Father left early. Very, very early.

That's not to say Father ever does not leave early. Before Hogwarts, it was a challenge to even have breakfast with him. The man had no time for the sleep cycles of children. So, his son also made no time for the sleep cycles of children.

Winky helped with waking him up, if he remembers correctly. Although it's difficult, taking the effort to pull up memories lacks the appeal when the world is wrapped in such a pleasant haze. Winky, she's a pleasant elf, always assisting him when he needs it.

Like now, the house elf is in his bedroom. A bright smile aimed at him while her ears quiver with excitement. Apparently, if the words that slip in, dripping slowly past the pleasantness, ever so slowly… He's sitting too long on his bed after Winky's spoken. Her smile still there, yet fading, her ears no longer quivering.

Winky's a pleasant elf, who does pleasant things when the world is too heavy and slow. Like repeats her words to him as many times as needed. Father left early. No need to wear an invisibility cloak today. Father won't be able to see you anyway. So, no need to linger. Lingering in a bedroom, hidden, waiting to eat since Father refuses to share a table with…

Father left early. The sky's black outside the dining room windows. The stars washed out from the bright lights inside. It's too early. That thought lingers, sticking to the underside of this pleasant haze.

Father only left for work this early during the war.

Sitting, seated. There's a table now. Only lit by the lamps and not the sun. The black outside presses upon the glass, weighing down, down, down until all other thoughts are drowning.

Winky serves food, like she always does. His favorites, whenever she can get away with it. It all smells pleasantly the same. It always smells the same. Every day, it never changes.

The window opens. A flutter of grey feathers, a Prophet owl delivering the news.

He hasn't read the Daily Prophet in forever. Father always reads it, always burns it. The faint wisp of smoke always greets him when he comes out of hiding for breakfast.

The paper crinkles in his hands. The printed image grows ever larger.

DARK MARK OVER LONDON

…With the vanquish of You-Know-Who on that Halloween night, we believed ourselves safe from having to look to the skies above the homes of our friends and families with the fear that it would be their place marred in the fatal green light of a hanging Dark Mark. Last night, that belief was shattered when the home of muggleborn Jonathon Green was razed to the ground.

While unaware of the true nature of what they were witnessing, muggles across the neighborhood ran for their lives when an enchanted fire devoured half the street after killing the potioneer apprentice. The Ministry has insisted that there were no other casualties despite the widespread destruction.

It has been confirmed that Mr. Green's muggle wife survived, thanks to the fortunate coincidence of her night shift at the local pub placing her far, far away from the scene of this violence…

Barty Crouch breathes. The Dark Mark, faded out of its true glory when confined to the greys and blacks of ink, reaches across the page. Reaches out to him as the pleasant haze curdles. It's still heavy, still so heavy as Barty sits in his chair like it tells him to instead of running for the nearest door.

The Dark Lord lives. No one, there's no one else who'd have cast it. Anyone who would. Dead. Imprisoned. The rest cowards, no one else would have cast that spell.

Except for the Dark Lord himself.