Barty Crouch Junior didn't enter my life until my second year at Hogwarts. Before that, my first year had been almost as average as any other witch's.

I could still remember the overwhelming awe I felt when I first saw that great castle with my own eyes. I'd so longed to walk through those magnificent doors and experience the wonders within after hearing my mother's many tales of her own days at Hogwarts. My father, a Muggle who thought nothing could beat the magic of swing dance until he met my mother, a witch whose footsteps lit up like fireworks when she danced with him, loved listening to her stories as much as I did.

The Sorting Hat effortlessly placed me into Ravenclaw, much as my mother expected from my more peculiar quirks. My father, who thought very lightly of the Sorting, sent me a letter suggesting that I should've been placed into Slytherin or Hufflepuff, as those uniform colors would've better complimented my auburn hair. My mother added her own note in the letter encouraging me to fully enjoy my House, as she herself had been a Gryffindor with many Ravenclaw friends.

And so unfolded a starting year at Hogwarts as typical as any. I practiced spells, cheered on my Quidditch team, spent long hours in the library, and learned to play Gobstones with my new friends in the courtyard. It was on that first Christmas, when I stayed at school during the holiday break to enjoy the wintry atmosphere, that I was gifted the toad I'd been begging my parents for ever since I learned students could keep pets in their dorms. White and green spotted with orange specks, he was a distinguished toad whom I immediately named Buff after the title of his species, bufo viridis. I'd felt very clever about that one.

Here you go, Juniper, my mother had written to me, your very own warty boy!

My father had added in his curly scrawl at the bottom of the page, Don't bother kissing him or anything. He doesn't turn into a prince. I already tried. Below that was my mother's more elegant addition, He really did, I watched him.

The only particularly exciting thing about that first school year aside from the arrival of my toad was my tremendous head start in the subject of Potions. This advantage of mine was in large part due to my upbringing in a Muggle-dominant town, where my mother could marvel at my father's non-magical hobbies, and where it was too risky for my mother to demonstrate any kind of magic for me aside from brewing. It was then quite convenient that my mother was an exceptionally gifted potioneer, and she eagerly began teaching me potion theory as early as I'd learned to read.

While I worked hard to learn every other subject of magic, it came as a pleasant surprise to find that I already knew every potion recipe taught in first year, and as such I breezed through with hardly a challenge. Professor Slughorn, who taught the class at that time, took notice, and when I arrived fresh from summer break to begin my second year, he took me aside and offered me a spot in his fourth-year Potions class.

Two years was an awful lot to skip, I thought to myself as Slughorn beamed down at me in his office, and I wasn't sure exactly how far forward my mother's teachings had put me, but even as a child I recognized the rare opportunity this was. So I accepted the offer and, in my second year of Hogwarts, I sat among a class of fourth years while the rest of my studies remained at standard level.

It was in this advanced class that I met Barty Crouch Junior.

At first I didn't recognize him as the son of a Ministry official. To me, he was simply the handsome fourth year Slytherin across the room, with hair the light color of sand, lengthy enough that it often flopped into his eyes. My attention was torn from Slughorn's lectures each time Barty ran a hand through that soft, sandy hair, although I never dared to let him catch me looking. I often hid myself by leaning much more closely to my notes than was necessary.

Barty was older, already tall for his age, and I was an awkward little girl, not yet even a teenager. I'd never felt so nervous from simply risking eye contact with another student. It didn't help that my performance in that class was turning abysmal compared to the rest of my curriculum, which crippled my confidence even further.

Slughorn took me aside one afternoon after my assigned concoction nearly became an acidic nightmare and asked if the advanced class was too difficult for me. Young as I was, I panicked, fearing the disappointment I would no doubt bring not only my professor but also my parents if I couldn't meet the potential they'd all hoped to find in me.

"I might only need a bit of help," I hurriedly proposed. "Perhaps a tutor? Just a couple times a week would be enough, I think."

Slughorn's expression brightened and he buoyantly gripped the lapels of his suit. "Why, Miss Harper, if you think the extra effort won't be too much a strain on you, then I whole-heartedly agree! Did you have anyone in mind?"

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "Barty's quite good at potions." And it was true— he was nearly top of the class, just as he was in every other subject, but even as I spoke the words I found myself regretting them. After all, why would someone like him want anything to do with someone like me?

"Splendid," exclaimed Slughorn. "He is quite good, isn't he? I'll ask him before our next lesson and see if he's up to the task. Now, off you go. It's the weekend, my dear, don't go wasting it!"

Needless to say, I spent the weekend mortified at the idea of how Barty Crouch would react when asked to tutor a twelve-year-old who couldn't keep up with his class. I even considered numerous excuses I could use to get out of the next Potions lesson altogether. They were abandoned on the actual day of the lesson, however, and I trudged to the dungeons, unpacking my cauldron at my usual table and bending closer than ever to my parchment of notes just to avoid any glimpse of Barty.

"So," came his voice from right in front of me, and I jumped.

"Oh!" I cried, looking up and nearly tipping my bottle of ink. Barty was leaning against my desk, elbows on the blacktop, his face level with mine.

"So, I heard you need extra lessons," he continued, his brows slightly raised at my overreaction to his presence.

"Oh," I said, knowing how daft I looked. "Oh. Yes, I— er, Professor Slughorn spoke to you?"

"M'hm. I can do Wednesday and Thursday nights, before dinner. Does that work?"

"Yes," I answered without really knowing if that worked for me or not, though I made a mental note to clear my schedule if I did have anything on those days.

"Great. Professor Slughorn has given me permission to use the classroom, so we can meet here an hour before dinner starts." He began to turn back to his own table, but stopped halfway. "It's Harper, right?"

"Yeah. Juniper works, too."

"Er." Barty frowned. "Is it Harper or Juniper?"

"It's both. I mean, it's Juniper Harper— or June— or just Harper, that's fine, too." I smiled awkwardly and willed myself to stop speaking.

"Right," was all Barty needed to say to effectively end that conversation before he returned to his spot across the room.

I found myself trembling ever so slightly during the course of the lesson after that, and it wasn't until fifteen minutes in that I realized I hadn't heard a word Professor Slughorn was saying about the benefits of using lionfish spines.