his tired, tense gaze was directed deep over the horizon, to where the scarlet dawn was thinning, highlighting the outlines of the shriveled, fallen trees.
The cold stone burned his back, small needles stabbing small memories into his mind.
cold hands around hot skin.
one cigarette for two at night in the astronomy tower.
hands in spiky straw hair.
It's all underground, where he sits.
on the stone beautifully and painfully, as if knife stripes had been carved across his heart, with carved wreaths of flowers and branching relief knots of patterns:
Only when he heard of the death, in the summer, he swore. swore to himself that he would take revenge.
To the right of the headstone, just behind him in the ground, was Alastor Groom. the arrogant old man whom, until three weeks ago, Crouch had kicked in the stomach with the heavy soles of his boots and, with a cruel face full of hatred and bile, had told him to apologize.
He only wheezed, agonizing and shaking.
Yeah, not many people get a good feeling from a cruciatus.
His hand drew a familiar rune that he had long been accustomed to.
His lips formed themselves into that painful, familiar, and cold-blooded expression:
And with a farewell spit on the dead body's slumped back, Barty left.
The next target was more important. And more difficult.
To be honest, Barty had dreamed of it himself. And he didn't hide it. Nights, lying in a cold bed, rubbing the fresh scars on his arms. He clenched his teeth. You can't scream. No, you can't.
If you press it with your other hand, it won't burn so much. Just don't squeeze it at the elbow, it hurts more.
No, he's not just gonna let him go.
— You. You killed. Because of you. I've always hated you. You're a fucking bastard, you know that? - a kick to the stomach, accompanied by the quiet sound of squeezed lungs. the air's gone.
— t's all because of you, you bitch..... - angry snarling. no, he's not cold-blooded. he's fucking furious.
angry hot tears flowing uncontrollably. burning his cheeks.
— Fucking die, please die. - another blow, with the sole of his head. With hatred. Contempt.
Crouch Sr. only fell lifelessly on his back like an autumn leaf, exhaling viciously. Exhausted lungs heaved in twitchy attempts to inhale a full breath.
A beat, two, skipping heartbeats.
— Father. Father, I- I wanted it-
Ravens are the black birds of death of the graveyard. They fly away with a wild, ravenous cawing.
He's gonna get his revenge.
And it's gonna hurt. It's gonna hurt so bad. It's gonna be paralyzing pain all over your body.
for what you did to Evan. I'll never forgive. I'll remember.
I will remember every cigarette I smoked with him, every hasty kiss, every torn gesture.
I'll always remember which mole on his soft thighs. which scar on his sunken belly. and above.
Why did they have so little time?
why was there always so fucking little time...?
— I won't forget, Evan. I won't forget. - hot lips pressed against the gravestone in a tender gesture. A gesture of all the untold lies. A gesture of all the lies.
Barty's tear-wet cheek pressed against the stone. It stung. Cold. Three more to go.
Three pathetic scum walking free.
The story was written by a beautiful girl for my art.
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gracieabrams
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origamiaround
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