A / N : Another new fic. I know, I know. I'm starting to worry a bit about myself too. But I am at the mercy of my muse. I must write as it commands. ;) That said, if this has anything other than really, properly infrequent updates . . . . punish me, please, because my willpower is just terrible and deserves torturing.

What's to know about this one . . . . hmm. Chapter titles are lyrics from songs in my music library, and I'll post the relevant lyric and song title at the start of each chapter. Do you need to have read my other stories to get this one? No. But seeing as all my stories are inter-related, some little references and things will make more sense if you have. And my characterization of Barty will definitely make a lot more sense to someone who's read one or all of my oneshots about him (English Summer Rain, Therapy, Moment of Clarity.) Erm, the story contains unrequited slash as a subplot (if you've read my oneshot collection Black Holes and Revelations, and you know that the Lestranges feature heavily in this, then you can probably guess where the slash element is coming from. Clue - it's not Rodolphus.) So if that bothers you, you may want to back away. I will never write graphic slash, trust me, because I don't write smut in general, but if you're uncomfortable with the general idea of a man falling in love with another man . . . . . like I said. You may wish to avoid this, it's quite a prominent subplot, and quite central to my characterization of Rabastan . . .

Okay. Well I think that's everything for now. If you are reading, it's lovely to have you. (Even lovelier that I haven't scared you away already with my rambling author's notes. Lol.) Leave me a review if you read it, and let me know what you think, because this is similar in some ways but different in others to what I usually write, and I always appreciate feedback. Though not pointless flames which will probably just confuse or annoy me . . . .

A note on Barty's mother's name – I made it up. I have no idea what Mrs. Crouch's real name might have been, but seeing as this first chapter is mainly her POV, I had to call her something. So I stuck with the name I gave her in English Summer Rain. (For anyone who has read that, this is set seven years later, and one year before Moment of Clarity. So Barty is seventeen, but his thought processes and general behaviour haven't improved much . . . )

That's all. Enjoy.

"The sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead . . . ." - The Sharpest Lives, by My Chemical Romance.

"Wish I knew what you were looking for,

Might have known what you would find . . . . ." - Under The Milky Way, by The Church.

Theresa Crouch had spent seventeen years trying to make sense of her son. She was starting to wonder if she would ever succeed.

"Barty!" she called, knocking, for the tenth time, upon his bedroom door. "If you don't let me in, I'll . . . . I'll have to . . . . well . . . " She hesitated. "I'll have to call your father!" she finished feebly.

To her shock, the door flew open at once. "What would you do that for?" her son snapped, looking exceptionally bad-tempered, even for him.

She flushed.

"You - you wouldn't let me in," she stammered. "I was worried."

Barty stared at her for a moment. Then, abruptly, his scowl disappeared. "I was asleep," he said slowly, as though speaking to someone phenomenally stupid. "I didn't hear you." He yawned and ran a hand through his admittedly rather crumpled looking hair, proving his point. Theresa opened her mouth to apologize, but found she was too slow. He was already talking again. "Are you coming in then?" he asked, perfectly politely, and Theresa found herself swallowing her own apology. He wouldn't listen if she tried to apologize now. It was too late.

Recently, she had begun to wonder if it was too late for a lot of things.

"Why is your bedroom full of fog?" she asked, mystified, as she stepped over the threshold. A strange, mauve-coloured fog hung in the air, making her feel oddly light-headed.

Barty laughed. "Oh, right. Sorry." He pulled out his wand, waved it once, and vanished the fog. "I was making a potion," he explained, smirking a little as he watched her wander around his room, as though he knew she was checking up on him and found it rather amusing.

"I wouldn't touch that, if I were you," he said languidly.

Theresa froze, her hand an inch from the surface of a pale purple potion in a small gold cauldron, which seemed to be the source of the strange fog. "Why not?" she asked apprehensively, frowning at her son.

He laughed. "You like your hand, don't you?" he asked lazily.

Theresa blinked. "Yes, of course."

Barty smiled. There was a smirking edge to it. "Then don't touch it," he repeated patiently.

His mother frowned. "Should you be brewing this?" she asked suspiciously.

Barty shrugged. "Probably not."

"Oh, Barty . . . ." She sighed. "What would your father say?"

Her son scowled again. "I don't think he'd notice. Not unless you tell him. And you won't."

"Won't I?"

Her son smiled at her - an easy, lazy smile. "No. You won't. Because you're special."

Theresa blinked. "I am?"

Part of her knew she was being manipulated, knew she was being weak. Believing her son's careless little lies when she ought to tell her husband the truth. But were they lies, really? Barty was a liar, a troublemaker, and a thief. She knew these things. She wasn't blind, she knew them. But . . . . when he looked at her like that, when he said things like that . . . somehow, she just couldn't not believe him. He really seemed to mean it. And she so wanted it to be true.

Barty was smiling at her now, with something very like affection. "You're special," he repeated. "Aren't you? Because you love me."

As if it were that simple.

He frowned. "Don't you? You're always saying you do."

Theresa sighed. "Of course I love you. You're my son."

Barty laughed. "You're funny," he remarked. "So," - he put the lid back onto the cauldron and and pulled her away from it, pushing her gently but firmly into the window seat and bobbing back on his heels, wearing a cheerful, faintly manic grin. "What did you want?"

"I wanted to know if you'll come tonight," his mother said carefully.

Her son's cheerful smile slipped a little. "I said I would, didn't I?"

"You've said that before," Theresa reminded him. "That Christmas party at the Ministry? You promised me you'd come, darling, and I didn't see you all night."

Barty grinned. "That was ages ago," he said dismissively. "And how do you know I wasn't there? Just because you couldn't see me? That seems like a pretty flimsy excuse to me . . ." He trailed off and sighed. Theresa's expression had betrayed her unhappiness, and he didn't seem to like it. (And her husband said she was wrong for trying to see the best in him . . . . .)

"Will he be there?" Barty demanded, shaking her out of her reverie.

Theresa shut her eyes. "You know he will, darling." She exhaled slowly, and opened her eyes again. "He's your father, Barty. I don't understand why you hate him so much."

"I don't understand why you love him so much," her son retorted. "It's not like even notices you. He probably doesn't even like you."

"Stop it!" Theresa stood up suddenly, a lump in her throat. "That's enough. That's . . . that's a step too far, darling." She swallowed hard, painfully aware of the fact that she had begun to shake.

Barty tilted his head to the side, regarding her. "Why?" he asked blithely. "You know it's true."

Theresa blinked furiously, hating herself for the tears blurring her vision and hating her son's ability to summon them, to tap into her deepest, darkest fears and casually tug them into the light of day. "That's not true, darling," she said tremulously. "It's not. Why would you say that? Why would you be so-" Her voice cracked.

Her son watched her for a moment, watched her attempt to pull herself together with an indifferent eye. Then he sighed.

"Okay."

"Wh – what?"

He rolled his eyes. "I said okay. I'll go to the stupid party, if it means that much to you."

He flinched as she threw her arms around his neck. "Oh Barty!"

"Calm down. It's only a party, Mother. It's not the end of the world. And I was only joking. You worry too much."

"You don't worry enough."

"That's not true." Barty jerked away from his mother's embrace, glaring at her. "I worry about things," he muttered. He turned his wand over in his hands, staring sightlessly at it. "I worry about living my whole life and nothing ever meaning anything, for instance. That kind of thing." There was silence for a beat, while her son stared rather morosely into space, and then he jumped, catching sight of her horrified expression. He flashed her a sudden, dazzling smile. "I'm joking! Joking!" he said quickly. "Oh come on, don't cry about it . . . ."

"I'm not," his mother sniffed. She sighed, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I just don't understand you sometimes, Barty," she said pathetically. "Why do you say these things? You don't mean them."

Her son neither confirmed nor denied this. He simply stared at her, as though she were a rather interesting picture on the front page of the Daily Prophet.

"I – I know you don't mean them," she added uncertainly.

Barty grinned, but the expression didn't quite reach his eyes.

"No," he said softly, still watching her closely. "Of course I don't mean them."

"S – so you'll come? To the party?"

Her son sighed. "You know I don't want to, don't you? You know I'll be bored out of my brain? You know I'll probably spend the whole evening resenting you, or wanting to hex someone?"

Theresa nodded. "But you'll go?" she probed.

Barty rolled his eyes. "The things I do for you," he muttered.

"Oh, Ba-"

"You're not going to try and hug me again, are you?" her son interrupted. "Because I'm standing right next to the window."

His mother blinked. "What does that have to do with anything?" she asked, bewildered.

"I might jump out of it."

It was hard to tell if the sound his mother made in response to this was a laugh, or a sob. Barty watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable.

And then he began to laugh.