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Barty Crouch Jr. was used to not liking who he saw in the mirror.
It wasn’t a new feeling.
When he was very little– maybe until he was nine or ten– he was displeased with his reflection because he didn’t look like his father. He looked too much like his mum. His skin was too dark, not white enough. Maybe if it was lighter, if he looked more like his dad, more Brit, less Italian, his dad would like him more.
He was ten when he realised that his dad would never be proud of him, and that, in truth, he didn’t want his dad to be proud of him. Barty was ten when he started to hate his dad. He was ten when he started hating his reflection for a different reason.
He didn’t look enough like his mum. His hair was too straight. His eyes were too light.
When he was thirteen, he hated his reflection because he looked too much like his dad.
Barty was sixteen when he liked what he saw in the mirror. Puberty hit him late but it hit him suddenly and strongly.
His hair was partly blond (courtesy of his best friend at the time, Dorcas) to mimic what Regulus’ hair would’ve looked like if he wasn’t forced to dye it, though Barty’s blond was more yellow than Regulus’ white and his dark hair was brown, not black.
His features came in, finally replacing the baby fat that had stubbornly stuck with him until then, and Barty was proud to say that although he held some of his dad’s features, he had the sharpness and slimness and beauty that his mum had.
Barty knew he was attractive. He knew by the way people’s eyes followed him everywhere. He knew by the blushes that formed on people’s cheeks when he winked or flirted or even talked with them. He knew by his love telling him how pretty he was while he was kissing him.
Barty had liked his reflection then.
Then, he didn’t.
He didn’t like it because he saw how his friends started to look at it. He didn’t like it because when his best friend looked at him when they were eighteen, her eyes were filled with betrayal and disgust. He didn’t like it because of the sadness that took over Pandora’s face whenever she saw him, his reflection being a reminder of the brother she lost and of what their lives have come to.
He didn’t like his reflection because he couldn’t look at it without seeing what he was. He saw nothing good.
He saw the man who didn’t notice how isolated and reckless one of his best friends had gotten until it was too late. He saw the man who had gotten to his childhood best friend’s house too late and watched as she and her husband were tortured into insanity as their baby watched. He saw the man who said ‘ it ’ too late.
He saw a man who was always too late.
Barty was always too late.
He was too late with Regulus. He was too late for Dorcas. He was too late with Pandora. He was too late for Alice, for her son. He was too late for Evan…
He was always too fucking late.
He was too late for his mother now too.
Barty stared at the Daily Prophet on his desk in front of him:
BARTEMIUS CROUCH JR. DEAD!
The article continued to describe how he had died in his cell in Azkaban.
If only .
His mum had died in that cell. She had died with his face, with his name. He wondered if his dad had mourned her.
It was an outdated copy. He didn’t bother looking at the year.
Barty hated his reflection. Only today, it wasn’t because he saw the man who was always late. He hated his reflection because as he looked in the mirror, he was staring into the eye of the man who murdered the boy Barty loved.
Only, Barty had never told him. He never said those three stupid, little words to him. Well… he did , but too late.
Always too late.
He didn’t say them until he wasn’t breathing in Barty’s arms. He was too late.
He was always too late.
Too late.
Too late.
Too late…
Too late too late too late too late too late too late too late too late too late too late too late too late too late too late too late too late toolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooatetoolatetoolatetooate
Barty’s eyes snapped back to his reflection, temporarily startled by his own eyes staring back at him. He blinked, turning away and taking another sip of the potion.
Barty was always late.
Just like now. He was late for his class.
He exited his office and entered the classroom seven minutes after the class was supposed to start.
He didn’t look at the students. It was better that way. If he looked at them, at their young faces– sometimes mirrors of those he went to school with– he’d get transported back. He’d zone out and remember when he was their age. He couldn’t afford that. It was a sign of weakness and he had a mission to do.
Barty hobbled over to his desk, looking over who was supposed to be in this block. Third year Ravenclaws.
Great . Barty huffed. He had been a Ravenclaw. A hat-stall, but still. And third year was when he met Dor…
“Shut up!” Barty growled. The class went silent immediately. Good . “You’re going to read page 476, and I’ll demonstrate at the end of class. Read!”
“Sir?”
Barty didn’t look at the boy, but nodded for him to speak.
“That’s the forbidden curse page. The Imperius Curse.”
“Correct.”
“We’re third years.” Another voice said, another boy. “We’re not supposed to learn about this.”
Barty scoffed.
He had been thirteen, just about to enter his third-year, when he learnt the Imperious Curse . He learnt it familiarly .
“Are you the professor?” Barty barked, finding the boy who spoke and looking over his shoulder. The boy shrunk in his seat, and Barty turned away. “Didn’t think so. Don’t question my decisions!”
“Yes, sir.”
Barty sat in his chair, refusing to look at the students and busying himself by pretending to review something on his desk.
What year was it again?
It was weird that Barty didn’t know something, especially something like the year. It was scary .
Barty used to have a perfect memory. To the point that it scared his friends. He remembered everything he saw, but now…
There were gaps in his memory now. Spaces where his memories used to be before they were stolen by the dementors. They took his memories. His good ones. Most of which, if not all, took place at Hogwarts. Hence, causing him to forget Hogwarts .
It sent him into a spiral his first day back– the fact that he didn’t know where the Defense Against Dark Arts classroom was from the Great Hall. It still sent his mind spinning, whenever he forgot something. Or when he’d be reminded of something from a memory he no longer had.
It was confusing– the memories he lost.
It was also confusing– the memories he kept.
He knew that dementors at Azkaban stole happy memories. He was there for a long time and they (the dementors) seemed to love him, always lingering around his cell longer than the others. So, why did he still have some of his happy memories?
There was one memory in particular that confused him for a time.
It was a happy memory. At least, he thought of it as happy at first.
It was 1980 maybe. He and Pandora were sitting on her front porch, her husband was inside. Barty didn’t care for him much. He was too nice. Too forgettable. The kind of easy-going that made Barty uneasy. He’d never tell Pandora that though. She was the only one he had left.
“I’m pregnant.” She had said. No preamble. Not transition. Pandora just told the truth, putting it out there for whoever to decide what to do with it, just like she had always done.
Barty had choked on his tea. “What?”
“She’s a girl and due February 13th.” Pandora had continued. She still had yet to look at him since they sat down on the porch three minutes ago.
“How do you know-” Barty cut himself off when Pandora had looked at him flatly. Right . Seer . “Nevermind. Of course.”
He took another sip of the tea, cringing at the strong floral flavor.
“Congrats, Panda.” Barty hadn’t touched her, despite the fact that he wanted to wrap her up in a tight hug. He had been scared of tainting her somehow. Everyone he loved had died. He didn’t want her to be next. He already loved her, he knew that nothing would stop that, but maybe if he didn’t touch her, it’d prolong the process?
“Bats,” Pandora had said softly. Barty had stilled. No one had called him that since their Hogwarts years. Her doing so made him nervous. “I want you to be her godfather.”
Barty’s eyes had gone wide. “What?!”
“I want you to be her godfather.” She had repeated. “When something happens to me, I want you and Xeno to take care of her– not together, of course. I know you don’t like him. I just want you in her life.”
“Panda,” Barty’s hands had been shaking, he couldn’t get them to stop. “You don’t want me near that kid. I’m- I’m not-”
Pandora had rolled her eyes and cut him off by placing her hands on his. He flinched. She noticed. She didn’t mention it.
“You were always going to be the godfather to one of my kids, Bats.” She had told him. “Before I knew that I’d only have one, you were supposed to be the second one’s godparent.”
Barty had frowned. He knew who was supposed to be the first. He knew who was supposed to be her godfather. The star that burnt out.
He had swallowed when he remembered. “Wait, did you say ‘when ’? Pandora, when is something going to happen to you?”
Pandora had just smiled sadly and didn’t answer, and Barty wept. He had sobbed into her lap, no longer scared of something happening to her now that he knew it was inevitable.
“Can you tell me anything?” He had asked. He was curled up beside her with his head in her lap as she ran her fingers through his hair. He was no longer crying but still sniffling. Her white skirt had tear stains.
“You’ll love her.” Pandora had said. “She’ll be weird like me. She won’t be cursed like me though.”
“Probably a good thing.” Barty had smiled weakly.
“Definitely a good thing.” She amended. “You two will fight, but only because you’ll be hiding who you are. You’ll teach her.”
Barty had snorted. “What could I teach her?”
Pandora just looked off to the horizon. “You’d be surprised.”
That’s where the memory turned blurry. He knew Pandora had said some more, but he didn’t know what.
Barty had been so confused when the dementors left it with him. Was it not happy? How could Pandora asking him to be godfather not be a happy memory? He had loved his goddaughter. The few months he had known her. He knew that he had loved his goddaughter because he couldn’t remember her clearly.
His memories of her were blurry. He remembered that they played hide n’ seek and tag a lot. He remembered that she would draw pictures but more crayon wax ended up on the table than the paper.
He couldn’t remember her name.
He hated that. Fucking dementors .
Barty checked the clock on the wall. There were ten minutes left in class. He huffed and stood up, cursing fucking Moody’s crippled body.
“Okay, maggots, listen up!” Barty announced. He felt it as all their eyes landed on him, it made his skin crawl. “Now that you’ve learned what the Imperious Curse is, you’re going to see it. Any volunteers?”
He scanned the space above their heads. They seemed to get smaller as they tried to hide behind their desks. He noticed one blonde in the front row didn’t, but he knew that he’d get her scared eventually.
Not that he wanted them to be scared of him. He didn’t think he did…
“Ah! Hello there!” Barty cackled. He aggressively pointed his wand at the jar on his desk, levitating the lid and removing one of the large spiders.
Evan and Pandora would’ve liked it, the spider. They were always fascinated by creatures. Evan would’ve known the name of the spider. Not just the common name, but the fancy, scientific one too. He would’ve told Barty. Barty would’ve remembered, and not just because he had a great memory but because he would’ve wanted to. Because it was special to Evan…
‘Evan isn’t here, Barty’ . Barty mentally hit himself. ‘ Get over yourself.’
Barty returned his attention to the spider, setting it down atop the returned lid of the jar.
He faced the class again, looking above their heads. “Anyone want to try?”
The class was silent. Barty smiled.
“Oh, I guess I have to do it.” Barty shrugged with a smirk. He pointed his wand back at the spider, but before he could even start the incantation, another voice spoke up.
“Stop!”
Barty’s jaw tightened. Moody’s magical eye roamed the room without Barty’s permission. It was the unafraid blonde in the front.
“Why?” He asked her, gaze unmoving from the spider.
“It’s wrong.” Her voice was calm. Not the kind of calm that made someone seem eerie, but rather ‘airy’. Like Pan…
“Who says?”
“Who says it’s not?” She countered.
Barty rolled his eyes. “Typical Ravenclaw, speaking in riddles.”
The bell rang and the class all but ran out. Barty growled, stomping his peg leg in frustration. He was just about to Avada the spider when two small, pale hands cupped it. Barty faltered in shock.
Without fully meaning to, he looked at the girl attached to the hands. The blonde.
Her back was turned to him as she returned the spider to the jar. Her blonde hair was almost white and sort of stringy and messy in its wavy texture. Similar to…
He looked at the rest of her. She was rather small, even for a third year. She had weird-shaped pink sunglasses snuggled into her hair and wore mismatched striped and polka dot socks but no shoes. Odd. Oddball .
Who did this kid think she was? Interrupting Barty’s lesson and arguing with him. Saving his spider. How dare she?!
“What’s your name, kid?” He asked in that awful, gruff voice that was not his own.
Then she turned.
Barty froze. He’d know those eyes anywhere…
She looked just like her.
From her white, almost invisible eyelashes to her weird accessories. Her lips were tilted downward into a stubborn pout. The expression didn’t fit her face, like it being there wasn’t a common appearance.
She looked just like her whenever she scolded him for doing something stupid.
She looked just like Pandora.
“Pandora?”
The blonde’s eyes widened before her entire face hardened. “That was my mum. I’m Lovegood”
Mum…
Mum?
It hit Barty like a bludger. This was Pandora’s daughter. This was his goddaughter. This was… oh, Merlin .
She was all grown. A third year. A teenager .
What year was it?
“Your mum?” Barty repeated.
“Yes.” She crossed her arms. Why was she staring at Barty with such hatred? He was her godfather. He knew that it had been over a decade since they’ve seen each other, but… wouldn’t Pandora have told her about him? Wouldn’t she show her daughter photos of him? She should know him.
“You’re Pandora’s daughter.” It was no longer a question. It was hardly a question in the beginning. Since she stood up to him in class, it hasn’t been a question. She was Pandora’s daughter.
“And you’re the man who killed my uncle.”
Everything went still at once.
‘My uncle’
Her uncle?
Pandora only had two brothers: Felix– whom Barty had never met– and Evan…
Barty loved Evan.
Barty would’ve never killed Evan.
He didn’t kill Evan.
Evan was killed by fucking Moody…
Barty was Moody right now.
Pandora’s daughter believed him to be the murderer of the man Barty loved. His goddaughter thought that he was the one that killed his love.
Barty felt sick.
“I- I- I didn’t. I didn’t do that.” Barty mumbled. His head was whirring.
Anger radiated off of the little girl.
“ Liar.” She was no longer calm. “You killed my uncle and you locked up my god-dad.”
God-dad ?
Barty almost let out a sigh of relief that she at least knew of him.
“Your god-dad?” Barty repeated.
Her hardened expression softened, just a little. “‘Bats’.”
Barty might as well have been thrown back into the wall with the way that the air had left him as soon as that stupid, precious nickname fell from her lips.
That’s what Pandora called him.
That’s what all of his friends called him, yes, but mainly Pandora. They, all of Barty’s friends, all had their own names that they called him. Names that only they individually were allowed to use.
Pandora called him ‘Bats’.
Dorcas called him ‘Junior’.
Regulus called him ‘Bee’.
Evan called him ‘CJ’.
Evan called him ‘darling’.
Evan called him ‘my love’.
Only once, but still.
“Bats?” Barty asked.
“That’s what I called him,” She said, looking away and down. “That’s what mum referred to him as. Apparently, I couldn’t pronounce his name when I was little and it was his nickname in school. I don’t know his real name.”
“Why not?”
“Dad doesn’t want to tell me.”
“Why not ask Pandora?” Barty suggested. “She could tell you.”
Her eyes shot back to him instantly. Her eyes were hard.
“My mum is dead.”
No.
No .
‘ My mum is dead.’
Dead.
Dead…
No.
Nonononononono…
Pandora couldn’t be dead.
No.
Pandora was all he had left.
Regulus was gone. He died. Dorcas was gone. She left. Alice was gone. She wasn’t herself. Evan was gone. He di…
No .
Barty couldn’t move. His mind was moving a million kilometers per minute and he couldn’t move.
“When?”
“I was nine.”
Barty was able to move then. He looked up at his goddaughter and longed to wrap her up in a hug. But, he wasn’t Barty. He wasn’t ‘Bats’. He wasn’t her godfather.
He was the murderer.
“How?” His voice was dry. It felt like chalk in his throat.
“One of her spells went wrong.” She still had that sternness to her, but she was no longer angry. More… sad. “I was there.”
“Spell…”
Pandora had always been adventurous. She was always the first to try new things. Barty along with her. They were the two Ravenclaws of their friend group and by far the most dangerous, simply due to their excitement to discover something new, but while Barty’s new discoveries tended to be experiences– like smoking or drinking or people– Pandora’s were often spells or artifacts. Anything magical and dangerous, really.
She started experimenting fourth year, trying to make new spells and potions. She did succeed occasionally, but more often than not, Pandora had to be dragged away from what she was working on before something went wrong.
Pandora had this habit of getting sucked into a task, allowing it to take all of her focus. She would get so obsessed over the potential end product that she wouldn’t recognise the warning signs. Her friends did. She would try to go too far, and her friends would hold her back.
Pandora was killed by a spell she was experimenting on. She went too far, but this time there was no one to hold her back.
Barty wanted to cry.
Lucky for him– or unlucky, he couldn’t decide– Moody didn’t have tear ducts. Well, he did, but they didn’t work. So, he didn’t cry. He couldn’t.
“Professor,” His goddaughter’s voice was hard again. “If you don’t mind, I have another class to get to, and I don’t want to be late just because my uncle’s murderer won’t let me leave.”
Barty blinked. “You’re allowed to go.”
She gave him one more hard look and turned to grab her bag.
“Wait,” Barty hobbled a step forward, trying to not feel hurt when she took a step back. “What’s your name?”
“I already told you.” She started to walk away. “It’s Lovegood.”
“No, no.” He shook his head. “What’s your first name?”
She paused in the open door way. “Luna.”
She left.
“What’s her name? I assume you’ve already got it?”
“Yes.” Pandora hummed. “You know it too.”
Barty smiled. He remembered in third year, Barty and Pandora had been in their Divination class. Barty read her palm, telling her (with uncertainty) that she was going to have one kid. She told him that her name was going to be ‘Luna’. Barty had asked what she was going to name the kid if he was a boy, and she just smiled at him as if he had asked a silly question. Barty had grown used to Pandora knowing things he didn’t or finding his questions funny, so he asked a different question: ‘ why Luna?’. Her smile turned sad then, ‘Luna means moon. I want her to be as close to the stars as she can get.’
Barty had been confused then. He wasn’t late. Because that same year, Pandora introduced Barty to her twin brother and his roommate. The roommate with the name of a star.
Barty ran to his desk, opening one of the bottom drawers and pulling out the wrinkled calendar.
It was 1994.
1994?
No, that couldn’t be it. Had he really been in Azkaban… had he really been with his father that long?
He remembered that his mum took his place in his cell. He remembered being taken to his dad’s house. He remembered his dad’s basement. No windows. He remembered the Imperious.
How long ago had that happened?
Barty raced up to his office, grabbing the outdated paper and finally checking the date.
1982.
No.
No .
No no no nonono…
If his mother died in 1982 and had only passed shortly after their switch, then Barty had been under his father’s imperious for twelve years.
No. No. No.
Barty rummaged through Moody’s things, unsure of what he was looking for. Unsure until he found it.
It was a photo.
The photo was of a group of adults that Barty easily recognised as the Order. The Potters were there, as well as Black and Lupin. Pettigrew was there too ( traitor ). He recognised McKinnon and the Prewetts. He saw Alice’s face and choked back a sob. He saw Dorcas.
Dorcas was Barty’s best friend.
She had been in the year above him at Hogwarts. The memory of meeting her was taken from him but he remembered her, and even though he considered his friendship with her a happy thing, he knew why the dementors let him keep it.
Those happy memories. Those amazing memories of him and her were now soaked in guilt .
He ruined that friendship.
He tainted it.
They had gotten into a fight her final year at Hogwarts. They had been fine. Until she mentioned that she was no longer going to be a curse breaker. Barty realised too late.
“Wait,” Barty furrowed his brow. “Why not? You’ve wanted to be a Curse Breaker since I’ve known you. What else are you going to do?”
Dorcas’ eyes twinkled. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Barty sat up– he had originally been laying in her lap. “What?”
“I’ve joined.” She exclaimed, her excitement bursting at the seams. “We’re going to destroy him, Junior. Just you wait. He’s going to lose. We’re going to-”
“Hold on,” Barty frowned. “Destroy who?”
Dorcas looked at him like he had said something stupid. “Voldemort?”
Barty’s stomach filled with lead.
Dorcas was going to join whatever organization that was opposing Voldemort. She was going to go against the Death Eaters. The very group that Barty planned on joining.
Barty saw it as something clicked in Dorcas’ mind. He had been silent too long.
“Barty,” Her voice trembled slightly. “You don’t- you aren’t… you aren’t going to… are you?”
Barty took too long to respond.
He was too late.
She jumped up.
“Barty!” She shouted. “How could you!?”
“You don’t understand!” He shouted back. He could never take anything lying down. He always had to fight fire with fire.
“No, I don’t!” Dorcas had always been powerful. Even then, the room became thick with magic from her rising emotions. The subtle feeling of static under his skin growing. “How could you, Barty!? They’re killers! They think that people like me shouldn’t exist!”
They fought. They had both always been too headstrong, too stubborn. It was what usually united them. It’s what tore them apart.
The final straw was when she realised why Barty was joining the Death Eaters.
The anger fell from her in a second.
No no no.
He didn’t mean it like that…
But it was too late.
“Your father.” She repeated. She was angry anymore. She was devoid of all emotion. “You’re joining because of your father?”
“Dorcas-”
“You-” She interrupted. The room felt electric. “You’re joining a group of blood-purist murderers to spite your father?”
“No, it’s not like that-”
“Really?” Dorcas’ voice was sharp. “Because that’s what it sounds like.”
“No, you don’t understand!” Barty’s voice turned wet. He ignored it. “Evan and Regulus, they-”
“They’re joining because they have to!” Dorcas’ voice was raised again. It felt like a slap against Barty’s skin. “They’d be killed by their parents if they didn’t. You have a choice!”
“No, I-” He stumbled as he tried to find the right words. “I need to help them. I have to keep you safe. You don’t get it-”
“Shut up!” She screamed. The teacup next to Regulus’ bed exploded. Her voice turned calm. Deadly calm. “You can’t try and act like a hero, Barty! You’re joining a group of killers to rebel against your dad and you’re using my safety as a scapegoat.”
“No, Cas, it isn’t like that-”
“Do you believe it?” She interrupted, devoid.
“What?”
“Do you believe it?” Dorcas repeated. “Do you think that muggleborns and half-bloods shouldn’t exist simply because of who their parents are?”
He didn’t.
But he was too late to respond.
“Fuck you, Barty.” Dorcas grabbed her wand off his bed. “Goodbye.”
She left .
He stared at her in the photograph. She stood right beside McKinnon, proud.
Barty turned the photo around and let out a small gasp at the writing. There, in Moody’s barely eligible scrawl, were the names and dates. Barty read them.
Fabian and Gideon Prewett… 1979
Marlene McKinnon… 1981
Dorcas Meadowes…
Barty stopped breathing.
1981
How did he not know this? She was dead.
No no no
She couldn’t be dead. She was Dorcas Meadowes. She was unkillable.
He didn’t get to say goodbye. He didn’t get to apologise.
Barty was too late.
He was always too late.
A tear fell onto the page. Barty blinked and looked up.
Staring at him in the mirror was no Moody. It was still a murderer. Just a different one. Just a man who was always late. Always too fucking late.
Barty had never hated his reflection more.