Without Choice
Title: Without Choice
Fandom: Harry Potter
Character: Barty Crouch, Sr.
Rating: G
Other: Written for the October 6th contest (Justice denied) in 30_hath.
There had never been a choice.
He understands this even as he knows that he is ruined, that all of his work, his dedication has been forfeited. This he sees in their eyes, hears in the way that they address him. Respect has been replaced with disgust, condescension, and (at times) with pity. The pity is by far the worst. Never before would they have dared this, but they can sense his failure. Many of them had seen his failure.
And, oh, he had been angry. Had raged at the boy, at himself, at the world. But what was there to do? Rage harder, only, and even that failed. Yes, he knows that it has failed. Just when the end had finally been in sight, failure hit and left no choice, no choice at all.
He knows this as she looks at him, eyes watering. He feels the burn himself but cannot cry, no; it is not the thing to do. She pleads, she begs, she even grovels, and he is afraid. Never has she been like this, eyes glistening so. Over the years, he has resisted much, has turned down many attempts at routing his influence. He cannot resist this.
He knows as he enters the prison, as he leads the dying woman to her cold chamber. As he sees the young man take the shape of his mother (and oh, that portends badly, to be so close to a mother), as they exit, pretending that this is well, he realizes that he will never see the woman again. She will die in the coldness, and she will die for what she has freed. She has been lost.
Later, he sees the futility in the boy’s face. Each glimpse of the face is a reminder, and he is glad of the cloak that will hide those eyes. He does not think on this if he can help himself. Often, he cannot help himself. The boy is around at all times, bound to remain forever.
Late at night he thinks on this, eyes clenched shut so that he cannot see the threat of trailing shadows on the ceiling. So much has been lost. The dream, the supremacy is gone. The woman is gone, the bed painfully empty. The safety is gone. In its place there is a young man, the very deranged young man around whom whole of this revolved. Sometimes he thinks that he can hear the boy raging inside, wailing to be freed.
(He can be controlled.
He cannot.)
And where is justice, now?
Fandom: Harry Potter
Character: Barty Crouch, Sr.
Rating: G
Other: Written for the October 6th contest (Justice denied) in 30_hath.
There had never been a choice.
He understands this even as he knows that he is ruined, that all of his work, his dedication has been forfeited. This he sees in their eyes, hears in the way that they address him. Respect has been replaced with disgust, condescension, and (at times) with pity. The pity is by far the worst. Never before would they have dared this, but they can sense his failure. Many of them had seen his failure.
And, oh, he had been angry. Had raged at the boy, at himself, at the world. But what was there to do? Rage harder, only, and even that failed. Yes, he knows that it has failed. Just when the end had finally been in sight, failure hit and left no choice, no choice at all.
He knows this as she looks at him, eyes watering. He feels the burn himself but cannot cry, no; it is not the thing to do. She pleads, she begs, she even grovels, and he is afraid. Never has she been like this, eyes glistening so. Over the years, he has resisted much, has turned down many attempts at routing his influence. He cannot resist this.
He knows as he enters the prison, as he leads the dying woman to her cold chamber. As he sees the young man take the shape of his mother (and oh, that portends badly, to be so close to a mother), as they exit, pretending that this is well, he realizes that he will never see the woman again. She will die in the coldness, and she will die for what she has freed. She has been lost.
Later, he sees the futility in the boy’s face. Each glimpse of the face is a reminder, and he is glad of the cloak that will hide those eyes. He does not think on this if he can help himself. Often, he cannot help himself. The boy is around at all times, bound to remain forever.
Late at night he thinks on this, eyes clenched shut so that he cannot see the threat of trailing shadows on the ceiling. So much has been lost. The dream, the supremacy is gone. The woman is gone, the bed painfully empty. The safety is gone. In its place there is a young man, the very deranged young man around whom whole of this revolved. Sometimes he thinks that he can hear the boy raging inside, wailing to be freed.
(He can be controlled.
He cannot.)
And where is justice, now?