A/N: Hey y'all! This was written for Hogwarts.

Media Studies 4: Write about an important photograph

Word Count: 884

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Those rights go to JK Rowling.

So… this takes place after the war. I sort of have a headcanon that, if the individual can get over the trauma their body has suffered, victims of the Dementor's Kiss can still function. This story deals with the beginning of that emotional journey for Barty Crouch Jr.

WARNINGS: Dementor's Kiss references, general angst

Thanks to Angela for beta'ing :)

Enjoy!

"What's that?"

Barty looked up at the deep voice, caught off guard. He wasn't used to hearing human voices—not unless they were screaming or cackling hollowly. Those were the things he could remember. Beside flashes from Azkaban, his memories were… gone.

He shuddered and looked over at the man who'd spoken. Barty liked this man best, so far. He didn't sound like he wanted anything, or like he hated Barty for something he couldn't remember. He was patient, and kind, and though Barty knew that he wasn't a whole person any longer, this man made him feel like he wasn't so far gone.

Kingsley. Kingsley Shacklebolt. That was his name. Names slipped through Barty's fingers so easily sometimes, like water through cracks in his mind. But he always seemed to be able to grasp Kingsley's.

Barty glanced down at the photograph in his hand, surprised, like he'd forgotten it was there until Kingsley drew attention to it. "A picture. Of my mother, they said."

His voice was flat and quiet. It wasn't expressive. It lacked soul—which, Barty thought, was ironic.

"I see." Kingsley knelt down beside Barty and put a dark hand on his shoulder. The Minister of Magic hesitated. "I'm sure this is difficult for you. There must be things you want to remember."

There were. Who he'd been before, why this woman was important enough to be hidden away in the pocket of his coat, where everything had gone wrong… He was a blank slate.

He wanted a history. He wanted a sense of direction.

But how could he explain all that to Kingsley?

"Do you see me as an experiment?"

The question surprised both of them. Kingsley reeled back, shock written all over his face. "What?"

"Am I just a new discovery of magic to you? The empty shell Healers have discovered isn't quite as empty as everyone had always believed?"

Kingsley's lips thinned. "Of course not. Give me more credit than that, please."

Barty frowned. It had been Kingsley's idea, he knew, to see if the Dementor's Kiss was as destructive as everyone thought. The victims were still alive, after all. There was still a heart beating. Kingsley had wanted to know if saving them was possible.

After months of extensive care that Barty only had the vaguest recollection of, they discovered that it was. He was a living, breathing person, capable of emotions and making memories.

Which led to the next question: what is a soul? What, exactly, had been ripped from Barty?

No one was sure. The Kiss itself was nearly lethal, but living without a soul seemingly wasn't.

Expression, the Healers would murmur as they jotted notes down on their clipboards. Expression is where the trouble is. The emotion is there, trapped.

Barty privately agreed with this assessment. His words were occasionally tinted with anger or hopelessness, but he couldn't seem to find the will to just be open. Sometimes Barty thought his soul was simply his self. Without it, nothing mattered much. He'd lost his motivation.

Kingsley hadn't given up on him though, which confused him more than he was ready to admit.

Kingsley sighed from beside him. Barty shifted on the mattress of the St. Mungo's bed with discomfort—the Minister's concern for him always made him feel like he should be happy, or grateful, or… something. But he just couldn't figure out what he was feeling. Then Kingsley's black eyes met his blue, grounding him. And then the Minister spoke.

"This" —he pointed to the photograph— "is proof that you are part of a family, that there was always something there worth saving. Even when you made… less than favorable choices, you carried her picture around because she meant something to you."

Barty glanced back down at the photograph. His mother was smiling shyly up at him, her straw-colored hair shining in the sunlight.

She made Barty wonder. As far as he knew, he'd done something terrible to warrant the Dementor's Kiss. Did this woman see someone more than the troubled man he must have been? Why had he cared about her so much?

But as much as she was his past, she was also his hope for the future. Could he one day be the son she wanted? Was healing possible?

Kingsley's hand went to cover Barty's. "We decide our own future," he murmured. "What happens next is up to you. But… everyone who is capable of love deserves a second chance."

Barty bit his lip. Maybe Kingsley was right. Maybe all he had to do to begin this journey was believe that he could make it through. This was his path to pave—no one else's.

He looked down at the picture of his mother. She believed in him, once—he could feel it in his bones. It was time to start again, to prove that he was worthy of her blind faith. And maybe along the way, he would find those answers he'd been searching for.

Barty's blue eyes—so empty of emotion before—were now beginning to glean some determination. He looked directly at Kingsley.

"I want to try," he croaked. "I want to try to get better… to be better."

The grin that spread across the other man's face was more than worth the difficulties that were to come. And Barty… he felt ready.