tdr_backup | Digging my own...well

~ Barty is digging. Feverishly and obsessively digging. If his hands weren't already black from frost-bite then perhaps the skin would have completely worn away by now, it's difficult to tell. The wet mud freezes to his hands in filthy frozen clumps, making it appear as though he's wearing a pair of lumpy mittens. Yet still he continues, unable to stop his limbs as they tunnel him deep into a collapsing, makeshift shaft.

He hasn't a clue where Regulus is, or even where he is any more - everything is damp and black - his eyes clamped as tight as iron, unwilling to budge. Hurting himself or even Reg - that would have been understandable, even acceptable, but this self-made mudprison has overreached some critical boundary.

It's reasonably certain that Barty Crouch, Jr. has long since surpassed anyone's trapped-in-their-own-mind-horrifically quota, and, presently, with mud freezing in his hair as it slops down around him with the threat of imminent entombment, he decides that Hell has officially become overkill.

He screams, though he's fairly certain he's been doing that all along. ~