For Amber.
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"Bartemius Crouch," said the minister in what could have been a calm voice. Barty flinched; Bartemius was the name of his father – despite carrying the name, he was never fond of the man. Bartemius Crouch was long dead. Barty, as well, but he hadn't yet had the chance to remove himself from the mortal world. Fudge noticed Barty's flinch, and his look became poisonous. "Thought you'd get away with your schemes, didn't you?" he spat, voice like ice.
"The joke's on you though, isn't it, Fudge? You can kill me, I don't care anymore. I welcome death!"
"Then you're in luck, aren't you, Crouch? 'A fate worse than death,' they call it." Cornelius' face was a mix of fear and apathy. A dementor swooped in drearily behind him, reinstating the bone-chilling sensation Barty so desperately hoped he had finished with after leaving Azkaban.
It was over before he knew it, but unfortunately for him, nothing was over yet. Maybe it would never end. He prayed to gods he didn't believe in that it would be over.
…
"Father," he scoffed, following his namesake, unrecognizable in his current guise.
Barty Crouch Sr. turned around at the noise, catching sight of Alastor Moody. Barty looked out through his eyes, catching his father gripping his wand protectively, as though the twig could save him now.
Somehow, they both knew it would be too late for him.
"I have no father. I never have."
Muttering the curse he had heard many times before, he watched hungrily as the light left his elder's eyes. Performing quick magic before anyone could come across him, he transfigured his father into a bone, easily buried and disregarded.
For once, it wasn't his father who was ignoring him.
…
"Bet you didn't expect him to chuck you in here too, did 'ya, Crouch? Thought ol' Daddy would protect you."
Barty worked to ignore the calls from those in the cells around him. He tried to force his breathing to remain steady, but he found it harder than it should have been. He moved quietly, shaking slightly, towards the bed – if it could be called a bed – in the corner of the cell, steadily lowering himself to lay on it.
"Turns out," voices continued. Who was speaking, he wasn't sure. Barty couldn't bring himself to care enough to find out. Breathe in, breathe out, he repeated to himself. "He hates you just as much as he hates us. Disappointed, Crouch…"
Barty didn't bother to tell them how his father had never truly cared for him. He'd given up on that battle ages ago, and he wasn't about to let it come back to haunt him. Not here; here, he needed to cling to whatever shred of sanity he could muster up. He couldn't succumb to their taunts, even if he could see the blatant truth in it all.
…
"You are no son of mine! I have no son!" His father's words rang out in the courtroom, sounding more final than the sentence itself had.
Barty had always known that his father could easily think of a list of other things to do before he would spend time with his son. Early on, he'd learned to accept the coldness. Barty knew nothing different, and was content to grow closer to his mother than try to bring his father around.
Dementors held him firmly by the arms, taking him away. Shooting his father a last spiteful look, then turning one of pleading onto his mother, he allowed himself to be taken from a world that once held his freedom.
And to think at one point, he was naïve enough to believe that his father would put family before work.
…
"I thought Father wasn't working today, Mum," Barty remarked. He hadn't learned his father's work schedule, though there had been no need. Barty Crouch Sr. was devoted to his work, and was hardly home if he could avoid it.
"He got called in early this morning. Urgent, apparently." He noticed his mother roll her eyes. "Ready to go?"
"I suppose," Barty muttered in reply, taking his mother's arm as they disapparated.
The street of Diagon Alley was, as usual around this time, bustling with shoppers, many of whom were Hogwarts-aged, picking up necessary supplies for the upcoming year. Barty, about to begin his first year, was familiar with the old shops lining the cobblestone, but that didn't stop him eyeing them in awe.
His mother took out the list of books and equipment from her bag, making sure they had gotten everything they needed on their last trip. "Alright. All we need now is to stop by Ollivander's. C'mon." She took his hand, leading him through the crowd to the small wand shop.
After doing business with the wand maker, they left, Barty unsure whether to be happy because he finally got his wand, or disappointed that his father wasn't able to share the moment with him. They had put off getting it from their last visit because of Barty Sr.'s work, but they were running out of time, with August nearly come and gone.
…
Mrs. Crouch sat on a bed in St. Mungo's, holding her newborn son in her arms. The door swung open, her husband entering the room, looking as though he had many other things on his mind but felt obliged to come despite that.
"I didn't think you'd even show up," she muttered coldly, not sparing him a glance as she fussed over her child.
"It was—"
"Busy at the office, I know," she said exasperatedly. "I've heard it a million times before. I thought that perhaps this day would be a bit more important to you." She spat the words at him.
He didn't respond, but drew closer to his wife and son. She continued, "I decided to name him Bartemius. Barty. After you. Bartemius Crouch."
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Written for the Gift-Giving Extravaganza (April) and the Represent that Character Challenge, but mostly for the darling Amber. I love you, and hope you enjoyed!