Squibbed

A court room. Albus Dumbledore, holding a gavel, eyes twinkling. He offers Barty a boiled sweet. Mother sits up in bed and tells him not to take it, or he’ll spoil his dinner. An owl swoops in, and drops a howler on mother’s bed. Not wanting her to suffer through it, Barty goes to pick it up, but the bed begins to grow wider and wider, until she’s so far away he can barely see her. Barty’s father descends from the heavens in a cloud of red smoke, ranting and raving. Barty pulls out his wand and tries to cast the Dark Mark into the sky, but he can’t remember the incantation. Death Eaters laugh and jeer behind their masks. He tries to run, but he trips, and then he’s sinking, sinking into something soft and warm...

He finds himself floating inside a human-sized cauldron. He feels utterly contented, blissful even. Strong arms wrap around him and lift him out, and suddenly he’s cold. He’s thrown to the ground, and master’s face looms over him. Barty lifts his left arm, but master slaps it away.

“You are no servant of mine,” master says, and turns back to Lucius Malfoy, who smirks at him triumphantly.

Barty begins to cry. Malfoy struts over, telling him to be quiet, or he’ll disturb their Lord. Malfoy lifts his cane above his head, and the silver serpent bares it’s teeth, tongue flicking, ready to strike...

“Wake up, Crouch,” Malfoy hisses, “I’ve brought you food.”

Barty is breathing heavily, and drenched in sweat. He manages to sit up and take the plate from him. But then he hesitates.

“Our Lord’s orders, Crouch,” Malfoy says, “he wants to see me when you’re finished. He says you’re to rest.”

Barty immediately starts to shovel the food into his mouth, barely noticing what he’s eating.

Malfoy is hovering by the door. “Is it alright?” he asks.

Barty hums. He doesn’t trust himself to contain his rage if he tries to speak to him, and he knows it isn’t his place to judge his brother. Only their Lord has that right.

They fall once again into tense silence, and when he’s finished eating, Malfoy takes the plate and dashes off.

Lucius carefully approaches what he hopes is the sitting room.

The door is open slightly, and as he draws near, he catches a brief glimpse of the Dark Lord, sitting in a high backed arm chair and staring blankly at the wall.

Lucius tries to knock on the door without pushing it open, but he doesn’t succeed. The Dark Lord’s eyes dart up to meet his immediately, and for a moment, he smiles ever so slightly. The smile fades quickly, but Lucius is intimately familiar with the nuances of his Lord’s facial expressions.

It hadn’t been the predatory smirk he might have expected. No, it was a smile he only remembers from the early days of their acquaintance, before he’d taken the mark.

“Please sit, Lucius,” the Dark Lord says.

Lucius is not sure why, but he freezes, staring at the indicated chair. Heat washes over him like a wave, and his heart drops into his stomach.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself to floor and presses his forehead into the rug.

There is a long, agonising silence.

“I told you to sit.”

“Yet another way in which I have failed you,” Lucius replies, his voice cracking. His eyes suddenly brim with hot tears.

“Come here.”

Lucius hastens to his knees, and shuffles forward until he reaches the spot in front of the Dark Lord’s chair.

Cold fingers lift his chin roughly, and the Dark Lord slaps him hard across the face. Lucius welcomes the sting it leaves on his cheek.

“I am supposed to believe that you are genuinely remorseful?” the Dark Lord demands.

Slowly, Lucius lifts his gaze. Their eyes lock for a moment, though Lucius does not feel any intrusion in his mind, and he’s shoved away. The Dark Lord pushes to his feet and makes to leave, and Lucius can’t help it. He sobs once.

The Dark Lord stills. Lucius doesn’t quite know how he dares, but he leans forward, and presses his forehead to his Lord’s boot.

“I do not ask for your mercy,” he chokes out, and the dam breaks.

Lucius is allowed to cry into the Dark Lord’s boot for a minute or so. Then Voldemort sweeps from the room, leaving Lucius alone.

Barty only realises he’d fallen asleep when he’s jerked awake by the sound of a floorboard creaking next to his face.

“Bartemius,” comes his master’s voice, laced with amusement. Barty’s about to roll onto his stomach and pull himself to his knees, but master’s bare foot on his chest pins him in place.

Master looms over him, eyes glittering. “Have I not provided you with a perfectly serviceable bed?”

Barty correctly guesses that this is a rhetorical question. Not that he could have managed a coherent answer, even if it wasn’t.

“When I leave, you will give this to Lucius,” the Dark Lord drops a large envelope next to Barty’s head. “You are not to look at the contents. It is for his eyes only.”

“Yes, master,” Barty breathes. As if he would dare to read it without permission!

The Dark Lord removes his foot from Barty's chest to step over him, and sits on the bed. After checking his master’s expression for approval, Barty gets to his knees and crawls forward to kiss his master's feet, but is stopped again, this time with a foot to his shoulder. Then the Dark Lord nudges Barty’s chin upwards, so their eyes meet.

“Bartemius, you understand that I am very pleased with you, do you not?”

Barty blushes furiously. He wants to look away, but he doesn’t, in case his master wants to check his mind.

But his master appears not to deem it necessary, and withdraws his foot. He shuffles back and swings his legs up onto the bed. He rearranges the pillows, then casually stretches back onto them.

It is the most human thing Barty has ever seen him do, and it makes his jaw drop. I am never making this bed again! Barty thinks.

“Quite comfortable,” the Dark Lord muses. “I can only conclude, then, that you enjoy sleeping on the hard floor.”

“Well I’ll have to now,” Barty mumbles, before he can stop himself. Horrified, he launches into a litany of apologies.

Master sighs, sounding exhausted, and Barty falls silent immediately. He’s missing something here.

It is only now that Barty begins to properly consider exactly why they’re staying at this apparently muggle residence. Why they travelled here by muggle methods, why they surrendered their wands…

“Master!” he cries in realisation.

Master only looks at him tiredly.