He wasn't quite sure how he felt about the trial.
Bartemius Crouch Senior stalked up and down his living room. His wife, he knew, was upstairs in bed, sobbing and crying her heart out.
The boy had been wrong.
Bartemius knew he ought to feel pleased that such an important trial had gone so well today. Death Eaters had gone to Azkaban. The world would be safer. His own name would be unblemished now, with his son-
No.
He had no son.
The white-faced boy who had pleaded for mercy was not his son.
The terrified, sobbing boy who had screamed his innocence was not his son.
The boy who had struggled in terror and then fainted as the dementors dragged him away was not his son.
He had no son.
He had no son.
But the sobbing upstairs and his own traitorous heart would not agree.