He tried hard to have a dad, but instead he had a father. Barty was raised in dark times, and his father thought he was the sole guiding light. Never tried to do anything but make messes, kept trying to scare his rebellious son straight. Barty would have none of it.
Teenage angst paid off well for the Dark Lord. Young, pure people who loathed how society was tumbling downhill. Who felt like the only love they could find was in murder and torture. Barty can relate. All he wanted to do was watch the world burn.
He's sitting in a small room, five dementors giving it an intense chill. But his thoughts are far away from pain or sadness. His father will be the self appointed judge—his father may have been a miserable excuse for a dad, but he'll let him off.
Around him are his three companions in the "atrocious" act. Barty believes that the Dark Lord is dead and gone, but, strangely, he liked what he did. His loyalty to the Dark Lord won't fade so easily, and he wants to go out with a bang. He always did.
Bellatrix is smiling. Shivering. But smiling.
He can still feel her rosy lips on his neck.
His mind slips away to the thoughts of the filthy muggles these judges defend and stand by. The hearing filled with people so convinced of the crime. If she floats then she's not a witch as they thought. But Bellatrix will sink like stones are bound to her ankles.
But Barty has something to exploit. His father always gave him whatever he wanted. Never affection, never praise, never any care, but he would grant wishes.
The Dark Lord once mentioned in passing that they had something in common. They both hated their fathers. They both loathed their family name. It bound Barty to him in admiration. For, he knew from that small conversation that the Dark Lord had killed his father, and Barty always dreamt of doing the same.
The door opens and a dementor's clammy, rotten hand seizes his shoulder. Off, off, off we go.
Thirteen years later, Barty's eyes are alight with the chaos. The Quidditch World Cup has been reduced to screams and flames. It reminds him of a golden age that is long gone. He struggles that night harder than he has in years. And he breaks free, boldly, fighting against the motions the curse tries to force him through.
He stumbles through the woods, climbing the hill. Kneeling in the bushes, he stares out at the scene. Harry Potter's wand is clasped in his sweaty hands, and he raises it, pointing to the sky.
"Morsmordre," he says, watching his work unfold before him.
And they fled. Fled like the pathetic weaklings those who run free are.
There is nothing he hates more than a Death Eater who wriggled their way out of the Dark Lord's service.
Serve the servants.
The Unforgivable Curses have always enchanted Barty. He plans to show them to the students, teach them. It's invigorating. He can recall when his father explained them to him—detailing how sick and wrong they were. He, a thirteen year old boy, had walked up the stairs, amused by the lecture, and tortured and killed his pet rabbit.
Is that so perverse? Perhaps.
The Potter boy shows a surprising resilience. It's almost admirable. Perhaps the boy deserved to have lived this long—and Barty knows that he is now instrumental in his worst enemy's return, though Barty isn't sure just how.
But he takes the Dark Lord's word. Despite being unpredictable, Barty always found the Dark Lord undeniably trustworthy. At least, when it came to selfish matters. In fact, Barty always found that he, a mere servant, had that in common. His teenage ego made him care for nothing but himself, and it lasted. He never truly could grow up, though his bones grow and hurt with age.
Serve the servants.
As he's caught and captured, his ultimate demise laid out before him, he realizes just why Bellatrix Lestrange was smiling that day as she faced imprisonment.
Because, ultimately, they have won.
There is nothing he can say that he hasn't thought before.