Expectations (Barty Crouch Genfic - Rating: PG)
This was written in response to the "Bad Beginnings" challenge at darkones. It's not all that dark, IMHO.
I just cannot write Barty Crouch, Jr. as a dark character. He is, instead, a very sad character. So, hopefully the mods at darkones likes this because I'm not sure I can go darker for him.
Title: Expectations
Author: wook77
Rating: PG
Wordcount:: 1812
Warnings: Gen
Summary: His father's voice torments him. When the Dementors swarm, it is his father's voice he hears. Barty Crouch Jr.'s slow sad slide into darkness and then oblivion.
A/N: Many thanks to wildegirl_05 who helped me flesh this out and beta'd it for me. Written for the darkones challenge of "Bad Beginnings".
Baby boy, you're going to grow up big and strong, just like your daddy.
Barty Crouch Sr., formerly just Barty Crouch, looked down at his son. There were such high hopes for him. His son would be Bartemius Crouch Jr. It was a strong fine name.
He would be smart and a pioneer for justice, just like his father.
He would be sorted into Ravenclaw, have a thirst for knowledge and be an outstanding student, just like his father.
He would leave Hogwarts, work for the Ministry and marry a beautiful witch, just like his father.
He'd dream of being Minister of Magic, just like his father.
Barty Crouch Sr. knew that his son would succeed because no son of his was going to be a failure. With that thought, Barty handed off the baby to his wife and went back to work.
Barty Crouch Jr. was an hour old when his mother watched his father leave, smiling down at him with sad eyes.
You look just like your father.
Barty Crouch was four and he'd just discovered a small lizard that ran around in his back garden. With his laughter ringing as he gave chase, Barty knew that his quest to capture the lizard was futile but he was having fun as he scampered through the mud. Wiping a particularly large smudge of mud across his face, Barty bent down to pick up the rock the lizard had scuttled under.
A hand clamped down firmly and picked him up by his shirt. The grip hurt where it pinched into his skin.
"No son of mine is going to act the part of a hooligan. Have you never heard of decorum? What about the rules I've set? Can you not follow the simplest of rules? Into the house and get cleaned. You've disappointed your mother." Barty found himself being thrust along in front of his father, tugged by the shirt that was pulling out of where it was tucked into his pants. After they entered, a rough shove steered him towards the stairway.
"We'll discuss your shortcomings when you are clean and decent."
His mother helped him get clean and dressed. He was crying as he went back downstairs to discuss his shortcomings with his father.
She was silent as she watched him with sad eyes.
When are you going to realize that you have to do better?
Barty Crouch was ten, soon to be eleven, when the family went to Diagon Alley to pick out his school supplies. He'd received his Hogwarts letter a week ago. It was a momentous occasion as he could have been considered too young to enter Hogwarts until next year. Instead, he had been honored to enter as a new eleven.
Ollivander's was an intimidating storefront as his father propelled him into the store.
"Ah, you must be young Mr. Crouch. You look like your father round the eyes." Mr. Ollivander looked mystical as he addressed Barty.
"Off to Hogwarts for his first year, he is." Barty Sr. sounded pompous and arrogant as he addressed Mr. Ollivander but Barty didn't realize that. All Barty heard was that he finally had done something right and his father wasn't disappointed in him.
Barty really wanted to fidget under that measuring stare of Mr. Ollivander but he didn't want to muss his robes. That was sure to upset his father and result in another lecture about couth and decorum. So, instead, Barty stood stiff and still, hands at his side, as Mr. Ollivander took his measure.
"Right, let's try this one first, shall we? Ten inches, Rosewood, Unicorn hair." That first touch of a wand and Barty forgot about the decorum and gave an eager swish and flick. Boxes flew from the shelves as the room erupted. Mr. Ollivander took the wand from Barty.
"Not that one, no, I didn't think it was right. How about this one? Nine and a half inches, Oak with Veela at its heart." Barty gave another swish and flick and, yet again, boxes erupted from the shelves. And so it continued as chaos reigned and Barty Sr. became angrier and angrier at every wrong wand.
He gripped a little too hard, spun Barty a little too fast and the young boy hit the corner of the counter. The pain erupted across his back as his father's face came too close and his features blurred.
"When are you going to realize that you have to do better? Concentrate!" Barty Sr. abruptly stepped back and another wand was pointed in his face. He concentrated really hard and prayed that this time, the wand would like him. His grip was sweaty as he swished and flicked.
His mother spelled away the bruise as she stared with sad eyes.
You're a constant disappointment! Your mother and I are ashamed of you.
Barty was thirteen that summer after Third Year. He hadn't spent more than a few minutes with his father in the month and a bit that he'd been home so far. Those few minutes normally consisted of admonishments to stop acting like a hooligan and to stop getting in to so much trouble.
By far, though, his favorite was the order to start studying. No Crouch had had such low marks in a century. No Crouch was going to disappoint the family in such a manner. When Barty Sr. was a boy at Hogwarts, he'd been near the top of his class and he expected better of his son. With all the privileges available to Barty Jr., he was, in his father's eyes, an embarrassment to the family. His parents were ashamed of him, he'd disappointed his mother.
His mother merely watched with sad eyes.
You're friends with the wrong sort! You're besmirching our name and I won't have it!
Barty was seventeen and had just finished Hogwarts. He'd had a particularly raucous night with his friends. After drinking far too much, Barty had followed his friends to a Muggle strip club. At the dare from one of his friends, he'd cast Imperius on one of the Muggles. A satisfied smirk graced his face every time he thought back to her vacant eyes as she did anything and everything the group had requested.
They were only Unforgiveables when the wrong side used them and Barty had yet to choose a side.
"You're friends with the wrong sort, Barty! You're besmirching our name and I won't stand for it! Do you hear me? I won't have it!" The pompous tones of his father grated like nails down a chalkboard. Yet again, he had failed his father. He'd finally realized that there was no way that he could ever be good enough for his father.
"I'm never going to be enough for you, am I? I'm never smart enough, fast enough, good enough! I happen to like my friends. They happen to like me back. They think I'm smart enough, fast enough, good enough, Father." He spat the name at his father, turning the endearment into a curse.
As he spun out of the room, his mother watched with sad eyes.
You are no son of mine.
Barty was twenty when Igor Karkaroff shouted his name. His heart raced and he frantically tried to escape the courtroom. Aurors smashed into his back and their weight bore him down to the ground. His nose gushed blood freely as his arms were wrenched behind him. He was trapped and there was only one recourse, one path to redemption and freedom.
"Father, please!" As he appealed to his father, he had no way of knowing his father's thoughts of embarrassment at having his own flesh and blood be one of the hunted. He had no way of knowing that his father felt a crushing weight of his own, that of his dreams of becoming Minister of Magic crashing around him. For his son, he had no consideration other than to hiss out, "You are no son of mine."
His mother stared across the courtroom as he was led out, her sad eyes never leaving his form.
You will not leave this house nor will you ever see the light of day again. I don't know what I was thinking when I allowed your mother to talk me into this awful plan.
Barty was twenty-one when his mother and father walked through his cell doors. Azkaban had not been kind in the year Barty had been imprisoned.
To get out of Azkaban, to get away from the Dementors and the constant repetition of his father's voice, Barty would have done anything anyone had asked. It was all too easy to follow his father's orders as he switched clothing with his mother and drank the Polyjuice. The only order that was disobeyed was the one not to look back at his mother.
The orders continued as Barty entered his childhood home. The stool was waiting with an invisibility cloak folded neatly on top of it. Under his father's orders, he donned the cloak.
"You will not leave this house nor will you ever see the light of day again. I don't know what I was thinking when I allowed your mother to talk me into this awful plan."
As his father cast the first Imperius of many, his mother's sad eyes stared at him from within the mirror.
Goodbye and Good Riddance.
Barty was thirty-four when Voldemort came to free him. The joys of no longer being under Imperius coupled with the joys of casting the curse on his father brought tears to his eyes. His father would now reap what he had sowed. That his father went mad under the Imperius was of no concern to him. That his father would curse him in his moments of lucidity, shouting, "Goodbye and good riddance" was also of no concern to him. His father did what he was told and it was enough to have his father dancing like a puppet on a string.
Other than his moments of freedom, his father spoke to him in a proud voice. The words might have been fed to his father but Barty finally heard the words he wanted. Son, I'm proud of you. Son, you're a chip off the old block.
Barty no longer needed to envision his mother's sad eyes.
Son?
Barty was thirty-five when his father escaped. Voldemort's plan did not have room for Barty Sr. to escape. He knew far too much and if he reached Dumbledore, there would be no opportunity to resurrect Voldemort. That couldn't happen, it was implausible, Voldemort would rise again. Barty was loyal, he'd been loyal since the beginning.
It was an easy choice to choose Voldemort over his father. The pleading of his father, the plaintive, "Son?", the gestures and the promised changes fell on deaf ears. His father had seen too little too late.
"Avada Kedavra!"
As always, concrit and commentary welcomed with open arms.
I just cannot write Barty Crouch, Jr. as a dark character. He is, instead, a very sad character. So, hopefully the mods at darkones likes this because I'm not sure I can go darker for him.
Title: Expectations
Author: wook77
Rating: PG
Wordcount:: 1812
Warnings: Gen
Summary: His father's voice torments him. When the Dementors swarm, it is his father's voice he hears. Barty Crouch Jr.'s slow sad slide into darkness and then oblivion.
A/N: Many thanks to wildegirl_05 who helped me flesh this out and beta'd it for me. Written for the darkones challenge of "Bad Beginnings".
Baby boy, you're going to grow up big and strong, just like your daddy.
Barty Crouch Sr., formerly just Barty Crouch, looked down at his son. There were such high hopes for him. His son would be Bartemius Crouch Jr. It was a strong fine name.
He would be smart and a pioneer for justice, just like his father.
He would be sorted into Ravenclaw, have a thirst for knowledge and be an outstanding student, just like his father.
He would leave Hogwarts, work for the Ministry and marry a beautiful witch, just like his father.
He'd dream of being Minister of Magic, just like his father.
Barty Crouch Sr. knew that his son would succeed because no son of his was going to be a failure. With that thought, Barty handed off the baby to his wife and went back to work.
Barty Crouch Jr. was an hour old when his mother watched his father leave, smiling down at him with sad eyes.
You look just like your father.
Barty Crouch was four and he'd just discovered a small lizard that ran around in his back garden. With his laughter ringing as he gave chase, Barty knew that his quest to capture the lizard was futile but he was having fun as he scampered through the mud. Wiping a particularly large smudge of mud across his face, Barty bent down to pick up the rock the lizard had scuttled under.
A hand clamped down firmly and picked him up by his shirt. The grip hurt where it pinched into his skin.
"No son of mine is going to act the part of a hooligan. Have you never heard of decorum? What about the rules I've set? Can you not follow the simplest of rules? Into the house and get cleaned. You've disappointed your mother." Barty found himself being thrust along in front of his father, tugged by the shirt that was pulling out of where it was tucked into his pants. After they entered, a rough shove steered him towards the stairway.
"We'll discuss your shortcomings when you are clean and decent."
His mother helped him get clean and dressed. He was crying as he went back downstairs to discuss his shortcomings with his father.
She was silent as she watched him with sad eyes.
When are you going to realize that you have to do better?
Barty Crouch was ten, soon to be eleven, when the family went to Diagon Alley to pick out his school supplies. He'd received his Hogwarts letter a week ago. It was a momentous occasion as he could have been considered too young to enter Hogwarts until next year. Instead, he had been honored to enter as a new eleven.
Ollivander's was an intimidating storefront as his father propelled him into the store.
"Ah, you must be young Mr. Crouch. You look like your father round the eyes." Mr. Ollivander looked mystical as he addressed Barty.
"Off to Hogwarts for his first year, he is." Barty Sr. sounded pompous and arrogant as he addressed Mr. Ollivander but Barty didn't realize that. All Barty heard was that he finally had done something right and his father wasn't disappointed in him.
Barty really wanted to fidget under that measuring stare of Mr. Ollivander but he didn't want to muss his robes. That was sure to upset his father and result in another lecture about couth and decorum. So, instead, Barty stood stiff and still, hands at his side, as Mr. Ollivander took his measure.
"Right, let's try this one first, shall we? Ten inches, Rosewood, Unicorn hair." That first touch of a wand and Barty forgot about the decorum and gave an eager swish and flick. Boxes flew from the shelves as the room erupted. Mr. Ollivander took the wand from Barty.
"Not that one, no, I didn't think it was right. How about this one? Nine and a half inches, Oak with Veela at its heart." Barty gave another swish and flick and, yet again, boxes erupted from the shelves. And so it continued as chaos reigned and Barty Sr. became angrier and angrier at every wrong wand.
He gripped a little too hard, spun Barty a little too fast and the young boy hit the corner of the counter. The pain erupted across his back as his father's face came too close and his features blurred.
"When are you going to realize that you have to do better? Concentrate!" Barty Sr. abruptly stepped back and another wand was pointed in his face. He concentrated really hard and prayed that this time, the wand would like him. His grip was sweaty as he swished and flicked.
His mother spelled away the bruise as she stared with sad eyes.
You're a constant disappointment! Your mother and I are ashamed of you.
Barty was thirteen that summer after Third Year. He hadn't spent more than a few minutes with his father in the month and a bit that he'd been home so far. Those few minutes normally consisted of admonishments to stop acting like a hooligan and to stop getting in to so much trouble.
By far, though, his favorite was the order to start studying. No Crouch had had such low marks in a century. No Crouch was going to disappoint the family in such a manner. When Barty Sr. was a boy at Hogwarts, he'd been near the top of his class and he expected better of his son. With all the privileges available to Barty Jr., he was, in his father's eyes, an embarrassment to the family. His parents were ashamed of him, he'd disappointed his mother.
His mother merely watched with sad eyes.
You're friends with the wrong sort! You're besmirching our name and I won't have it!
Barty was seventeen and had just finished Hogwarts. He'd had a particularly raucous night with his friends. After drinking far too much, Barty had followed his friends to a Muggle strip club. At the dare from one of his friends, he'd cast Imperius on one of the Muggles. A satisfied smirk graced his face every time he thought back to her vacant eyes as she did anything and everything the group had requested.
They were only Unforgiveables when the wrong side used them and Barty had yet to choose a side.
"You're friends with the wrong sort, Barty! You're besmirching our name and I won't stand for it! Do you hear me? I won't have it!" The pompous tones of his father grated like nails down a chalkboard. Yet again, he had failed his father. He'd finally realized that there was no way that he could ever be good enough for his father.
"I'm never going to be enough for you, am I? I'm never smart enough, fast enough, good enough! I happen to like my friends. They happen to like me back. They think I'm smart enough, fast enough, good enough, Father." He spat the name at his father, turning the endearment into a curse.
As he spun out of the room, his mother watched with sad eyes.
You are no son of mine.
Barty was twenty when Igor Karkaroff shouted his name. His heart raced and he frantically tried to escape the courtroom. Aurors smashed into his back and their weight bore him down to the ground. His nose gushed blood freely as his arms were wrenched behind him. He was trapped and there was only one recourse, one path to redemption and freedom.
"Father, please!" As he appealed to his father, he had no way of knowing his father's thoughts of embarrassment at having his own flesh and blood be one of the hunted. He had no way of knowing that his father felt a crushing weight of his own, that of his dreams of becoming Minister of Magic crashing around him. For his son, he had no consideration other than to hiss out, "You are no son of mine."
His mother stared across the courtroom as he was led out, her sad eyes never leaving his form.
You will not leave this house nor will you ever see the light of day again. I don't know what I was thinking when I allowed your mother to talk me into this awful plan.
Barty was twenty-one when his mother and father walked through his cell doors. Azkaban had not been kind in the year Barty had been imprisoned.
To get out of Azkaban, to get away from the Dementors and the constant repetition of his father's voice, Barty would have done anything anyone had asked. It was all too easy to follow his father's orders as he switched clothing with his mother and drank the Polyjuice. The only order that was disobeyed was the one not to look back at his mother.
The orders continued as Barty entered his childhood home. The stool was waiting with an invisibility cloak folded neatly on top of it. Under his father's orders, he donned the cloak.
"You will not leave this house nor will you ever see the light of day again. I don't know what I was thinking when I allowed your mother to talk me into this awful plan."
As his father cast the first Imperius of many, his mother's sad eyes stared at him from within the mirror.
Goodbye and Good Riddance.
Barty was thirty-four when Voldemort came to free him. The joys of no longer being under Imperius coupled with the joys of casting the curse on his father brought tears to his eyes. His father would now reap what he had sowed. That his father went mad under the Imperius was of no concern to him. That his father would curse him in his moments of lucidity, shouting, "Goodbye and good riddance" was also of no concern to him. His father did what he was told and it was enough to have his father dancing like a puppet on a string.
Other than his moments of freedom, his father spoke to him in a proud voice. The words might have been fed to his father but Barty finally heard the words he wanted. Son, I'm proud of you. Son, you're a chip off the old block.
Barty no longer needed to envision his mother's sad eyes.
Son?
Barty was thirty-five when his father escaped. Voldemort's plan did not have room for Barty Sr. to escape. He knew far too much and if he reached Dumbledore, there would be no opportunity to resurrect Voldemort. That couldn't happen, it was implausible, Voldemort would rise again. Barty was loyal, he'd been loyal since the beginning.
It was an easy choice to choose Voldemort over his father. The pleading of his father, the plaintive, "Son?", the gestures and the promised changes fell on deaf ears. His father had seen too little too late.
"Avada Kedavra!"
As always, concrit and commentary welcomed with open arms.