A/N: This story was written for The Houses Competition, Year 2, Round 6.
House: Gryffindor
Position: Year 3
Category: Themed
Prompts: 8. [Colour] Green, 1. [Speech] "Care to tell me why you're bleeding?" (I also used prompt 5. [First Line] I slowly trace the loops of the signature - sure, it is wrong but it is for a good reason. as inspiration only; it's what originally prompted this story, so whilst not used officially because of change in wording and POV, full credit to the competition for it :))
Word count: 3887 words (according to Google docs)
Betas: Thank you to Tsu (kurotsuba) and CK (Theoretical-Optimist) for beta'ing :)
I'm not sure if 'Minister' should be capitalised when referring to the position of Minister for Magic (minister by itself), so I went with the Potterwords guide for capitalisation choices. Fingers crossed that was the right move :') This story takes place in canon, attempting to explain exactly how his demotion took place. Please note, it deviates from canon slightly—whether that's deemed 'AU' I'll leave up to you—in that the public called for his stepping down in the Ministerial campaign when they thought Barty Crouch Jr had died and Crouch Snr was deemed too harsh. This takes place beforehand, in the sense that he had more than one complication in his plans, so I'm assuming it can be counted as possible canon as one take on what might've happened. What is AU is perhaps Evangeline (full credit to Tsu), the name given to Crouch's wife. Since she wasn't given a name in canon, one was made up, and I thought it really suited the limited personality she was given in the books (a thin, wispy looking witch who was quite timid and usually kowtowed to her husband except when it came to begging for mercy for him).
I'm hoping I wrote it clear enough, but just in case, the interruptions where he goes to say 'his son' but ends up thinking/ saying 'that boy' is on purpose/ not a typo. I intended to show that he couldn't bring himself to call Barty Jr his son, but I'm not sure if I could've gone a different way about it lol.
I hope you enjoyed this take on it regardless, and sincerely thank you for taking the time to read it, especially judges, mods, players, and readers all over FFnet! :D
Too Little Too Late
Gripping onto his quill, Bartemius steadied his hand as he traced the loops of the signature. Despite the evidence stacked against him, Augustus Rookwood hadn't yet confessed to being a Death Eater. With the Minister for Magic, Millicent Bagnold, breathing down his neck for results, however, and recent… events... Bartemius knew he had to get a signed confession—no matter whose signature it was.
Leaning back in his chair, he set his quill down and held up the parchment. It was slightly different to the signature on Rookwood's original job contract—the 'W' was a little more curved than intended—but other than that, it seemed to be a perfect match.
"Still hard at it?"
Bartemius jumped and turned to his office door. Reginald Cattermole was leaning up against its frame, a smile on his face.
Putting the parchment down, he plastered a smile on his face. "You know me; I won't rest until every piece of scum is locked away."
His colleague's smile faltered a bit, and Bartemius could guess why. Whilst the courtroom had erupted into applause when he had handed down his last sentence the week before, not everyone had been as approving of his decision. But no, he knew he had done the right thing.
"Well, I just thought I'd pop in with your mail. Those dastardly owls dropped it off in my office again, as well as a few other presents," Cattermole said, screwing up his nose.
Bartemius rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what he meant. He had been campaigning for years to get the Ministry to adopt another mail-delivery system since the owls that were often tasked with the job often left both letters and their droppings behind.
"Thank you," he said, taking the mail from the man.
He sifted through the pile of envelopes, expecting to see the usual messages from colleagues too inept to do their own jobs without his help or bills that needed paying—or worse, another message from Millicent Bagnold, reminding him his job was still on the line. Sure enough, as he flipped over each envelope, he saw that he was right: a notice from Cornelius Fudge asking for advice on thin-bottomed cauldrons, a bill for his Daily Prophet subscription, a note from Bagnold to look into Igor Karkaroff again, a bill for St Mungo's—
"Something wrong?"
Rolling his eyes, he held up the lime-green envelope containing the hospital bill before scrunching it up and throwing it into the wastepaper basket.
"Just more incompetency to deal with. Honestly, it seems like no one can do their jobs anymore," he said, turning back to the paperwork in front of him.
"Yeah, seems that way… Well, I'd better get back to my own work."
Bartemius didn't look up as Cattermole left the room. If he didn't get back to his work, he wouldn't be able to pay the bills that were actually his.
Bartemius stared across the long dining room table, watching as his wife pushed a piece of broccoli around her plate with her fork. Her refusal to eat any food that week had made her skin paler and her cheekbones stand out. He knew that she was still angry that he had condemned their son to life imprisonment, but he wasn't going to take the bait.
Rolling his eyes, he turned away from Evangeline's silent protest to his own dinner. His appetite, too, had faltered that week, but for a different reason. His boss' earlier words rang through his head, causing his stomach to churn.
"We need to talk. Please come to my office tomorrow morning at 8.00am sharp," Bagnold had said that afternoon before she had run for the fireplaces, giving him no time to inquire why.
He didn't know what he was going to do if it was about what he thought it was. Rumours were already running rampant that he was no longer set to replace Bagnold after her retirement, but what if he was about to lose—no, he wasn't. He still held sway amongst his colleagues, he still held his power…
Bartemius stabbed his fork into a roast potato and took a bite. The vegetable was cooked just like he liked it—soft on the inside with a crunchy outer layer—but it wasn't long before the taste was lost on him and his mind wandered back to his troubles. He had tried to round up as many of the remaining Death Eaters as he possibly could, but what if there were still more out there? What if he had overlooked something, and someone else was still on the run? What if someone else in the Ministry caught a loose Death Eater, and they stripped him of his power because of it?
No, he was not about to lose his power in the Ministry, nor was he about to lose his power over his own house.
Bartemius dropped his cutlery and glowered at his wife. "Damn it, Eve, eat!"
"I'm not hungry," Evangeline said, not looking up from her plate.
"For Merlin's sake, it's time you let that go. That boy has already potentially ruined my career; why let him ruin your appetite?"
Evangeline glanced up at him, a spark in her green eyes. "That boy is our son," she said. When he narrowed his eyes at her, she quietly added, "Please, just let me visit him."
"He's no son of mine."
"Barty—"
"And I absolutely forbid any visits. That devil's gone; you may as well accept that."
He thought she would drop it, but her resolve seemed strong. She reached across the table, even though her thin arms wouldn't reach his.
He stared at her outstretched hand as she said, "Please, Barty, I need this. I need to see him before—"
"No."
Turning back to his plate, he picked up his knife and fork again. His meal was still hot, but now everything tasted bland. He tried to swallow it down with some wine, but the house-elf, Winky, seemed to have picked a rather unsuitable bottle to go with it. Still, he knew that if he did not eat, he wouldn't have enough energy for the week ahead.
The sound of sniffling soon cut through the room. He tried to ignore it, forcing down his food, but when a louder sniffle came, he sighed and put down his knife and fork again.
"I did the right thing, sending him away," he said, locking eyes with his wife.
Her green eyes were now full of tears, but she nodded slowly. Swallowing, she looked down at her plate, picking up her own utensils.
"I guess..."
"You guess?"
"I know," she whispered.
Bartemius nodded, even though he detected the doubt still in her voice. "Good."
"Care to tell me why you're bleeding?"
Bartemius wiped away the dragon's blood from his forehead, not quite able to meet Bagnold's eyes. "Yeah, Dolohov got me before we arrested him, but it's alright now."
It was pathetic, really, to be so desperate as to fake an injury, but Antonin Dolohov hadn't been cooperating, and he needed to prove to Bagnold that he had gotten the right man. Igor Karkaroff's naming of the man hadn't been enough to convince her of his guilt. If he had to use… alternative… measures to prove he was a dark wizard, then so be it.
When he looked up at Bagnold, however, he could see that it hadn't worked.
Her cheeks were flushed and she, too, seemed to have difficulty looking him in the eye. "Yes, well, please take a seat," she said, waving her arm towards the chair in front of her desk.
Sighing, Bartemius complied with her request, sinking down into the wooden chair. He had always imagined that he would replace it with a leather armchair when he took over the office. He would have also replaced the hideous green damask wallpaper with something masculine and blue, and the space where the shabby black desk sat would be much better served with a larger, oak desk. Then again, he had always imagined that he would be the next Minister for Magic.
"I'm afraid given recent events that… Well, there's been some concerns that you… You see…"
He bit down on his tongue, resisting the urge to hurry the woman along. He knew a good Minister should be well-spoken, and if he didn't want to delay his fate, he would have said so.
"I'll cut to the chase, Bartemius." Bagnold swallowed, finally locking her gaze with his. "We feel that it may be best if you step down from your post as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, at least for the time being."
He had suspected that it was coming, but it didn't make it any easier. His chest grew tight as he felt himself being stripped of everything he held dear. His struggle for power, his climb through the ranks of the Ministry, the hours put into making sure he was the best at his job—all gone with just one sentence. His head began to spin, his eyes stinging at the corners, but he gripped onto the arms of the chair.
It was all his fault.
"I did everything in my power to make this world a better, safer place. I've always been against the Dark Side, always campaigning to ensure their wretched asses were locked away where they belong—no matter who that was." Bartemius swallowed the lump in his throat, careful to maintain eye contact with Bagnold so that she did not detect any weakness.
Bagnold's eyes softened, and she stood up. Walking around her desk, she placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder.
"This has nothing to do with your son's arrest, Barty," she said, squeezing his shoulder. "I understand how hard that must've been for you to do. It's just… well, you've worked so hard lately, you must need a rest."
It was a lie she didn't need to tell; both of them knew that it was only a matter of time before Bartemius Crouch Junior's arrest had people questioning whether or not his father should hold the power to arrest people. Who was to say he wasn't putting the blame on innocent people and letting the true criminals off the hook? Who was to say his hard-lined approach wasn't just a facade, and he was really a Death Eater himself?
He shook his head. No, he would never be such a coward as to join the Death Eaters.
"I—we—would still like to keep you on board as an Auror, though," she said, giving him a weak smile.
Unable to find his voice, Bartemius simply nodded. Standing up, he lifted her hand off his shoulder, gave a curt nod, and left the office.
His head pounded as he strolled to his own office, ignoring the greetings of his colleagues. The tightness in his chest had increased, as had the stinging in his eyes. It wasn't until he was safely tucked inside his office—no, it was the Ministry's office now—and had shut the door that he allowed the tears to fall.
"Damnit! Damnit! Damnit!"
Pounding his fists against his desk, he ignored the pain shooting up through his hands. Why? Why him? Why had that wretched boy done this to him? Stripped him of his title? He had always known his so—that boy had been an ungrateful bastard, but he hadn't realised how much of one he would turn out to be. If he had, he probably would have—
"Barty? Are you alright?"
It was probably a good thing that his wife knocked on the door and entered the room, for he wasn't sure he liked where that thought was heading—or, perhaps, if he liked it too much.
"What are you doing here, Eve?" he asked, wiping his eyes.
"I just… Erm..."
Sighing, Bartemius wiped away any remaining tears and looked at his wife. She was shuffling on her feet, her bag held timidly in front of her. Her wide eyes peered around the office, the dark circles beneath them making her look gaunt. If he didn't have bigger problems on his plate, he would have asked why in Merlin's name she had chosen to come to his place of work wearing such ill-fitting clothes, noticing the way her robes hung off her skinny frame.
"Go on, spit it out; I have business to attend to," he said.
She continued to shuffle on the spot, but her green eyes were now focused on his. "I… Well, you see, I just came from an appointment at the hos—"
"Look, you can tell me about your day at home, alright? I've just been—I've just been—"
Demoted. He had just been demoted. He couldn't bring himself to say it, the very thought of it causing bile to rise up his throat.
"Oh, Barty, I'm so sorry—"
"How could they do this to me? After all I've done for them? After all I've sacrificed? They don't respect me; not one of them do. I suppose I don't blame them; how am I supposed to maintain power or control over those Death Eater scum if no one respects me? I'm finished."
"I'm sure it'll be alright. We'll work through this," Evangeline said, taking a step closer.
Bartemius shook his head again, not sure how it could be alright. He had spent years working his way up—years. He turned back to his desk, feeling another bout of tears welling up in his eyes.
"Years…" he whispered, more to himself than Evangeline.
"I—Erm, perhaps I should go home, and we'll talk there?" she said, but it came out more like a question.
Bartemius shrugged, the room beginning to spin once more. He clutched a hand to his head and sank into the chair reserved for clients, the enormity of his situation making it hard to concentrate on anything.
He had lost everything, everything!
It was only when he began to slowly rock himself back and forth, tempted to curl up into the fetal position, that he shook his head again and snapped himself out of it. Turning his head to the door, he realised that Evangeline had left, taking her naïve hope that everything would be okay with her.
"Damnit!"
Picking up a book off his desk, he threw it across the room at the opposite wall. It hit one of the photographs lining the wall, sending it smashing to the ground. He didn't particularly care, though. It was an empty frame, the former picture of his family no longer inside. Picking up an inkpot this time, he sent it hurtling towards the wall again.
It was all his so—that boy's fault.
Bartemius tried to stifle yet another yawn as he reversed the many security spells he had placed on the front door. It was difficult to see what he was doing given the lack of moonlight in a cloudy sky, but with a few muttered curses, he finally managed to get inside.
He ignited the chandeliers around the house as he headed towards the dining room, not surprised in the least that Evangeline hadn't waited up for him. Although anyone would've been tired at three o'clock in the morning, his wife seemed to be going to bed earlier and earlier that week, not caring how lazy it made her appear. When he had asked her to help him memorise the profiles of some influential figures the other day, she had complained that she had an upset stomach, and had fled from the room. It was two hours before he realised she had not returned, and when he had taken a break to go and look for her, he had found her fast asleep on their bed.
Still, he wasn't in the mood to complain about her absence tonight, not when he had finally made a breakthrough. Sinking down into one of the dining room chairs, he lifted his briefcase onto the table and took out the mound of signed—legitimately, this time—paperwork inside.
It had taken three long, exhausting nights out that week, but Felix Lufkin seemed to have taken the bait. After dining on Mackled Malaclaws and steak, and exploring the more exotic shops in Diagon Alley that opened after ten o'clock, talk had opened up about the high possibility of Bartemius becoming the next Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Lufkin had promised to put in a good word with Bagnold for Bartemius to take over his position when he retired, further helping his campaign for the position. Sure, he would no longer have the power to purge Britain of trash by any means necessary, but with luck, this new position would allow him to re-enter the race to become the next Minister for Magic. In addition, it would pave the way for him to influence the affairs of countries all over the world, and in some respects, that was much better.
All he had to do now was master a few more languages and personally convince Bagnold that he was fit for the job, and the position would be his.
Snapping his fingers, he waited for his house-elf to pop into the room.
"What can Winky do for her Master?" the little green elf asked with a bow.
"I'll be in need of a hot meal and several cups of coffee brought in at each half hour," he said, focusing back on the parchment in front of him.
If he had to spend another sleepless night, then so be it; he would do anything to fix his son—that boy's mistakes and regain the power that should have been his.
"Barty, I really think we should talk…"
Bartemius stared out the window, waiting for his barn owl to make an appearance. He had submitted his campaign to Bagnold the day before, and although she hadn't seemed to appreciate his visiting her early on a Saturday morning, she had promised to send her reply by the end of the weekend. If all went according to plan, his nightmare would finally be over.
"Barty?"
"Hmm? What is it?" he asked, glancing at Evangeline.
She was staring at him, her hands nervously tugging at the hem of her robes. Still, her green eyes held a look of determination about them, and he found himself turning to face her properly.
Evangeline swallowed. "I really would like to see Bartemius, and soon."
Trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice and not spoil what was set to be a good day, he sighed. "You know that's not possible."
"Please, Barty, can't you try to get us permission to see him? Surely you have enough power to be able to allow us access to our son?"
Bartemius gritted his teeth.
"It is because of your son that I've lost most of my power, as you very well know," he said, turning to the window. Thankfully, he saw a small silhouette against the sky drawing closer to the house, and his mood lightened. "But thanks to my hard work, that might just change."
He got off the sofa and walked over to the window, opening it just in time for the owl to soar through. He watched as it landed on the table with grace, holding its leg out for him to take the envelope attached to it. His heart thudded against his chest as he snatched it up, eagerly tearing open the seal and devouring its contents.
"Barty, please—"
"Yes! Yes, yes, yes! I knew it!"
Dancing a small jig, he kissed the letter. He had done it; he was now, officially, the new Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.
"What is it, dear?" Evangeline asked.
Bartemius turned to his wife, a grin on his face. "Everything I could've hoped for," he said, eyes shining.
She gave him a small smile, but it didn't seem to reach her eyes. Settling down, he sat back in his chair and watched as she swallowed again.
"I know they'll make an exception," she said, her eyes pleading.
Rolling his eyes, Bartemius shook his head and turned back to his letter to make sure he had read it right. "I still don't have that power—"
"Please, Barty…"
There was something in her voice that made him forget his letter and look up. Or perhaps it was the way he finally noticed that tears were streaming down her face, dripping onto the oak table surface. His job had made him immune to tears, but for some reason, he felt compelled to listen to what she had to say, his grin fading.
"I need to see him."
"It's against his sentence for him to be allowed visitors, you know that. Even if I wanted to—and I'm not saying I do—the Ministry would still refuse me. There are very few exceptions to Azkaban visitation, especially for what he's in for," he said.
Evangeline drew a deep breath, but her teary green eyes remained focused on his. "I know the exceptions, and I know they'll allow us if you ask."
"Oh? And what reason, pray-tell, would that be?" he asked, his lips threatening to draw back into a smile. As silly as his wife was, surely even she knew that maternal sentiments were not considered by the Ministry?
He had to lean forward to catch her response, for she barely whispered it.
"Pardon?" he asked, cupping a hand over his ear.
"I said, they allow death-bed visits, at least for high-ranking officials."
Part of him wished he hadn't asked. The now all-too-familiar tightening of his chest came back, and he stared at her as she took out a tissue and blew her nose.
"They never told me they were performing the kiss…" he said.
His mind raced as he tried to recall any messages regarding a change in his son's sentence, but as far as he knew, none had come. As much as he loathed the boy, there had been a reason he hadn't gone beyond a life sentence. Surely no one would be ruthless enough to change it without his knowledge or consent?
"Barty, look at me…"
Blinking, he focused back on Evangeline, only to see her shaking her head. The tears were still streaming down her face, but it was the pleading within her eyes that killed him.
"It's not the kiss or our son."
"No..."
"Yes," she said, nodding. "I tried to tell you, but you've been so busy with work, and, well, I'm the one who's running out of time now."
There was no malice in her voice, but it didn't stop the guilt from swelling within him. He thought back over the last few months, the little details running together: the constant bills from St Mungo's he had thought were a mistake, her gradual loss of weight, her constant exhaustion...
"H-how long?" he asked, his throat growing dry.
Evangeline smiled at him, reaching across the table for his hand. "Please, Barty, please try to let me see him. Just a quick visit will do."
He stood and leant across the table, grasping her hand in his own shaking one. "I'll try my best."
The motion sent his letter toppling to the ground, but he didn't bother picking it up. He was about to lose something more important than his career, more important than gaining power within the Ministry, and it had taken him too long to realise it.