A/N: This story was written as an entry for The Houses Competition, Year 3, Round 7.
House: Gryffindor
Year: Head Girl
Category: Standard
Prompts: 4. [Pairing] Barty Crouch Sr/ Barty Crouch Jr.
Additional requirement: Includes a letter or note.
Word count: 1487 words (written on Google docs)
Betas: Thank you to CK (Theoretical-Optimist) and Shiba (Shibalyfe) for beta'ing! Xx
Additional A/N: There was an additional scene to this, but I'm afraid since I was already wayyyy over the word limit, I had to cut it (Barty wakes his parents up because he thinks the tree has died, but it's simply winter and is still alive, just leafless). I may add it in after the round closes and judging has completely finished, but I may just leave it.
I understand that the prompt was for a positive pairing, but with these two, it's quite impossible to keep them one hundred percent fluffy without sacrificing their characters. As such, I've still keep who they essentially are via what happens in canon (i.e. Barty Jr resents his work-a-holic father in the final scene set in 1981), but in this story, their love for each other is more important, hence, positive. The tree prompt was actually going to be much darker, but maybe a different version of the story can be released later haha.
Marcelle is also made-up for his wife's name, but as she's only described as 'mousy' and nothing else given, I thought it suited her. I also think that behind the scenes in their private home life, she would've been able to influence Barty Snr quite a lot and have been seen as his equal (likely since somehow she managed to make him help her switch positions in Azkaban further down the track).
I've also used Bartemius and Barty to distinguish between father and son respectively (those double names are confusing lol).
There was more I wanted to say, like how disturbing a cute Barty was to write lol, but I hope you enjoyed this. Thank you for reading! Xx
Our Tree
Just like trees, the best things in life often start small.
"Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"
Bartemius jerked up and reached for his wand, looking around the bedroom for the source of danger. When his eyes fell upon his smiling young son, however, he groaned and fell back against the pillow.
"Barty, what have I told you about barging into our room?"
"It's Sat-day!" The bed sunk as the four-year-old jumped onto it, waving around a piece of parchment.
"Saturday. What's that?"
"Our contact," Barty said, thrusting it in front of his face.
Bartemius pushed it back to read the note:
I, Bartemius Charles Crouch, promise to spend time with my son, Barty, on my day off this Saturday, August 12th, 1966.
"Contract."
He groaned as he remembered signing the parchment. Barty had made him write the note after the last time he'd had to forgo family time for work, but he had the suspicion that someone else had put him up to it.
"He's right. Today is Saturday, and you did promise to fix our garden," his wife, Marcelle, said.
Their son nodded. "Mummy said it was only one more sleep last night and I slept so now it's today."
When he groaned again, Marcelle said, "Go on and grab your shovel, Barty, whilst Daddy gets dressed."
The little boy didn't waste any time, jumping from the bed and running out the door. Bartemius sighed and slowly got out of bed.
"You spoil him too much."
Marcelle simply smiled at him and snuggled down in the bed. "Make sure to plant something lovely."
"A few Valerian bushes should do it."
Bartemius took out his wand and aimed it at a patch of soil. Before he could blast a hole in the dirt, however, he felt a tug on his robes.
"No, Daddy, we can't plant a Val—a Vala—those," Barty said.
"Why not? A Valerian plant is very practical; their sprigs are used in many potions."
"I want to plant a tree."
"Oh?"
"They have shade and fruit and grow the biggerest," he said, spreading his arms as wide as they'd go.
"Biggest. But I suppose you do have a point," he said, looking at the area. A tree would provide the yard with some much-needed privacy. "Good thinking."
Ruffling Barty's hair, he pointed his wand back at the soil. "Bomb—"
"No, Daddy."
"What now?"
Barty held up the plastic red spade Marcelle had bought him a few weeks ago. "We need to use this."
"That will take longer—" When his son pouted, he sighed. "Fine."
Barty grinned and set straight to work. When the hole only deepened a few centimetres after twenty minutes, he sighed and got down on his own knees.
"Thank goodness for Scourgify," he muttered as the soil quickly stained his robes. "We need to make it just a bit bigger, like this."
When finished, Bartemius conjured a small sapling. "This is an oak tree. In many, many years to come, it'll be the tallest tree around."
"Wow!"
"Spread the roots like this; gently now, don't rip them."
He guided the boy's hands around the plant, separating the roots and placing it in the ground. Barty didn't seem to mind getting his hands dirty, and happily took on the job of covering the tree with new soil. Picking up a small plastic watering can that matched his spade, he sloshed water over the ground.
Bartemius stood up. "Come on, let's get some breakfast."
Before he could walk away, however, he felt yet another tug on his robes. "Wait, we're not finished."
Turning around, Bartemius saw his son holding up a feather he'd picked up off the ground. "We need to put our names on it so people know."
"That's not necc—oh, alright. Give me that note you had."
Barty took out the now crumpled piece of parchment and pressed it to his chest. "You won't wreck it, will you?"
Bartemius held out his hand. "Don't be silly. I'm going to write a reminder to carve this into to the tree once it's a little bigger. For now, we'll tie the note to it."
Although he appeared a little unsure, the boy held the parchment out. Bartemius took a proper, self-inking quill from his pocket and scribbled on the note:
Here is the tree planted by Bartemius Crouch I and Bartemius Crouch II on 12/08/1966.
"What does it say?" Barty asked, peering over his shoulder.
"It says 'this is our tree.'"
"Oh." Barty nodded slowly before breaking into a smile. "Our tree."
Just like trees, the best things need some patience.
"Wake up! Wake up! It's Sunday!"
Taking a deep breath, Bartemius opened his eyes and rolled onto his side. Fumbling around the bedside table, he picked up his watch. "It's not even seven o'clock."
Rolling back over, he saw his son holding his plastic watering can.
"We have to water the tree!"
"Not now—"
"Oh, go on. Water the garden before the sun becomes too hot," Marcelle said next to him.
Bartemius was tempted to remind her that he had work plans for the day, but her eyes were already closed.
Bartemius took in a breath of fresh air as he watched Barty water the tree. "Try not to drown it."
Barty walked over to him, pouting. "It's not growed."
"It hasn't grown, you mean. These things take time."
"Oh. Can't you make it grow with a potion?"
"It's only been a day; you need to be patient."
"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Barty asked.
Bartemius raised an eyebrow. "I always tell the truth."
His son shook his head. "You had to sign a contact, remember?"
"Contract. I can promise you this tree will grow. Do you want me to sign another one then?"
Barty looked thoughtful for a moment. "No, I believe you," he eventually said before smiling. "Your turn to water."
Just like trees, the best things are consistent.
Hoot hoot! Hoot hoot! Hoot hoot!
"Does he really have to send the letters so early?"
Bartemius eased himself out of bed to greet the owl at the window. He knew even before he ripped open the envelope that it was from Barty; ever since he'd arrived at Hogwarts, a letter had come every week without fail.
"What's it say?" Marcelle asked.
Bartemius scanned the letter. "He's doing well in all subjects, and his friendships have extended across the houses. And..."
"What?"
Bartemius rolled his eyes at the last part of the letter, in which Barty had written:
My Herbology class is studying the use of different wand woods. I wonder if our oak tree would be useful?
In all the excitement growing up, he'd noticed Barty's interest in the tree dwindle over the years, and had thought he'd forgotten it altogether.
"Where are you going?"
"Just the usual morning watering," Bartemius said, changing into his robes with a small smile.
His son hadn't forgotten—and neither had he.
These days, waking up was easy; the war meant he never got to sleep in the first place.
The sky was a beautiful blue as Bartemius wandered through the backyard, and bluebirds hummed as they flitted overhead. Nature was moving on as normal, oblivious to the way innocent families were being ripped apart every day.
Not everything was beautiful, though, and he soon found himself stopping in front of a tall tree—or what should've been a tall tree. The oak's growth seemed to have been stunted, and its branches were dry and brittle. On the trunk, a carved note that had once stood out now seemed to be rotting away.
Catching a glimpse of something red amidst the leaves at the tree's base, Bartemius bent down and drew out a cracked, plastic watering can. He took out his wand and tapped it against the can's side, filling it with water. He hoped that he was not too late to save the tree he'd neglected over the years.
"I thought you'd given up."
Bartemius raised an eyebrow. "Are you just getting home?"
His son scowled as he stood next to him. "I was just about to head out with Rabast—doesn't matter."
Whether it was the war, the guilt he'd been suppressing, or the fact that when he looked at the teenager, all he saw was the little four-year-old from years ago that made Bartemius hold out the watering can, he didn't know.
"I don't suppose you'd rather hang out here today?" he asked, knowing that he wanted him to stay.
Barty looked at the can for a moment before taking it, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. "My plans can wait."
Bartemius stepped forward and rubbed the rotting bark on the carving. It peeled away to reveal fresh, healthy bark, and he smiled as their names could be seen more clearly side by side.
Just like trees, the best things can withstand the tests of time.