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Barty Crouch would never consider himself to be a proud man. Self-assured, perhaps, and he supposed he was as self-aware as any man in his position could be. That said, he found it difficult to swallow his deep satisfaction at seeing the halls of his lord’s ancestral home brightened by witchlight once more. Gaunt Manor was an ancient, twisting castle that had been abandoned for at least two centuries before his lord had reclaimed it, and then lost again for more than a decade until last June.
Barty smirked. Maybe a little pride was deserved.
The blonde man made his way down the twisty corridors of the manor, following the narrow, snakelike bends with purpose. The ancient walls were carved with scenes that told the story of the earliest Gaunts, and of the Slytherins before that line ended. Portraits and tapestries hissed here, and though he could not understand the words, he felt the welcome.
The Lord’s study was nestled in the centre of the maze of thin halls, and as he approached, the immaculately carved doors swung open. The Dark Lord was seated on a green armchair by the fire, legs crossed and red eyes focused intensely on the heavy book in his lap. Nagini curled protectively around his shoulders. Voldemort didn’t aknowledge Barty’s presence, which he took as permission to enter.
He stepped in quietly, head bowed. No matter how much the Dark Lord played the role of father figure in his life, Barty would always be glad to show a degree of servitude. Unlike many of the Death Eaters, he held little sense of fear towards Voldemort (although after a year in Azkaban and ten under the Imperius, he supposed that he held little fear towards anything these days), but he had always shown utmost respect for the wizard seated in front of him.
“You called for me, my Lord?”
The Dark Lord made a gesture for him to sit, waving towards the second armchair opposite the fire. Voldemort made no effort to look up from his book, so Barty poured himself a small measure of firewhiskey from the decanter that sat beside one of the lamps.
He had always loved this room. He loved the dark mahogany panelling that raced up the walls and criss-crossed the high ceiling, accentuating the burning hearth at the centre. He loved the delicate, precious items that caught the light of the fire and caused shapes to dance around the room. Most of all though, Barty loved the books. They lined all four walls - ancient tomes, books in languages that had long been forgotten, written by wizards whose magic had long been outlawed. Quickly scanning the spines, he thumbed out the book he had been reading here most recently, and sat, opening the heavy tome to where had last left off.
It was a common occurence, that his lord would call him here and they would pass the time in comfortable silence, only broken by the crackle of the fire. Some might consider it an honour, he supposed, but the ritual of this always felt natural to Barty. He sank comfortably into his armchair, nursing his firewhiskey carefully over a copybook version of an ancient potions text, notes and additions elegantly scrawled in his lord’s hand.
After perhaps half of an hour, Voldemort looked up from his book, although he left it lying open on his lap. Barty took this as his cue to close his, placing it and his now empty glass on the table beside him. He met the Dark Lords violently crimson eyes, an unsettling experience for most, but one that held some strange sense of comfort for Barty.
“Hadrian Black.”
Barty tilted his head, “Yes, my Lord.”
“I take it that the Heir...,” he trailed off with a meaningful look, “Black is progressing in his studies?”
The blonde nodded subtly, catching the undertext. “He is, my Lord.”
“And as for his character... What of that? I confess that while Calvis and Lucius are amongst my most loyal, it seems their children have not let much slip about the Boy-Who-Lived’s twin.”
A sneer twisted Barty’s lips at the mention of Jules Potter. “If I may speak plainly, my Lord...”
At Voldemort’s nodded assent, he continued. “I think that perhaps... If I wasn’t who I am, I’d be scared of him. Or of his potential, I should say.”
His lord arched an eyebrow, placing a marker between the pages of his book and closing it. “Do I want to know what you mean by that?”
He looked expectant.
“I suppose, my Lord, that I see the family resemblance,’ Barty said, nodding at the huge snake that lazed casually across Voldemort’s shoulders. “Magically powerful, obviously. Intelligent. Ambitious like the Slytherin he is. But also, both from my observation as Moody, and as myself... he’s got followers. Nott, Parkinson, Greengrass. Malfoy. And... not just them. The Longbottom’s boy, the more intelligent Weasley’s, a few muggleborns. And from what Severus has told me, he’s got the whole of Slytherin House under his influence, and a good chunk of the other three, too.”
The Dark Lord remained impassive. Tilted his head. “Do you think he would follow me?”
“I’m inclined to think that he doesn’t disagree with our cause. I doubt he would become an active threat in the future. But... I’m also inclined to believe that he would never kneel at someone else’s feet.”
The corner of Voldemort’s mouth twitched. He stroked a finger down his familiar’s scales and the familiar hissing of Parsletongue left his mouth. As the Dark Lord ran his fingers over Nagini, the firelight glinted off a heavy, sharply cut ring, scattering light across the room.
“Well... I suppose that he is a Gaunt.”