Barty Crouch, Jr, Memory, 1981
Name: Barty Crouch, Jr
Date: 1st November, 1981
Format: Memory
Relevance: A memory thread picked randomly from an assortment of Very Bad Memories and given to Walburga Black. The events appearing in it were thought, until now, to have been the effect of only too much alcohol and euphoria.
The mists disappear and you find yourself in a pretty, if austere house. In front of you there's a very young man leaning on his elbows on the banister, looking down. There's a feeling of excitement in the house, but the boy's face is blank, save for a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw.
You look down at where the boy is staring and see two people: a middle-aged wizard talking to someone in the Floo-network and a frail-looking middle-aged witch, fidgeting.
She looks up, eyes bright, and gives the boy a tentative smile. He doesn't smile back, though. Instead he grits his teeth and the corners of his mouth droop a little.
The wizard finally ends the conversation and stands up, looking around, a huge smile on his face.
'The minister confirmed it,' he says. 'He's gone. Gone! You-Know-Who is dead! The people are celebrating on the streets. We should go to them.'
You see a movement in the corner of your eye and look to see the boy rubbing his left forearm. His breathing is growing erratic.
Downstairs the witch gives a soft nervous giggle.
'Oh, Bartemius, do you think is wise? There must be such confusion on the streets. It may be dangerous.'
'Don't worry, dear, we'll be safe. Barty? Where are you, boy?'
'I'm here, father,' the boy says, unmoving.
Bartemius looks up.
'Come on, son, let's celebrate! I'm sure you'll find your friends.'
'Why don't you go ahead? I need to go to the loo,' Barty answers.
'What's the matter, sweetie, are you all right? Oh, Bartemius, look at him, he's probably sick. We should stay.'
'Mother's right, father.'
'NO!' Bartemius takes a deep breath, trying to collect himself. 'Listen: these people lost their loved ones to this awful war. Tonight, and for the first time in ages, they feel safe. It's our duty to be there and show them our support. Barty, do what you have to. We'll be outside, waiting for you.'
Barty turns around and you follow. You notice he's walking slowly, awkwardly, like he's trying to remember how to put one foot in front of the other.
When he finally reaches the loo, he's almost hyperventilating.
Barty closes the door behind him and falls forward, grabbing the side of the bathtub, gasping for breath, like he had been drowning. He slides to the ground, hitting his head with the heels of both hands, his feet kicking the wall repeatedly. He seems to be in great pain and a low, ragged keening noise escapes his throat.
For a few minutes he lays on the ground shaking and sobbing, his eyes wide and dry.
Finally he stands up, his hands grabbing the washbasin for support like claws and looks at the mirror. An ugly grimace appears on his face, the veins on his neck almost popping and the skin taut, like he's making some huge effort, and turns into a grin showing way too many teeth.
When you get outside he looks almost normal and his parents smile at him.
'We'll meet outside Ollivander's,' his father tells him, putting an arm around his wife and apparates side-along with her.
The next moment you're staring at Ollivander's window.
Behind you the crowd is wild. People are laughing, crying with joy, hugging each other. Barty's face is as blank as when you first saw him.
His parents walk to him, Bartemius' protective arm still around his wife's shoulders, and beckon him to follow them.
He does so, dragging his feet until they're swallowed by the crowd.
Barty then turns and walks to the middle of the road. People are piling around you, but you feel like they are miles away. They all turn to look at you, as you pass, their grins pathetic and empty, dead-like. You notice they all look the same, men and women, children and adults: like someone you never noticed, someone you didn't care to remember, someone who never mattered. The only thing you can hear now is Barty's ragged breathing.
Suddenly, a big boy, around Barty's age, gives a shout and claps him on the back, a butterbeer in his other hand.
'Barty Crouch, Jr!’ he bellows. 'How are you, mate? Haven't seen you since we left Hogwarts!'
Barty jumps at the contact and looks at the boy. By the look on his face you just know he doesn't have a clue who the other boy is.
'Fantastic, isn't this? A little child! A baby, can you believe it?' The boy takes a deep breath, looking ecstatic. 'This is the greatest night in my life!'
A strange something crosses Barty's eyes. He takes his hand to the pocket of his leather coat and seems to search for something. He takes it out and makes a show of clapping the boy on the back of the neck. It's a gesture that could be friendly at first sight, if it weren't so aggressive and out-of-place and the boy flinches. He gives Barty a bemused smile but leans in when he pulls him closer.
A whisper is all it takes for the boy to jolt and his eyes go blank like a dead fish. Barty takes his hand away and you can see the tip of his wand peeking from where it's hidden inside his sleeve. He whispers something else and the boy just looks at him with a goofy smile and nods.
'Good,' Barty says. 'Now go!'
The boy walks to where a couple is celebrating with some friends. He grabs the woman by the waist and puts his hand between her legs. The man shouts and punches him. Instead of stopping or punching him back, he pulls a passing girl by the hair and slaps her on the face. Two men jump to grab him.
Barty takes a deep breath, eyes wide and rolls his neck, his joints giving a loud crack. People are starting to run in every direction, but Barty walks away like no one could reach him and you follow him.
He climbs the stairs of a fire escape and sits down under a balcony.
You want to look at him: he's sitting peacefully, his head slowly tilting to the side, a vein around his right eye pulsating fast. But the clamouring coming from the street forces you to look at what is unfolding at your feet.
At first you think it's just the celebrations, but suddenly you notice red sparks of distress being swallowed by the fireworks. Some people are dancing, but others are trying to understand what's happening. You follow their gaze and see a mass of limbs punching and kicking in every direction. Between the singing and the laughing you can suddenly hear screams, cries and wails.
An old man grabs his chest, face screwing in pain, and tries to get to a bench, but two girls run by, tossing him to the floor. The group sitting on the bench doesn't even notice.
The window of a shop explodes suddenly with a stray curse, sending the bodies of the Aurors that had arrived flying through the air. People start to run away in panic, like a stampede. On the ground a small child wails and a young woman tries desperately to open the door to her house. But when the mob arrives, you don't hear the sound of the door closing, but the broken cry she gives. When it clears, her body lies limp on the ground and the door swings open. The child is nowhere to be seen.
It's humanity at its ugliest and you just can't stop staring.
Until Barty twitches. You look and see he's laughing softly.
'Come on, my little lemmings, run! Your cliff is right ahead, waiting for you.'
He's starting to rock back and forth, slowly.
'You survived the war and now will die in the celebration. How proper. How perfect.'
Suddenly he grabs his hair and pulls, a soft whine escaping his lips.
'This is nothing, nothing!' Gasps. 'When you return… When you return… Return…' A whimper. 'When you return, my Lord, you'll walk on their broken bones, their sheep-like brains, their tainted blood…'
He shakes his head, tears falling down his cheeks.
'A red carpet, that's what this is, that I've laid down for you. Fit for a king. The greatest king of all!'
At your feet the fight is escalating and Barty lets out a cry.
'When you return, my Lord!'
Date: 1st November, 1981
Format: Memory
Relevance: A memory thread picked randomly from an assortment of Very Bad Memories and given to Walburga Black. The events appearing in it were thought, until now, to have been the effect of only too much alcohol and euphoria.
The mists disappear and you find yourself in a pretty, if austere house. In front of you there's a very young man leaning on his elbows on the banister, looking down. There's a feeling of excitement in the house, but the boy's face is blank, save for a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw.
You look down at where the boy is staring and see two people: a middle-aged wizard talking to someone in the Floo-network and a frail-looking middle-aged witch, fidgeting.
She looks up, eyes bright, and gives the boy a tentative smile. He doesn't smile back, though. Instead he grits his teeth and the corners of his mouth droop a little.
The wizard finally ends the conversation and stands up, looking around, a huge smile on his face.
'The minister confirmed it,' he says. 'He's gone. Gone! You-Know-Who is dead! The people are celebrating on the streets. We should go to them.'
You see a movement in the corner of your eye and look to see the boy rubbing his left forearm. His breathing is growing erratic.
Downstairs the witch gives a soft nervous giggle.
'Oh, Bartemius, do you think is wise? There must be such confusion on the streets. It may be dangerous.'
'Don't worry, dear, we'll be safe. Barty? Where are you, boy?'
'I'm here, father,' the boy says, unmoving.
Bartemius looks up.
'Come on, son, let's celebrate! I'm sure you'll find your friends.'
'Why don't you go ahead? I need to go to the loo,' Barty answers.
'What's the matter, sweetie, are you all right? Oh, Bartemius, look at him, he's probably sick. We should stay.'
'Mother's right, father.'
'NO!' Bartemius takes a deep breath, trying to collect himself. 'Listen: these people lost their loved ones to this awful war. Tonight, and for the first time in ages, they feel safe. It's our duty to be there and show them our support. Barty, do what you have to. We'll be outside, waiting for you.'
Barty turns around and you follow. You notice he's walking slowly, awkwardly, like he's trying to remember how to put one foot in front of the other.
When he finally reaches the loo, he's almost hyperventilating.
Barty closes the door behind him and falls forward, grabbing the side of the bathtub, gasping for breath, like he had been drowning. He slides to the ground, hitting his head with the heels of both hands, his feet kicking the wall repeatedly. He seems to be in great pain and a low, ragged keening noise escapes his throat.
For a few minutes he lays on the ground shaking and sobbing, his eyes wide and dry.
Finally he stands up, his hands grabbing the washbasin for support like claws and looks at the mirror. An ugly grimace appears on his face, the veins on his neck almost popping and the skin taut, like he's making some huge effort, and turns into a grin showing way too many teeth.
When you get outside he looks almost normal and his parents smile at him.
'We'll meet outside Ollivander's,' his father tells him, putting an arm around his wife and apparates side-along with her.
The next moment you're staring at Ollivander's window.
Behind you the crowd is wild. People are laughing, crying with joy, hugging each other. Barty's face is as blank as when you first saw him.
His parents walk to him, Bartemius' protective arm still around his wife's shoulders, and beckon him to follow them.
He does so, dragging his feet until they're swallowed by the crowd.
Barty then turns and walks to the middle of the road. People are piling around you, but you feel like they are miles away. They all turn to look at you, as you pass, their grins pathetic and empty, dead-like. You notice they all look the same, men and women, children and adults: like someone you never noticed, someone you didn't care to remember, someone who never mattered. The only thing you can hear now is Barty's ragged breathing.
Suddenly, a big boy, around Barty's age, gives a shout and claps him on the back, a butterbeer in his other hand.
'Barty Crouch, Jr!’ he bellows. 'How are you, mate? Haven't seen you since we left Hogwarts!'
Barty jumps at the contact and looks at the boy. By the look on his face you just know he doesn't have a clue who the other boy is.
'Fantastic, isn't this? A little child! A baby, can you believe it?' The boy takes a deep breath, looking ecstatic. 'This is the greatest night in my life!'
A strange something crosses Barty's eyes. He takes his hand to the pocket of his leather coat and seems to search for something. He takes it out and makes a show of clapping the boy on the back of the neck. It's a gesture that could be friendly at first sight, if it weren't so aggressive and out-of-place and the boy flinches. He gives Barty a bemused smile but leans in when he pulls him closer.
A whisper is all it takes for the boy to jolt and his eyes go blank like a dead fish. Barty takes his hand away and you can see the tip of his wand peeking from where it's hidden inside his sleeve. He whispers something else and the boy just looks at him with a goofy smile and nods.
'Good,' Barty says. 'Now go!'
The boy walks to where a couple is celebrating with some friends. He grabs the woman by the waist and puts his hand between her legs. The man shouts and punches him. Instead of stopping or punching him back, he pulls a passing girl by the hair and slaps her on the face. Two men jump to grab him.
Barty takes a deep breath, eyes wide and rolls his neck, his joints giving a loud crack. People are starting to run in every direction, but Barty walks away like no one could reach him and you follow him.
He climbs the stairs of a fire escape and sits down under a balcony.
You want to look at him: he's sitting peacefully, his head slowly tilting to the side, a vein around his right eye pulsating fast. But the clamouring coming from the street forces you to look at what is unfolding at your feet.
At first you think it's just the celebrations, but suddenly you notice red sparks of distress being swallowed by the fireworks. Some people are dancing, but others are trying to understand what's happening. You follow their gaze and see a mass of limbs punching and kicking in every direction. Between the singing and the laughing you can suddenly hear screams, cries and wails.
An old man grabs his chest, face screwing in pain, and tries to get to a bench, but two girls run by, tossing him to the floor. The group sitting on the bench doesn't even notice.
The window of a shop explodes suddenly with a stray curse, sending the bodies of the Aurors that had arrived flying through the air. People start to run away in panic, like a stampede. On the ground a small child wails and a young woman tries desperately to open the door to her house. But when the mob arrives, you don't hear the sound of the door closing, but the broken cry she gives. When it clears, her body lies limp on the ground and the door swings open. The child is nowhere to be seen.
It's humanity at its ugliest and you just can't stop staring.
Until Barty twitches. You look and see he's laughing softly.
'Come on, my little lemmings, run! Your cliff is right ahead, waiting for you.'
He's starting to rock back and forth, slowly.
'You survived the war and now will die in the celebration. How proper. How perfect.'
Suddenly he grabs his hair and pulls, a soft whine escaping his lips.
'This is nothing, nothing!' Gasps. 'When you return… When you return… Return…' A whimper. 'When you return, my Lord, you'll walk on their broken bones, their sheep-like brains, their tainted blood…'
He shakes his head, tears falling down his cheeks.
'A red carpet, that's what this is, that I've laid down for you. Fit for a king. The greatest king of all!'
At your feet the fight is escalating and Barty lets out a cry.
'When you return, my Lord!'