"Have you started considering your career options?" his father asks as they sit down for Christmas dinner. "You'll be meeting with Flitwick soon to discuss this. It's best that you have an idea in mind."
Barty shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his father's gaze. He knows exactly what his father has planned for him. He expects Barty to follow in his footsteps, become a slave to the Ministry, and live forever in his father's shadow. He decides to keep silent.
"Barty," his mother says softly, reaching out and touching her son's hand. "Your father asked you a question, dear."
Barty smiles sweetly. "Sorry, Mother. Lost myself in thought," he lies. "What were you saying, Father?"
The elder Barty scowls and mutters something under his breath about daydreamers. "I asked if you've given any thought to what you plan to do after Hogwarts," he says with a sigh, cutting his slice of turkey and watching his son intently. "You'll need a career in mind so that you can start preparing yourself over the next few years."
"I actually fancy the idea of teaching," Barty admits sheepishly, dropping his gaze and staring pointedly at his plate, too nervous to risk seeing the disappointment in his father's eyes. "My marks in Defense are quite good, and I've been helping some of my classmates with-"
"No," his father interrupts. "You're not cut out for teaching, son. Those who can't, teach. That's what they say. And you can. You're better suited for the Ministry, Barty."
His mother sighs. "You asked him a question, dear. He answered. Can't you just-?"
"No," his father repeats, dropping his fist to the table. "That boy knows what's expected of him. You will tell Flitwick that you want a Ministry career, and you'll take the classes needed to obtain a desk job in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I'll get you an internship, and you will take it. Is that understood?"
Barty keeps his gaze down. He wants to argue, but he's never had the nerve to stand up to his father. "Yes, Father," he says quietly, setting his fork and knife on his plate. "May I be excused?"
..
Barty sits at the staff table, eyes wondering over the Great Hall, taking in each and every bright, young student before them. His pupils, the young minds Albus Dumbledore has entrusted him with.
His dreams have come true. He is a professor now, a proper professor as he's always wanted to be. Almost.
Barty starts to smile, but his lips feel stiff. Merlin! When's the last time the miserable old Auror has smiled? It isn't natural for such a simple act to hurt so much.
"Something wrong, Alastor?" Pomona asks softly, looking at him with concern heavy in her eyes.
Barty twists Moody's lips back into a grimace. "Nothing important," he growls. "Old hip isn't what it used to be."
"Must be the rain," she says. "It makes my joints sore, too."
Barty sighs, looking back at the students. His students, but not quite.
When his master had asked him to hide in Hogwarts as a spy, he had jumped at the opportunity to fulfill his old dreams of teaching.
But now, as he sits among the staff, wearing the skin of a paranoid old Auror, he can't help but think that this is not what he'd had in mind all those years ago.