Too Late

The Father

'It's for your own good, son.'

What have I done? Please, father, I don't understand, what have I done?

'You see, people expect certain things from you, and if you don't follow the rules, if you're not what they want, they'll hurt you.'

Father?

'It's better if I'm the one hurting you now, son, than letting others hurt you later in life.'

I don't understand.

'Please try to understand.'

I don't.

The Mother

'Hush, baby, don't you cry, mother's here. Your father just doesn't want you to suffer, but he doesn't know better. I've told him times and times again he's wrong, and with me, both alone in your bedroom, you're safe.'

You don't see it, do you mother? I don't need you to talk to him when you're both alone. I don't need you to come here and tell me I'm right when we're all alone.

I just need you to step between us once and say he's wrong.

Just one time. Just one.

The Master

His voice is gentle and His gestures calm. He's not aggressive; He doesn't impose, almost compulsively so, something that should be as natural as love. He is loved.

And Barty loves Him.

'I want your unconditional loyalty, do you understand?'

'Yes,' Barty says, because for the first time he understands.

It doesn't hurt in the exact moment. No, it's more than that. And even the stinging feel, now that the blood runs from where the skin waits to scar, means nothing, because Barty now has His mark on his own arm.

He touches the mark and takes His now bloodied fingers to Barty's lips. Barty feels how warm the blood still is and the touch of those fingers sting more than any mark ever will.

'Just your loyalty.'

'Yes.'

The Prison

You're no son of mine!

It's for your own good, son.

Your own good.

'Son?'

Too late.

'Take this cup, son, and everything will be all right.'

It's too late now, mother.

'Your father is going to take good care of you. I made him promise.'

Did it take your dying for you to finally stand between both of us, mother?

The Curse

'Imperius!'

And Barty smiles.

He smiles because he can feel Voldemort's fingers on his lips, the coppery taste of blood and the sting in his arm.

The hours turn into days, turn into weeks, turn into months, years and Barty still smiles.

Until the day, after thirteen years, that he wakes up and realises that if he doesn't do anything, if he doesn't fight, he'll never feel that again.

Just his father's look of disappointment.

The Kiss

Barty can again feel real blood on his lips, warm and sharp just as before.

He wishes it were His blood though. He wishes the blood on his veins were the same as the blood on the Dark Lord's veins.

And for one moment Barty is sure he can taste Voldemort's blood.

The moment before a lipless, souless mouth closes over his.

The End