Squibbed

“I do not know how long it will last,” the Dark Lord says eventually. “A side effect of the ritual. It may or may not be permanent.”

At this, Bartemius Crouch is finally able to break his stunned, horrified silence.

“But dark rituals never cause a loss of power to the caster if they're successful, it isn't magically possible!” he blurts out, almost shouting. Then he shakes himself vigorously, and bows his head, taking a deep breath.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” he says, eyes trained on the ground, “No matter what happened or how long this may last, I am still eternally at your service. Nothing can change that, and I do not ask to know any further details.”

The Dark Lord scoffs. Carefully, Bartemius Crouch looks up, but Lord Voldemort will not meet his gaze. He pushes on anyway.

“My Lord, I swore a vow and I meant it. Not only is my magic yours, but my life is yours, my soul is yours. I am here for whatever you need.”

“Your soul,” Voldemort repeats tonelessly, his voice sounding uncharacteristically small.

“Yes,” Bartemius replies, “my soul.”

And something about that causes Lord Voldemort to suddenly crumple forward, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. He is like that for only a few moments before he sniffs and flings himself to his feet, tears streaming down his face as he flees the room.

I need to talk to you.

A blank page.

Do not ignore me. I only want to talk.

The ink seeps into the page once again, and no words appear.

Do you wish me to confine you to the diary?

Slowly, in carefully written cursive, an answer appears.

You can’t. And I told you, I am not talking to you without him.

Voldemort dips his quill back into the pot of ink so vigorously that he almost knocks it over.

Then tell him to come too and I shall strangle him with my bare hands, he writes.

The response is much faster this time.

Do you wish me take a bath in basilisk venom?

Voldemort is alarmed by his answer, because even as a teenager he has never once made an empty threat.

It was a figure of speech, he writes back hurriedly, you know I can’t do anything to him within these wards. Tell him I want to talk to you both urgently.

Do I look like an owl? Tell him yourself.

I am not touching a muggle telephone!

The page is blank again.

You cannot ignore me, Tom Riddle.

I have told you. My name is Thomas Gaunt.

Our name is Lord Voldemort. We are the same person. You cannot avoid me.

Is that a challenge, old man?

Barty has never felt so useless. Even the dementors hadn’t been able to dream up a circumstance as devastating and painful as this one. He’d never, ever, expected to see his Lord permanently lose his magic. Much less see him cry. That, more than anything else, is what terrifies him. Barty cries too, the minute his master has left the room. He feels like a complete failure.

His shame only increases when he realises he’s forgotten his orders. He holds it together long enough to deliver the envelope to Malfoy, then reluctantly heads back to the bedroom upstairs. He wants to go find his master, to offer comfort, to help him research, help him come up with a plan, a cure, anything… But he is almost completely certain that his presence wouldn’t be welcome. Almost. There’s a small, treacherous part of him that worries for his master’s stability and even his safety if he’s left alone in this moment. But even if there is some tiny probability that his master would permit his presence, Barty shouldn't go to him without being summoned.

Barty paces up and down the bedroom, turning over their previous conversation in his mind, trying desperately to recall anything he’s read of that might be of some use.

Lucius isn't surprised that his Lord won't speak to him. In a way, it's a relief to have his orders in writing so he can refer to them as he goes. Apparently his duties now lie in the domestic realm. Of course he's not permitted his wand, not that he knows many domestic spells anyway.

Lucius heads back to the kitchen – apparently there’s a book there on muggle housekeeping. And he has a lot to learn.

As he’s searching for said book, he opens what he thinks is a tall cupboard, only to find a set of stairs descending into the dark. An unfamiliar voice drifts up said stairs, though he cannot make out what the person is saying.

He’d heard the Dark Lord go upstairs earlier, and when Crouch had delivered the envelope, he’d hurried back upstairs too. Though not before giving him a murderous scowl – no doubt he wants to see their Lord punish Lucius properly for his cowardice. Lucius almost finds himself wanting the same thing.

Or he would, if he weren’t such a coward.

Lucius forces his thoughts back to the issue at hand. The voice doesn’t sound at all like the Dark Lord or Crouch. Why hasn’t this person used any kind of silencing or privacy charms? This has got to be a test, he concludes. Neither the Dark Lord nor any of his Death Eaters are ever so careless – if he wasn’t supposed to have discovered this, he wouldn’t have. But, if this is a test... how does he pass?

When he decides he's stared at the blank page of his journal for long enough, Lord Voldemort goes to the telephone and yanks it from its stand. It’s not a modern one – rather an earlier, old fashioned one. More like those that were common in Tom Riddle’s day, with a separate earpiece and a circular dial at the base of the stand, with a mouthpiece at the top.

Voldemort bashes the lever on the side seven times, then jabs his finger into the dial, round to the number seven. It makes an irritating whirring noise as it rotates back to its original position so he can do it all over again. He dials the number seven again, and waits again for the dial to return. And again, and again. Seven times in total, each time more infuriating than the last. He holds the earpiece up to his ear. The dial tone rings only twice before the phone is answered, but Voldemort does not give them chance to speak.

“What have you done to my horcrux?” he growls into mouthpiece, “And more to the point, what have you done to me?”