InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "No carbs after seven."

barty crouch (blithelybaleful) wrote in lockewood,
@ 2011-02-07 16:39:00

Entry tags:

barty crouch, regulus black, victoire weasley

Who: Barty, Regulus, and Victoire
When: Monday evening, later
Where: The apothecary, mostly
What: Sneaking, breaking, entering, and a hearty dose of deception
Rating: BVC (Barty's a violent creep)
Status: Complete

And Regulus had been so disappointingly well-behaved lately. Following Regulus was just habit. It had been necessity before, before the cave, before the lake. After that, Barty had quite safely known where Regulus was all the time. But before that, when it had just been breadcrumbs and bait, Regulus had required quite the bit of tending. Besides, Regulus was just the sort of person who needed to be minded or he'd get himself into the wrong sort of trouble. But the right sort of trouble-- that was something of Barty's specialty. And even more especially when it came to Regulus.

Barty might have overlooked it, but Regulus really shouldn't have gone off and had dinner with Andromeda. Barty really expected more from Regulus. Or maybe it was exactly what he expected from Regulus, who to so loved to torture himself. If only he had the stomach for it, Barty supposed Regulus would have cut himself into bits, carving out this portion for his parents and that portion for his deserter brother and that portion for his cousin. Bloody little chunks of himself, all trussed up with a bow. Regulus just needed a little help, sometimes, remembering that he wasn't whole.

As someone prone to following, he knew well enough when he was being followed, being watched. It was a game he'd played with Aurors long before he'd been whisked to Lockewood. He didn't need to know who they were or where they were. But it made things simple enough to have Kirley deliver himself, to let himself get tied up and incapacitated. He was strapped down to Barty's bed, concealed in Barty's bedroom with a harsh set of wards to keep away prying eyes. A convenient alibi. And one all too eager and consenting and, for the moment, unconscious. He'd have no memory of Barty downing the potion that had his eyes mimicking those of a cat. He didn't see the way Barty squinted against the suddenly too-bright light. He didn't see Barty vanish under a disillusionment charm.

Neither Kirley nor whoever was left watching Barty's house would know that he slipped out, into the evening, to head for the apothecary. Regulus's schedule really was a little predictable sometimes. And why on earth Regulus would want a little more wolfsbane in Lockewood, Barty could barely comprehend. Maybe a little, he supposed, but where was the fun in that? For a few long minutes, he just watched the hustle and bustle of the two of them, Regulus and Victoire, working. It was so tediously boring it actually hurt.

And then, it happened quickly enough, plunging the apothecary into darkness. Regulus had to be put down first; of the two of them, he was the one capable of really fighting back. But Barty had spent a long time watching Regulus, knew how to come at him, knew which side he favoured maybe just a little-- and all it took was a particularly nasty stunning spell and Barty heard him, felt him, hit the ground. Before the clatter of whatever Regulus had knocked over with him went quiet, Barty was at Victoire's back, clamping over her mouth the damp cloth from his pocket.

He really did enjoy chloroform.

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silvercauldron
2011-02-09 02:17 am UTC (link)

It had been a routine day; nothing to separate it from any other, nothing to indicate that it would be any different than yesterday, or the day before, or the week before. She and Regulus had quite simply been working on Remus Lupin's Wolfsbane potion when the lights had suddenly gone out and Victoire had stilled, the better to hear what was going on and to draw less attention to herself, should there be anything in the darkness. There was very little light coming in from outside, and the small fire flickering beneath her cauldron did very little to illuminate the room. She only saw a shadow moving where Regulus had been, almost at the same time as she heard something heavy fall to the floor in a muffled thud that made goosebumps rise in instinctive fear.

She had her mouth open to call to Regulus, to ask him if he was there, if he was all right, when a cloth was pressed to her mouth. She screamed and jerked, a failed attempt at forcing the shape at her back to release her, before the world began to tilt, the flickering flames of the fire rising in her field of vision as she fell back against her attacker.

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blithelybaleful
2011-02-09 05:53 am UTC (link)

Barty gave a heavy breath of satisfaction over the familiar tune of struggle-flail-limp. What fragile little things humans were. Just a simple little step and down they went. And Barty dropped down with her, easing her onto the floor.

For a moment, he considered extinguishing that small flame, but it wasn't at all irritating to his potion-enhanced vision. So he slipped away from her, on his hands and knees, over to where Regulus lay. He left the crumpled cloth across Victoire's mouth, even if it didn't entirely obstruct her mouth. His hands skimmed familiar along Regulus's arms and chest, and it only took a little rifling to find Regulus's wand.

Couldn't use his own for this sort of thing, not if he wanted the right sort of proof left behind. There were Aurors in Lockewood, people who would know how to question, how to look and pry and pull apart the details.

Barty crouched next to Victoire. How frail these little things were. How kitten-weak they became with the proper introduction to the right sort of chemicals. He didn't want her unconscious. He wanted her hapless limbs to resist a bit as he did this.

"Do you know this one?" he wondered aloud, his voice turning almost melodic. "Not enough people do in your day, I fear. How very lucky and rare that makes you." He trailed the tip of Regulus's wand to the center of her chest. "Cru-ci-o."

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silvercauldron
2011-02-11 05:13 am UTC (link)

Her eyelids were heavy, as were her every limb, her head. It fell to the side as she listened to someone... someone... scrambling. Something was on her face, but it would take far too much effort to move it back into position or to move it off with her hand. The fire from the cauldron wasn't directly visible to her on the floor, but it cast the cauldron's shadow on the ceiling and made everything flicker orange and black.

The person had returned, hiding the cauldron, but outlined in orange flickers. She couldn't see his face, but her eyelids were so heavy that Victoire knew that it was pointless to try. The cloth still covered her mouth and part of one eye, now, as she struggled to bring her head back up as though to see what was going to happen.

The way the man spoke was strange, and his words made her worry. Victoire didn't know what he planned to cast, but before the second syllable had even been spoken, her eyes widened in fear. It was quickly interrupted by the most atrocious pain she had ever experienced, every nerve aflame, every muscle twisting in ways they had never been meant to do and every bone in her body seemingly intent on escaping through her skin. Victoire screamed through the cloth, and though the loss of consciousness would spare her the pain, it was something she was not permitted. Victoire's screams pierced the air as her body contorted in an effort to escape the searing, all-encompassing pain, in vain.

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blithelybaleful
2011-02-13 10:34 pm UTC (link)

It was something of an afterthought, really, the silencing charms he placed around him. Oh, he could still hear her, of course - the sharp, shrill sound of her pain and her fear shredding through the air.

Victoire. What a silly name. What hubris, what arrogance, to think that anything in the world could be made or fashioned or created that could move, untouched, through the mire. She was incidental, of course. A mere convenience to Regulus's schedule. A helpfully public-but-private location. All wrapped up with the necessary absence of prying eyes.

It would have been nice if Regulus were prone to such things on his own. Not that Barty minded, really, as he pressed his wand to Victoire's cheekbone, watching with a quiet fascination as a bruise blossomed. The observation inspired a familiar sensation. The clawing, gnawing, restless thing that skittered under his skin-- it began to leech from the back of his brain, courting a sated sort of stillness. Or rather, the promise of it. Oh, and Barty knew better than to trust that.

Even if he did move his wand to her arm next. He pulled the cloth off her mouth a little. Not enough to let her regain much control of herself, but he really didn't want her to miss this. The tip of his wand sliced slowly down her upper arm. Nothing too terribly deep, nothing to hit bone, just enough to well a nice thick line of blood that looked almost black to Barty's altered vision. Or perhaps that was the dim light. But it was so very soothing, those drippy red drops down her skin. As if everything volatile and vicious lived in the blood, and Barty could adjust his own humours by balancing someone else's.

It really would have been nice, to watch Regulus do these sorts of things. But Barty didn't begrudge him the need for assistance. After all, Regulus helped him. Barty could mimic quite the spectrum of human emotion, and Regulus was such a useful template. Or, had been. Wasn't much point in Lockewood. But when he'd needed it. When he'd had to be Barty Crouch in public, Regulus had been a study in outward emotional reservation. That Barty was at all inclined to reciprocate meant, he supposed, that he and Regulus actually were friends.

Or maybe they were just symbiotic.

Except for the part where Regulus died.

It sort of off-set his little metaphor.

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silvercauldron
2011-02-18 06:46 am UTC (link)

Though the Curse was lifted and the pain greatly diminished, Victoire still rocked on the ground. It hurt to breathe and not to breathe, to move and to stay still, to cry and to hold it in, and in the end, Victoire wasn't able to help herself. Great heaving sobs sounding rough escaped her as she closed her eyes to the scene above her, done all in shadows across the dark orange ceiling.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked thickly through the tears, crying harder and screaming again as she felt part of her face swell up after some great impact from the inside as veins exploded beneath her skin. Her screams once again rose, became shrill and panicked as he cut into her arm, her head thrown back in another vain attempt to escape the pain.

"Sto-o-op," Victoire managed through her sobs. "Please. PLEASE STOP!"

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blithelybaleful
2011-02-25 12:53 am UTC (link)

No one ever asked interesting questions.

Well.

Sometimes Aurors did, around the times their synapses started snapping. But they were nearly there yet, he and Victoire. And they weren't going to get there. Not tonight.

The shrill pluck of her voice, that jarring staccato, the harsh whine in it-- it did nothing for him. His own blood gave him that. He wanted a low, sweeping vibrato. He wanted rich and deep and full sounds that filled him up. This, these little noises, he heard them all in his head, and none in his stomach. How very disappointing.

Still, he had to laugh, just a little. Because at least it was something. And he knew better than to get too carried away-- than to let himself get too carried away. The point of no return was a good ways off, but no need to start improvising. This wasn't, after all, just for fun. He paused for a moment, calling more clearly to mind that curse Regulus was really quite good at. With a wider smile, he cast the vicious little thing at her side, nice enough to leave a pretty little scar for her to carry around.

The scar, she could have, but not a single piece of Barty. He drew his own wand and pressed its tip to her temple. Lips falling open, he relaxed his hold on his own mind, falling more than stepping into hers. It was so easy like this, when they were drugged and broken. The terrain was murky, but Barty had practice. Never knew what there was to find in someone else's head. It was a fact that inclined Barty to a fair amount of experimentation. Chloroform was familiar.

Just a little tweaking. He left her the sudden onset of darkness, and over his face, he painted Regulus's. He tore at snatches of it, erased little chunks from her memory. He shredded it completely, any recollection of a cloth at her mouth. Just Regulus, then darkness, then pain. It was better when it was choppy. It would make the nightmares worse. People were really remarkably creative when they were forced into it, and the holes he left in the altered memory of Regulus attacking her, he hoped would provide her the opportunity to suppose a few truly ghastly things. How the brain did love to try to heal itself. How clever he was, to take such a tool in hand.

And that was all. It was all she would remember. It would all be excuseable, expected even-- trauma did nasty things to the memory, to the mind. He could have used a spell, perhaps, but it was so much more pleasant, sending her off into unconsciousness by bashing her head against the floor.

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blithelybaleful
2011-03-05 08:56 am UTC (link)

And then it was just Regulus.

The wand was left close enough to his hand, close enough to look like it had been dropped. As it lay on the floor, Barty stripped it of evidence that he'd even so much as touched it.

And Regulus's mind-- a familiar playground. He'd poked little holes in it before. Poked a few holes and filled in a few blanks. Regulus's memory, conveniently, already had a few gaps. Most of which were of his own construction. Alcohol or drugs or magic-- or the Dark Lord's delicate torture, of course. But that wasn't Barty's doing. And all he did now was soak Regulus's memory in darkness. He stretched the moment he'd killed the lights into unconsciousness. Regulus wouldn't remember any of it. Not what happened next, not how he got onto the floor, not any of what had happened to Victoire.

Just one more gap Regulus couldn't explain.

Barty's hand found the side of Regulus's face. It was easy, like this, to imagine him dead. His skin pale and fading-- thinning, waning, going sheer under the press of the cave's dark water and so many other dead. Perhaps Regulus's skin was a little too ward, but Barty found measure to be amused that Regulus was still alive. And he'd live through this, too. Not without a scar or two, perhaps, but at least Barty was clever enough to keep his scars from view.

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