Part Two, Chapter Six

Later that evening, Barty was sat in the living room back at Crouch Manor, staring blankly into the empty fireplace. He was sat slumped back in one of the cream armchairs, and might have appeared bored if he hadn't had such an intense look in his eyes. On the sofa, his mother was curled up reading a book with a blanket draped round her shoulders, and she kept occasionally glancing up to see if he'd moved or maybe his expression had settled into one that didn't seem quite so angry, but the way he was sat hadn't changed at all in the past hour. It was quite obvious to Elizabeth Crouch that something was wrong, but she'd decided not to say anything about it. She thought it would be best to let him be the one who made the decision to speak to her, but so far that hadn't happened. Either he was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he genuinely hadn't noticed the concerned looks she was giving him, or he was choosing to ignore them.

After about an hour she thought she perhaps might say something as she couldn't stand seeing him like that any longer, but then thought that maybe he just needed a little more time and went back to her book.

Time was unlikely to make a difference. There was no way on earth Barty could tell his mother what was really wrong, and that was why he pretended not to notice whenever she glanced over at him with a worried expression. There were just too many thoughts swirling round his head – about his father, about Gwen, about the Death Eaters – and he knew he couldn't share them with anybody. Everything had gone wrong. The only positive thing he could see about the situation was that he hadn't lost the money – they'd never actually reached the stage where Pettigrew had asked for it to be handed over – but Barty thought he wouldn't have minded losing five thousand galleons if it just meant everything could be sorted.

The Dark Lord was gone. Maybe not dead, but most definitely gone, and with him all Barty's hopes and plans for the future had disappeared. He'd thought that it was inevitable that the Death Eaters would win the war, and he'd wanted so badly to be part of the new kind of government that would be put in place. Unlike his father, who'd just be discarded as a relic of the old system and had no place in the new one, Barty had wanted the opportunity to be the one who was important; the one everybody had to pay attention to. But it seemed like that was never going to happen now. He wasn't sure what to do. Was it best for him to try and sever all ties with the Death Eaters now and pretend he never had anything to do with them, just going back to the way life was before? Despite it being an incredibly unappealing prospect he seriously considered it, but then he heard Bellatrix's voice in his head – "You're loyal, aren't you Crouch?" – and he knew that wasn't an option. Yes, he was loyal. He had to be loyal, otherwise what could he say for himself? He was just the insignificant son of Bartemius Crouch Sr., forever doomed to live in his father's shadow, and if he wasn't loyal to this cause now then it only made him a coward who ran away from the chance to prove to the world what he was worth. He had to stay with the Death Eaters and help find their Master: if he didn't then he knew he'd never amount to anything.

But that did nothing to make the situation any easier. It was getting more and more difficult for him to keep secrets, and he'd been forced to lie to Gwen again earlier. Even though he knew it was necessary to prevent himself from being discovered, he didn't like having to do it. He thought she was probably far nicer to him than he deserved and he wished he was able to give her something back, but now he wasn't even able to take her out at the weekend. Other things had got in the way.

At that thought Barty's expression changed ever so slightly to become angrier than ever. Really this was all his father's fault. His father's fault that he had no freedom to do anything without disapproval, that he was forced to work on Saturday in a job he fucking hated, and that he was being spied on by journalists just because he was famous by association. Everything that was making his life difficult right now really came down to his father. Bartemius fucking Crouch Sr.

Barty found himself thinking back to the argument they'd had earlier, shortly after their encounter at Gringotts. Crouch Sr. had refrained from reprimanding him until they'd arrived back in his office at the Ministry, but when it had come it had been worse than ever. The worst part was that he hadn't even shouted. Well, not at first anyway. He'd just quietly asked for Barty to close the door, and when Barty had done so and they were stood facing each other he'd just given him that look – oh yes, that disappointed look – and spoken in the most condescending, patronising tone he could manage, "Would you mind telling me what you were doing at Gringotts, Barty?"

Barty had just glared at him, unable to think what to say. The 'doing something for work' excuse wasn't exactly going to wash with his father, so he just remained silent.

Realising his son wasn't going to say anything, Crouch spoke again. "I'll tell you what I think you were doing, shall I?"

Again, he got nothing but a dirty look in response.

"I think you were seeing that girl again, weren't you?"

Barty bristled. He didn't like being addressed like that, and in particular he hated the way his father referred to Gwen as 'that girl', as if she was something distasteful he'd rather not think about. Admittedly, he was relieved his father hadn't worked out he was involved with the Death Eaters, but he'd never really thought his father had suspected that anyway. If that was the case, he would have been disowned by now and there was no way they'd be having this conversation. "Did you really think I wasn't going to go and see her? Especially with the way things are at the moment?"

Crouch Sr. glared at his son, but managed to keep his voice calm. "The way things are at the moment is exactly the reason you should have been at work, Barty. This isn't the first time you've snuck off to see her either, is it? Don't think I haven't noticed." Even though he wasn't shouting, there was a steely edge to his voice.

When Barty made his reply his tone was just has hard. "Well, I'm sorry father, but unlike you I don't value work to the point where I think it's okay to neglect those I supposedly care about."

Barty noticed his father's knuckles whiten as his hands balled into fists; he was struggling to remain calm. "I don't know how you dare say that, Barty. So you really think I neglect you?"

Of course you do, you bastard, Barty thought. You just try and pretend otherwise. "Well, tell me when was the last time you spent any quality time with me and mother." Crouch Sr. looked like he was about to reply when Barty butted in again, "And I mean before that ridiculously contrived attempt to find out who I was seeing last Sunday. That was just a fucking joke. You don't care about us half as much as you care about your job."

Crouch looked like he was about to explode with rage, but still managed to prevent himself from shouting. "I work because I care about you and your mother. I do this job to protect you from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's followers."

Barty wanted to laugh at the irony of that statement, but it wasn't like it was true anyway. Unlike his father, he made no effort to prevent himself from shouting in his response. "Oh really? Well, what makes you so different from everybody else in the fucking department? They all manage to do their jobs and still get home to see their families from time to time. All this 'protecting us' crap isn't much good to us if we never get to see you, is it? We may as well be fucking next door neighbours for all we matter to you."

Crouch didn't say anything, but instead, just as Barty finished the last sentence, he raised his hand and hit Barty hard round the face. There was a sharp smacking sound as Barty's head snapped violently to the left, and he felt his cheek sting as blood rushed to the area of impact. For a couple of seconds he was too stunned to turn his head again, and instead just stood there breathing heavily. In all the years they'd spent constantly arguing and being at each other's throats, his father had never hit him before. Not once. But now it seemed that Barty had finally overstepped the line.

After a couple of moments of silence Barty finally managed to turn to face his father again, who was still glaring at him with a look of fury in his eyes. "Don't you ever talk to me like that again. Do you understand?" Crouch growled at him, his voice dripping with fury.

Barty wanted to come back with a sarcastic, "Or what? Are you gonna ground me?"but he was still too shocked to say anything. His father repeated the question again in the same dangerous tone. "I said do you understand?"

All Barty could manage was a breathless nod.

His father continued to glare. "Right. Well you are forbidden from seeing that girl again during work time. I don't suppose there's much I can do to stop you seeing her outside of work, but I'll be letting Christine Coulthard know what you've been doing. And John Coulthard as well, next time I see him. Let's just say I don't think they'll look too favourably on yours or their daughter's attitude towards work."

Barty desperately wanted to say something back to prove he hadn't lost the argument, something like, "Go on, I dare you. See if they care," but he still hadn't recovered from the shock of being hit. He didn't think he was able to respond at all.

Crouch seemed to be satisfied that he'd gotten the message through to his son, and gave a dismissive nod. "Right. Get back to work." Crouch turned to walk back behind his desk, and rather dazedly Barty began to make his way towards the exit. Just as he reached the door though, his courage returned.

"So, can mother and I expect to see you at all tonight?" he said, his tone mocking.

Crouch Sr. rounded on his son again and stormed towards him, his expression livid. Instinctively, Barty backed away, scared he was going to be hit again. It occurred to him that maybe he should have held his tongue, but at the same time he quite enjoyed being able to provoke this kind of reaction from his father.

Crouch did indeed look like he was going to hit Barty again, but stopped just a few inches in front of him so Barty was backed up against the door. Finally, his self control had failed and he was shouting. "You know what Barty? Just fuck off. If you care so much about Elizabeth despite the fact you have never done anything to help look after her in your life then just fuck off home. You never do anything bloody useful here anyway." With that, Crouch turned and stormed back off to sit back behind his desk, refusing to look at his son.

Rather timidly, Barty opened the door and walked out silently into the corridor. The office was soundproofed for security purposes so none of the department staff had heard what had gone off inside, but if they saw Barty on his way out they most definitely noticed his shocked and depleted demeanour. Barty didn't care: he wasn't paying attention to them. Instead, all he could think about was he father's final words to him. That had hurt. For one thing, he'd provoked his father into telling him to fuck off, and that was unheard of. For Bartemius Crouch Sr. to use that kind of language he must have been angry beyond words. But that hadn't been what had hurt most though. It hadn't even been the accusation that he was bloody useless when it came to work. What had hurt most was the accusation that he'd never done anything to help look after his mother in his life.

It didn't hurt because it was a lie. It hurt because it was true.

And now he was doing it again. Sat in the living room with he sick mother on the sofa opposite, ignoring her because he just didn't think he could stand to talk to her. Because he couldn't stand to feel dependent on her, couldn't stand to care about her when he knew he was going to lose her.

At last, he let his eyes flicker towards where she sat curled up on the sofa with her book as he let the guilt wash over him. As he noticed she was looking at him, his gaze flickered down again. He didn't want to talk, but he supposed there was no avoiding it now.

"Barty?" Her tone was concerned.

"Mother?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." It was a stupid answer and he knew it, but he still didn't want to talk about things.

"Barty." She said his name in a way that showed she knew he was lying, but at the same time was gentle and motherly.

He sighed. He thought he should tell her something, but there was just so much going on right now that he didn't want her to know about. "Well…" he began, thinking about what he could say, "I wanted to take Gwen out to the opera on Saturday, but I'm not going to be able to now and I feel bad about having to cancel on her."

His mother nodded understandingly. "Well, is she mad at you for having to cancel?"

"No, she was…fine. Very understanding about it."

"Well, in that case I'm sure you could take her out some other time."

Barty was grateful that his mother seemed to be showing a genuine interest in him, but at the same time he wished she wouldn't get involved at all. It made everything so much more complicated. "I know, but she seemed really keen to go out this week."

"Well, maybe I could have a word with your father, see if he'll let you have time off this weekend…"

"No." Barty cut her off rather abruptly. "It's fine, mum. Just please don't bring him into this."

Elizabeth sighed. "I wish you could try and be more understanding when it comes to your father, Barty. He really isn't as bad as you think."

Barty shook his head. She just didn't get it at all. "It's not as simple as that."

She studied him as she tried to work out what he was thinking, and as usual came to the right conclusion. "Has something happened at work?"

Barty really wished she didn't have that uncanny ability to work out exactly what was the matter with him. Whenever he was in one of his moods she could usually work out very quickly what was the reason for it, and once again she'd correctly figured out that something had gone off between him and this father. However, he wished she'd stay out of it. He didn't want to drag her into the argument. "No, mother, nothing. Everything's fine at work."

She quite clearly didn't believe him. "Barty, please…" she seemed to be pleading with him to tell her what was wrong, but then there was the sound of someone arriving in the fireplace in the entrance hall, and Barty glanced over his shoulder towards the doorway where he was expecting his father to appear any minute. "You know what, mum? Just forget it," he said as he got up out of his seat and stormed out of the room. He didn't glance back at her on his way out of the living room, nor did he glance at his father as he barged past him on the way to the stairs. All he wanted was to be left alone right now, and somehow he didn't think his father would care if he disappeared for the rest of the evening.