the ocean washed open your grave
6th December, 1979
Barty Crouch Jr is not having a very good day.
First of all, he burnt his toast this morning - the kind of burn that only happens on one side of the bread, so he didn't even notice until he'd taken a bite. Very frustrating.
Second of all, he found his childhood best friend brutally murdered on the floor of the Malfoy Manor.
-
“We've been summoned.”
Barty startles at the sound of a voice right behind his ear. He turns to be greeted by Evan's wry smirk, “Fucking shit, Evan, I'm serious about getting you a bell.”
“Kinky.” Evan wriggles his eyebrows, plucking up the book that Barty had been reading and placing it on the side table, “But seriously, we've got to go. Orders from the Big Man himself.”
A thrill goes up Barty’s spine. If the Dark Lord himself is asking for them? It must be big.
“Have they said what they need us for?” Barty asks, seeing his own excitement reflected in the green of Evan's eyes.
Evan nods, tugging his cloak on, “They're saying they've found the traitor.”
-
Lord Voldemort has a way of making Barty feel like the most important person in the world.
He barely glances Barty’s way when he enters but it's enough. That little look, that little acknowledgement. Being looked at as a member of the team, as though he’s part of something valuable. Barty doesn’t think he's ever done anything worthwhile, not in his entire life. Not until this.
“My loyal servants.” Lord Voldemort croons, still looking away, “Just the two men I need for the job.”
Barty can feel Evan to his right, shifting and squirming with the urge to reply. He knows, he feels it too. But it's not their place to speak.
“It appears that some of our colleagues have apprehended the traitor. I’ve not heard from them in almost an hour now.” It's here that Voldemort turns to face them. His eyes are red, like a hellhound. The skin around his eyes is pulled tight, “I suspect it will be a bloodbath.”
Suddenly, Barty feels a little bit sick.
-
Flooing through the fireplace in the heart of the Malfoy Manor is so disorienting that Barty doesn't understand what he's looking at for a moment.
There are bodies littered across the ebony wooden flooring. Static magic is crackling in the air. His nose stings with the potent smell of burning.
There's blood, too, in the air.
Narcissa Malfoy is sobbing over the body of her husband, pale hair a tangled mess.
“My darling,” Voldemort croons, stepping into the room with his arms spread, “What happened?”
Narcissa just continues to sob, shaking her head. It's unsettling to see her porcelain mask so crooked. She never does provide an answer, simply hanging her head to weep.
By Barty's left foot lies Antonin Dolohov. His eyes are still open, blankly staring. Blackened veins spiderweb down his cheeks and trace the back of his hands. Red, orange sparks occasionally crackle across his entire body, dancing in his hair and glinting off the buttons on his coat.
A tiny, disloyal part of Barty whispers good riddance.
He can’t help it, really. Dolohov was always a nasty, abusive piece of work. Always picking on the younger, helpless students. In Barty's third year, Dolohov ambushed and attacked a first-year half-blood so badly that she had skipped over the infirmary and been escorted straight to St Mungo's. Worst of all was that the kid had been a Slytherin. So, yeah, Barty probably won't be dropping in to the funeral.
A tiny, cut-off gasp and a hand on Barty's wrist brings him back into the room.
Evan's grip is excessively tight but he is resolutely refusing to betray what shocked him. Understanding that he should remain silent due to their present company, Barty decides to follow Evan's gaze across the room.
At first, he thinks Evan is looking at the mirror on the far wall. It’s broken, with cracks that web across its surface, and a scorch mark in the centre. Evan is looking lower, though.
There’s a body in the far corner of the room, just inches away from escaping into the foyer. It has pale, too pale skin and a tangled mop of black hair. It’s too still and limp to be anything but dead.
The breath catches in Barty’s throat.
No, no, no, no…
He pulls his wrist out from Evan’s grasp so that he can slot their fingers together, firmly, clinging.
Lord Voldemort sighs disdainfully, the sound jarring enough to remind Barty to school his face. He gazes at the limp bodies of his Death Eaters, his loyal followers. He sneers, “What a waste.”
He shakes his head scornfully, turning on his heel back towards the fireplace. He doesn’t even look at Barty or Evan when addressing them, “Find out what you can from the girl. And do something with the litter.”
Barty tries to keep the shaking from his voice as he replies, “Of course, m-my Lord.”
It's not until the sound of the Floo has completely died down that Barty can unstick his feet from the floor.
He knows that there are hushed, broken noises falling from his mouth but he can't bring himself to care as he rushes over to kneel at the cold, twisted body of his best friend.
Regulus is pale, far more pale than he ever was in life. There are scarred scratches criss-crossing over every patch of exposed skin - old, barely-healed wounds that come up almost purple against the grey of his skin. Those are his only injuries, though.
He’s dead with nothing to show for it. Dead in only the way a Killing Curse can do to a person.
“Oh Merlin… ” He breathes, the only real words he can bring himself to say. It’s Regulus, his Regulus. His best friend in the whole world.
It’s actually funny because Barty isn't sure that they've been best friends in a long time. He can’t recall the last time they spent real time together outside of stiff, formal Death Eater meetings. He can’t actually remember the last time they spoke.
Barty might be sick.
Evan is at his side, completely silent in his grief. His hand is tight, almost painful, where it clings to Barty’s shoulder.
Barty can't stop himself from reaching out to gently touch his old friend's face. It's completely slack in death, void of all the tension and irritation that had become familiarly frequent. It's cold, too. His eyes are open.
Beside him, Evan makes a little noise, the first since they've arrived, “Barty.”
All he can do is turn his head slightly in Evan’s direction in question. It’s okay, Evan hears his reply anyway and answers quietly, “He’s different, he’s different from the other bodies.”
“Don’t call him a body.”
“Barty.”
“What do you mean?”
Evan heaves a deep, shaky sigh - the kind you give when you've just figured out something horrible and now you have to play messenger, “He didn’t die in the same way.”
He's right, Barty realises. They're in a room full of corpses and Regulus Black is the only one whose skin isn't sparking with that red-orange raw magic. He’s just cold and still. He wasn’t killed like the rest of them…
Which must mean that he’s…
“The traitor…” Barty breathes, scared to even say it. He tears his eyes away from Regulus for the first time, “Evan. Evan, that means that he’s-”
“I know. I know.”
Barty isn’t really sure what to do with it. Regulus is one of the smartest people he knows, maybe the smartest. He’s obedient and he’s loyal and he’s disciplined. Why would he…
“He was working with his brother.”
Narcissa Malfoy has dried her tears and is standing tall behind the two mourners. Her face, though red and blotchy, is as smooth as ever. She looks like she's made of porcelain, “He and Sirius Black were working together.”
“Where’s Black now?” Evan stands, as if to go and race after the disgraced Heir. As if that would revive Regulus.
Narcissa is stern, icy and she bites back, “In hiding, hopefully. And he’ll stay that way.”
“Why? Why should he get to-”
“Because he left with one of Lord Voldemort’s Horcruxes and I can only pray that he’s destroying it as we speak.”
That gets Barty’s attention, “A Horcrux? Are you- The Dark Lord wouldn’t- We would know.”
“No, we wouldn’t.” She snaps. It’s with that that Barty is struck by her resemblance to her cousins. The steely grey of her eyes is so familiar that he feels choked by it, “Because I didn’t, not until Lucius was asked to hold it for him.”
Despite her conviction, Barty doesn't want to believe her. A Horcrux. A person would have to be crazy to create one of those. Crazy and bad, in all the ways that have terrified Barty ever since he was a small child, seeing the awful cases his father would bring home each week.
To make multiple? A person would have to be out of their mind.
When Barty was nine years old, his father had represented a murderer in court. It had been a man, who had killed both his wife and his two eldest children. Father had been particularly stressed because the man had been resolutely unapologetic about his actions, which meant that Father was struggling to find a way to win the case.
During this time in his life, Barty was insistent on following his father around like a pestering duckling - desperate for any semblance of interest or approval. He had pretended to be brave when he peeked at the crime-scene photos on Father’s desk. He had pretended to be brave from the hard wooden bench he had been allowed to quietly sit on during the hearing. He had even managed to pretend to be brave when the man on trial stared him down with an empty, lifeless glare.
What had woken him up crying in the night, however, had been the youngest child that had sat in the witness chair. A little girl of five years old. The only survivor of her fathers attack. Left behind by her mother and brothers, and betrayed by her father - who had ended up being a very bad man.
Barty feels a little bit like that girl, right now.
As Narcissa and Evan argue over his head, about whether Sirius Black should be followed or not, Barty turns back to the cold body of his childhood best friend.
He doesn’t want to be left behind, not like that little girl. The soft, unkillable part of Barty - the one he’s tried so desperately to rid himself of - wants to scream and cry like a baby. He doesn’t want to be left behind. Not by Regulus.
Barty stares down his friend's pale, slack face, urging it to do something. To shift or smile or frown. Something.
What happens is so fast and small that Barty thinks he’s driven himself crazy. But no. It happens again.
There is movement.
In the glazed gray of Regulus Black's eyes, there is movement. A green sheen that flickers ever-so-slightly, every few seconds.
Barty’s hand has, of its own volition, wrapped around Regulus’ wrist, searching.
There.
Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump.
A stuttered gasp falls from Barty’s mouth. Like a magnet, his eyes jump to the mirror on the wall, the one with the strange scorch and the spider-webbing cracks and the green sheen.
“Guys.” Barty croaks out, hand desperately tightening around his friend's wrist, “I don’t think he’s dead.”
Two pairs of eyes snap to him, equally confused and pitying. Dismissive.
Until Narcissa follows Barty’s gaze to the mirror, the one that must have been hit before Regulus. She looks back down at her little cousin and falls to her knees.
-
They take Regulus back to their flat.
Their combined efforts are put into keeping up Death Eater appearances, watching over the body and attempting to wake him from whatever trance the splintered Killing Curse had put him under.
Eight days later, Barty tracks down Sirius Black, armed with nothing but faith and a secret knock that Regulus had told him about in the quiet dark of their shared room.