Work Text:
Lord Voldemort was not a patient man.
From the very beginning, life had been all about taking. As someone who had been born with nothing even though a nagging feeling told him that he deserved everything, no amount of wealth could ever be enough for him.
In his stint as a clerk at Borgin & Burke's, he'd amassed most of his treasures, and during his travels around the world, he'd filled his mind with wisdom.
As a Dark Lord, he tithed his followers, and as a master, he made his servants work hard for him.
It should have been enough.
Alas. With every pretty daughter or beautiful sister (and the occasional handsome son) offered to him, his mood soured. Who were these people, thinking any of them were good enough to fulfill his lust for treasure?
People were throwing themselves at his feet wherever he went—be it out of adoration, fear, or a will to die at his hand.
Even the pretty ones, he detested. They all wanted a piece of him, a piece of his fortune, and he was loath to give anything to them. He kept even the crumbs of his attention to himself, like he'd always done, and that kept most people at bay.
People like Bellatrix Lestrange, who batted their eyelashes at him, were about as much of an irritation as Auror #12 who tried to hinder him from entering a house he'd decided to raid.
They all wanted something from him, and he was getting sick of it.
And now, he realised with a sigh, he'd gotten himself worked up so much that he was in a bad mood. He was just about to retire for the night and curl up in his luxurious bed when an owl gently knocked its beak against his window.
He got up because not many people knew how to send an owl to him personally and there was always the possibility it might be something urgent.
The owl left after he took the letter, so he closed the window again and did his usual spiel of casting every detection and cancellation spell known to man on it.
On closer inspection, it turned out to be less a letter and more a hastily folded-up piece of parchment which was unusual. Mostly, people tried to impress him by using the most expensive paper they could afford. Everyone, of course, but one of his secret ministry informants…
Intrigued, Voldemort unfolded the parchment and found just a few short sentences hastily scribbled down in a chicken scratch he could hardly make out.
My Lord,
I have served you secretly until now.
My cover is blown.
If you can, please find me hiding behind the Shrieking Shack. I can't Apparate yet. My eternal thanks will be yours!
Yours,
A loyal servant
Voldemort stilled. That had to be his secret informant, the one who'd been sending heavily-classified Auror reports and intel to him for months now. The handwriting was similar enough… add in a dash of panic, and this nigh-unintelligible outcome was about right. A student then. Auror parents? A child of Light parents, even?
Delicious, yes, but why go save them? Not them. A boy, most likely. The handwriting was that of a boy. What was to gain?
The student was alone, so no help coming from the parents, or friends, if Lord Voldemort was the first one he contacted. But was he the first one to be contacted?
With a sigh, Voldemort shook his head. He had already invested enough effort into mulling this over that he'd gotten curious, and getting curious meant that he needed to at least go and check it out.
There was the threat of it being a trap, but every invitation to dinner was a potential trap, so the novelty had already worn off. He pondered the matter for another three or four seconds, and shrugged. Curiosity killed the cat…
-o-
Not five minutes later, after an Apparition into an out-of-the-way little cave close to the Shrieking Shack, Voldemort used an elaborate cocktail of disillusionment spells on himself and left the cave for his destination.
There were no search parties or other obvious threats, but a Hominem Revelio revealed a human lying in wait. Someone was cowering, disillusioned, behind some bushes close to the Shrieking Shack. Voldemort allowed himself a small smile. So he had been right in his assessment that the plea for help had been genuine.
He made his way over to the figure, but the disillusionment spells the boy had used were good enough to render him nearly invisible to the naked eye.
A brief Finite Incantatem later, and a skinny, blonde boy squeaked in surprise and shot up from his hiding spot.
"Who's there!" the boy demanded in a voice that tried very hard to stay firm. "I'm warning you, whoever you are, I'm armed, and I'm ready to do what is needed!"
"And what would that be?" Voldemort asked with a bit of a drawl and let most of the glamours and charms fall.
He'd expected surprise. He always did, because somehow, his very presence wherever he appeared seemed enough to surprise people. He'd also expected fear, or horror, because those were par the course as well. Instead, he got… well, he wasn't sure.
"You came," the boy said tonelessly.
"You sent me that letter?" Voldemort asked, just to make sure.
The boy nodded, and then his face broke out into the most brilliant grin. "You came! I can't believe you came!" he exclaimed before slapping his hands before his mouth and continuing a lot more quietly. "I'm your informant! I know I'm not much to look at yet, but I'm really good with Transfiguration, and with Arithmancy, too, so I'll be useful when I'm older!"
"And you're not useful now?" Voldemort asked dryly.
"Not yet," the boy admitted. "I'm only sixteen, but… well, if you don't help me now, I will never be able to reach my full potential."
"You are a teenager," Voldemort snorted. "You have served me well if what you say is true, but why save you now?"
"You won't regret it," the boy promised. "I swear I won't ever make you regret it. I will serve you truly, and for no personal gain except for the honour of being your servant, my Lord."
Here, the boy knelt down and bent his head. Voldemort frowned because while not an unusual display in and of itself, the circumstances surrounding this meeting were all…
"What is your name, boy?" Silence, which was unexpected. "Do not make me ask again."
"Alright, just… alright." The boy trembled, and Voldemort gripped his wand tighter. "My name is… I'm named after my father, Bartemius Crouch, but I… look. I know how it sounds, but please don't do anything rash!"
The boy looked up at him as he pleaded, and Voldemort saw no reason to strike unprovoked. Yet.
"You filched your father's reports."
"Yes."
"You wrote in your letters that you long to serve me. Why?"
"I read your books."
Voldemort stilled, and he could see that the boy noticed the effect his words had had on him.
"How?" Voldemort asked, tongue dry, because if the boy had found out, chances were…
"I read reports, and some of the descriptions of charms and rune work, and the wards that were used during raids? I recognised them from Moregrave's books immediately. It was a long shot, but when you wrote back…" The boy shrugged and grinned fondly. "I'm good with words, and recognising patterns, and there was no doubt in my mind."
"You took a crack shot and sent a Dark Lord, your father's enemy, classified reports on the off chance that he's the ghostwriter behind your favourite scholarly books?" Voldemort asked, amused more than anything.
"Yeah," the boy, Bartemius, shrugged with a helpless grin. "Stupid? Maybe. Worth it? Definitely! But now, the Aurors put tracking spells on their reports, and when my father's reports left the house and arrived in Hogwarts…"
"It's the first of September," Voldemort realised.
"It is," Barty sighed. "Long story short, there were Aurors waiting at Hogsmeade station. I stunned them, and I ran. Summoned a post owl, penned a letter, and here I am. Desperate."
Voldemort considered that brief recounting of what had happened. The boy had done him a much appreciated service in sending the reports. He had also proven to be sharp beyond his years because he had somehow managed what no one else had managed yet: sussed out the identity of Lord Voldemort's secret scholar alias.
He saw potential. The boy hadn't promised too much. Plus, seeing Bartemius Crouch Snr's face when confronted with his death eater son?
Voldemort's lips curled up into a satisfied smirk.
The boy's eyes lit up, and Voldemort found himself wondering where the fear was. Surely a boy analytical enough to suss out his secret pen name would know it was prudent to cower in fear?
"I will not take you with me without a vow," Voldemort said.
"I'll do you one better," Bartemius said and bared his left forearm.
"You jest," Voldemort snorted because that honestly took him by surprise.
"No, I'm serious," the boy urged. Was that hurt in his eyes? "I think you're amazing from a scholarly and a magical perspective. Your regard for human life is… frighteningly low, but I intend not to get on your bad side."
"And I'm the only one who can save you now," Voldemort mused.
"Well, yes. That, too, but I would have asked about entering your service anyways once I became of age. Oh, and, before I lose my nerve—do you take apprentices?"
Voldemort narrowed his eyes. Was this it then? The boy's angle? He wanted knowledge from Voldemort? Power too, maybe?
"What do you hope to gain from an apprenticeship under me?" he asked because he'd begun to feel a connection despite himself and he didn't want to believe the boy was just like the others.
"Honestly? And I mean, being totally honest here–" The boy took a deep breath and blushed when he said, "I really just want to… bask in your greatness and help you research things while you do the Dark Lord stuff."
"You long to… learn from me," Voldemort summarised, and the boy nodded eagerly. "But most of all, you want to assist me?"
"I bet there's so much more material in your head but you don't have the time to get it all organised, and I could help!" The boy reached for his trunk, and Voldemort instinctively raised his wand. Oblivious, or maybe just exceptionally unafraid, the boy rummaged in his things and fished out several sheets of parchment.
"I even got started on my application and everything!"
Stunned, Voldemort laughed again. He didn't laugh often, so it was unusual to do it so often in one evening.
He was about to comment on the boy's foresight when loud voices drew closer to them.
"They are looking for you, Bartemius," Voldemort said simply and cocked his head when he looked down at the boy. "What will you do if I don't save you?"
"You'll save me," the boy said without hesitation as he repacked his trunk and shrunk it to put it back into his pocket. "You know I have potential. You can always get rid of me later on if I turn out to be terrible, so there's really no reason to leave me here."
"Very well," Voldemort snorted. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder and Apparated them back to Lestrange Manor without warning.
"I knew it!" the boy said triumphantly and got up from his kneeling position to do a little dance. "You saved me! Thank you!"
The boy's gaze was too adoring. Voldemort was getting uncomfortable, so he turned away.
"Come. You can sleep in a guest bedroom, and we'll decide what to do with you tomorrow."
"You won't mark me? But I've been waiting for months!"
No one had ever sounded hurt when they'd had to wait for their marks. Voldemort frowned again and turned around. An anomaly, that boy.
He liked things that were rare, and cognitive anomalies that manifested in adoration for his person were rare. There were others – Bellatrix, Travers, Evan – but all of them were cruel and liked his cruelty. His scholarly side though? That was a first.
So Voldemort did what he did best; he took.
Without preamble, he grabbed the boy's arm, pushed his sleeve back up because it had slid down again, and pressed his wand into the tender flesh.
"Hah!" the boy exclaimed with a bright grin, and Voldemort shook his head because he was going to wipe that grin right off.
"Morsmordre," he intoned in Parseltongue and waited for the inevitable answering hiss of pain.
Except, there was none. He watched Bartemius watch Voldemort's creation blossom on his pale skin, clearly enraptured by the display, and then the boy had the nerve to grin up at him when it was done.
"So is it a slave bond? A modified one I mean? Or something of your own creation? Did you learn Parseltongue, or were you born a Parselmouth?"
Voldemort shook his head. How did it not hurt? It always hurt, because no one liked being taken when they could be taking instead.
"I was born a Parselmouth," he answered absentmindedly, "but I shall not share the intricacies of the dark mark with you."
"Alright, then I'll have to test the capabilities myself," Barty said good-naturedly and followed Voldemort inside the manor like he'd always been one step behind and to the left of him—an apprentice's ancestral place.
What an odd creature.
-o-
Two weeks later, Voldemort had grudgingly accepted that he was not going to send the boy to live with someone else like he'd contemplated briefly. He'd thought maybe a rich elderly follower might appreciate a gift like that, but he'd soon realised that he himself deserved this gift a lot more.
"Good morning, master!" Barty greeted enthusiastically. "I finished the runic arrays yesterday while you were out, but I think I need some more input here, and also here with the futhark, and oh, also–"
-o-
Six months after taking Barty into his service, they'd finished a book. Voldemort held it in his hands like a treasure. It had taken him thirty years to publish three, and now he'd finished one in just four months of labour.
That evening, Voldemort took them out to a discreet restaurant to celebrate. He had the unexpected pleasure of realising that Barty got drunk off of one glass of wine and got positively clingy when he Apparated them home.
"You are not that drunk, Barty," Voldemort insisted when the boy kept holding onto him.
"I am," Barty complained, "and while I can still walk on my own, I'd rather not."
"And why is that?"
"Because you're my master, and masters are supposed to lead their apprentices," Barty replied.
"You are drunk."
"And you saved my life."
"What?"
"Oh, I don't know, I thought we were just saying random true things."
Voldemort snorted and pushed the boy away. "I should have left you at the Shrieking Shack, you pest."
The boy's eyes shone with mirth when he grinned at Voldemort, but he continued walking on his own.
Alone back in his room, Voldemort couldn't help but let his thoughts wander. Barty had become touchier lately. Not even Bella and Evan dared touch him, but neither of them had as much opportunity as Barty did.
Voldemort fondly thought back to the meeting of the Inner Circle where he'd revealed his new apprentice to his most trusted followers. There had been outrage, disbelief, and at least two shattered dreams.
He'd given Barty an unregistered wand, so Bellatrix lying in wait for him after that big reveal had gone nowhere except St. Mungo's. Apparently, Barty was a fan of knee-reversal spells.
-o-
The next evening, after a day of politicking, Voldemort did what he'd rarely done: he knocked on the boy's door. Soon enough, a blonde head poked out, and Barty's face lit up.
"Master!" he grinned and opened the door wider.
His room was tidy. Then again, the contents of his trunk must have been meager, and while Voldemort had bought him clothes and books, as a proper master did, the boy had little in the way of other worldly possessions. Maybe he ought to remedy that…
Without waiting for an invitation, Voldemort entered the boy's room and left him puzzled.
"Is everything alright?"
"You have been touching me a lot," Voldemort said because he cared little for beating around the bush.
"Oh," Barty replied, and Voldemort could watch him tense up. "I can stop if you want."
"I do not want that," Voldemort answered simply.
Barty perked up. "Then maybe… you want me to do it more?"
He sounded eager, and Voldemort liked how heat started pooling in his belly. "I would not demand payment of you," he said cryptically, because he didn't know how else to phrase it, but he knew the boy would understand.
"No, I know," Barty was quick to reassure him. "But… I would give it freely? I want to—any moment I'm not touching you seems wasted, you know?"
He did. Voldemort nodded and closed his eyes. "I had hoped you might say something along those lines," he admitted and closed the distance between them. "I must say, my apprentice, that my life has become better with you in it."
Barty only had time for that bright, happy grin of his before Voldemort crowded him against the door and sealed that grin up with his mouth. He couldn't take it into his possession like a trinket or a piece of jewelry, but he could feel it against his sensitive lips and that was almost enough because he was the only one who was allowed to have this experience.
"Tell me what I am to you," he demanded when they parted.
"You are my everything, master," Barty answered immediately. "Without you, there's nothing for me. Before I found you, I was… I was adrift."
"I am the center of your universe."
"You are my sun," Barty agreed easily and reached for Voldemort's cheek with a trembling hand.
Only when Voldemort did not reject him did the trembling stop. Barty's face truly looked like that of someone who'd seen the sun for the first time after decades of living within a cave. Voldemort was reminded of an allegory by a muggle philosopher he'd read in his youth and decided that being the boy's idea of goodness despite his inherently evil nature appealed to him.
"If I am to be the sun, you must be my moon," Voldemort told the boy indulgently.
"Shining because of your light," Barty muttered, and his eyes told Voldemort of the endless adoration and loyalty stored within the silly boy's brain.
That night, when he took his apprentice to bed for the first time, Voldemort considered the nature of man and his own place in the world. He still considered himself an impatient man, all things considered, but lately…
"Please wait a second," Barty begged, eyes screwed shut tightly. "It's… it's too much, I need–"
"We have all the time in the world," Voldemort hummed with pleasure thrumming through his veins. "Your body will adjust in no time. I know you want to be ever so good for me."
Barty shivered beneath him, and Voldemort stroked the soft, pale skin of the boy's back.
"Thank you, master," Barty mumbled, and Voldemort felt the boy relax around him eventually, and even start to wriggle around a bit. "Okay, yeah, loads better. You can–oh fuck. Oh, yes, just like that."
Barty moaned softly and gripped the sheets beneath him with both hands. Voldemort found himself chuckling and moved to grab a hold of the boy's lean hips.
Yes. Lately, he had learned to be a little more considerate—because sometimes, under specific circumstances, giving pleasure was just as sweet as receiving it.
What he had also learned was that the term treasure was not only reserved for objects, but for people as well. And since he always got his way, the boy would never leave his hoard for as long as either of them were alive.
And since he'd been considering that the time might be right to fashion another horcrux, he decided to experiment. Maybe he'd finally kill the boy's father and use that death to test his newest hypothesis of the possibility of creating human horcruxes.
"You are mine," he told the boy in a voice both softer and harder than he usually used on him.
"Mind, body, and soul," the boy agreed with a groan, and Voldemort reached to caress the dark mark on Barty's forearm. "I want to be yours in all the ways that count, master, and, and even in those that don't."
Voldemort didn't answer, but his thrusts became deeper and smoother until neither he nor the boy had any clarity of mind to speak in anything but moans.
Afterwards, spent and cleaned up, the boy lay between Voldemort's legs with his hands folded on his master's chest, and smiled up at him all dreamily.
"I love you," Barty said, and Voldemort believed him.
"I was afraid you would say that at some point," Voldemort sighed. "I… appreciate your emotions, but I…"
"You don't need to say it back," Barty reassured him. "I knew, even before meeting you face to face, what kind of person you were. Just let me love you, and I will be happy."
"... Alright," Voldemort allowed. "I can do that."
Yes, Voldemort decided. The odds of finding another boy like this… no, he'd have to make him a horcrux. After all, he was not a patient man, and the thought of potentially having to wait centuries to find another boy like this one… unacceptable.
"We are going on a mission tomorrow, you and I," Voldemort declared, and Barty nodded sleepily.
-o-
The next day, Voldemort killed his apprentice's father in front of the man's screaming wife (now widow) and held a dark ritual right where Crouch Snr fell so as to anchor his newest treasure to the mortal realm for the ages.
When all was said and done, Barty's eyes glowed red and he fell to his knees. Voldemort walked over to him and put a finger under the boy's chin to make him look up.
"Master, what…"
"You are a part of me now, Barty," Voldemort muttered and cast an absent-minded killing curse at both mother and house elf.
Instead of awe or thankfulness, the investigative sparkle of scholarly curiosity came alight in Barty's eyes.
"Oh really now?" the boy asked enthusiastically and grinned. "I know about your horcruxes, of course, even though I'm not sure you know I know, but you have like, ten books on this very obscure and dangerous subject, and there's a theory I've been wanting to test in case you ever made a human horcrux! What about this? Am I speaking Parseltongue?"
Heedless of the carnage around him, Voldemort grabbed the boy's face properly and kissed him.
"I take it that's a yes," Barty grinned, and Voldemort felt the corners of his mouth curl up with genuine fondness.
He was not a patient man, but he had centuries and millennia in front of him. Maybe… even someone like him was able to grow to love someone, in time.
"Come," he commanded, and Barty took his arm obediently, "let's go home."