It's a long one. Brace yourself

I woke up the next morning exhausted. My dreams had been vicious, though I could not remember what they were even about, and my bed just didn't seem comfortable at all.

It was Tuesday. As I stretched out on the bed, my limbs and back cracking like I was ninety, I considered not going to Azkaban today. It seemed like a hassle. Yesterday had been awful and I did not want to go back to that. I hated him right now. Now, in the morning, I recognized how truly bipolar I had seemed. I was laughing and then ready to tear his head off. He had tried to be careful. Regardless, I did not feel up to flying out there and staying to sit in physically heavy tension.

How rude that would be, though. I would just not show up? He was expecting me. It's not like I could fetch some parchment and write him a letter. I doubted that would go over very well. But I truly had no way of alerting him.

I recalled him saying something about the time. I had been sticking to an earlier time every day. But perhaps I could push it off until later. Yes, that would do.

Today, I decided I would take a little trip to Muggle London. I decided, to feel better, I would buy myself a new book.

It was not as busy as I might have hoped it would be on the streets. It was Tueday. Most people were still at their regular jobs. I smiled, thinking of their regular Muggle jobs and their regular Muggle lives.

For a while, I thought it was going to join them. The scars the War had left made me consider snapping my wand and hiding forever in the Muggle world. It would have been easy. I even tried it for a few days. Nevertheless, I always knew somewhere in my consciousness that I would go mad having to accept the Muggle ways of doing things.

Then it became inconvenient when I would wave my hand in an attempt to do magic I was used to doing in everyday life only to accidentally knock out a light bulb with the little dose of wandless magic it produced.

I went to the little corner book store, hoping to find some rare gem of Muggle fiction. Perhaps something I had never read before that had long since been on my list of "Books to Read Before I Die", a list I kept somewhere in my flat.

Walking into the book store (called "Book Soul"), I was immersed in the scent. I smiled; I loved that smell more than anything in the world. It was peaceful in the worst of times.

I scoured the shelves for something to stand out. Someone once said "you can't judge a book by its cover", but a cover said a lot about its contents. If it was a quirky teen novel, there would be some girl standing in an awkward position on the front. With sports books, you'd have some close up on a piece of equipment or part of the uniform. If it was a romance, you would see two people on it. I was quick to steer clear of the covers with any sort of Vampirism indicator.

I started going farther back, towards the corner, trailing my fingers over the spines of them. I was in the more classic book area. I could tell by the simplistic way the title was. It was written across the binding, rather than written along it, so that one wouldn't have to tilt their head to read it. The books were darker colors with the lettering in gold. Some of the tomes were a bit aged. I took a few out to see them and try to access their contents. I liked classic books for the gamble. There was no summary on the back or in the inside flap. There was nothing to warn you of what was to come. It was so exciting.

Then a book caught my eye and, unlike the others, there was no denying what it was. I could see the figure on the spine: a man with a magnifying glass, his head donned with a deerstalker. I smiled. The game was on.

"Just this, please."

The book store owner gave me a look before leaning forward on his stool. He peered up at me through his glasses, "Sherlock Holmes? Both of them?"

"Why not have all of the writings?"

I hadn't the slightest idea why he seemed to be judging me so harshly. He scanned the two bulky books and placed them in a paper bag.

These will make me feel better, I thought as I walked back into the wind of the London street. It wasn't a mindless book choice; the content was surely to be invigorating. It would keep my brain going while allowing me to get lost in the world of Holmes and Watson.

I spent the afternoon reading both "A Study in Scarlet" and "The Sign of Four", and then opted to go back and read "A Study in Scarlet" again. I was so sufficiently lost, giggling at Watson as he berated Holmes for not caring about the solar system, that I was completely flabbergasted to look up and discover that it was dark outside.

All my effort is forgetting reality was wasted as my adventure in deduction came to a grinding halt and I remembered where I was not.

My breath hitched; what now? Did I go see him? Should I just not even bother?

It only took a few minutes to decide. It had begun raining and I did not feel like going through all of the effort it took to fly over the water and sneak into the prison.

Guilt seeped in: he was expecting me. He had been expecting me, probably wondering where I was. It appeared as though nothing else happened during his day. Crouch would be waiting on me to arrive.

Then again, our last meeting had been quite an upsetting one. It also wasn't as if I owed him anything. In fact, I owed him nothing. He owed me the lives of my friends and mentors and countless others who had died because of his actions.

Perhaps he expected me to stay away. Maybe he thought I would never return.

But I would; I had to. I had to know why he was alive.

He had teased me with the possibility that he had been allowed to live. But even that was shrouded in mystery. It's not as if he had been specific on the details. He had mentioned Fudge; of course, a blunder from him was nothing surprising. Had he allowed Crouch to live? Why would he? It seemed completely barmy.

But I would find out eventually. For tonight, sleep was in order.

The next morning saw a bright sunny day, which I knew instantly because I had forgotten to close the curtains last night. I groaned, rolling over, to discover my body was dreadfully sore.

Suddenly, I realized I was not alone in the room.

I screamed and jumped out of bed, grabbing my wand and pointing it, only to realize how foolish I was being.

A patronus sat on my bed, a badger, looking at me. It cocked its head to the side and, for some reason, I instantly knew whose it was.

"Hermione," Crouch's voice came out from the badger's mouth, "I surely hope you didn't think I would let you get away with that. Only six days in and you are already skipping out on me—tsk tsk Ms. Granger. I am sure I'll see you bright and early tomorrow. Well, today, as you'll already be asleep. Just thought you should know, I get another question now. Try to remember not to cancel our date without telling me, or next time, I'll have my friend here apparate you to my location without a moment's thought. Good morning, Hermione. I'll see you soon."

Just like that, the badger vanished, and I roared as I turned my wand to the wall and blasted it, disappointed that it didn't leave a hole, or anything. It was just a black mark, quickly repaired with a lazy wave of my wand.

He had to die. I didn't care about anything anymore. Yesterday, he had practically said that he didn't care about the people that had died. He was selfish, wallowing in the misery of his imprisonment. Now, he had used a patronus to invade my home. He had completely disregarded all social norms and scolded me like a child for missing our appointment. He'd also called it a date.

I tried to be rational for a moment, and the instant I did, I realized an astonishing fact: Crouch had sent a patronus to my home using wandless magic.

Who was this man? How did he do that? I knew Dumbledore had been able to do wandless magic but, like most, was more powerful with his wand. What did that mean? Barty, for one, had been able to send a patronus at all. According to what had been found after the war, Snape had been the only Death Eater to be able to produce a patronus; except, that wasn't true at all now because I had evidence that there was at least one other Death Eater. For a brief moment, I wondered what he thought of when casting.

Then I went back to what he had just done and was, again, flabbergasted. How much magic had that taken? How long had the little silvery badger been there? It had also relayed so much. And he'd done it all from his cell. How had no one noticed that either?

That made up my mind. Off to Azkaban.

Crouch was sitting there, that irritating little smile on his face, obviously aware that I would be on my way.

"Verum Dolere," I stalked at him, going right up to his bed, and pulled out my wand. The smile never faded from his face, even as he moved back against the wall to avoid getting stabbed by my wand. I stopped when my shins hit his bed frame and my wand was on his chest. It was awkward, but only for him, and his pain didn't bother me.

"Well, hello," he said, trying to be seductive. He obviously didn't realize, of all the times, this was not the day to cross me.

"No games," I ordered through clenched teeth, "how did you send a patronus to my house without being caught and for so long?"

He rolled his head back to let it set against the wall, giving me a beautifully clear shot at his throat, "That was quite the multi-layered question. Should that not count as more than one?"

I glared at him fiercely and poked my wand right under his chin, like he had that first day. Except this time, I had no hesitation in killing him. He sensed my rage and held his hands up.

"All right, all right, I sent the patronus to you through means you already know. It's difficult, but it's not impossible. I gave it instructions to wait until you were awake and standing to speak. Then I just waited until I got the alert that it had faded."

"I'm going to need more than that," I told him.

"What more?"

"Like how you managed to not get caught sending me a patronus in the dark of night. Those things tend to be a bit luminous."

"Not if you do it right."

I did not alter my expression, but inside I was floundering in confusion, "What do you mean?"

"Now that's two extra," he informed me, "I am under no obligation to share any more regarding this subject." He lowered his head, staring at me to make sure I understood. I nodded, one quick short nod, and waited.

"I've had years to perfect it," he explained, "part of that was learning to dim the partronus itself. It took me three years of fairly consistent practicing. I can only keep it dim for about ten minutes, but luckily that gets it far enough away from Azkaban that it will not attract any notice." He smiled softly, "I feel bad for Muggles; they always think it's a shooting star, don't they?"

I blushed; it had been one of the worst things I had learned as a witch: the shooting stars, the ones I had wished on repeatedly when I was a little girl, were actually someone's patronus flying through the air. Even in school, when science had explained them, I was not convinced. When I was forced to face the reality of it just being a patronus, I felt loss.

"Now, I would appreciate it if you would lower your wand," he requested.

Poignantly, I complied, keeping my eyes fixed on his in a battle of wills. Finally, I realized the closeness was uncalled for and turned away from him. I took two steps before the table and chairs appeared in front of me. I looked back at him. He had lost his playful grin, but instead had a very serious look about him. I took a deep breath and sat in my usual chair.

Two meetings in a row of absolute fury towards him. I needed to breathe. I needed to relax. This was surely unhealthy.

We stayed like that, me breathing and him waiting, for what seemed like twenty minutes.

"My turn?" he asked tentatively.

"Why not?" I sighed and took a drink of my tea.

"What are your parents like?"

It was a fairly straightforward question, and frankly one I shouldn't take offence to. Already being on edge, however, made me unnaturally hostile and I couldn't help but feel threatened.

"They were like everyone else's parents," I shrugged.

"Not to you," he pointed out.

"Maybe not," I spun my cuppa, turning the handle to left before turning it back, "they were good for me. They kept me honest, encouraged hard work, and loyalty. Both of them are dentists, which is rather tedious I suppose, but it made a very nice living. We went to church every Sunday together—then again, we did everything together: there were a lot of lovely family vacations. I remember, to reward me for how I was doing in school, they took me to this rather nice water park. My mother was absolutely in love with it, of course. She's always had a thing for water, despite how my father would taint its magic by pointing out the potential for germs and the like. My father is a practical man. Apparently, he was extremely anti-social when my mother met him at university. But she saw something in him and drew him out of it. Now they're the regular suburban dream of people, constantly donating to charities and church and keeping their grass cut just right. I lived very simply before I got my letter. They still live that way, only occasionally interrupted by current lifestyle."

Crouch smirked at me, "Sounds horribly boring."

I let a smile slip, possibly happier because I was thinking about my childhood, "A little bit. Except that time they took me to Disneyworld."

"In America?"

I giggled, "Obviously."

"The most magical place on earth," he mused.

"It really was when I was growing up."

"Did learning about magic…ruin it for you?"

"Yes," I told him, knowing there was no point in lying, "it did. Then again, it opened me to a world I had never even dreamed of. Sure, Disneyworld became something I could replicate with a few spells, but Hogwarts made Disneyworld seem like…like…" I struggled to find the right analogy.

"A second-rate, local carnival?"

"Yes!" I agreed, a little too excitedly.

"So it wasn't a total loss."

"Not entirely. I lost my childhood magic, but gained so much more."

He grinned, "You look so happy right now."

I just smiled back, "Don't think for a second that I'm not prepared to kill you."

Crouch narrowed his eyes, but kept smirking at me. We exchanged terrifying, happy smiles for a few moments. Both of us probably looked insane, me threatening to kill him and him daring me to do it, no words spoken but intents clear.

"It's my turn now," I pointed out.

"Yes, your personal question."

I had had an idea of what I was going to ask him, but then I remembered a fleeting thought earlier and curiosity overwhelmed me.

"What do you think of when you cast a patronus?"

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than his resolve fell. His face went from his overconfident smirk to one of complete fear. I felt victorious for a moment.

"I don't want to share that."

My mouth dropped, "Excuse me?"

"I am not going to tell you." He said, using a firmer form of his previous sentence.

"Ah, yes you are. You don't get to not tell me. I've never refused a question of yours."

"There's a first time for everything," he replied, promptly standing up. He waved his hand and the table and his chair disappeared. He gave me a warning look, so I stood up. The chair vanished instantly.

"No, you cannot do that."

"I say we get the option to not answer."

"No! Absolutely not!"

"Hermione, I am not answering this." He turned to face me, hands on his hips like a snotty school girl, but his face was stern.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to!"

"Not good enough!"

"Too personal."

"Crouch!"

"Fine!" He yelled at me. He took several moments before he spoke again, "I think of a time in school."

I went to challenge his vague answer, but I didn't need to. He was suddenly shrieking in pain, a quick yelp, and he held his neck. I raised my eyebrow, smiling.

"Do you, now?"

Crouch tried to regain his composure, then spoke again, "I think…of my childhood."

He shrieked again and held onto his elbow.

"Your childhood?" I mocked.

He turned his gaze towards me, his face soft and his eyes looking like melted chocolate, "Does that count as another question?" he said breathily.

I groaned and stood up, annoyed with him, but suddenly there was a hand on mine. I froze, moving only my head to look at my hand. His fingers were barely touching the back of my hand, but they might as well have been clinging desperately. My breath faltered and I turned my gaze to his. Again, his eyes were sweet, but his face looked like a child pleading for forgiveness. I sat back down.

"I didn't want to tell you what I thought of to create a patronus," he confessed, "it…is not something I like talking about, even admitting it to myself."

"Why?"

"Because it hurts."

For the third time, we spent a few moments just gazing at each other, but this time it was utter sadness. Finally, he spoke, looking back to the ground—my eyes never left his face.

"The memory that produces the most powerful patronus, and the one I have been using for the past several years, is the last memory of my mother that I have. It's her face. It's her face the moment after she told my father, resolutely, that she would not let her beloved son die in this prison. My father had been so shocked when she brought out the two batches of polyjuice potion. He had been awestruck. I had been, too. She looked me in the eyes and told me her plan, and I knew it would work, but I was practically inconsolable. My mother, my dear mother, was dying and she wanted to spend her last days taking my place in this godforsaken hell hole," Crouch's voice cracked, but he continued, "I just remember her face, just communicating all the love in her heart, when she told me and my father that, despite everything I had done, she still loved me and that she wanted to give me a second chance. Hell knows I didn't deserve it. I didn't deserve anything. I still don't. But my mother loved me, and that is all that will ever matter."

He kept his face neutral, but I could feel his sorrow pouring off him, "I think I use that as a patronus so I never forget that, while I am complete shit, my mother loved me. She sacrificed her last moments of life, when she could have been travelling the world, rotting away in a cell. The worst part is…here I am…again. She did all of that, and I ended up back in here. Because of my anger towards my father. There are only two good things that have come from it. One, I have grown up exponentially since I've been stuck here. That happens when you have nothing to do but think. Two, I can visit my mum now. That's why I use that memory. I send my patronus down to her grave on the grounds and let it visit her at night. No one sees it; it's too far away to be noticed. But I can feel her when my patronus is down there. It's like I can feel her soul. It's like she's still here, watching over me. That thought alone keeps me alive. I want to, one day, leave here and start over, even if it means a Muggle style life. I'd do it. I want to make her proud."

He met my eyes, "I know it seemed like I was being selfish last time, talking about my own suffering. But it's not that. I know what I did. I paved the way for the agony of hundreds if not thousands of people. It is my fault he came back, and I will never forgive myself. But sometimes, in the really dark times, I get upset that my plans were messed up because then I wouldn't be here. I would not be disappointing my mother again. I would not be back to the place she fought so hard to get me out of. Sure, I might still be a psychopathic murderer, but sometimes it seems better than being absolutely nothing."

Two minutes passed. I could hardly breathe. I felt small lines of wetness on my cheeks, and I realized that I had started crying softly. He seemed to be fighting back the tears, which did not surprise me.

I was so conflicted. This is the man who was responsible for the death of so many people, and yet I could barely hang on to that thought. Like Barty had done earlier, I was desperately clinging to my hatred of him. I was failing miserably, my grip slipping. I stood up, keeping my back to him. I tried to get my breathing back to normal. I wiped my cheeks and then turned to him.

His eyes met mine and any words I thought about saying were gone. I had no idea what to do now. I had wanted to thank him for telling me, but thanking wasn't enough. Instead, I leaned down and gently kissed his cheek. I heard him inhale sharply, his body going rigid with shock. That was completely acceptable, because I was just as shocked at myself.

I stood back up straight and then pivoted, leaving his cell. Just before the door slid shut, I heard him. He choked out a sob, and then I could make out the sound of his incredible, gut-wrenching cries. I got to my broom and apparated as soon as I could, breaking down the moment my feet touched my carpet. I pushed myself far enough to get to my bed. I let myself cry until sleep took me.

Barty Crouch Jr was more complicated than I ever could have imagined. And it hurt so much.