The beginning of Barty's chapter...
The first time Lord Voldemort said Barty’s name, he almost missed it. Not because he wasn’t listening, but because he had spent his entire life teaching himself not to expect it. The name wasn’t even his own, after all, but a hand me down from his father.
Tem. Evan had called him, but to everyone else he was Barty.
The meeting room beneath the manor was cold with stone walls that should have been choked with candle smoke. Not that Abraxes Malfoy would have allowed such a thing. Bellatrix had been laughing too loudly at something Avery had said, cutting through the soft murmurings of the room.
He stood by the wall, slightly behind everyone else, hands clasped behind his back. At his side, the littlest Black was shaking, his first ever meeting, and Barty almost told him to get a grip.
His head snapped up instantly and found red eyes settling on him. The Dark Lord tilted his almost waxen face as his gaze settled on him, not through him like he had done to so many of the others.
There had been something different about Lord Voldemort from every other wizard. Not wrong, exactly, but it wasn’t something he could put his finger on.
The scent of blood followed him everywhere.
He stood amongst his most devoted, the oldest of his Knights who parted like a solemn sea at his command.
Every nerve in Barty’s body lit up like a struck match, and he obeyed so quickly that he almost tripped. Someone snorted softly and he realised with annoyance that it had been Little Black.
He ignored him, just as Voldemort ignored everyone else’s murmurings in the room.
“I believe you were the one to solve the problem with the wards?” The Dark Lord asked him as he bowed low, head almost touching the floor.
Barty swallowed, nodding his head of soft straw coloured hair; his mothers hair.
“Yes, my Lord.” He answered.
Barty blinked but straightened, aware of the lingering gaze of the other Death Eaters upon him. Lord Voldemort’s attention, however, was solely upon him.
“How did you solve them?”
The way his father used to ask him questions, it was always in a way designed to expose his failures. If he had done well on a test, another colleague's child had always done better. There was no one to prove himself to because his father had deemed him unworthy of that praise.
But Lord Voldemort sounded almost curious. He appeared interested.
“Well my Lord…” Barty started, voice steadying and then gaining vigour as he spoke of ancient runic anchors and rotational arithmetic. The Dark Lord nodded along, brow furrowed in a way that let Barty know he was listening to every word.
Around them, the room had fallen silent and when he finished his explanation he licked over his dry lips; a nervous tick from childhood. Father couldn’t scold it out of him.
“Excellent. I expect your notes are quite extensive. Share them with me.”
Barty almost stopped breathing and instead nodded wildly.
“Yes, my Lord. I mean–” He blinked, “thank you my Lord.” Because no one had really gone out of their way to praise him in such a way. As if they really meant it. His father praised outcomes, of course, but never him directly.
Praise from Bartemius Crouch Sr felt like signing a satisfactory Ministry report. Praise from Lord Voldemort, however, had him swallowing down butterflies in his stomach.
The Dark Lord’s fingers brushed briefly beneath Barty’s chin, lifting his face to turn it this way and that.
Those butterflies suddenly felt like explosions.
“So clever,” Voldemort murmured softly. I would do anything for you. The thought came so fast that it made him feel dizzy with anticipation.
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