Trigger warnings: Any heavier topic mentioned in the HP books in relation to Barty Crouch Jnr and Snr is described here too. T-rated violence, some language.

Thanks so much to Bellwhether2.0 for betaing.

1

Perhaps, this is the right time to ponder over how I got here. I mean, people usually recollect the main happenings of their life when knowing they reached the end, don't they? Isn't that something I'm supposed to do too?

I look outside the window and watch the black sky. The darkness is fresher and warmer here than it was in my long-ago prison cell. There is life outside, even though it's hidden in the far distance. The Dark Lord is out there somewhere too. Stronger than ever.

I'm tied to a chair, so my view is restricted, but it's okay. Seeing two or three stars is enough. Those faraway spots of light will keep me company until my final moments come. The level of discomfort here is laughable compared to Azkaban. They thought they would shatter me when they told me I would not go back there. That they had more drastic plans for me. The fools.

Though it would be nice to feel something. Anything. I hoped that I'd be overfilled with joy. I achieved the greatest success: I helped the Dark Lord return. So I should spend my last minutes rejoicing at my own results. However, I'm too tired. Too worn out to be happy. I had experienced two hours of euphoria before, but by now, it completely burned out. The adrenaline rush is gone. Let's just get this over with. Where are you, you pathetic joke of a Minister, and your lackeys? How much time does it take to bring a Dementor from the yard?

I roll my neck. The knot in my left shoulder loosens. There, I already feel freer than ever in the last thirteen years. First, lying on my always-cold Azkaban cell bed. Afterward, being held captive as an ailing wreck of the person I once had been – at my father's place, which I should probably refer to as my home, but I won't. And lately, pretending to be a messed-up cripple for months, with a wooden leg and magical fake eye – both uncomfortable like hell –, drinking gallons and gallons of nauseating Polyjuice Potion... Hah. My life just kept getting better.

It makes me wonder though. If I can't immerse myself in the pure delight of my success, what should I do? How could I kill time? These sour losers might take another hour before they saunter back with the Dementors. It might not be such a stupid idea to think of my past. Of the most defining moments. Or at least the ones that even the prison, the Dementors, the nightmares, and the dark hatred could not distort into delusions. There are still some pictures in my head that are crystal clear.

It might also be a good opportunity to internally blame someone, one last time. For ending up in Azkaban. For the last thirteen years of my life. For the fact that I'm dying this young. Alone, locked up by these incompetent morons. Yep, the urge is strong to put the blame on someone. Anyone. That's what I used to do. Well, you can't spend years in captivity without harboring a fair amount of thirst for vengeance to keep you going, can you?

But I spent so much time blaming others, blaming myself, blaming almost everyone and everything that I'm quite bored with it, to be honest. I won't fill my last minutes with regrets. I'll remember my past as it was, without whining about what-ifs.

I'll just simply recall my now-deceased father. My long-dead mother. The Death Eaters. Bellatrix, who played a significant role in my original imprisonment. The Dark Lord, who gave new meaning to my eroded life. And all the people I crossed paths with, and did nothing for me.

And of course, Mia. Mia Lovegood... The only good thing that ever happened to me.

She's the one I'll use to kill any survival instinct left in me. To numb my brain, so that I truly won't feel anything when the Dementors arrive.

For the celebration of my seventeenth birthday, I invited Mia over for dinner. I'm standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror of Mom's dressing room. I've just stepped inside for a second to check if my clothes are fine. I don't really like the pale, freckled blond reflected back at me from within the golden frames. I look weak and lost. Why do I always look like this when I'm back at home? When I'm at Hogwarts, I emit a much more confident energy. At least, all my friends believe that I'm a fun guy, and many girls sent me love letters throughout the years. I like that version of me way more than this helpless boy.

Now I'm struggling with a spell to fasten my necktie. I muddle up the order of swishes with my wand and end up making flower shapes from the collar around my neck. On my next attempt, I'm letting out a relieved sigh. Done.

It's just a small family dinner with my parents and Mia, so it feels kind of stupid to put on formal attire like this. Yet, it's expected of me. My father wants us to look refined in the compulsory family picture we take each year. It doesn't matter that on any other day he is away at the Ministry, tending to his oh-so-important work duties. He wouldn't even know how old I am, if it weren't for the annual school grades he keeps a close eye on... But when there is a birthday, we must pose for the perfect family portrait.

"She should be here by now," Mom mutters while busying herself with rearranging her pearl necklaces. At moments like this, she looks even smaller and frailer than she already is. She is nervous, and I don't blame her. My father is in a bad mood, and somehow, I can't shake the feeling that it's because of me. Though I'm not certain what the heck I could have done this time.

We go downstairs, and I walk faster than her so that I don't have to keep seeing the meek, fearful look on her face.

"Let the elf greet her." My father emerges quite suddenly behind us. I don't fully turn back to him when hearing his words, I only throw a quick look at him. His brown hair with the neat, straight parting, and his narrow toothbrush mustache are all forced into immaculate order. He is wearing gray; stiff, formal, and boring, as if he was going to a Ministerial hearing. He haughtily lifts his chin. "We can take our place at the dining table. She is late, like always. She can't expect us to sit around in the living room, waiting for her the whole evening."

I pretend that I did not hear him. I go to the living room to sit by the antique fireplace. Mia is, like, three minutes late. Four, tops. But I'm glad my parents do not accompany me. Let them fume in the dining room.

I make a last motion to adjust the sleeve of my newly ironed white shirt. My black dress robe feels tight and stifling. I wish I was anywhere else. With Mia.

For a terrifying couple of seconds, I'm not sure whether I remembered to tell her that she had to put on something elegant and old-fashioned. I would be alright with her wearing anything, even a patched-up orange housecoat, but I don't want my parents to belittle her in any way. I really hope it did not slip my mind to warn her. Certainly, we don't know enough dress-redecorating charms to fool my parents if we have to solve this in seconds, here in the living room. Maybe, Winky could help us? Could the tiny house-elf Disapparate and bring Mia a last-minute solution from a nearby shop quick enough? I'm already looking for my parents' Galleon stash behind the grandfather clock, preparing for the worst-case scenario.

The dazzling change of flames interrupts my search for golden coins.

Thankfully, I either must have remembered to mention the dress code to Mia, or she figured it out on her own. For when she is stepping out of the fireplace, she is mesmerizing. She is wearing an azure blue dress. It emphasizes her slim figure and light eyes. The dress has lace sleeves, and the skirt part is long and ends in elaborate waves. Non-revealing and expensive enough not to make these two uptight, prudish snobs comment on it.

"Barty!" She runs to me, in spite of the uncomfortable-looking high heels she wears, and jumps into my arms.

I still feel butterflies in my stomach, whenever I see her. Even after two years. We should be bored with each other by now, but the total opposite happened to us. We've just grown happier with time. I don't know how it's possible. Perhaps, this is the 'true love' those sappy fairy tales are about.

She is not the prettiest girl in the usual sense. Her white-blonde hair is cropped boyish short, and her small, pointy ears are full of silver rings. I'm taller than her by at least ten inches; it makes us look a bit awkward in some of our photographs together. But when she walks into a room, she lights it up. She has a unique aura like that. When we were fifteen, and I first caught sight of her in the Three Broomsticks Inn in Hogsmeade, I couldn't keep my eyes off of her. I had been sorted into Gryffindor, she into Ravenclaw, so we didn't have the chance to closely meet before; we didn't attend the same classes. She was out there with three of her friends, all attractive, dressed-up girls, but I only saw her. I can't even remember who else was there that day with her.

What caught my attention, and still appeals to me the most, is her freedom. The way she walks, talks, and laughs, it's so natural and pure, as if she didn't have a single care in the world. It all comes from the heart and is not about anybody else's approval. She is the total opposite of what I saw when growing up in this household. Here, everything was about living up to the standards of my semi-absent father. Some invisible standards no one can ever reach. And yet, nothing I did was good enough to make him really care about me.

Of course, my father doesn't like Mia. He has never told me in so many words, but every time I mention her, he narrows his eyes. I know very well what that means. That's the way he looks at me when I'm disappointing him. Again.

The dinner was a bad idea, I can see it now. As I'm sitting by the huge sandalwood table, keeping my posture unnaturally straight, shoulders back, silvery knife and fork positioned in the perfect angles between my fingers, snow-white napkin across my shirt front, I feel like a fraud. This is so not like me. And poor Mia... Why? Why did I force her to participate in this farce?

And this awkward courtliness is not the worst part. Yep, I guessed right. My old man is in a bad mood. And the reason is Mia and me. I can feel that he doesn't approve of her presence in our home on a private occasion like this. He still doesn't accept her as part of our family. So what he does now is he keeps deadly silent. As if to punish us for going against his unspoken wishes, he does not deign to talk to us. He doesn't even look at us.

Winky is rushing up and down with pitchers and bowls full of various gourmet drinks and foods. I'm thankful for her subservient efforts to keep the dinner going. At least she makes enough noise to liven up the room and brings us closer to the end with each step she takes. And the only time my father has no other choice but to speak is when he curtly instructs her how to do her job.

The prolonged silence is not even close to companionable. It's horrifying. Even the clinks of crystal glasses, or scratches of fork tines seem deafening.

Mia is unusually quiet too. I guess the toxic coldness of my father rubs off on her. I try to strike up a conversation, but I'm not good at it. I'm generally the silent one, and Mia does most of the talking.

I decide to tell my parents the story about Mia's name. "Her parents named her Miabelloriana, but she hates the pompous, overly-complicated name with a passion. She spent her first three school days begging Professor McGonagall to switch her name in the school documents to Mia. I'm still not sure how she managed to convince that strict, rule-abiding teacher to make an exception for her."

Mia smiles at the memory, but then, pushes a bite of roasted pheasant into her mouth, making herself temporarily unable to speak.

I make another attempt, prompting Mom to share some of her stories. "Mom, I remember you know McGonagall from a curtain-sewing workshop you both attended like ten years ago. How was she back then?"

Mom's reply is short and noncommittal. She is too submissive to my father to take our side, and my father is hell-bent on making this uncomfortable for us. So my sentences fall into empty space.

After that, most of the meal goes by in silence.

I can't wait for it to be over with, and when I finally manage to escape the dining room with Mia, I put my arm around her shoulders as an apologetic gesture.

"Sorry," I whisper to her.

"Yeah, it was a bit tense," she admits. "I was afraid of saying anything that might embarrass you in front of him."

"You would never..." I start to protest, but soon realize that it's untrue. Actually, any aspect of her life, or our relationship she might mention might be an embarrassment in the eyes of my father.

"It's okay," she says. "You have to endure a lot from my parents as well."

Her parents, the Lovegoods are some sort of artists. Lately, they paint for famous institutions, for example, Hogwarts. It always makes me smile when I pass by one of their colorful works hanging next to the History of Magic Classroom. It's not easy to create these talking, moving paintings, and the spells they use sometimes misfire. Therefore, their house is always full of spilled lacquers, chromatic stains, and rags saturated with smelly dissolvers.

Their house stands outside town limits. An endless, green meadow surrounds it, full of life, bees buzzing, garden gnomes digging, and hares jumping around. Mia's parents like to sit outside and watch the bright yellow of the dandelion heads. When I sleep over, I join them in the morning with a cup of bitter-smelling, indefinite herb tea they tend to make for me, and together we observe how nature wakes up.

Her older brother, Xenophilius dreams about becoming a Crumple-Horned Snorkack researcher – which is a mythical creature that most likely does not even exist. Xeno's young wife is working on inventing new charms, though what purpose these spells would serve I still can't quite grasp, despite her spending long hours explaining them to me.

They are all a bit extravagant. Okay, they are full-on crazy, but at least they are kind. As a matter of fact, I like Mia's family – they are loud, overly friendly, constantly hugging me, and coming up with bizarre topics to discuss. I laugh a lot when I'm with them. I enjoy spending time there, though Mia can't wait to be as far away from them as possible after staying longer than a week at home.

After I marry her, we are going to live abroad, far from our relatives, for sure. I'm thinking of an exotic Asian country. We'll see. I haven't discussed this with her yet because I don't want to spoil the surprise. I would like to propose to her after we've both finished school. In a few months. Maybe, in a year. I really want it to be the dream day of her life, and sweep her off her feet. I haven't figured out the details yet, but I've already stolen my great-grandmother's ring from Mom's jewelry box, knowing that my parents wouldn't give it to me willingly. Mia told me once that green was her favorite color, and the family heirloom ring has three emerald stones. She'll love it. I'm careful not to talk about marriage before that.

I walk her to the fireplace. After kissing her goodbye and letting her go, I feel completely alone. As if there were no other people inside this house, only ghosts.

When I return to the dining room, Mom is collecting the plates. It should be Winky's job, but Mom always does these rote house-keeping tasks when she is anxious. My father is reading the evening edition of the Prophet by the table.

I'm unable to hold back, and ask, "What do you think about her? She has already come over a couple of times, but you never say anything."

Mom hurries to reply before him. "Well, she is a nice girl, isn't she?" She turns to my father with a pleading look on her face.

He presses his pale lips together and doesn't answer.

"What?" I'm staring daggers at him. "What's your problem?"

There is a long silence that grows more and more irritating as time passes.

Finally, he speaks up.

"She is not..." He is looking for the right word. I wish he wouldn't find it. "Ladylike."

"Ladylike?" I feel the rage rising in me. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't take it as an insult, I'm just saying that she is a bit too... common for you. Those piercings, her conduct, her family background..."

"Who should I date according to you? A fucking princess?!"

"Son! Language!" He gets up from the table abruptly, reaching for his ebony black walking stick. It's just a gesture. He wouldn't dare hit me. Not after I turned fourteen, grew strong enough, and broke his wrist in self-defense.

Mom steps between us anyway. Which one of us is she trying to protect? I never know. But I'm not interested in listening to the opinion of that old bastard a moment longer. I shouldn't have asked. I turn away from them both and leave the room with long strides. The door closes behind me with a bang.

I don't plan on ever telling my father's comment to Mia, and I manage to keep it to myself during the remainder of the school year. It helps that we are extra busy preparing for our final tests. But the next time we have a chance to engage in a conversation deeper than superficial discussions about our time-consuming study for N.E.W.T. exams, she spots that I'm recollecting a memory that displeases me. We are sitting behind her parents' house in the grass, our backs against the wall. The bricks are comfortably warm from the early summer sunshine. We keep watch over a baby garden gnome as it practices its first steps among the bright green weeds.

"What's bothering you?" she asks, putting her head on my shoulder.

When I reluctantly repeat what the old man said about her on my birthday, she just laughs it off.

"You know, he is probably right," she remarks afterward.

"What?!"

"I mean, I'm pretty sure that a proper lady wouldn't do this." And with a big grin on her face, she gives me a passionate, open-mouthed kiss.

It makes me forget about any lingering annoyance I might still feel about my father's words. I pull her close and hug her with both arms. Right when our lips part, the baby gnome stumbles in the background, and ends up prone in the middle of a molehill. We burst out laughing like silly little kids.

It's the summer of our last school year. I spent a long while considering what to do with the beginning of my adult life. How to gain financial independence, and what I'm actually talented at. Some of this I even kept from Mia, since I needed time to process all the possibilities. I gave myself time until we passed all our tests, but now it's time to talk.

"I have a plan," I blurt it out.

Mia looks up at me with expectance.

And I say, "I heard from Greg— you know the sporty one who hangs out with those Quidditch player guys from Slytherin— that the Death Eaters are recruiting."

The happy-go-lucky smile disappears from her face. "So what?" she asks, quiet.

"I'm thinking about going to one of their meetings, and discussing the conditions."

"You want to be a Death Eater?"

"No, not for real. Hear me out, because this is a really good plan. They are obtaining more and more power every day, it's just a matter of months until they completely take over the Ministry. And then, anyone who timely chose their side will receive huge compensation for their efforts. But even if somehow the Ministry holds up – though there's fat chance of that – my alliance with the Death Eaters could still come in handy. I could give both sides some information, help the Death Eaters first, and then the Ministry. My father's position at the Ministry would be useful, he could pass on my intel." I see from the look on her face, that I need to add more details before she sees the sense of my idea. "I'd be a sort of double agent. Very low-level. I'd only do so much that when the war is over, I'd be fairly rewarded for my service, no matter who wins. And then we would be independent of the money of our parents. We could leave all this madness behind."

Mia has never judged any of my decisions before. None. But now I feel that there is something about this that she doesn't like. Her face is colorless, her eyebrows raised.

"Are you worried about the things they do?" I ask. "Those stories about murders..."

"I don't care about what they do. I only care about what you do."

I take her hand, and she locks her fingers around my palm. "I won't do anything outrageous, I promise," I tell her. "I'll just be a nobody there. Passing information every now and then. I'll wait for my chance, and only take it when it's the right time to pounce."

She gives no response.

"Or do you think it's too dangerous?" I'm trying to figure out the reason for the appalled look in her big, light eyes. "That they might hurt me if they find me out? I won't be reckless. Trust me."

"What I don't like is that you still do everything because of him."

"Of whom?"

"Your dad. You only want to be a Death Eater to provoke him. To force him to see you. To make him pay more attention to you as a person, not just to your grades and achievements. Why don't we leave your dad behind, and start finding our own way? You are already a much better man than he himself could ever hope to be."

I kick at a round stone on the ground. It rolls away, rustling, scaring away the baby garden gnome. The small creature disappears behind a patch of thistles and doesn't resurface.

"This is my own way," I say. "And I thought you'd understand."

"You know that I stand by you," she answers, holding my hand even stronger.

"If that's the case, a little support would be nice. If this pans out, it may be one of the most fruitful decisions of my life."

"I'll be by your side, whatever you do. But I don't think that joining the Death Eaters is a good idea. Please don't expect me to pretend otherwise."

"The war is almost over," I explain again, hoping that she will see my point in the end. "I hear more than enough from my father's rantings and ravings about You-Know-Who to understand that the conflict is close to coming to an end. The Ministry is secretly falling apart. And if I don't find a position with the Death Eaters now, it will soon be too late. I need to show at least a slight degree of commitment to their cause when the chips are down, because later, they won't care enough about slimy cowards cottoning up to the sure winners."

"We don't need their quick money. We could just find an ordinary part-time job to support ourselves while studying..."

"I won't have you scrubbing cauldrons in a dilapidated diner for a few Sickles a day!"

"What's the problem with cleaning dishes? I wouldn't mind."

"I don't want us to live like that."

"Like how? Barty, I don't care about pearls and diamonds. I want to be with you; that's enough for me. Is it not enough for you?"

"Don't make it sound so melodramatic." I smile at her fondly. "I just want to do something good for us. To take care of our future, and protect you from hardship. Please let me at least try."

"You've already decided, haven't you?"

"I have." My voice turns stronger, to give some finality to my answer. "It's going to be fine. I won't screw up. I've learned every day of my life how to pretend to be something that I'm not just to please a tyrant. This is the only thing I'm really good at."

To brighten the mood, I'm laughing again, but she isn't.

Playfully ruffling her short, white-blonde hair with my palms, I add, "Really, what's the worst thing that could happen?"