Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling. No money is being made.

Collection of related one-shots, in chronological order, pertaining to Barty and Harry.

Written for the Harry Potter Halloween Collection Competition

Prompt: (colour) Black

Glimpse

He couldn't believe his luck. Of all the people it had to be he who took the seat beside him; the one everyone believed was responsible for his Lord's fall.

How could people believe that this small child had killed his Lord?

It was preposterous. Nothing short of blasphemous.

Oh, how he longed to wrap his hands around that dainty, pale neck; see those blood red lips turn blue and the light leave the Avada Kedavra eyes.

In moments like these he cursed his father more than ever. If his father were a better wizard he wouldn't have to feel this longing. This infernal longing that only served to accentuate the hell his life had become.

If his father were a better wizard he would have been submerged in blissful ignorance. Nothing but a mindless drone under his father's control. But no, because of his father's incompetence he had to be subjected to this torture. He was aware of everything, he just couldn't act. Though never had he wished more than at that moment to be able to do something.

But he couldn't.

So, he did the only thing he could. He observed. Every breath the boy took, every blink. He took everything in. He memorized every detail. It could be useful, he told himself, his Lord may need the information. He told himself that was the only reason. It wasn't because he found the teen's eyes mesmerizing, nor was he fascinated with that creamy skin, or with his darker than black hair. It was all because it could be useful to his Lord, nothing more, nothing less.

So he looked, and because he looked he caught things that no one else seemed to see.

He caught the slight flinch when someone touched the boy's back. He caught the cold look in his eyes when no one was looking. He caught the disdain that briefly appeared in his expression when everyone's back was turned.

Those little things made him continue to observe; curious to see if there was more to it than just a bad day.

While everyone was watching the idiots on the brooms, he was watching the small wizard – a far more interesting way to spend his time, in his humble opinion.

Though, before he could come to any sort of conclusion the boy was moving away. He wanted to curse, to scream. The boy was a puzzle. He hated unsolved puzzles. He wanted to see how and why the boy ticked, wanted to peel away all those layers that the child seemed to cloak himself with.

The boy was the only interesting thing he had come across in more than a decade. He wanted it back.

While he was lost in his mind, thoughts of the boy consuming him, he felt something burn up his arm, resonating with his very magic. He recognized the feeling instantly. His Lord. His Lord was calling.

It took him a moment to fight off the euphoric feeling to notice that he had moved. He had moved on his own accord.

He cackled, the sound lost amidst the chaos of the campsite.

He was free, and his Lord awaited him.

Thoughts of the boy fled his mind.