Positively Imperfect

by poetanddidntknowit34

Barty Crouch Jr. is crazy. But only because his father made him that way.

Positively Imperfect

"Father, look." Bartemius Crouch Jr. pushed the door to his father's study open a smidge. Bartemius Crouch Sr. was bent over the paperwork he'd brought home from the Ministry that night, and he didn't look up when his 15 year-old son entered, "I got my O.W.L. results today. I think you'll be pleased." Barty held out the paper for his father to look at, but the man didn't move from his paperwork, "I got six Outstandings and one Exceeds Expectations."

"Only six? That's not seven, son." Crouch Sr. didn't look up from his paper work as he criticized his only son.

Barty's smile faded slowly; he knew that this would be the reaction he would get from his father, "But it's better than 90% of my class!"

"But as common as the other 10%. Now, please, I'm trying to get some work done." Crouch Sr. still did not look up as he waved his son out of the study.

Barty walked gloomily up the stairs to his room; his feet felt like they were made of lead as they went from stair to stair. His small room was at the end of the long hallway and when Barty stepped inside, he dropped to the floor in front of the closed door. The white walls of the room mocked him; the color of purity and perfection. That's all his father wanted out of him; pure perfection. And if he couldn't deliver that, than his father wouldn't look twice at him.

Barty stood and walked to the mirror above his dresser. Staring back at him was a pale face with a pointed chin and a skinny body clothed in a sharp, brown suit. He pulled the suit jacket off quickly; how he longed to wear something comfy, like jeans or a t-shirt. But, no. Image is everything to Father and Barty owned nothing but suits. He pulled on his tie until it hung askew around his neck and he kept glaring at his reflection, brown eyes piercing brown eyes. Finally, his eyes flicked to his gelled back brunette hair.

Seeing the perfection of the hairstyle made him angry and he ran his fingers through it several times, until the locks stood up in strange places and the gel was almost all gone. Barty placed his hands on his dresser and tried not to scream. Perfect, perfect. He HAD TO BE PERFECT. The words kept ringing through his head, "I failed." He whispered, before he angrily swatted the objects off his dresser. They hit the floor with a clattered thud.

He stormed around the room, picking up anything he could find and throwing it. He knew his dad wouldn't bother coming upstairs to inspect the noise, because he had paper work to do. Barty pulled his shirt off fast, as if it if burned him, and ripped the sleeve in doing so. He threw it on the ground and kicked it as hard as he could manage. Barty didn't know what to do with himself, so he just grabbed a handful of his hair and paced back and forth across his room. Finally, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like a madman, and as soon as he saw himself in that state, he snapped out of his mood. It was as if someone had flipped the reasoning switch on in his head and he realized that his behavior was very much imperfect.

He found a new shirt and put it on, then fixed his hair and sat on his bed, breathing hard. He'd never done anything like that before, so why now? Why was he so angry all of a sudden? After all, it was HIS fault that his grades were bad, so why was he mad at Father? Barty lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. He had a headache and he was emotionally wiped from his outburst. As his mind slipped into sleep, the word kept singing through his subconscious; getting louder and louder and threatening to swallow him whole. Perfect.

Barty sat on the end of the bed in his Slytherin dorm room, trying to make sense of it all. The girl. Why couldn't he stop thinking about her? There was something about her that drove his thoughts right in her direction. She was so… imperfect. Father would hate it if Barty became friends with her. She was the opposite of Crouch; with her stringy black curls, heavy-lidded eyes, and all black clothing. She spoke of revolution; a time when all mudbloods and muggles would be put in their place. A time when her master would show the world where they really belong. Bellatrix Black spoke words that intrigued the mind of Barty Crouch Jr.

What if this man, this 'Lord Voldemort', succeeded? What if he defeated the world and conquered it? And what if Barty was right there for it all? It would be the ultimate in imperfect. But what would Father say? What would he say if he found out that his son was helping the enemy of the public? He would be angry; angry that Barty had joined the 'wrong side', angry that he was 'tainting the Crouch name', angry that Barty was so unlike him. But Barty could never be perfect like his father, for perfection, as Barty had quickly found out as a teenager, isn't a hereditary trait.

Barty stood to pace his room; there was an important decision to make. If he played the good boy and stayed patient servant to his father's side, then his failure would just become greater each day. His failure to be like his father, failure to be all that was expected out of him, failure to be perfect. But if he left that life behind and became the opposite of who Father wanted him to be, maybe he could be perfect at something else. To finally succeed in something other than failing.

Graduation from the perfection of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was only a week away, and Bellatrix kept telling those who would listen that Voldemort was recruiting from Hogwarts, and any graduating seventh years would be gladly welcome. Did he dare go? Yes. Yes he did. He would be a servant of the Dark Lord and he would be the best. If he couldn't be the ultimate in perfect for his father, then he would be the ultimate in imperfect for Lord Voldemort.

"Well, well. What do we have here?" The man who stood in front of Barty spoke in a calm, smooth voice that never wavered, and never portrayed emotion. His brunette hair stayed out of the way of those piercing steel grey eyes; almost as if it was as afraid of the man as everyone else in the forest clearing was. Barty was on his knees in the middle of the circle of Death Eaters and wanna-be Death Eaters. He'd heard Bellatrix telling some other Slytherins that initiation was that night and he'd made his final decision to attend at the last minute. But as soon as he had been spotted, he'd been thrown to the center and forced to the ground. Now, Lord Voldemort circled him threateningly, and Barty tried not to shiver; the power that radiated off him was incredible. "The son of a Ministry official?" Voldemort hissed and the circle laughed as The Dark Lord placed the heel of his shoe into the middle of Barty's back and pushed. Barty hit the dust of the forest floor with a muffled thud and his teeth bit down hard on his lip, causing his mouth to fill with blood. He spat out the red, iron-tasting liquid and tried to push himself up on his elbows, "Been sent here to trap us? Following Daddy's orders and spying on us?"

"No, I—" Barty tried again to push himself up, but was hit in the back of the head by a flung Death Eater mask. The cold steel of the mask hit his skull like a freight train and the world spun in front of him. He whipped his throbbing head to the side to see who had thrown the mask, and stars danced in slow motion in front of his eyes. But he forced the black pupils set into deep brown irises to hone in on his attacker.

Lucius Malfoy, his classmate and dorm mate of seven years was laughing haughtily at the success of his throw; his bride-to-be, Narcissa, tentatively joining in. None of the other 17 year-old Death Eater hopefuls were laughing, though; they were all staring at Barty, waiting to see what he would do next.

Barty considered whipping his wand out and performing a few Unforgivables; after all, none of the people here knew how skilled he was in the Dark Arts and in dueling. But, the time to kill Malfoy was not now, so Barty did nothing. He just stood and straightened his suit; the blasted outfit was becoming more embarrassing every day, but it was all he owned, "Actually," He put on his 'collected and indifferent' face, "I'm here to join."

This time, Voldemort was the one to laugh first, "You? Join us? Ha!" The circle joined him in mocking Barty's decision to be a Death Eater and Barty just stared straight ahead. To kill them all would prove useless, "Isn't that decision a bit extreme?" The Dark Lord held out his arms grandly to the circle, encouraging them to laugh some more. "Very, un-Crouch like?" He looked over his shoulder at Barty.

Barty snapped his head in Voldemort's direction, "Maybe that's the point!" He snapped, a fire burning behind his eyes that he was sure The Dark Lord could see.

Voldemort lowered his arms and raised his eyebrows, "Oh I see. Be careful, everyone," He said with fake grandeur and caution, "I seem to have struck a nerve with that one."

Barty narrowed his eyes at the next stream of laughter that trickled past his ear drums. A brave Death Eater named Frederick Matthews stepped forward to stare Barty down face-to-face, "Why do you think we'd want a Ministry brat like you?"

Barty couldn't take it anymore; he whipped his wand out and trained it on Matthews, "Say that again, I dare you." Barty's wand spouted red sparks threateningly.

Matthews obviously didn't want to push his luck, so he backed up slowly, but Lucius, however, did want to try Barty's patience, "BRAT!" He yelled, and laughed at his bravery.

Barty spun around, quick as lightening, and yelled, "Avada Kedavra!" A jet of green light shot out of Barty's wand and would've hit Lucius square in the face if Narcissa hadn't have pushed him out of the way.

The whole clearing went silent; no one moved, no one breathed. Barty regretted his action immediately. Surely attempting to kill recruits won't earn trust from these people. He closed his eyes and waited for another blow to hit his trembling body. But nothing came. He opened his eyes to see The Dark Lord looking at him curiously, "Hmm… You have some fight in you. Lots of fight and lots of," He came closer to Barty to look him in the eye, "Potential."

Barty refused to break eye contact with Voldemort, "I want to help your cause, that's the only reason I'm here. I don't take orders from my father or anyone else at the Ministry, for that matter. I only wish to follow you and whatever orders you give me."

The Dark Lord smiled and clapped Barty on the back, "Everyone, take a page from young Barty's book. Take orders from me and me alone, and you'll live to see tomorrow." Barty smiled. He had just taken a large leap through the ranks, and he knew it. Everything was going perfectly according to plan.

"Hey Barty," Bellatrix Black came up behind Barty, who'd been keeping watch in the foyer of the Riddle House, and ran a delicate finger across his thin shoulder blades.

The feel of her fingers through his black leather trench coat made him cringe. She didn't take her fingers off him as she circled around to face him; her black fingernails pressed lightly into his chest, "Bellatrix, I don't know how many times I have to tell you," He caught her slender, fish-netted wrist as it reached for the untidy locks of brown hair that hung in Barty's eyes, "Don't touch me."

Bellatrix narrowed her dark eyes and yanked her wrist out of his grip, "The Dark Lord wishes to speak with you." Her voice had an icy chill to it that hadn't been there a few minutes ago. She spun on her black stilettos and stomped away.

Barty rolled his eyes; the only reason she flirted with him was the power aspect. It had taken him a year, but Barty was finally Voldemort's right-hand man, and if Bellatrix got into Barty's good graces, then she'd be in Voldemort's and virtually untouchable. But Barty preferred to stay out of the company of women, especially the women his father continued to send his way. The vixens would be his downfall.

The Riddle House, which was the current residence of the Death Eaters and their master, was large with dim lighting and several winding corridors. Barty's coat flapped around the ankles of his jeans as he walked. The coat was his most favorite possession, and he'd stolen it, too. A muggle skin-head had decided to jump Barty in an alley one day recently and had soon found out that that decision had been a mistake. The police had found the mugger dead in the alley and without his trench coat a few hours after the attack. Now, the leather was magically fitted to Barty's thin fame and it trailed behind him grandly everywhere he walked.

The Dark Lord was in one of the studies at the end of the hallway furthest from the foyer, and when Barty entered, the lights were off and a fire was burning behind the desk. Voldemort looked up from the pensive that sat on the desk in front of him, "Ah, Barty, good. Have a seat." He gestured to the chair in front of the desk and Barty sat down.

"You wished to speak to me, my Lord?"

"Yes." Voldemort stood and looked into the flames of the fire, "Barty, you are my most loyal follower, and I find that interesting, considering your past." Barty winced; he hated when anyone brought up that he's the son of a Ministry worker, "But I also find it believable and convenient."

"What do you mean?" Barty itched to go and stand by his master, but resisted, keeping still and subservient.

"See, you and I," He turned to face Barty now, "Are more alike than you think. Both with disappointing fathers, both with the misfortune of having their names, both headed for the same fate: conquest."

Barty smirked, "Yes, my Lord, we are headed for conquest."

The Dark Lord became silent, as if phrasing his next statement carefully, "How long have you known I'm a half-blood?"

Barty's smirk faded; he didn't expect Voldemort to find out he knew, for he was sure he would die over the secret, "A while."

"And do you care?"

"No."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, "But you have such a strong disposition against them, Bartemius."

Barty didn't know what Voldemort's goal in this conversation was, so he chose his words carefully, "As you said, we are alike. I have disowned my father, just as you have disowned yours. Our mothers' blood is all that matters anymore, making us both pure-bloods. Pure-blood and perfect; the only kind of wizard who should be allowed to practice magic."

Voldemort considered this answer for a moment before saying, "Good boy." Barty heaved a mental sigh of relief; he'd answered right. This time.

The Dark Lord looked as if he was about to say something more, but before he could, Severus Snape burst through the door to the study, "My Lord!" He exclaimed, "There's a prophecy. It tells of a boy to be born at the end of July who will be your downfall; the son of an Order member."

Voldemort smiled evilly, "Then we must find the boy, and I must kill him while he's still a baby. Then I will be unstoppable." He whisked from the room and Barty stood to follow him. The master's servant forever by his side, and forever willing to do the impossible for him. He'd found his place in the world, and that place was inside the ultimate imperfect; evil.

Barty Crouch Jr. was sitting on the top stoop of the Riddle House, leaning his head on the railing and enjoying the cool July air. His arms hung in a relaxed manner over the knees of his dark jeans and his chest rose steadily under his black t-shirt. The other Death Eaters always scoffed behind his back about the muggle attire he always wore, but he didn't care; for once in his life, he was comfortable.

Barty lifted his face to the stars that shone bright in the sky. His mother used to tell him that stars were the gods watching over mankind, and he'd always dreamed of going up to see them all, but Barty no longer believed the old fairy tale. He had outgrown faith in anything other than himself a long time ago. He watched a shooting star blaze across the blackness before returning his gaze to the road. He was dutifully awaiting the return of his lord and master, who would Apparate back any moment now triumphant in his goal to kill the Potter boy. And Barty would be the first to greet and to congratulate him, per usual.

The faint 'pop' of Apparation echoed through the night-time air and Barty sat taller. But it wasn't The Dark Lord who had appeared on the street, it was Lucius Malfoy. How Barty hated that man; he was arrogant, spoiled, and not very loyal, and if there was one way to get on Barty's bad side, it was disloyalty. Lucius hurried through the gate and up the drive to the house; a determined look on his face. Barty casually stretched his long, lanky legs out across the top stoop and placed his arms casually behind his head. Lucius looked like he was in a hurry, so why not slow him up a bit? "What's up, blondie?"

Lucius just tried to step over his legs and when Barty raised his knees in an effort to trip him, he got frustrated, "Barty, you idiot! Move! The Dark Lord is dead and we're all going down with him if we don't get moving!"

Lucius tried to open the door to the house, but Barty shot up like a rocket and slammed it closed again; cornering Lucius on the porch, "What did you say?" He said through gritted teeth. If this was a joke, Lucius would die; Barty never had time for jokes and certainly he had no time for selfish brats like Malfoy.

"The Dark Lord fell; something happened at the Potters and he's dead. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get out of here before the Ministry arrives." Lucius pushed past him and ran like hell through the house to try and collect everything he owned or could commandeer before the Ministry showed up.

Barty ran in after him to try to figure out what to do; maybe all of the Death Eaters could band together and fight the Ministry. Then they could all go out and find Lord Voldemort, because Barty did not believe he was gone. Surely the most influential and powerful man alive would not get beat by a baby and its ginger mudblood mother. But when Barty got into the house, all his hopes of banning together against the Ministry were shattered. Death Eaters were running everywhere trying to collect their things and shouting phrases like, "We're going to Azkaban!" and "We're going to die!"

Barty was angered by this reaction; how could they call themselves followers of his master when they would not be willing to go to Azkaban for him? "HEY!" Barty yelled over the noise, but no one stopped to listen to him. Before he could even compose the rest of the sentence, half the Death Eaters had fled from the house. Barty ran back outside and when he reached the lawn, Ministry workers were Apparating onto the property from all directions.

There was mass chaos on the lawn; a blur of masks and robes and spells. Barty pulled out his wand, determined to take down the first Ministry worker he saw, but before he could go after one, a pack of terrified Death Eaters ran past him; knocking him into a bush. Inside the bush as well was Narcissa Black; her blue eyes shone with terror and she clung to Barty and soon as he landed beside her, "Please don't leave me alone! I don't want to go to Azkaban!"

Barty tried his best to pry the eighteen year-old off of him, but he wasn't succeeding; she had a death-grip on his torso, "Let go of me, Narcissa!" She obeyed, "God, what's with you Black women and your need to touch?" He inched away from her and tried to position his body to jump the next enemy to walk by, "Why are you even in here? Where's Lucius?"

"I don't know." She looked like she was going to cry, "We got separated."

Barty didn't seem to hear her; he was starting to uncoil his hamstrings to leap out at the Auror in front of the bush. But Narcissa grabbed his arm and prevented him from revealing their hiding spot, "What are you doing?" Barty hissed coldly at the platinum blond that still held his arm fast.

"You can't go! What if you get thrown in prison?" She looked genuinely concerned.

"I would go anywhere, even Azkaban, for my Lord. Unlike the coward you're dating. He was the first to run." Barty yanked his arm away from Narcissa and repositioned himself to strike again.

"But if you go to jail, you can't look for him. I know you don't believe he's gone, and I know Bella, Rodolphus, and Rabstan don't believe either. You can look all look together, and find him."

Barty considered this, and slowly lowered himself to the ground from his squatting position, "Fine." Narcissa heaved a sigh of relief as he sat down next to her, "Why do you care if I go to Azkaban or not?"

"Because," Narcissa whispered; the lawn had grown silent and the only sound was from the Aurors and Ministry department heads scouring the house for any other criminals, "I admire your courage, but I also value the lives of everyone around me. And sometimes I think I value your life more than you do; and that can lead to stupidity."

Barty just stared at his old and frayed black boots; he didn't know what to say to that. But he was saved from having to answer as Narcissa grabbed his arm again in shock. He shot her a glare and she released him, but pointed soundlessly out of the bush. Bartemius Crouch Sr. was talking to an Auror just outside of their bush, "How many were captured?" His father's mustache twitched as he talked.

"Only a few, sir. But they all say they have names for us, in return for a possible appeal." The young Auror replied.

"Excellent, thank you, Alastor." The Auror left Barty's dad alone in front of the bush and Barty had the overwhelming urge to jump out of the bush at his father. Barty had been living in the Riddle House for a month and a half, and his father had not once asked him where he was or what he was doing. The only letters he got were from his mother who was looking for him, and if he did get one from Father, it was just because Mum had forced him into it. Narcissa must've sensed what Barty wanted to do, because once Barty had positioned himself to strike, she held him back and shook her head no. The look in her eyes said, 'don't be stupid'.

Crouch Sr. had heard the bush rustling and he turned around to look at it. Barty tried his best to remain still and shrink into the shadows, but he was sure he was going to be caught. He slowly drew his wand and looked into the face of the man he once called 'father'. Crouch Sr. got closer to the bush and he reached out to pull the branch that concealed his son away, but before he could, Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, called him over to the street. Barty's father straightened up and walked briskly away while his son glared at his back with brown eyes identical to his own.

Narcissa finally stopped holding her breath and whispered, "Where will you go now, Barty?"

"I don't know." Barty said, not taking his eyes off his dad, "I'll probably have to move back in with him." He made a disgusted face and sat back down on the ground, "This is great." The sarcasm in his voice was thick and obvious, "Perfect. Just perfect."

The moonlight was casting long shadows across Barty's bedroom floor and the March breeze was blowing the delicate black curtains away from the open balcony windows. Barty was lying on his back and staring up at his ceiling; he'd never been so bored in his life as he had been for the past eight months. As soon as he'd come home, his mother began doting on him again and his father crammed him back into his suits and Barty had been forced to hide his favorite outfit under his bed. Now it was midnight and he still couldn't sleep. He'd searched for Voldemort all throughout the fall and winter months, and now that the spring was coming, he was more determined not to give up, as all the other Death Eaters had. All except, of course, the Lestranges. Bellatrix had gotten married to Rodolphus shortly after The Dark Lord had fallen and the couple sometimes met up with Barty and Rabastan to follow up on a lead; a lead that always turned up nothing. Barty refused to give up, however. He would find his master if it was the last thing he did.

As Barty stared at the ceiling of his pure white room, he absent-mindedly ran his fingers over the Dark Mark on his left forearm; the magical mark had lightened immensely since Voldemort's fall, but its faint outline still brought him comfort. He was about to give up on sleep and go read through the files in his father's study about the still-running trials of the Death Eaters again, when he heard his name through the open doors to the balcony, "Barty!" The voice hissed a second time.

Barty ran out on the balcony and looked down. Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband and brother-in-law were staring up at Barty from the ground, "What, Bella?" Barty whispered back.

"Get down here, you skinny daddy's boy!"

Barty vaulted over the edge of the balcony and landed cat-like on the ground in front of his companions, "Don't call me that, frizz-head."

"Whatever," Bella rolled her eyes and looked Barty up and down, "Jeez, Barty, you look like hell."

He looked at his reflection in the windows of the house to see what she meant. He looked the same as when he'd woke up this morning; an ash-grey suit with a red tie, and his hair slicked back like normal, "You're right." He agreed and pulled his suit jacket off. He tossed it into a near-by bush, loosened his tie, and then turned on his hair. He stuck his slender fingers through the sticky brown locks until it reached skyward in weird directions, and then unbuttoned the top two buttons on his dress shirt, "Better?" He looked like someone who'd just escaped a mental facility, but everyone around agreed he looked much better, "Where are we going?" They'd never gotten a lead this late at night before.

"You'll see." Rabastan Lestrange smiled evilly and held out his arm for side-along Apparation.

Barty took a hold of the outstretched limb and was enveloped in blackness that threatened to suffocate him. But as soon as it had begun, the suffocating feeling was gone and Barty was standing outside a cottage in the country, "Why are we here?"

But no one said anything; the three family members just walked to the front door and went inside. Barty followed eagerly; thriving off the energy of the mystery. The cottage was small, poorly lit and had only one room. The room was empty except for a clock mounted to the wall; its ticking the only noise that rested on Barty's eardrums. Before he could ask what they were doing for a third time, Bellatrix turned to Rabastan and said, "Ok, bring them in."

Rabastan nodded and went out the back door, "Barty, this could be our best lead ever. And if not," Rodolphus shrugged, "It'll be fun anyway."

Rabastan came back into the room dragging a young couple behind him. Barty recognized the couple from the several times when his dad had dragged him against his will through the Ministry in hopes that Barty would wish to work there someday; the bound and gagged figures were the Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom, "Take out the gag." Bellatrix instructed.

Rabastan pulled the cloths out of their mouths and as soon as Frank could speak, he started yelling, "Let us go, you stupid pranksters! This isn't funny! This is a horrible joke!"

Rodolphus let out a high, cruel laugh, "You wish this was a joke." He got down on the floor to look Frank in the eyes, "This is your worst nightmare realized."

"Crucio!" Bellatrix yelled and Alice screamed in pain; her whole body convulsed under the pain from the spell.

Barty crossed his arms and tried to look stony; he'd seen people be killed and he'd killed people himself, but he'd never seen some one being tortured before. While Alice was screaming and Frank was pleading for the gang of Death Eaters to release them, Rodolphus didn't even flinch, "What happened the night Voldemort fell?"

Barty knew where this was going now, and he pulled his wand out; trying to look threatening. But he knew a 19 year-old Ministry official's son wasn't the scariest thing on the planet. Bellatrix let up on her curse and Alice lay still, "Please," She panted through her tears, "We know as much as you do. Everyone who was there who would remember is dead."

"The Dark Lord is NOT dead," Rabastan spat and cast the Cruciatus Curse on Alice again. The woman's screams threatened to force Barty to look away. The clock on the wall was ticking louder now, and the noise was syncing in with the beat of his heart. Tick tock, tick tock.

Alice stopped screaming and Rabastan got down eye level with her, "Want to try again?"

Alice fell silent and put her bound hands to her face. Frank tried to inch his way over to his wife, but his ankles were tied too tight, "Let us go, you monsters!" he yelled, but his bravery only earned him a bout of pain from Rodolphus's wand. Alice's screams joined her husband's as Bellatrix attacked her again. Both the Aurors were screaming themselves hoarse as the torture continued.

But Barty could only hear the clock as he watched the two souls writhed in pain on the dusty floor in front of him. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

Finally, Rodolphus and Bellatrix let up again. Frank tried again to get to his wife, but couldn't move from all the pain he was in. So he turned to face his torturers. Rodolphus went to stand next to his wife and as soon as he'd cleared from Frank's line of sight, Mr. Longbottom saw Barty, "Barty, thank God! Help us!"

It was hard to hear Frank over the ticking of the clock and Barty had concentrate to understand what he was saying. When Barty didn't answer, Bellatrix interjected, "Why would he help you? He's on our side."

"Is that true?" Alice looked up at the young brunette who was working hard to keep his composure.

"Of course it's true!" Rabastan laughed, "Barty was Voldemort's favorite before he went missing."

"Why?" Frank asked, "Barty, I knew you as a kid. You were such a good kid."

Barty didn't take his stony stare off of Frank. Silence fell across the room, leaving only the ticking clock. Ticking louder still and drumming hard inside Barty's head; tick tock, tick tock.

Alice spoke again, "What about your dad? Won't he be disappointed when he finds out?"

"Barty," Bellatrix said in an arrogant voice, "Are you going to let them sit there and tell you about your life and your family?"

Barty kept his steely gaze as he lifted his wand steadily and spoke in an even voice, "Crucio." The ticking drowned out all other noise as his spell hit both Aurors at the same time and forced them to scream louder than they had so far. The ticking grew louder and louder and Barty became transfixed on the hypnotic sound, forgetting what he was doing, until the ticking suddenly stopped and he felt like a different person. He lowered his wand and the couple on the floor lay completely still.

Rodolphus hurried over to the couple and inspected them. Both were staring blankly ahead; looking, but not seeing, "What's your name?" He asked Frank, but Frank's response was just a garbled mess of letters and sounds.

"Barty," Rabastan kneeled down in front of Alice, who was as responsive as her husband, "You drove them to insanity."

"Good." Barty said matter-of-factly. His tongue shot out of the corner of his mouth and Barty didn't even care to try to figure out why. He just let this new person he was be whatever it wanted to be, "No one speaks to me about my father like they know him. No one knows what a monster he really is." Barty turned on the spot and Disapparated. When the blackness let up again, he was standing in his bedroom in full view of his mirror.

There were dark circles under his eyes and his tongue shot out the corner of his mouth twice. He stormed over to his mirror and stared himself down, "No one knows what monster lives inside Father, but I know. Oh, I know. The perfection monster lives inside him, but not me. Never inside me. I have my own monster and he is my friend. Imperfection. Imperfection is my friend and I have mastered it. Take that, Father. Your perfect family tree has an imperfect branch."

Barty was hunched over his morning breakfast and refused to talk to his parents, just like every other morning since the birth of the imperfection monster. But this particular morning, his mother refused to accept her son's stony silence, "Dear," She came over and wrapped a delicate arm around her son, "What's wrong with you? You haven't said a word for months."

Barty ignored her like always, but she refused to give up and turned to his father for help, "Bartemius take your son to work today. He needs to get out of the house and maybe seeing the hearing of Igor Kakaroff will help bring him out of this state."

Barty's dad just shrugged, "Fine. Barty, go get dressed."

Barty shot him a glare over his shoulder; a glare his father couldn't see through the Daily prophet, "I am dressed." He had on a simple brown suit and his hair was done exactly as his father always wanted it.

His father looked up, "No you're not. We're going to an important trial. Do better." He went back to his paper.

Barty stood up silently and went upstairs. Of course his outfit wasn't perfect; it never was the first time out. He stared into his closet for only a few short seconds before pulling out a dark blue suit with a maroon vest and matching tie. Surely this would be acceptable; after all, it used to be his father's.

Twenty minutes later, Barty was seated silently in the crowd of people who were all eagerly waiting to hear the names that Kakaroff had to offer. Barty smirked to himself; he hoped Kakaroff got no appeal. He hoped that man went straight back into Azkaban. Igor Kakaroff had been one of the first to flee on the night that Voldemort fell, and now he was snitching on his fellow Mark bearers; it was disgraceful. Barty touched his left forearm lightly and smiled. A Death Eater was seated completely undetected in the Ministry; and it was excellent.

"Igor Kakaroff," Barty's father began the trial, "You have been brought from Azkaban at your own request to present evidence to this council. Should your testimony prove consequential, the council may be prepared to order your immediate release. Until such time, you remain in the council's eyes, a convicted Death Eater. Do you accept these terms?"

"I do." Kakaroff said gravely. Barty suppressed the urge to yell out at the traitor; to make him feel shameful of his betrayal to the cause.

"What do you wish to present?" Crouch Sr. looked through the paperwork in front of him as he spoke.

"Names." Kakaroff spoke through the bars of the cage he was being held in, "I have names for the council."

"Here it comes." Barty mumbled to himself, and he slid down in his chair slightly and inspected his perfectly manicured fingernails; spacing out and ignoring the treacherous act unraveling before him.

He hadn't completely zoned out, however, because he tuned back in when Kakaroff was yelling about not wanting to go back to Azkaban, "No, no please! I have one more! The name! I know for a fact that this person participated in the capture, and torture of the Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom!"

Barty took that as his cue to leave. He stood slowly and tried to casually leave the court room as fast as he could, "What's the name?" Crouch Sr. demanded.

"BARTY CROUCH!" Igor Kakaroff yelled; causing the crowd to gasp and Barty to freeze in his tracks, "Junior." Kakaroff finished, and suddenly, all eyes were on Barty.

And he took that as his cue to run. Barty took off towards the door, but was caught in mid-jump by a stunning spell from Alastor Moody. He hit a stack of paperwork and fell to the floor with a thump. Ministry Officials and Aurors dragged him up and he began to yell, "Get off me! Get your hands off me!" The officials dragged him to face his father, the last man on earth he wanted to see right then, "Hello father." His tongue flicked out a couple times and he tried not to laugh out loud at the shock on his father's face.

"You are not my son," Crouch Sr. said in a monotone voice, "I have no son."

Barty tried to lash out at his dad but the officials held him back and drug him, screaming and thrashing from the room. Of course his father chose that moment to deny his son; he'd wanted to do it since the day Barty was born, and now he got what he wanted. No more Barty and no more shame of the imperfection. Barty managed to kick over stacks and stacks of paper as he was dragged off to Azkaban and before the doors to the courtroom slammed behind him, he managed to yell, "It's not like you loved me anyway!"

Barty caught a glimpse of his father's shocked face before the courtroom doors were shut and Barty went limp in the Aurors' arms. The officials had to put more effort forth to drag the tall frame through the halls, but at least he wasn't trying to escape anymore. A cell awaited him in Azkaban and his loyalty and refusal to deny his master would be rewarded eventually. Bartemius Crouch Jr. was finally who he wanted to be. He was positively imperfect.