Never Mind Who (anomoly_fetish) wrote in crouchjr,
Never Mind Who
anomoly_fetish
crouchjr

A Spark of Life in the Pit of Death

My first real Bartyfic, though I have a million in my mind. I didn't post under the cut, cause its so short...it's not really worth it. It's a oneshot that I was considering on expanding, however, Doctor has sort have sonically freezed my brain. ((It's DT, who cares?))


Story: Spark
Characters: Barty Crouch, Jr., Voldemort,
Setting/Summery: after GoF, The Dark lord Voldemort chooses to have one of the most faithful rewarded. The plan could end up being foolproof.
Corroborated with: Felain2985, of Fanfiction.Net

The dead gray eyes stare out from among the thousands of rotting corpses in Azkaban Prison.

A gasp of air filling lungs is heard by none in this place - and unseen by sightless eyes.
Once gray, dead eyes are now a cold, crazed hazel. Once limp, seemingly lifeless limbs take shape and flexibility.

The first thing that hits him is the stench - the smell of death - the rotting flesh, and yet, they feel, as he had until this very moment - nothing. The next is the memory - his last, the fear, the terror, the ever blackness saturating him with its blood - and then ... nothing.

This is the Pit of Those Who Have Been Kissed...

Like a pile of leaves behind a deserted cottage - left to rot away - to nothingness, to piles of flesh and bone, and nothing else.

He blinks his eyes rapidly, wiggles his fingers in front of his face, making sure this isn't some phantom of a dream, some last nightmare by a Dementor..but it isn't.

Those who are left to rot have nothing - nothing is their very essence, no feelings, no dreams, no last hope of rescue, no pain, no soul.

His tongue darts to the corner of his mouth, tasting dried blood - weather its his, or some other poor lost soul, he doesn't care.

A maniacal grin spreads across his twisted, barely shaven face.

Deep in the belly of Azkaban Prison, crazed laughter resounds through the Pit of the Undead.

But it is in the Riddle Castle that another creature lets out a low chuckle of triumph.

"Morsemordre!"

Green-black smoke fills the sky in The Dark Mark yet again. Muggles didn't stop to point. After the Third Wizarding War, nobody stopped anymore to ask question. A dark evil was rising again.

Voldemort closes his eyes and inhales deeply, his lipless mouth in an evil grin.

The Muggles ran in terror, hiding under whatever they could get their hands on. Even wizards cower. Hasn't Voldemort been defeated?

In the middle of the Antartic Ocean, however, screaming, innane babble and maniacal laughter fills Azkaban Prison, and him that were once worse than dead, now walks. He is the only one that emerges from the pit. The only one faithful enough to fulfill his master's mission.

He doesn't know it's been four years. No knowledge of the passage of time when you are without a soul. His heart feels it, yes, but he just thinks its and after-effect of the Kiss.

Call it a miracle if you will, or call it a curse upon the very ground he tries to stand upon.

Him who was dead moves out of the pile of bodies. He has no wand, no weapon to which defend himself should the Dementors or the guards return. He knows however, that the Dementors will do nothing. If his master has commanded he be brought back, then he also will have ensured that the wretched creatures will leave his most trusted servant alone.

His tongue darts to the corner of his mouth as a maniacal grin again spreads across his face.

He does feel a bit lightheaded, and a bit hungry as well. Technically, Those Who Have Been Kissed don't really die of starvation or lack of norishment, as most Muggles think. Rather, they simply rot, taking years, almost eternities to do so. For them, there is no other, there is nothing, no afterlife, no hope of redemption...just nothing.

He inhales the rotten air, letting the smell of Death fill his nostrils. He feels a bit stiff, and a brief thought crosses his mind, and is then gone, a bit like a whisp of smoke. How long has he been "dead"?

He has no real idea of where his master would be hiding. He will get out of Azkaban, but then he will wait, as a servant waits, to be called upon. His mind nags at him to remember things that have been long gone out it.

His name. To taste it again in his mouth is like bitter sweetness on his tongue.

Barty Crouch. Junior. The inflection. The dramatic, the 'Junior' added on the end as though he is not his father. He can almost hear the accusatory voice in his head. He wonders if the The Traitor is dead.

Above all things, even above Muggles, even above Half-Bloods, even above the Dark Lord's worst enemy, Barty hates traitors to his master. Loathing above all others.

He may be a bit menacing and bit more than simply sadistic when it comes to the Lower Peoples, but when it is Loyalty itself that is questioned, Barty is worse than a lion awoken from his sleep.

Who does his master want him to take care of next?

He hopes it's one of the Malfoys, or some other Traitor. He wasn't so sure of the Hogwarts teacher...what was his name again? He shakes his head, and pulls a spider out of his brownish dirty hair. He crushes the tiny creature between his fingers without second thought, ignoring the light squeak as the creature died. He wipes his hand against his mud encrusted clothes.

After who-knows-how-long in the Pit, he doesn't smell like he walked through a field of roses. He shrugs. He'd learned at nineteen that a stench tends to keep people away. And having people, of any sort rubbing up close and next to you just made the Mark hurt worse. He blinks and shakes his head again, the mop of once-sandy blonde hair falling in his face. He couldn't remember why he thought that.

Maybe it was just instinctive reflex.
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