The Mad Prince of the Ruined Tower
Title: The Mad Prince of the Ruined Tower
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Barty Crouch, Sr. (with his son)
Rating: PG
Other: Written for the November 6th challenge (the night of a prince’s reign) for 30_hath. Sort of written as a go-along with this one. This also makes use of Eliot's The Waste Land.
Bartemius Crouch knows what is to come. He has suspected it, secretly, for years, has heard cold unspoken whisper-threats filter through his own home year after year.
He does not want to believe it, but he knows what is to come.
Somehow he has regained consciousness, fighting off the demon ensnarement of his mind. For several moments he thinks that he is mad, that he must be mad. This cannot be his son. Certainly, it doesn’t appear to be his son. It simply cannot be his son. Why should his son be here?
But it is. Oh, it is.
Crouch has always known that there was something wrong with the boy. While the boy’s natural reserve had been useful-a family kept in the background was best for a career-his tendencies to experiment in the dark arts had been almost alarming. Rather, they would have been, had Crouch paid more attention to the boy’s activities. He recalled only one particular instance of trouble, during which the boy had been caught pilfering ingredients for some distasteful potion or other. There had been other incidents, as well. Crouch cannot recall them, realizes that he failed to keep track of the boy.
No. He does not realize just now; he knew that before. He had realized it with the discovery, the scandal. Those were thoughts that he kept away, though, shoved into the back of his mind with so many others. (Fragments and broken images of history… The hideous deeds of the boy, the curses, the sobs and death of his wife, cries against supposed injustice, the boy invisible, the denunciations, the positions snatched away from him when he had been so very close to success, the arrival of a frightful man and the restraint that came…)
Now Crouch wishes that he were not conscious, that he were raving once more. Perhaps he truly is raving? But no, no, he knows that this is real, feels the harshness of its truth as he watches his son advance. It is over for him. It will be his son who finishes this, and now he wishes that he might rave again, but he cannot.
For a brief minute, absurdly, he sees something in the false body’s expression, sees something of his son showing through very obviously. The boy means murder. The boy means to take control entirely, to finish what he had begun months ago. If Crouch had harbored any hope (thought truly, he had held no true hope since the power began to break away), it would have collapsed at the sight of that expression. The boy is mad, more so than ever before.
This is nothing of a relief. Crouch can only accept it, because even as he realizes it, he feels himself slipping again, feels his consciousness threatening to slip away again. He must accept it. Because, he sees, he knows, he sentenced himself to this, brought it upon himself even before he had sent his son away.
Yet he can almost be grateful that his son has at least made something of himself, found something to work for. When he had bothered to think on the boy, Crouch had worried that he might be an utter failure, and that others might notice this. The boy has gone wrong, yes, but he has accomplished something. Watching him, Crouch feels certain that anything this terrifying, this brilliant, has to be a success of some sort. (And, dear Merlin, Crouch wonders if perhaps he is mad, as well. Perhaps madness is hereditary, then. And does it matter now?) In his power, his certainty, his perfect deceit, the boy suddenly seems a prince. And, indeed, the prince is ready to usurp the throne.
It seems a foolish notion, indeed. What is there for the boy to rule over? A smattering of doctrine, a heap of ruins dragged forward from the old war. There is nothing worthwhile.
The boy’s expression says differently. (And Crouch will never know either way. Will never know the full extent of his mad son’s masquerade. Will never know how the Dark Lord rises again, thanks to his son and namesake. Will never know how the ones he fought to jail will be freed. Will not know how very soon his own son will meet the ultimate cold of the dementor’s kiss.) More than anything, the expression speaks of triumph and, indeed, the boy has one. The end is coming, and Crouch can do naught but be carried away. Such is justice, after all.
And the madness strikes an end.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Barty Crouch, Sr. (with his son)
Rating: PG
Other: Written for the November 6th challenge (the night of a prince’s reign) for 30_hath. Sort of written as a go-along with this one. This also makes use of Eliot's The Waste Land.
Bartemius Crouch knows what is to come. He has suspected it, secretly, for years, has heard cold unspoken whisper-threats filter through his own home year after year.
He does not want to believe it, but he knows what is to come.
Somehow he has regained consciousness, fighting off the demon ensnarement of his mind. For several moments he thinks that he is mad, that he must be mad. This cannot be his son. Certainly, it doesn’t appear to be his son. It simply cannot be his son. Why should his son be here?
But it is. Oh, it is.
Crouch has always known that there was something wrong with the boy. While the boy’s natural reserve had been useful-a family kept in the background was best for a career-his tendencies to experiment in the dark arts had been almost alarming. Rather, they would have been, had Crouch paid more attention to the boy’s activities. He recalled only one particular instance of trouble, during which the boy had been caught pilfering ingredients for some distasteful potion or other. There had been other incidents, as well. Crouch cannot recall them, realizes that he failed to keep track of the boy.
No. He does not realize just now; he knew that before. He had realized it with the discovery, the scandal. Those were thoughts that he kept away, though, shoved into the back of his mind with so many others. (Fragments and broken images of history… The hideous deeds of the boy, the curses, the sobs and death of his wife, cries against supposed injustice, the boy invisible, the denunciations, the positions snatched away from him when he had been so very close to success, the arrival of a frightful man and the restraint that came…)
Now Crouch wishes that he were not conscious, that he were raving once more. Perhaps he truly is raving? But no, no, he knows that this is real, feels the harshness of its truth as he watches his son advance. It is over for him. It will be his son who finishes this, and now he wishes that he might rave again, but he cannot.
For a brief minute, absurdly, he sees something in the false body’s expression, sees something of his son showing through very obviously. The boy means murder. The boy means to take control entirely, to finish what he had begun months ago. If Crouch had harbored any hope (thought truly, he had held no true hope since the power began to break away), it would have collapsed at the sight of that expression. The boy is mad, more so than ever before.
This is nothing of a relief. Crouch can only accept it, because even as he realizes it, he feels himself slipping again, feels his consciousness threatening to slip away again. He must accept it. Because, he sees, he knows, he sentenced himself to this, brought it upon himself even before he had sent his son away.
Yet he can almost be grateful that his son has at least made something of himself, found something to work for. When he had bothered to think on the boy, Crouch had worried that he might be an utter failure, and that others might notice this. The boy has gone wrong, yes, but he has accomplished something. Watching him, Crouch feels certain that anything this terrifying, this brilliant, has to be a success of some sort. (And, dear Merlin, Crouch wonders if perhaps he is mad, as well. Perhaps madness is hereditary, then. And does it matter now?) In his power, his certainty, his perfect deceit, the boy suddenly seems a prince. And, indeed, the prince is ready to usurp the throne.
It seems a foolish notion, indeed. What is there for the boy to rule over? A smattering of doctrine, a heap of ruins dragged forward from the old war. There is nothing worthwhile.
The boy’s expression says differently. (And Crouch will never know either way. Will never know the full extent of his mad son’s masquerade. Will never know how the Dark Lord rises again, thanks to his son and namesake. Will never know how the ones he fought to jail will be freed. Will not know how very soon his own son will meet the ultimate cold of the dementor’s kiss.) More than anything, the expression speaks of triumph and, indeed, the boy has one. The end is coming, and Crouch can do naught but be carried away. Such is justice, after all.
And the madness strikes an end.