Voldemort

Voldemort shifted his gaze away from Harry and began examining this body. To him, it was the body he had dreamed of through fifteen utterly dark years. His hands were like pale spiders; his long, pallid fingers stroked his chest, arms, and face as though caressing treasure. He breathed softly, his expression ecstatic.

"Master."

Barty Crouch Jr.'s face was as pale as a corpse, entirely from the blood loss from his severed arm. He stared fanatically at Voldemort's face, paying no attention to his wound. Using his remaining arm, he struggled to crawl across the ground to Voldemort's feet and kissed the back of his foot.

Voldemort was admiring his own wand, which he had drawn from his robe pocket. For fifteen years, he had never been able to wield it with strength. Barty's kiss drew his attention.

As though he had only just noticed there was a Death Eater loyal to him here, despite having been cared for by this follower over the past year and having achieved resurrection with his help, Voldemort raised an eyebrow. Harry believed the smile curling at Voldemort's lips was one of faint mockery rather than praise.

"Your performance tonight was somewhat unsatisfactory, Barty—"

Voldemort said softly.

"Fortunately, there is no one else here tonight, Barty. If anyone had seen that childish duel just now, what would they say? The Dark Lord's fiercely loyal Death Eater was defeated by three underage children from Hogwarts. Oh, if word got out, where would I put my face?"

Barty's face was nearly pressed into the mud. He did not dare defend himself. Before the great Dark Lord, every excuse was untenable. He could only use this method to show his immense shame at having disgraced his master.

"Get up, Barty—"

Voldemort said lazily.

"I said I would