A Barty Crouch Junior one-shot, based on my other fic, The Girl In Blue.
This, following what I've set up at the end of Chapter 6 (Audrey married with a daughter), is the result of listening to Sometime around Midnight by Airborne Toxic Event, driving home from work. So, thus, I don't own the song from which the title got its name, and I don't own Harry Potter. I own Audrey, Sean, and Hannah.
Somewhere after Half-Blood Prince, but before Deathly Hallows. Gets a bit ramblely, but whatever.
The bar was usually fairly empty by now, the lull between the club-hoppers and the people getting drunk to drown their sorrows. It was late enough to be called 'morning' but the sun was far from peeking over the horizon.
Smoke had settled into the room hours before. He thought that the walls had just breathed it in like the Muggles did, holding and then releasing when the time was just right, creating an ever-present haze in the room.
He found the smell of tobacco foul and nasty. The coughs coming from some of them was enough to turn whatever appetite he had anymore.
The brown-haired man had taken his usual stool at the Muggle establishment and had not moved from it for some hours. There was something strange about Muggle places like these, having the television blaring or the music playing. He came here because he was sick of looking over his shoulder all the time. Worrying if he'll be caught again. And these times were just like they were before. He wouldn't end up in Azkaban again before the Dark Lord completed his plans.
The lights above, dim, made the haze of smoke slightly blue. As if setting the mood, causing depressing thoughts, forcing patrons to drink more than they would in daylight.
But they weren't the reason his thoughts we plagued with her.
Audrey Edinhardt. No, Kavanagh. She was Audrey Kavanagh now.
She'd never be Audrey Crouch.
When he had been under the cloak, fighting the Imperius, he'd catch headlines. Skeeter outdid herself, talking about the famous tragic tale of a woman almost-marrying a Death Eater. How sad for a woman to be caught up in his little escapades.
But Audrey had known. She'd figured it out. Never told him no. Never stopped him. She'd saved him, on more than one occasion. Beautiful woman.
He had never deserved her. A part of him always knew she was too good for him. He was a snake. A lying, deceitful snake who did not deserve a woman like Audrey.
Oh, hell, now his thoughts had gone to rot. Too much alcohol again. His thoughts would begin to spiral out of control and he'd drink more in hopes of getting rid of them.
There wasn't much chatter, only a large box in a corner playing some slow, moody song. If the lighting didn't catch the mood enough, the music did. It was a perfect mix.
The conversation that began, just under the level of the music, was started by a voice he knew too well. All too well. A voice that had asked him to dance with her, gently soothed him while he writhed in pain, yelled at him, cried his name in a way only her husband would hear now.
"I hope Hannah's alright. It was wonderful of your mother to insist on watching her, but…"
"She's fine. They're both fine. Bear's probably keeping look-out, like always."
"Lazy but loyal."
"Exactly."
He dared turn in the direction of her voice. Her hair, longer than he remembered, was twisted into a bun that spat out stray ends in every direction. She was in a dress, fancy; they must have come from an event of some kind. Still in blue, the kind that off-set her husband's eyes. She looked well, healthy. He couldn't tell she had a child.
The man across from her, with a lilting Irish accent, had his hair styled just enough, a square jaw. A businessman. In the end, she'd married a man who was focused and vicious in the boardroom, and probably not so much in the bedroom. Or maybe he was, but Barty didn't want to think about that.
He didn't know him. Never did. He was a wizard; the way he held his coat to him, to make sure his wand was still in the inside pocket.
Barty missed her. Not on the primal level, although that certainly played a part. Audrey had accepted him, no matter his decision. She was there, always.
Except now. Playing trophy wife to a man that wasn't him. Or maybe he was the trophy husband, Merlin knew Audrey was accomplished in her career.
Her green eyes darted in his general direction; she felt as if she was being watched, and she was. He turned his head, focusing on the half-empty glass in front of him. The hour wore on, and he heard them converse about their child, a daughter, and laugh about private matters that occurred only between them. She wasn't really drinking; he saw a beer or two sat in front of her. Her husband was the same. They were casually drinking.
The kind that came with social outings. They had no purpose in getting drunk off their asses.
The man had taken her hand in a bought of silence, holding it as if it were porcelain. Her husband kissed it, and Barty had a surge of memory, remembering what she smelled like the first time they met. What her skin felt like during their first time, soft and smooth. He could feel the ghost of her lips on his, reaching up to capture him.
He was caught staring, although he had been looking through them, not at them.
Audrey's eyes brought so much more back to him. It was unbearable. Absolutely unbearable. The guilt, the self-hate, the sadness came back all at once as his dark brown eyes met her bright green ones. His stomach shifted violently, as if threatening to rid itself of all the alcohol he'd consumed.
She'd tensed and the man noticed, brow furled in concern for his wife.
Audrey had given a fake smile, and shook her head. She'd claim she was fine. But she couldn't look in his direction. She unfastened the bangs on that side of her face and hung them just so in order to cover her peripheral vision.
How like her. She'd done that twenty-something years ago in school.
He looked at the amber liquid in front of him, and threw the rest of it back. The burning he felt was an attempt to purge the pain wracking his body. His heart was of its own volition, beating to something that was supposed to be his pulse. He wanted to cry out, break down. He'd let her down, he'd let himself down. He'd gotten into something that he wouldn't be able to get out of unless he was dead.
It was supposed to be him with her, right now. He was supposed to be her husband, it was he who was supposed to share her bed and hear his name in her voice. Him who comforted her, who encouraged her, who made her laugh the way only he could.
He heard her comment about getting home to see her daughter, the split image of her mother. He knew. He had seen the little girl once.
It was like she wanted him to see her as they left. He had to follow her voice, just to have it in his head once more. Their eyes met as she followed her husband up the steps and back into the streets of London.
They held no anger. Shock, a hint of sadness and longing. No pity. She'd never pity him. He wanted it that way.
He nodded, his face revealing none of the pain, the anger knotting his stomach.
She turned away, walking to the dark night.
He'd left her alone all these years. It would be too much for him to see what she'd done with herself. Had he not chosen the path he had, things would have been so different. So, so different.
But he made his bed, and he had laid in it. If everything went well in July, she would end up among the masses in the Ministry, dead.
No. He couldn't let that happen. He loved her enough to let her have her own life, and he wouldn't let that happened to her. Not when she had a daughter to raise. It wouldn't be fair.
But life was never fair. He'd figured that out long ago. It wasn't fair his father was never around, it wasn't fair his mother had been ill. It wasn't fair for her to trade places with him, but she had done it willingly.
The barman had placed another drink in front of him, the last one before closing.
"To you, Audrey. Hope you've had a nice life." He raised the glass, and then frowned a bit before taking a huge gulp.
Audrey sat at the campfire, tossing leaves in and watching them burn up instantly.
In the book at her feet, there was a scrap of parchment. Messy hand-writing, the kind that comes from not having written in a while.
Do not go in to work. Take your family, pack your things, and head to the country.
I know it means nothing now, but I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you in any way.
Stay safe.
B. C.
She knew who it was from. Sean did too. The initials were a dead giveaway, but he said nothing. Sean simply kissed her forehead and went into the tent after they pitched it.
He'd done an act that, while it would never redeem him in her eyes, made her grateful towards him. He'd saved her life. Protected her daughter from losing her mother. He cared still, after all these years.
She recalled her words that morning in June, that he loved her enough to let her go. But he still loved her, and thus cared, hence the hasty letter.
She took it out from the pages of her book, and looked at it. Audrey was tempted to throw it into the fire, leave no evidence.
She sighed, placing it back among the pages of the novel. Casting Aguamenti, she put out the fire and entered the tent, prepared to live out another war.