@rosekillermicrofic | Prompt - Unknown | TW: Gore, mention of death | WC - 404
The itch never left. It faded but Barty knew not. The snake around the skull craved more or maybe he did.
An enormous scratch of the stone, against stone, and there she was, quivering yet bold, Mrs Crouch. Her silhouette nearly pale against the darkness of Azkaban. Her hands held together, tightly, close to her chest.
Barty could already feel the warmth, maybe it was because the dementors were far away, or maybe it was just his mother presence. The last living impression of his existence - apart from his father, who he didn't dare look up to. He too was standing somewhere at the back, Barty knew.
"Bartemius-", the cold voice of his father. His mother walked forward.
"We will take you out, son." The sweetness inside her said.
The father figure moved forward, his face almost white in the moonlight. His footsteps echoing against his heartbeat. Then the movement was sharp and before Barty could defend, his father had already gripped him by the neck forcing him against the wall. "YOU HAVE BEEN A DISGRACE." Then he hissed, " If it wasn't your mother, you would have been dead to us."
Then he punched. Again. And again. AND AGAIN.
Till Barty could smell his mother's hair, implying her guard, her protection against her husband, something so prevalent, as always.
Barty could not stand anymore, his weight tossed him on the ground, but before he closed his eyes, before he felt the coldness of the dementors, he did what he felt like doing. Maybe his father wasn't the right person, but he surely stood nearly perfect at this moment.
Barty returned the pain, blow by blow, wetting his hands with blood. His mother pulling him apart.
"YOU HAVE GONE MAD." Barty Crouch Senior screamed.
"Definitely Sir", Barty hissed.
Then the sharp coldness hit. Yet it felt better. Atleast even in the abyss, he could see his memories. No matter what he saw, almost all of them had the blood spattered, mudded, yet assuring face of Evan. The smile he had before his death. The unknown sense of moral, the defeating preservation of hope. All gone. But Barty could still see him. In a way, he found the cure of his loneliness, beating him up with the dementors presence, rejoicing the self abusement through his memories.
He could do everything. Everything for one. And he could leave everything for that one.
this is mind boggling levels of insane. if you've never done needlefelting you can't quite comprehend how fucking difficult it is to not only make things so precise at such a small scale but like, not get the fibers tangled into literally everything else they interact with. and then ANIMATING it??? bro this is witchcraft
@rosekillermicrofic | Prompt- Sea, Cold.| Word count: 482.
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A distant, echoing cry lingered in the salty sea breeze. A shadow whipped across the full-moon, inviting icicles into his skin. The loose skin at the back of Barty's shoulder prickled.
He smelled of rotten flesh as if they were of his own. He lowered down, closer to the leaking moonlight, hoping that it was a patronous. Swoosh, and there he saw the shallow of their hood. Something forced him from within to press his palm against his ears. Suck the sensation out of them.
The first wave of coldness clashed with his sweat, the next followed a shudder. They were many; the dementors.
"Please", he whispered.
A clamped thunder seized him back, choking out air. Barty saw a body on the floor. There was blood all around. And it smelled badly. Barty hated that smell. Then someone lifted the body to the side, he has seen the face somewhere. Someone who reminded him of power. But what was more familiar was the face of the dead.
Something inside him was so desperate to name it. A force binding his hand back but a desire to pull the body closer to himself throwing away the man who picked it up. It was like his favourite toy broomstick that no had the right to touch. But Barty barely knew whose dead it was.
Hands gripped him from behind. Nails digging into his ribs. There was a green flash, Barty saw it all. Someone stomping on his broomstick, someone using the killing curse on the dead. Someone shouted, someone laughed. Barty screamed. He has never felt so much pain. He was binded. Then there was a shriek of a woman, an air splitting cry, followed by another flash. Yet, he didn't know whose dead it was.
Curiosity was cutting his own flesh. The scratching sound of stone against stone. The unsettling bloodshot eyes of the dead looking into Barty, searching for help. And the stoned smirk on the face. Barty wished that the eyes could blink again. He couldn't see them anymore. The smirk had to be stopped, they had to reminded of fate.
Someone pulled back Barty as he tried to crawl to the lifeless body, to shut their eyes. It was so important to shut them that Barty couldn't leave with them looking into him. And Barty heard the last scream, this time the voice was painfully audible, arising from his heart, pushing out his chest. It was his own voice.
"EVAN!", Barty ordered the air. His pitch kissed the dead. But yet, Barty doubted the name.
Suddenly, Barty thought that he smelled of rose-water. Peculiar, isn't?
"Evan! Shut your eyes, you scare me", he said playfully, before fainting.
The dementors traced away, leaving scared moonlight on Barty's pale face.
Bellatrix crossed her arms around Barty's heart, that was -somehow- still alive.
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