Jerry shoved Peter Pettigrew aside as though brushing away a revolting bug.
A rotten, musty smell filled the Dilapidated Hut. In the dim light, Voldemort lay curled on a sofa in the corner like a specter, a threadbare blanket barely covering his hideous body.
A thin young man stood beside the sofa, watching Jerry warily, his knuckles white around his wand.
"Who's this?" Ignoring the young man's hostility, Jerry nudged a dried-out corpse on the floor with his toe. It was shriveled to skin and bone and covered in dust, clearly long dead.
"Just an insignificant old Muggle." Voldemort's voice was hoarse and grating, like two rusty pieces of iron scraping together. "The gardener at the Riddle House. Fifty years ago, I killed that family of three, and they mistook him for the murderer."
"The poor wretch spent most of his life in prison, only to die here a few days after getting out." There was a hint of mockery in Voldemort's tone, as though he were sneering at the poor man's stupidity and uselessness.
"Allow me to introduce him." Voldemort pointed a pale finger at the young man. "Barty Crouch Jr., my most loyal servant."
Jerry looked Barty Crouch Jr. up and down: sparse stubble, disheveled hair, an ill-fitting black robe, and eyes burning with a dangerous fanaticism.
Unlike Peter Pettigrew's timid gaze, full of fear and even a little resistance, Barty Crouch Jr. looked at Voldemort with fervent adoration.
"So you managed to escape from right under your father's nose." Jerry's gaze settled on Barty Crouch Jr. His tone was mild, but carried a barely perceptible pressure.
Barty Crouch Jr. visibly stiffened. His gaze grew more guarded, and his fingers tightened around his wand, as though he were ready to attack at any moment.
"You know quite a