Who: Barty Crouch and Tom Riddle When: Early Friday morning Where: Tom's residence What: Loyalty Rating: Barty's a creep and Tom's a bit evil, so who knows Status: Incomplete
His head spun. His senses reeled, jittered, turned turbulently in upon themselves. They tangled in the flutter of his pulse, which he could feel so utterly, so entirely, so wholly pervasively through his neck.
Had he been wrong to wait? The muscles in Barty's neck seized, wrenching his head to side as he walked along the deserted street. For Barty it was a matter of respect to wait. Who was he, to attempt to compel a reaction from his Lord. Surely his Lord could sense him, would know him, across the reaches of time and space sure he would somehow perceive--
It took Barty a moment to realise his feet had halted, that he was staring up at the sky gasping for breath. He'd fix things. How could He not? The Dark Lord would fix Bellatrix. Would demand... something- anything worthwhile. Something-anything-please, Something, to remove the tremors that lingered. The chill that crept into his mind. It had become a wholly new fixation, the urge to drown out the cold with something hot and pulsing.
Barty wasn't consciously aware of knocking on the door. Looking at the door, he'd have wondered if he was at the wrong house if he weren't so completely confident in the ability of his feet to the do their job.