“Muggle borns are not allowed to be Death Eaters, except in rare circumstances.”
- J.K. Rowling at the Edinburgh book festival on 15th of August 2004.
Kingsley stepped from the empty and - apart from the click clacking noises made by his shoes - silent corridor, into what the words on the door announced to be the Janus Thickey Ward. He was having quite some trouble with closing the door again, owing to the enormous vase that he was carrying with him, which was filled with loads of different coloured and smelling flowers. The vase was way too heavy to carry with less than two hands and it greatly restrained both his vision and his movements.
“Why does this freaking door have to open outwards?” he cursed under his breath. “And why did I not buy a smaller bouquet?”
After a few fruitless attempts he finally managed to twist his elbow between the door and the latch and hunched up like an ape, he was able to edge slowly and clumsily forward until the door was shut. He straightened up and checked, for so far as possible, whether or not too many flowers had been damaged by his awkward manoeuvres. When he’d assured himself that this was not the case he set off, treading carefully up the aisle between the beds, lest he’d trip and fall now that he was so close to his destination.
“But my leg’s still feeling very painful, Miss Healer.” A wheezy voice complained from somewhere in front of him. “You must inform my wife and tell her that I won’t be able to leave the hospital for another month, so she’ll have to manage the housekeeping all by herself for another month.”
Unable to see what was going on in front of him, the beds lining against either wall came into view as Kingsley moved past them.
“Are you sure, Mr Marchbanks?” A motherly voice coming from the same direction doubtfully asked, “Our latest tests clearly show that the effects of the curse have worn off completely. And don’t call me Miss Healer. My name’s Miss Strout, remember?”
Most beds were empty, but as he skipped past the third bed on his right, Kingsley noticed an ancient and rather ugly-looking witch with a hairy lip and a huge wart on her crooked nose, sleeping peacefully with her wry mouth opened, soft snoring sounds escaping from her hairy lips.
“Then your tests must be wrong, Miss Strout,” the man insisted obstinately, “because my arm’s still hurting like hell. I’m staying here.”
The man’s voice now sounded very close by and sure enough when the next bed on his left came in to view, he saw an old small-sized warlock propped up on several pillows, sitting with his face set, staring stubbornly at a witch dressed in lime-green robes.
“You’re confusing me now Mr Marchbanks. Is it your arm or you leg that’s still hurting?” The Healer who was wearing a tinsel wreath in her hair asked, frowning dubiously.
Kingsley stopped to see how the man would talk his way out of this.
“Well, err…” he stammered uncertainly, his face turning a bright shade of crimson, “both actually.”
Yes, now that you mention it. Both of them are hurting me really badly.” He told the Healer with regained confidence.
“We’ll continue this discussion later, Mr Marchbanks.” She spoke sternly. “And your wife will be here tomorrow so you can inform her about your proposal to stay here another month yourself.”
She then abandoned the wizard who was now looking a bit frightened with the prospect of being with his wife again tomorrow and she approached Kingsley with a satisfied smile on her face.
“Can I help you, sir?” She asked kindly, peering past the sea of flowers standing between her and the visitor.
“I’m looking for Mr and Mrs Longbottom.” He replied. “They were moved to this permanent ward only yesterday, or so I was told.”
“The last two beds on the left side for you. They already have a visitor.” The witch pointed out.
“Thank you.” Kingsley said while he walked forward with a bit more pace than before, curious as he was to find out who this other visitor might be.
But when he reached, what he guessed to be the last two beds - he couldn’t make out the back wall with the portable jungle in his hands - he found that flowery curtains had been drawn around those two beds to give the occupants and their visitor some privacy.
He cleared his throat and called politely: “Excuse me.”
“Is that you Kingsley?” A familiar voice greeted anxiously.
The curtains were partially drawn back, revealing Williamson the pony-tailed Auror.
“Jeez, surely we don’t need these curtains anymore. We can easily stand behind your real flowers and nobody will be able to spot us.” He joked as he further opened the curtains so that Kingsley could safely walk through them.
“Let me make some space for them.” He offered helpfully, clearing one of the bedside cabinets. “I think the surface’s just large enough, but I’m more concerned that it’s going to collapse under the weight of your modest gift.”
“Thanks.” Kingsley puffed, taking a purple handkerchief out of his pocket after putting the large vase down and starting to mop the sweat from his shiny, bald head. “I thought it might cheer Alice up a bit, with those green fingers of her.”
Kingsley put away his purple handkerchief and both men turned their attention towards their two friends and colleagues who were laying lethargically, half covered under their bed sheets while still in their nightgowns, their slightly overlarge and baleful eyes wide open. Frank was apparently staring upwards at something only he could see. The occasional blink of his eyes and the quivering of his lips were the only evidence that he was actually alive. Alice on the other hand was constantly moving her restless head from side to side, her eyes evidently trying to focus on the two visitors but neither of them perceived a spark of recognition or any other reaction from within either of those faded eyes.
“I also brought a present with me. Though it’s less heavy and expensive than yours, I might add.” Williamson pointed at a small box filled with Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum lying on the other bedside cabinet without taking his eyes from the sorry sight of Alice’s plump face and her wispy hair. “I thought maybe a familiar face combined with something they knew from work could perhaps trigger some improvement, but as you can see…” His voice trailed off, his head drooping in grim defeat.
“It was worth a try.” Kingsley consoled his colleague, patting him on the shoulders. “I might follow your example next time and take some chewing gum with me. Even though it doesn’t make them better, it would definitely make the journey to this place less tiresome. And maybe the Healers will be able to patch them up if they’re given some time.”
“Surely you don’t believe that?” Williamson replied slightly agitated. “They’ve hardly been here for more than two days and they’ve already transferred them to this permanent ward. It’s not unlikely that they’ll never recover.”
“You mustn’t abandon hope so readily, even though the odds are against them.” Kingsley soothed. “Miracles do occur from time to time, as long as you have faith.”
“Yeah right.” Williamson sneered grimly before turning to leave. “My only comfort is that the people responsible for this will rot away in Azkaban until the end of their miserable days.”
“Are you leaving already?” Kingsley asked while examining the numerous get-well cards that were papered more than three rows thick on the wall, a sign of the Longbottom’s immense popularity amongst the wizarding community.
“My lunch break’s almost over. Duty’s calling.” Williamson hastily explained before Disapparating with a loud cracking noise, without bothering to say goodbye.
Kingsley now moved between both beds. First he stared intently at Alice’s peaky face, especially her eyes, and then he repeated the same procedure with Frank. His stance relaxed, but his eyes remained watchful. Everything seemed to be in order, though he hadn’t really expected any problems this soon. They were still way too weak to even attempt to fight off his curse.
In a few weeks time he’d drop by again to check their condition. It would be foolish to break into their minds now. In fact he was quite sure that he was already at risk by showing up here today, so soon after the incident. He knew Dumbledore and his henchmen were watching his tracks. As if he didn’t know why that old crippled crook of a Mad-Eye had been having a casual chat with him this morning. He’d show them how honest, law-abiding and decent he could be.
And who knew what could happen in due time, when he’d won Albus Dumbledore’s precious trust. Kingsley smiled triumphantly, dreaming of all these golden opportunities, all within his reach.
He glanced indifferently at the two broken people next to him, their fates resting in his hands. He didn’t feel any compassion, pity or remorse. Why should he? They’d known bloody well what they’d risked by joining Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix. The same counted more or less for Barty Crouch Junior, who thought that he could sneak around dangerous Death Eaters and meddle with their affairs without getting caught.
However, he did resent having to modify the little boy’s memory. But then again, as his old man used to say: if you want to make an omelette, you have to be prepared to break some eggs. Likewise he hadn’t always agreed with the Dark Lord’s actions and ideas but he’d respected His decisions, because he was for ever in dept to Him and His cause.
The Dark Lord demanded eternal loyalty and implicit obedience and in return He’d given him the rightful opportunity to see to it that true justice was done over those who deserved it so much, but who would otherwise walk freely and upright as if nothing had ever happened. The Dark Lord had granted him the means to avenge his parents’ brutal death and punish the ones responsible.
The Muggle police with their inefficient methods of solving crimes had been unable to find any conclusive evidence even though they knew they were dealing with an ethnic motive, because his father’s wallet had still been in his pocket and his mother’s body had shown no signs of being raped. Furthermore the guns the murderers used were never found and all members of the Skinhead group - incidentally being the only one in the entire region - got their alibis ready and their backs covered. Kingsley, who at that time had been but a Junior Auror, hadn’t even bothered to ask the Ministry to act as he knew it was part of their policy not to interfere in Muggle affairs whenever possible.
So Kingsley was forced to offer the Dark Lord his services in return for revenge. The Dark Lord had accepted, seeing the potential of this angry and disappointed wizard whose commitment and dedication outweighed his Muggle parentage and whose true nature - even on this day - was unknown to few but the most intimate followers of the Dark Lord.
First he’d killed the group of Skinheads who’d murdered his harmless parents. The van they had all been sitting in had tragically driven of a cliff. But he hadn’t stopped at that. By now he’d killed quite a few of them, those foolish youngsters, those sick racists with their short-sighted minds their bald heads and their disgusting swastikas. He’d beaten the shit out of them; broken their necks; cracked their skulls; or burned them alive, but never had he used his wand, so that none of the murders could be traced back to a wizard.
They believed they were superior compared to others. While as a matter of fact the only thing that really mattered was magical ability and not skin colour, which meant that they themselves were part of an inferior race. Kingsley - like the Dark Lord and his followers - believed that the wizarding race should rule the Muggles. But unlike his Master, he didn’t believe it mattered how pure your blood were, as long as you were able to focus your spells and use magic.
Kingsley suddenly snapped out of his deep reverie. He vaguely wondered what had caused his sudden mental shift back to reality, when he heard a startled voice apologize from behind him: “I’m sorry sir. I thought you were already gone.”
“That’s all right madam.” He replied gracefully, as he turned around towards the voice which he recognized as being the voice of the Healer. “I was about to leave anyway.”
“Well, goodbye then, sir.” She said, while pulling the curtains apart completely. “I’ll look after the flowers. They’re absolutely beautiful.”
“Thank you, and goodbye.” He said before walking towards the exit at the other side of the ward.
He looked at his watch as he moved past the timid warlock who was deeply emerged in his Daily Prophet and realized that he still had half an hour before he had to be back at the busy headquarters. The headquarters where Barty Crouch Senior - having intensified the hunt for more Death Eaters - was acting like a vicious slave-driver. As if he’d be able to make people forget his son’s fate by catching all the other Death Eaters who were still at large.
Remembering the floor guide at the reception desk, he decided to eat something at the tearoom on the fifth floor. When he walked through the door he saw a formidable-looking old witch, wearing a long green dress, a brand new fox fur and a pointed hat decorated with what was unmistakably a stuffed vulture, walking towards him behind a push-chair.
“Can you keep that door open for me?” She asked loudly.
Kingsley stiffened, recognizing the small boy who was squirming inside the push-chair, before saying: “But of course.”
He bowed politely as she manoeuvred the push-chair through the door, accidentally riding over the toes of his left foot. He closed the door after her and set off limping slightly and with an annoyed grimace every time his left foot touched the floor, in search of a sandwich and a cup of tea to fill his empty stomach with.
Meanwhile, hundreds of miles to the north on a rocky island situated way off from the mainland somewhere on the ever chilly North Sea, Barty Crouch Junior’s empty stomach was one of his least pressing problems.
True, he was both hungry and thirsty, but also sick, tired, chilled to the bone, scared, miserable and most of all totally alone in the middle of this cramped, gloomy, pestering cell, deprived from direst afternoon sunlight, fresh sea air and his freedom. Abandoned by hope, forsaken by his family he lay there, shivering uncomfortably on the mercilessly cold floor between dirt and decay, weeping desperately overcome by dread and fear, or otherwise trapped inside his own spinning head, haunted by his worst memories. All because of the sinister effects caused by evil presence of the Dementors that were guarding him.
And then the whispering started.
Soothing voices coming from the surrounding cells, speaking at first words of comfort, calming him down, gaining his trust. And later powerful and persuasive. Blaming his father for everything, cursing the Ministry. Until they had successfully poisoned his mind and corrupted his not so long before stainless and pure soul. The voices found in Barty a ready ear, an easy prey, who had nothing left to loose and who was, driven by the obsessive desire to murder his father and destroy those who shared his father’s beliefs, eager to embrace the Dark Lord as his new master.
Thus Bartemius Crouch Junior became the first Death Eater without a Dark Mark etched on his skin. Ultimately leading not only to the second rise of the Dark Lord, but also to the tragic demise of both his father and himself.
The End.