as if I had been running.
For a few seconds, I lay still, staring at the ceiling, trying to steady myself. Something felt wrong. Off. There was a faint metallic taste on my tongue.
Blood.
No. Not really.
I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth, then swallowed. Nothing. No wound, no pain. The taste wasn't real. It lingered like a memory rather than a sensation, stubborn and unpleasant.
It had come from the dream.
That much I knew with certainty.
What irritated me was that I could not remember anything else. No images. No sounds. No faces. Just the taste of blood, thick and coppery, clinging to my thoughts like an aftertaste that refused to fade.
I hated incomplete memories. They felt like unfinished sentences.
The movement must have disturbed the bed, because Rosmerta shifted beside me and let out a quiet groan.
"Gilderoy," she murmured sleepily, her voice thick with drowsiness. "What time is it?"
I flicked my fingers lazily and cast a silent Tempus, the numbers appearing briefly in the air above my hand.
"Almost seven," I said. "Time to get up."
She sighed, burying her face briefly in the pillow before pushing herself upright. Morning light filtered in through the curtains, painting her hair in soft gold. For a moment, the unease from the dream loosened its grip on me.
We moved around each other easily as we got dressed, the comfortable familiarity of shared space smoothing the edges of my thoughts. Rosmerta handed me my shirt. I fastened her necklace. Simple, quiet gestures that grounded me.
Aurora, blissfully unaware of anything resembling responsibility, remained sprawled across the bed, snoring softly and clutching one of the pillows like a lifeline.
I envied her.
Downstairs, breakfast was already laid out by Dobby. The smell of fresh bread and tea helped chase away the last remnants of sleep, though the strange tension from the dream still lingered in the back of my mind.
We had barely started eating when the sharp tap of claws against glass drew my attention upward.
An owl perched on the window frame, feathers puffed up against the morning chill. A familiar sight, yet it always carried the same sense of foreboding.
News rarely arrived quietly.
I opened the window and accepted the rolled newspaper tied to its leg, handing the owl a piece of bacon before it took off again.
The headline leapt out at me immediately.
[BARTEMIUS CROUCH FOUND DEAD IN HIS HOME]
My appetite vanished.
I unfolded the paper slowly, my fingers tightening as I read.
[Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, was found dead in his home yesterday evening. He was discovered by Bertha Jorkins, who went to check on him after he failed to arrive at work. This was considered highly unusual, given Crouch's well-known work ethic and strict adherence to routine.]
[Bertha Jorkins immediately contacted the Auror Office. Upon investigation, authorities discovered evidence suggesting the presence of a second individual living in the house. This has raised serious questions, as Crouch's wife and son died years ago.]
[Most disturbingly, the only potential witness, Crouch's house-elf, was also found dead at the scene.]
[No signs of forced entry or ward tampering were detected. Officials believe this indicates the crime was committed by someone with authorized access to the property.]
The article continued, speculating wildly, but I barely registered the rest.
My thoughts were already racing.
A second person, no damaged wards… this was an inside job.
I lowered the paper slowly, the faint taste of blood from my dream suddenly feeling far less abstract.
Barty Crouch Junior.
It had to be him.
I had known, of course, that the situation with Crouch's son was… complicated. He wasn't dead as everyone believed; instead, he had been rescued from Azkaban by his parents, with his mother staying as a substitute using Polyjuice potion and dying in his place.
Crouch Sr had placed his son under the Imperius curse and kept him locked in his room for years.
But now he had escaped.
Whether it had been sudden or planned, whether the Imperius had finally slipped or shattered entirely, the result was the same. News of the Azkaban escape would have been enough to stir a fanatic mind. Enough to awaken loyalty, rage, and purpose all at once.
And if Barty Crouch Junior was free, then the situation was far worse than the Daily Prophet realized.
Tom had probably regained another dangerous servant.
I folded the paper carefully and set it aside.
Rosmerta was watching me now, concern clear in her eyes. "That bad?"
"Yes," I said quietly. "Much worse than they think."
…
(Tom Riddle)
Barty Crouch Junior knelt before me, spine straight, head bowed, his breathing controlled but reverent. The air around him trembled faintly with restrained excitement, like a hound forced to sit while staring at its master.
His eyes, when he finally dared to lift them, were alight with worship.
Pure. Fanatical. Beautiful.
When the Dark Mark had burned and the signal reached me, I had not known who was calling. The Mark is a crude thing in that regard. It carries intent and urgency, but not identity. Still, desperation like that is rare, and loyalty rarer still. I had weighed the risk and answered, bending the connection to draw the caller to my location.
It had been the correct decision.
The moment he arrived, breathless and wide-eyed, the memories I had gained from absorbing the fragment within Hufflepuff's Cup had aligned perfectly. Faces, names, betrayals, trials, screams. And there he was.
Bartemius Crouch Junior.
One of my most devoted followers. Intelligent and methodical.
I sent a Legilimency probe and he willingly opened his mind to me, letting me peruse his memories freely, showing me what he'd gone through all these years.
I saw how he'd been rescued from Azkaban by his parents only to end up in another prison, trapped in his own mind under the control of his father's Imperius Curse. But he had remained utterly unbroken, despite years of confinement and humiliation.
He showed me how he'd broken the curse with sheer willpower when he learned of his fellow Death Eaters' escape from Azkaban, believing it was his Lord's, my doing.
How he'd waited until his father fell asleep to move, broken his house elf's neck with his bare hands, and then killed his father with his own wand while he slept.
He didn't seem burdened by his actions, all I could feel from his mind was overwhelming pride and his eagerness to serve me.
"My Lord," he said fervently, voice trembling with emotion he made no attempt to suppress. "I knew you would return. I knew it. I am so glad to see you again."
He did not hesitate. He did not question.
Not even when he saw me.
This body was young. Too young. Still sharpening itself, still growing into its full potential. To lesser minds, it might have inspired doubt, confusion, even fear.
To Barty, it was irrelevant.
Whatever form I chose was, by definition, correct.
"I am also glad to have you back at my side, Barty," I replied, letting warmth enter my voice just enough to feed his devotion. "To have someone truly loyal and competent return to me lightens my burdens greatly."
His shoulders straightened almost imperceptibly at the praise. Good. He craved approval. That hunger made him dependable.
"I have watched. I have waited," he said eagerly. "I kept faith. Even when I thought I might never see you again."
I believed him.
"Your patience will be rewarded," I said calmly. "And your usefulness will not go unrecognized."
I began to pace slowly in front of him, hands clasped behind my back, studying him from every angle. The years had hardened him, stripped away whatever softness might once have existed. Azkaban would have broken a weaker man. His father's control would have hollowed out someone less devoted.
Barty had endured both.
"I require someone for a task," I continued. "Someone discreet. Intelligent. Capable of following instructions precisely."
I stopped in front of him and looked down.
"Someone competent."
His lips curved into a smile that was sharp and eager.
"There are many who would volunteer," he said. "But none more devoted than I."
"Indeed," I agreed softly. "And that is precisely why I am not sending Bellatrix."
The name alone would have been enough to explain my meaning. Bellatrix was brilliant in her own way, but subtlety was not among her virtues. Her devotion burned too brightly, too loudly.
"I need you to contact Fenrir Greyback," I said. "Bring him to me. Quietly."
Barty's expression did not change, though his eyes gleamed with interest.
"He is to come alone," I added. "No followers. No witnesses. No one must know where he is going, nor who summoned him."
I leaned down slightly, ensuring he understood the weight of the command.
"No one can follow you."
Barty lowered his head again, reverence returning full force.
"As you wish, my Lord," he said, a pleased smile touching his lips. "I will not fail you."
I was certain of that.
As he rose and prepared to leave, I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction.
The board was finally being set.
And this time, every piece would move exactly as I intended.
…