The journey to Azkaban was grueling. Elsie was already so frail, and the long boat ride across the bitter, harsh sea only served to weaken her further. Standing on the rocky shore of the island, Bartemius Crouch wrapped his cloak around his wife's tiny shoulders. She shivered violently.

The freezing sea spray mingled with the unnatural chill that could only be inspired by thousands of dementors. He felt his insides grow cold and pulled his wife closer, as though he could still protect her. Elsie clutched his arm, and looked up at him. She nodded in response to his unspoken question and, though he could feel her trembling against him, the fear in her eyes was overpowered by her resolve. His heart sank, but he tightened his grip around her shoulders and led her into Azkaban. She would go to the ends of the earth for that boy.

Bartemius Crouch had done everything short of Confunding his wife to convince her not to go through with this. Not only would they be aiding a convicted death eater in escaping from prison, but she wanted to take his place? It was mad. It would be a miracle if he didn't end up in Azkaban himself—though perhaps they'd be cellmates, he thought darkly.

He could have refused her of course, but she never would have forgiven him. He loved her so much. He couldn't deny her this. She had sacrificed so much throughout the course of their marriage, dutifully raising their son while he spent so much of his time at the Ministry. Then, just when it seemed as though all of his hard work would finally pay off—when he was all but guaranteed to be the next Minister for Magic, when he would have finally been able to slow down and come home early, to spend time with his family—the news about their son.

Not just a criminal, not even just a Death Eater—the worst kind of Death Eater. He had tortured those two aurors. Frank and Alice Longbottom.

Barty had been one of the first to arrive at the house. He had seen the chunks of hair ripped from their heads, the carpet so drenched with blood that it appeared black. Had seen Frank and Alice naked on the floor, mouths slack and drooling. Destroyed from hours of the Cruciatus Curse.

He had gone to see Frank and Alice in St. Mungo's, before the trial. He wasn't sure what he had expected to find, but the reality was appalling. The two of them shared a room on the fourth floor—the long-term residents ward. Augusta was there with the young boy, Neville. He couldn't have been more than 2 years old. He could see in her eyes the same question that haunted his own: how could he have raised such a monster?

"It'll be a life sentence for them." He said quietly. "I'm so sorry. I—I wish there were more I could do."

The young boy began crying before Mrs. Longbottom could respond and she busied herself with him, rummaging in her purse for a pacifier. Behind her, Alice stared at the wall while Frank rocked back and forth.

Muttering apologies, Barty ducked into the hall and outside the hospital, where he was violently sick in the flowerbed. "Apparition." He panted, when a young Healer asked if he was alright.

His son had done that. His boy.

It had devastated Elsie. His poor Elsie. Their son was everything to her. He worked so often when Barty was young that she and Winky had practically raised him alone. She had devoted her entire life, only to be left with a fanatical, bloodthirsty son and a husband who had nothing to show for his years of neglect.

Their entire life destroyed in a single moment. All the hours he put in, only to be appointed the head of International Magical Cooperation. All the missed birthdays and late nights at the office, just to watch Cornelius Fudge be made Minister for Magic while his family was ripped apart. He and Elsie had never been whole again.

So, yes, he supposed he could have refused her. ...But not really.

Still, this didn't deter him from doing everything he could to convince her otherwise.

"Elizabeth, I'm begging you to reconsider."

"No."

"Elsie—"

"It's only a matter of time, Barty, you heard what the Healers said. I only have a few weeks left."

"Elsie."

"He'll die in there. Barty, he's our only son and he'll die in that awful place. And you'll be all alone."

Bartemius said nothing.

"At least this way you'll have one of us. Please, Bartemius. For me."

"Very well," he had agreed tightly and left the room, unwilling to let his wife see him crying.

As they approached the bars, Bartemius wrapped a protective arm around his wife as a dementor slid the bars open with a wave of its scabby hand. Holding Barty's hand, Elsie took a tentative step inside their son's cell.

She looked at her husband, horrified. Bartemius stood frozen, the color all but drained from his face. It was painfully clear that their son was near death. He was huddled in the corner of the room, ashen and skinny as a rail. His breathing came in slow, rattling gasps, each one punctuated by a watery cough. His skin was sallow; eyes were swollen with infection. He had a coarse, uneven beard and long greasy hair. His scalp was red and scaly, with patches missing where he had scratched at the sores and lice.

"Mother." he croaked. His voice was hoarse from lack of use. Elsie reached for him, tears streaming down her cheeks. Bartemius pushed her behind him and bent down himself, pulling Barty into a sitting position. His stomach lurched at the smell.

"Father."

The last time Bartemius had seen his son was at his trial. Barty had begged him for mercy—swore that he hadn't done it. His face was white—his eyes were wide with terror. His wife was crying next to him—gasping, heart wrenching sobs. All Bartemius could feel was numb.

"Father, please! I'm your son!" He had screamed up at him.

"I have no son." the words had come out of his mouth as though they belonged to someone else.

Looking down at his feeble, deteriorating son, Barty remembered that day with painful clarity. He had never been able to purge the guilt he felt over sending him to Azkaban. There was nothing he could have done, of course—justice had to be served. The Wizengamot had demanded it and the Longbottoms had earned it. And his son had deserved it.

Looking up at him, he blinked sluggishly, as though trying to work out whether or not they were really there. Bartemius nodded curtly and thrust a small vial of Restorative Draught at his son. His hands were shaking too badly to open it, so Barty, his own hands trembling, waved his wand and uncorked the bottle. His son drank it quietly and sighed, a bit of color returning to his face.

"You've come to say goodbye." Their son managed a small, bitter smile. "It won't be long I expect."

"No. Your mother and I—your mother is very ill. The healers at St. Mungo's do not believe she has much time left. As a final request, she has asked me to free her son. I know I have not been the husband that she deserves, but this final thing I will do for her."

"Breaking the law for your family," Barty Jr. tsked. "What would the Ministry think?"

Bartemius' eyes flashed. "If you think this has not caused me great distress, you are gravely mistaken. I am abandoning every principle and ideal I have worked my entire life to uphold." He hissed. "I cannot believe I am allowing this to happen."

"Well, father. I'm impressed. Putting your family first. Must be hard for you."

"Do not misunderstand me. This is not for you. No matter what personal guilt I have endured because of it, you are exactly where you belong. I am doing this for your mother. She has suffered enough because of your blatant disregard for the— "

"Barty." Her soft hand on his arm quelled his temper. "There's no time."

He knew she was right—if she truly wished to go through with this, they couldn't afford to wait any longer.

"Elizabeth, are you absolutely certain?" His face was pale, his expression grim. "It's not too late, you do not have to do this."

"I'm sure." Her eyes were steadfast and unafraid.

He nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. She reached up and cupped his cheek with her tiny hand, kissing him sweetly on the mouth. "I love you, Barty Crouch."

A strangled noise came from within his chest and he gathered her into his arms. "You are breaking my heart."

Pulling back, she brushed her tears away and took a deep breath, steadying herself.

Bartemius reached into his robes and produced two glass vials of Polyjuice potion and a small box containing several of his wife's hairs. He placed one in the first vial and the mixture turned a pale red, fizzing slightly. He motioned to Barty Jr. and his son plucked a fistful of his own hair and dropped it in the second vial. This one turned a grayish-green and thickened, taking on the color and consistency of lake mud.

Bartemius handed the thin red liquid to his son, who gave it a once-over before downing it all in one gulp. Immediately, his skin began to bubble and contort. His hair lengthened and leached into a dull grey-blonde. His legs and arms shrank but his fingers lengthened. Piano fingers, Bartemius' mother used to say about Elsie.

When the transformation was complete, there were two Mrs. Crouch's in the tiny cell.

Reluctantly, Barty handed his wife the glass filled with their son's essence. She raised her eyes to meet his, fifty years of memories passing between them in a single instant. She stared unblinkingly at him, as if to tell him how much she loved him. He nodded, conveying to her a thousand apologies and unspoken declarations of love in return.

She lifted the vial to her lips and took a drink, nearly choking on the foul potion. Her eyes watered and Barty grimaced. Steeling herself, she held her nose and consumed the rest of it, forcing herself to swallow. She gasped and clutched her stomach, eyes glassy with pain. Her knees buckled and she fell to the floor, gasping. Elsie's transformation, it seemed to Barty, was slower. Perhaps because it was so painful for him to watch the one he loved so much becoming the one who had destroyed their lives. He looked away, unable to bear it.

When it was finished, Elsie Crouch lay crumpled on the grimy stone, now in the body of their son. In the corner, Barty Jr. lay, staring at his father through the eyes of his mother. Barty felt sick.

Elsie got to her feet shakily. He stiffened himself as she walked towards him. There was space between them, but she didn't reach for him. Didn't touch him with their son's hands. Didn't speak with his voice. She only looked at him with his eyes. Her eyes. Their son was born with the same dusky green as Elsie, rather than his father's clear brown. Barty met her gaze resolutely and she was overcome with emotion. Her brave, sad, old Bartemius. She had never loved him more. He, who had sacrificed everything to give her and Barty Jr. a good life. She knew how harsh he was with himself; how he blamed himself for the collapse of their family.

"My sweet Barty." She whispered. "I love you so much."

With a jagged breath, he lifted a hand to his wife's cheek—his son's cheek—stopping short an inch before touching him. Her.

"I love you." His words were thick and garbled with emotion. Words he had thought so many times and spoken far too few. He must have been having a heart attack. He had never felt such physical pain.

Turning from his wife, he looked at his son, still huddled in the corner.

"Come," he said to him, but the boy was too weak to walk—Barty had no other choice but to pick him up and carry him. He couldn't have weighed more that when he was ten years old.

Stepping out of the cell with his son in his arms, he summoned the dementor floating at the end of the hallway. Barty turned away as it glided over to the bars—in part because he was afraid the dementor would somehow sense the exchange, but more than that because he knew he couldn't survive the sight of Elizabeth on the other side of that door.

He heard the reverberating clang of the iron and willed himself to keep walking. He could hear the whispers and screams of the other prisoners as he carried his son in his wife's body through the dark corridors. To the dementors, all was as it should be. They sensed one dying human entering Azkaban, and one dying human leaving. The other prisoners saw Bartemius Crouch entering and leaving Azkaban with his sickly, grief-stricken wife clinging to him. Only three people in the world knew that the frail woman Bartemius carried in his arms was a convicted Death Eater—his only son—executing the first successful escape in the history of Azkaban prison.

Bartemius found himself outside, the winter sky a bright and painful contrast to the gloom of the prison. By the time he reached the shore, his arms trembled from physical exhaustion and heartbreak. He placed his son in the small wooden boat and stepped inside himself, swaying unsteadily. The body of his wife looked up at him with something in those blue eyes that Barty hadn't seen there before. Something hard and…wrong. A darkness. Bartemius looked away sharply, turning his focus to the oars while simultaneously wiping an unwelcome tear from his eye. Wandlessly, he charmed the oars to row them back to the mainland. As the island became smaller, the air grew warmer but, in fact, Barty Crouch would never be warm again.

With one final glance at the black fortress, Bartemius Crouch left the love of his life behind forever.

And he would carry that unnatural chill with him for the rest of his life.