Henry Crouch assumes learning Evan Rosier died would be the worst part of Igor Karkaroff's trial. He quickly gets to see how deeply his entire world crumbles.
{1982}
The court room smelled like it always did. Bad perfumes, worse colognes, a cold that somehow manifested itself more in the nasal cavity more than on the body itself. Henry wasn't too worried though. Barty sat close enough that he felt the heat from him. Barty was always warm. Henry had always noticed that. When he was three and on the edge of falling asleep after crying himself feverish. When he was 6 and scared of the thunderstorm. When he was 11 and pressed into his brother's back because other kids called him 'too weird'. When he was 14 and crying himself into a throwing up fit because his grades weren't perfect. Henry always liked his brother's warmth. It meant home.
Hearing the grinding clicks of the cage as it rose, Henry instinctively leaned closer to his brother. He remembered being too small to understand, seeing the criminals on trial. He remembered Barty flicking his forehead, telling him 'don't be a baby, Henjamin', but not pushing him away either. He noticed how tense his brother was, but Barty's face didn't show it. He'd always been good at that, hiding what he really felt. Very unlike Henry himself who betrayed everything on his face.
He'd asked Barty how, once, 'its what a big brother does, Hen'. He always hated those answers. Age order didn't matter, not in Henry’s eyes. He was as capable as Barty. Though, he supposed it was one of many things he didn't really understand. Barty said there were a lot of those.
"Igor Karkaroff," his father's voice came effortlessly clear throughout the room, "you have been brought from Azkaban at your own request to present evidence to this council. Should your testimony prove consequential, the council may be prepared to offer your immediate release. Until such time, you remain in the eyes of the Ministry a convicted Death Eater. Do you accept these terms?" Bartemius Senior explained with chilling calmness thst sent Henry leaning fully into Barty's side.
"I do, sir," Karkaroff replied, though he barely got the response out before Senior pressed on with the matter, speaking over the other.
"And what do you wish to present?"
"I have... names.... sir," Henry watched as his father nodded as if he wasn't surprised but was hardly swayed.
"There was... uh... Rosier. Evan Rosier."
There was shuffling of papers. An employee next to his father fumbled and shifted with papers as his father impatiently motioning for them to be handed over. Barty tensed more and Henry instinctively clung to Barty's sleeve. He knew how much Evan meant to Barty. Best friends. Maybe more. There was always a look in his eyes when Barty talked about Evan. Something special Henry couldn't place. Surely that couldn't be right.
Evan was the boy ruffling Henry's hair, buying him ice cream and calling him 'Little Crouch'. Surely, he told himself, not Evan.
The rustling of a paper taken and barely glanced at before the statement landed with little concern for the weight it carried, "Mr. Rosier is dead."
Henry froze, his head jerked, looking up at Barty. Still hiding his emotions and thoughts.... but his jaw was tighter.
"Barty..." he whispered.
"Dead..?" Karkaroff repeated, murmuring surrounding them, "I didn't know," he finally added.
"If that is all the witness has to offer–"
"No!" Karkaroff cried, interrupting the dismissal, "No, no, no! Th-there was Rookwood! He was a spy!" he insisted.
This raised a few heads in alarm, including Bartemius Senior's. Henry only had the heart to half offer his surprise. Not because he wasn't, but Mr. Rookwood wasn't his focus. His focus was Barty. All he could think was 'Poor Barty. He must be devastated. We should get something sweet after. That'll help a little..'
He missed the rest of the exchange until his father said, "Very well, the council will deliberate. In the meantime you will be returned to Azkaban.."
Before Henry could even consider releasing a breath of relief at the idea the Crouch family could go home and he could sneak into Barty's room with containers of icing and they could eat away the grieving for the night, Karkaroff exploded frantically.
"No!! Wait! Wait!!! Please, please, I have more!!!" he begged. Henry felt a wave of sickness, unsure if it was because the prisoner was dragging it out or from how afraid he sounded.
"He's really scared, B...." he murmured.
"What about Snape?!" Karkaroff added, "Severus Snape!"
A new voice spoke out, Professor Dumbledore, "The council is very much aware, I've given evidence on this matter," he explained. Henry watched his father pinch his brows in irritation at the notion. Henry was sure he remembered him mentioning it over dinner a week or so ago. A talk of Death Eaters convicted, how they were swarming everywhere, how they deserved no leniency and he intended to give none.
"Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater," Dumbledore continued, Henry's father nodded along, exasperated, "and prior to Lord Voldemort's downfall turned spy for us at great personal risk-"
"That's a lie!!!" Karkaroff wailed, thoigh he didn't deter the Headmaster from continuing.
"He is no more a Death Eater than I am-"
"He remains faithful to the Dark Lord!" Karkaroff continued as well, the two men overlapping. This paired with the growing murmurs Henry suddenly felt the courtroom grow very crowded, overwhelming. His senses buzzed and he immediately sought his brother's side again, just for a moment to make it stop.
A gavel banging on the desk crashed a few times, melting with an echoing, "Silence!" from Senior until an obedient hush fell over the courtroom, only then did Senior continue.
"Unless the witness possesses any genuine name of consequence this session is now concluded," a final bang as if to punctuate his decision.
Henry peeked out, 'Finally, it was over,' he thought, until Karkaroff dismantled it again.
"Oh no no no no no no no....." Henry furrowed his brows, Karkaroff sounded almost amused now, no longer a frightened animal, rather a predator that found a perfect spot to sink his teeth into.
"I heard about one more...."
"What's that?" Bartemius Senior asked.
"A name...." Karkaroff continued, low, like he was dragging it out on purpose.
"Yes?" his father demanded.
"I know for a fact this person took part in the capture and by means of the Cruciatus Curse, torture," Karkaroff emphasized his words now, as if the severity needed a verbal highlighting, "of the auror, Frank Longbottom, and his wife!" he sounded furious now the more he talked.
Henry felt his stomach drop but he was absolutely confident it was the atmosphere of the courtroom, the memories of his father administering curses when he or Barty—especially Barty—acted how he deemed out of line. His body buzzed with the familiar anxiety, melding with a phantom numbness usually felt under the Imperius Curse. That was all it was, he told himself.
He felt Barty shift beside him and it only served to make him more sure. He knew Barty was more reckless and often got the worse of the treatment. He often told himself exactly what Bartemius Senior said to justify it, he was teaching Junior how to behave. Henry hugged his brother's waist, as he often did after punishments, at least the times Barty let him in. There were sometimes he barked at him to go away.
"The name, give me the wretched name!" Bartemius Senior nearly shouted. Henry could tell the stalling was wearing him thin. He instinctively hugged Barty tighter.
Right as Karkaroff opened his mouth, however, Barty squirmed, gently pushing Henry off, moving to get up and leave the stands.
He wasn't quick enough as the prisoner uttered, "Barty Crouch!"
Gasps erupted from the room, everyone startled. It sounded absurd. The judge himself or the judge's own son? Neither, surely.
The clarification landed with a smug certainty, "Junior..."
Barty immediately moved quicker now like he was rushing to the door.
Auror Alastor Moody quickly aimed his wand and blasted at him. Not to hurt but startle. Barty slid, tumbling to the floor amidst papers and bags. Ministry employees pounced on him immediately, restraining the struggling form. The room was in shock. Bartemius Senior was in shock. But none like Henry. Henry wasn't shocked. He was confused.
Barty? His Barty. Impossible. Physically, utterly impossible.
Barty thrashed, tried to pull away, as they passed Bartemius' stand, Barty latched, clinging desperately, choking out a strained, pleading, "Father..."
Henry waited, long and anxious for their father to say something, anything. That it was a misunderstanding, that Barty wouldn't do that. That he didn't believe him. And yet, his father only stared.
Senior stared a few seconds more before his eyes went cold under the disgusted disbelief, a verdict made, the wrong one Henry told himself, "You are no son of mine...."
As if that settled the matter, the employees, mostly aurors pried the fighting form away. Barty kicked and struggled, "Father!!!" he called, pleading, "I didn't do it!! Father, I didn't!!"
The courtroom was buzzing with chaos but no one paid any mind to Barty's pleading, the nineteen year old boy insisting he hadn't done what he was accused of.
All Henry could think was how scared Barty sounded. He'd never heard that. He'd heard Barty yell when he was mad, he'd heard Barty's biting words when he was scared. This was neither. This was both. This was new. Horribly new.
As they drew closer to the door, the Crouch brothers made eye contact. Those familiar blue eyes met Henry's dark brown ones. Barty's mouth opened like he wanted to say something but then didn't. He closed it just as the doors shut.
Henry was glued where he was, still slightly leaned as if against a ghost of where his brother had been. Then movement next to him. Others getting up to leave. Henry was plunged unwillingly back into this horrible reality, and he scrambled up. His body went before he could think, to Bartemius' side, or as close as he could get. His hands clutched the podium and he could swear he could still feel the warmth of where Barty's fingers had been.
"Father...." he whispered, unable to hide the hurt as it leaked through. Tears stung his eyes before he could stop it. His nose tickled horribly, "Father.... wh-why didn't you- h-he said he didn't do it. Father... Father please-"
"No," Senior interrupted decidedly, but Henry pressed on, desperate for something to click.
"Barty said he didn't. He wouldn't. Barty wouldn't-"
"Henry..." Bartemius interrupted again, firmer, a warning edging his words.
Henry pressed on still, "H-he's reckless, I know, but he's not like that. He's my brother, your son. You must know. Father, please....-"
"Enough. Enough, Henry," Senior warned again, irritation growing. Henry told himself he could withstand the agitation, as long as he proved Barty's innocence to their father, he'd withstand anything.
"W-we're going to get him aren't we? Please-" the next interruption wasn't verbal, it was physical. A grip too hard, Henry was used to it, he could already feel bruises forming come the next day. Before he could try again, his father leaned in, his words a snake's hiss, "Henry. Enough. Not another word from you."
Bartemius didn't even give him the chance to argue, he was already dragging him away. Henry was sharply and uncomfortably turned as his father stepped aside and away from the podium. Senior marched with far too dignified steps for what happened, like a judgement was already made.
Henry could only stumble behind him, not nearly as graceful. The air left him just a moment, like the warning had sucked the possibility of further protest from him, no matter how badly he wanted to. And oh, he wanted to, he wanted to talk himself purple that Barty didn't do it. For something of his words to land and convince Bartemius there was a mistake and they needed to get Barty. But his father had spoken, and that was always the final word.
The two reached Senior's personal, private office. Henry was all but shoved inside, side colliding with the desk sharply. He gasped, hand shooting instinctively to nurse it, rubbing the spot tenderly.
"If you will not hush when I tell you to," Bartemius started, "then I will simply have to make you."
Henry hardly processed it, just enough to tense, to see the wand lift before, "Imperio."
The spell wasn't shouted. It wasn't dramatic. It was said with the same casualty one gave their coffee order. Henry’s body loosened, not enough to fall over but his arms tingled, hands falling at his sides as if weighed by invisible bags of sand.
The numbness he remembered briefly thinking about in the courtroom. This felt a thousand times worse than any other time though. He couldn't move. He couldn't talk. He couldn't even cry. He could only think, fuzzily, and wait to see what would happen to him.
Bartemius didn't address him right away. He huffed and let the silence drag out, as if it were peaceful where Henry only felt the tension. He adjusted his robes and judicial headdress as if dragging Henry had rumpled them. He couldn't help but notice how the cap made his father look even taller.
Afterward, he still didn't address his second born son. Instead, Bartemius moved around him like a piece of misplaced furniture, settled in the grand chair behind his desk, dipped his quill, and began writing.
Only the scratching of parchment being written on and the ticking of a clock somewhere unseen by Henry, nailed in place and unable to look around. The tears irritated his eyes but couldn't fall. He hated how pathetic the red rimmed look must've been. He hated even more that he could only plead more in his head, screaming while his body couldn't physically cooperate.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there. His mind was too loud to count how many ticks had gone by, but finally, eventually, after shifting of papers, his father addressed him.
"I told you it was enough and you pressed on. You're being emotional, Henry. Too much so. That is not how a Crouch heir behaves. Especially where others can see. I'm severely disappointed."
Henry couldn't focus on his words. Not the fact the spare son was now deemed the heir—maybe he would've been excited, if only it hadn't come at the detriment of his brother. He couldn't be gutted at being called disappointed. He couldn't even consider the hypocrisy—forced to stand there and take the beratement despite Henry’s pleas not even thirty minutes ago were interrupted and tossed aside. All he could do was continue pleading within his mind.
Bartemius took the forced silence as the opportunity to continue. He didn't even dignitfy Henry with looking at him as he spoke. He merely continued writing, "As for what happened, Bartemius is no longer part of this family. You will cease referring to him as such. No. We are not going to het him. He is filth, not even a man. You will not waste your breath on him again. I don't even want him spoken about in my presence. The person removed from that courtroom is of no concern to you. Do you understand?"
Henry couldn't answer, not how he wanted. Senior didn't seem too concerned. He let the scratching fill the room again for a few moments before finally giving an order, "I want to hear a 'yes sir, father. I understand'. Say it exactly like that."
Henry, against his will, parrot the phrase back, "Yes sir, Father. I understand," except that Henry didn't understand anything at all.
---
The days at home felt like worse than torture. Bartemius Senior only broke the spell after Henry was in his room and only then did the suppressed cries spill forth. Not loud. Never loud. And yet, Henry still buried his face and muffled them into the pillow.
They were cries he hadn't given in years. The last time he remembered crying this hard was when he was 12. It was a Ministry dinner. He'd been so proudly talking about his ambitions, so gleefully reciting the regulations he had spent months memorizing. Then Barty interrupted.
He used the wrong name on purpose. He smirked, taunted, got Henry frustrated and teary and stuttering. Then, thinking he had Barty cornered as his old brother—only 14—sipped the champagne flute, rushed to tell their father that Barty was having more than five sips which Henry was typically allowed.
Their father had been less thsn impressed being interrupted for that and sent Henry straight to bed. He'd cried because he knew he must've made a fool of himself in front of those he wanted to impress. Barty came in not even fifteen minutes. Dropped onto the bed, draped an arm over him.
Henry remembered being absolutely furious. He squirmed, tried to push the arm away, but Barty was annoyingly persistent. He turned it into a playful wrestling match until Henry was sobbing into his side and Barty was rubbing his back.
'Why are you even crying?' he had huffed.
'I-I wanted to impress th-th-them, Bahaharrtyyy!' he insisted.
'You don't need those Ministry quacks, Henry. Now breathe before you vomit.'
What hurt now is there was no one to tell him to breathe. And worse, Barty was right. Not then, but now, as he eventually cried so hard his lunch ended up hurled into his bedroom garbage can. The light was on in the hallway and his father didn't check once, even after Henry heard footsteps pass by at least five times.
It was hard, Henry wanted to ask about updates. But he knew it wasn't a safe place to do so.
He desperately wanted to know if Barty was okay, if he was being taken care of. If he was coming home, but he couldn't ask, because he'd been told not to speak of him in the house. To treat him as if he wasn't his big brother, as if he hadn't ever existed in these same walls.
That, however, didn't stop him from going into Barty's room. Barty got his own room when he was 10, Henry had been 8. Before that, it was a shared nursery.
The shared room went through many changes. Two cribs to a crib and a toddler bed, a toddler bed and a big bed, bunk beds. But even in separate rooms, Henry had always treated Barty's space as if it was an extension of his own.
He always randomly walked in. Just for nothing. Nothing but to look around the room. Often times, he didn't even touch anything, just wander to the desk then observe. Same with the bookshelf. Same with the dresser. It became so normalized, Barty rarely looked up anymore. Just 'Hi Henry, weekly inspection?'. Barty's space always felt safer.
Henry figured that was why, even with Barty gone, he still wandered into the untouched room daily, multiple times a day, actually. He hated seeing the dust starting to collect on everything.
The trial took too long to happen, in Henry’s opinion. He had silently hoped that their father just needed some time to calm down. That it was a misunderstanding. That Barty would be brought back home within days and he could fix everything with sweets. Days stretched to weeks. Two weeks. Almost three. The scent of Barty was even fading, to Henry’s horror, so hearing a date, he was relieved. There couldn't be evidence so Barty would be proven innocent so Barty would be brought home. He was so confident. So seeing his brother placed between well known Death Eaters was a sickening sight. His stomach turned as he leaned forward.
Barty looked nothing like those he sat beside. Bellatrix was the most alarming. She was gleeful. She was laughing. She wasn't even thinking of denying. She sneered happily at the disgust toward her actions.
Rodolphus sat stone cold, silent, offering not much of anything. The complete opposite of his wife. He did, however, confirm the crime with unnerving calmness.
Rabastan had the decency to look angry, but it wasn't at the accusation. It was the fact he was caught.
Then there was Barty. His Barty. Barty looked smaller and younger than the others. It was obvious to anyone that he was barely out of teenagehood. He looked terrified, he was crying. What really haunted Henry is that he looked skinny. Barty never was one to have much weight anyway but the grey prisoner uniform hung off his frame far too much. Henry desperately told himself that when Barty was proven innocent, they'd go to his favorite restaurant.
He couldn't believe what came next.
"The evidence before this council is sufficient. Bellatrix Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, and Bartemius Crouch Junior, you are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban," Bartemius stated, calm, final, as if his own son's name wasn't within the mix. Henry’s heart caught with the definitive bang of the gavel. That couldn't be it. Barty was seen with them, that wasn't evidence enough. Barty was seen with a lot of people. That couldn't be it.
Yet, guards pulled all four up. The Lestrange brothers walked out, quiet but not protesting. Bellatrix was loud, proclaiming her lotalty, that the Dark Lord would return. Again, Barty stood out.
His cheeks, far too hollow for Henry’s liking, were wet, "Father, please. Father listen to me, I'm innocent...! I'm innocent! Please don't send me there! Please, anything but that! Anywhere but there!"
Henry sniffled, tears burning his eyes again. Harder, faster than before, especially as Bartemius offered not even a glance to Barty and his words. No ounce of remorse or consideration. He did, however, glance a Henry. Firmly, coldly, a look that screamed 'you better not cry' without Senior having to utter a word. Henry bit the inside of his cheek, choking it back. He thought to all the times Barty kept his composure and had to wonder how many times he'd done this too.
He didn't even get a last moment of eye contact with his brother. That, he was sure stung worse.
Dinner was just as horrible because he had to watch Bartemius cut into his steak as if he hadn't sent his firstborn to the worst place imaginable. He even expected Henry to eat.
"Stop playing with your food, Henry," he stated, firmly, "tell me regulation J2.4," he added.
Henry punctured a greenbean half-heartedly. He was usually fast to answer these questions. Random quizzing on ministry regulations wasn't uncommon especially for Henry. Henry took it the most serious, though Bartemius expected both boys to know everything they could about the ministry. And yet that was what got his brother locked away.
Henry twirled his fork, thinking a moment. Usually, he was quicker, but his heart wasn't in it. He didn't want dinner. He didn't want quizzes. He wanted his brother. Or at least the right to cry into his pillow again. But neither of those were happening. He felt helpless.
"J2.4, official Ministry correspondence shall be answered within... ten working days unless delayed by active investigation, international review, or... or emergency decree..."
"And N5.5?"
Henry went quiet, feeling Bartemius was intentionally pushing now. He rarely asked two in a row, still, robotic and dutiful, Henry responded, N5.5, Visitors under the age of seventeen must remain accompanied by a registered Ministry employee while present on Levels..... One through Three."
"You're hesitating, Henry. Unacceptable. You need to keep your head on straight. Your future does not stop just because of the melodrama. In fact, you should be pushing harder. You will push harder and exceed all expectations. Including mine. I expect nothing less."
Henry swallowed, it sounded less like encouragement and more like a decree.
"Yes sir.." was all he could utter, finally bringing the greenbean to his mouth, nearly gagging as he forced himself to swallow.
Bartemius Senior sighed as if Henry was being an unreasonable inconvenience.
"You better be careful. You don't want to end up like that thing. Casted out, and disgraced. Forgotten," another piece of steak was cut, "the world is full of people who throw their life away, Henry. Your brother made his choice."
Henry couldn't agree. His mind drifting to the pleading, the begging, how terrified his brother sounded. That wasn't a choice at all. Still, having no energy to argue, he only nodded, "Yes sir...."
"I should've expected it... always arguing. Defiant. Rude. Ungrateful. Do you recall the Ministry gala of 1976, the last one with Mr. Bentley?"
Henry paused, "The... one you send me to my room for, sir?"
"That percise one," Bartemius nodded, still too casual, "he actually thought it appropriate to argue with me about it. Said I embarrassed you. You embarrassed yourself, I was correcting your behavior, just as I had to correct his.."
Henry paused, hiw brows furrowing. He didn't remember Barty being punished, "Sir..? He was in my room after?"
"Mmhm, I collected him afterward. He made sure you were asleep. Everything I did for him and this is how he repays me. He doesn't even deserve the name..."
Henry stared at his plate. 'He made sure you were asleep'. He had thought it was odd Barty wasn't in his bed when he woke up. Normally, when Henry fell asleep first, he'd wake up to Barty next to him. He hadn't that day. Senior continued either unaware or uncaring for the revelation Henry was having.
"He tried to keep himself quiet too. He didn't sit right for weeks. One might've thought the lesson sunk in but unfortunately not."
Weeks. Henry remembered seeing the bruises. He asked what happened and Barty had shrugged, said he fell, shoved money at him and told Henry to buy himself ice cream.
If Barty hid that for weeks, what else could he hide?
Henry pondered thst question long after dinner. Finally sobbing into his pillow, choking on the sobs, he thought a lot, too much. About the times Barty covered his ears when their father yelled. The times he'd said 'go play outside' 'go play with your stationary' 'go buy candy' 'bother Winky'. How many times were those Barty protecting him?
Henry was willing to bet a lot. He was finally understanding what Barty mrant when he said 'I'm the big brother. Its what older brothers do'. And his brother wasn't even here to thank for it.
The Slytherin dormitories were quiet. Unusually so. One might've thought the chaos would've settled with the Marauders graduating but the Wizarding community was only getting started with a war threatening it's edges.
The war was the last thing on Clarice Arnoult's mind, however. She sat, sunk to the floor, her curls unruly in a tangled, static mess, her mascara ruined, her breaths were impossible. All she could do was cry, waiting for who she'd sent after. An object lay on the floor next to her. It had slipped from her grasp in her state and lay forgotten for the moment.
"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes," a familiar voice drawled. Clarice couldn't even look up, couldn't even pretend to cling to her dignity as she normally might've. That was Barty Crouch Junior's first hint. He'd never seen her so disheveled.
He'd seen her cry. She cried when they were kids and he took her toy without asking. She cried when he teased her about her crush on Peter Pettigrew. She'd cried over the sniveling, unworthy rat when he inevitably broke her heart. This was worse than any of them combined. He shifted then moved closer, dropping to one knee in front of her, expression cooling with only a hint of concern he only extended to those he deemed worthy.
"Claire. Breathe. You gotta breathe."
Clarice shook her head. She couldn't. Her future was over, she was terrified. She leaned forward, burying her face into his chest. Internally, he cursed, but outwardly, his expression only soured, "Who am I hurting, Ree? Huh? Give a name. Any name."
Clarice shook her head, she knew this wasn't something Barty could fix with a hex or being a delinquent. That answer made his jaw tighten but he didn't dare argue with her. Not right now. He'd get answers later.
"Alright, just breathe for me then. You're going to make yourself sick."
When she didn't, or more accurately struggled to, he sighed but exaggerated his own breathing, letting her gradually copy it at her own pace.
It was a slow process, slower than he would've liked, but he eventually got her to where she wasn't choking on every cry. Her frame still shook but it wasn't bad. Barty had shifted to the familiar position. His hand cupping the back of her head, holding her close. The other rubbing slow circles over her arm.
"You gonna tell me now? Or do I have to guess?"
Clarice hiccupped the words still feeling too big to say. If she said it, it all became real. Her mouth quivered, threatening to undo all the process, but she freed a hand to blindly feel next to herself. Eventually, she found it and held it up for her cousin to see. At first, Barty wasn't sure what he was looking at. Until he actually processed it. Pregnancy test, positive. His world stopped for a moment, shakily plucking it from her hand.
"Merlin Clarice... you can't be serious..."
His words earned a choked cry that she quickly tried to muffle behind her hand. She couldn't believe it either. She was only 17. She wasn't even graduated, but here she was. Pregnant after her first time. With Percival Nott of all people.
Seeing her reaction, Barty's jaw tightened even more, "You can't keep it," he insisted automatically.
Clarice choked out another, harder cry, "Wh-wh-why?" she choked, despite knowing the answer already. She was 17, still a student. She was in no position to have a baby.
"Why? Surely you're kidding me. You're smarter than that. You know exactly why," Barty scolded, with the confidence of being only 17 himself.
Clarice's arms dropped, hugging her abdomen, still flat but forming a life within. She hiccupped and whimpered out in a murmur, "B-but.... m-my baby, B-Barty..."
Barty paused at that. His world temporarily stopped once more. For any reason except logic his little cousin was attached to this life. He couldn't, he wouldn't, force her to get rid of it. Even if the thought terrified him. The thought brilliant Clarice who had everything planned out was throwing it away for something not here yet. She'd be a good mother, he knew it. Just not now. Not while she was young. But.... he couldn't take this from her.
With another hard sigh, he nodded, doing what Barty did best, improvise, "Your baby," he agreed softly, cupping her cheeks and roughly wiping tears with his thumbs, "it's gonna be okay.... we're gonna figure it out... whatever you wanna do, you won't do it alone."
"I-I don't know what t-to do... I'm sc-scared, Barty," she whimpered.
Barty sighed, not having the heart to tell her he was too, so he hugged her close instead, "Then think on it. A decision doesn't have to be made today.... we'll figure everything out.."
Clarice nodded. She felt one of Barty's hand move to rest over her stomach and then and there knew what she was going to do. And the first time in an hour, maybe two by now, she felt like she could breathe and live with that decision.
Video touching on Evanora's trauma and the catalyst for the betrayal of the Arnoult family.
So when Octave realized that Evanora was going to be his only child and heir and wouldn't carry on the Arnoult name, he panicked and started pushing her toward finding a suitable husband to marry or he'd find her one. When that word got out, her father's associates started looking at her and treating her differently.
Evanora, however, didn't want to rush into a marriage, especially because the two men she would've wanted to marry were unavailable. She didn't want to be forced into a marriage where she'd be stuck as a man's stay at home wife under his thumb, she wanted to keep her power. Then she sees how Peter is bending over backwards for Clarice. She sees him as cowardly and decided they weren't likely to last long anyway so Peter may as well help her situation, stealing him away from her cousin.
Another picture slide show turned into a proper video plays heavily off the fact that while impersonating Mad-Eye Moody, Barty is surrounded by kids that echo and resemble the cousins he grew up around. Kids ge would've watched grow up and babysat if not for Azkaban.
Rebloging here to show as a post that I've decided to make a Tumblr page for the Arnoult family. I will now be posting related things there where I can (fanfiction chapters and such will be posted here so I can update the masterlist) and then reblogged here.
Arnoult family aesthetic boards I've made so far. More to come but I make them in spurts based on what character currently has my focus and what's needed for roleplay and TikToks.
Far too difficult but I may do this again this was made doing the TikTok trend of showing Harry Potter interactions with your OC.
This is Bruno Arnoult's from my fanfiction series I'm working on, Ce qui est à nous demeure à nous. This was admittedly a test to see how hard it would be to do it. Bruno was the most recent one done on my TikTok hence here he is.
Ce qui est à nous demeure à nous: The Knights of Walpurgis era Ch. 1
Summary: The year is 1939, Leandre Arnoult comes to Hogwarts, utterly unaware of the spell that will befall his heart.
Authors Notes: So because Ao3 lets me work on parts of a story without the first parts being finished, I decided to start part 2. I may start part 3 as well and work on whichever era strikes my mood. As much as I wanted to work in order, I worry my motivation will burn out faster that way when I hit writers block for one part. Be rest assured all three will be worked on though.
Masterlist
Heavy trunks settled on the compartment floor with quiet thuds. With his hands now free, Leandre Arnoult reached to fix his hair. Just as he did, his older brother’s hands appeared to straighten his collar. The crisp, slightly uncomfortable dress shirt underneath folded just so, then the robes smoothed over it.
“It was particularly windy,” Leandre chirped, smiling wide enough to show a gap in his lower set of teeth.
Octave Arnoult grimaced at the sight, waving his hand in a downward motion. A silent ‘don’t smile like that,’ then he sighed, leaning back to recline in the compartment seat.
“It was,” he agreed, “but it was calling for storms. Hardly surprising. I’m grateful we merely were not drenched.”
Leandre hummed happily, taking the seat across from him. His hands bunched at his knees, looking out the window. A shrill whistle from Hogwarts Express blared overhead, stifling student conversation. Just as Leandre shifted to get comfortable, the door opened and he smiled again. Bartemius Crouch slid in with a huff.
“Hi, Barty!” Leandre greeted enthusiastically. Truly the Crouch genes left very little room for disguise. He was looking more and more like Uncle Bartholomew with his dirty blonde hair and dark eyes.
Bartemius let his eyes drift to his younger cousin, nodding once in acknowledgment at first, letting himself sit in the space next to Octave before properly addressing him, “Hello, Leandre,” before the name even finished, Barty was already looking over to the older Arnoult boy. Leandre wasn’t surprised; they always sat next to each other at functions, murmuring amongst each other.
Mother insisted it was simply because they were so close in age, but Leandre fully believed it had more to do with their personalities. They both always were so stiff, talking about futures in the Ministry. It didn’t surprise him with Barty; Uncle Bartholomew worked in the Auror Office, so it felt natural that he would find a similar career. Octave seemed on the same path, though. The two traded Ministry secrets and plans like other boys traded chocolate frog cards.
Leandre had just leaned forward to hear what they were saying about Lady Yaxley when the door slid open again. Leandre’s brown eyes immediately lit up, another smile pulling at his mouth, “Abraxas!” he all but squealed, already scooting to make room for the Malfoy heir to sit next to him.
Octave cringed at the noise, narrowing his eyes at his younger brother, shaking his head in unspoken reprimand, but the younger boy was hardly swayed.
Abraxas Malfoy allowed a faint, fond smirk at the familiar enthusiasm, “Hello Leandre,” he hummed, elegantly taking the indicated spot Leandre had eagerly patted. Leandre could only watch in awe. He let the older boy settle in before scooting closer, leaving not an inch of space between them.
“Hello Octave,” Abraxas hummed, “and Bartemius.”
“Malfoy,” Barty murmured, hardly interested.
“Abraxas,” Octave greeted though he stared hard at his brother, like he already caught on to something and was waiting for Leandre to realize it too. The patience ran thinly very quickly though.
“Leandre,” he said, firm and measured, “do you recall our conversation about personal space?”
Leandre didn’t get time to react before an arm snaked around him, “No worries here, Octave,” Abraxas assured, “I would say I’m well accustomed to Leandre’s clinging nature by now. By comparison to you, it seems, I find it endearing.”
Octave narrowed his eyes without heat behind them. A heavy sigh heaving from his chest, “You’re indulging him, Abraxas..”
“He’s fine, Octave,” Abraxas dismissed again, “tell me, how did you find Professor Binns’ summer assignment?”
Leandre felt a wave of reverence wash over him at how easily Abraxas navigated the conversation. Octave sighed again, just as heavy, but followed the new subject change. Leandre was sure there was a flutter in his stomach, head falling to rest on Abraxas’s arm, right below his shoulder as the older boys’ talk drifted above his head like sophisticated smoke.
Classes that he wasn’t permitted to take yet, assignments older students mentioned that occurred every year, names of other boys he’d yet to meet. Without thinking about it, Leandre’s hand latched onto Abraxas’s sleeve, rubbing the almost silken fabric between his fingers. There was a delightful surge in his chest every time Abraxas spoke, embracing the vibrations against his own smaller body. Once there was a break in the conversation, Leandre immediately sought to fill it with his voice.
“Abraxas, I lost my bottom molar last week; mother says I’ve nearly gotten all my adult teeth! It felt proper too, since I’m now in Hogwarts with you lot! Adelaide isn’t looking forward to attending next year though. She says she doesn’t want to be surrounded by even more immature boys, but- “
“Leandre,” the younger boy jolted as Octave’s voice cut through his own, interrupting the barrage of words. He blinked, looking startled at his older brother, waiting for the chastisement he knew was coming.
“Breathe between your words and not so much at once. You sound too eager, and thereby ridiculous.”
Leandre furrowed his brows but looked up to Abraxas for confirmation. The platinum blonde boy offered an amused smile and put his finger to his mouth, a far gentler ‘shush’ than Octave had offered. Quite content with the difference, Leandre quieted down again, allowing the older boys’ conversation to resume.
___________________________________
The Great Hall of Hogwarts was crowded. Headmaster Dippet had explained how the Sorting ceremony would go for first years. Leandre felt his stomach knot up. Because of his last name, it wouldn’t take long for him to be called up.
“Leandre Arnoult!” Dippet announced; the room felt suffocating, overwhelming. His legs trembled as he made his way up to the front. He was helped up onto a stool. There was warmth on his forehead as the large Sorting Hat was placed atop. He stiffened on instinct, then a voice heard by only him reverberated in his mind; it drowning out anything from the outside world.
“Let's see... let's see... I see a certain Crouch brilliance, but not as a central position....” Leandre was quiet, but he knew exactly what it meant. Before his mother, the Crouch family had come from a long line of Ravenclaw students. Uncle Barthalomew and Ignatius were Ravenclaw, but his mother was placed in Slytherin, just like his father. Just like Octave. If Ravenclaw wasn’t being considered anymore, that left three other houses.
“I see an abundance of loyalty in your heart... but an ambitious desire to be near those of power... Hufflepuff would suit you nicely... you’d fit right in.... but your thoughts tell me you don’t want that house.... how interesting....”
Leandre blinked but supposed the hat wasn’t wrong. He didn’t want Hufflepuff. Not because he feared being cast out, but because his entire heart rested in Slytherin. He couldn’t picture himself sitting anywhere that Octave and Abraxas weren’t. Without them meaning to, the thoughts ran through his mind, as if his word alone could sway the decision, ‘Please pick Slytherin.... please... I want Slytherin....’
“You want Slytherin, do you...? It won’t be easy. A loyal heart surrounded by resourceful people....”
‘Please...’ Leandre found himself thinking again.
There was silence, Leandre wasn’t sure how long. Sometime midway through, his eyes squeezed shut, as if he could will the house he wanted through sheer hope. Finally, the hat rumbled, loud and clear that it almost seemed to echo off the walls, “Let's call it, Slytherin!!”
Leandre released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His cheeks flushed naturally with pure relief. Headmaster Dippet helped him down, patting his shoulder, “Congratulations, young man.”
“Thank you, sir,” he beamed. He moved toward the Slytherin table. He saw Abraxas’s smile and Octave’s contemplative look.
“There’s our little serpent,” Abraxas praised, shifting over slightly to pat the spot next to him in invitation. The action alone took a weight off Leandre’s shoulders. He settled next to the older boy, sighing heavily, eyes drooping as though the anticipation had been enough to drain him, head falling to naturally rest on his shoulder, just as it had on the train ride. Abraxas hummed, smoothing down Leandre’s bangs. The younger boy’s half-lidded gaze drifted up to Octave. His older brother was watching him, but not in the way he normally did. Octave looked conflicted, confused. The abnormally of it all was enough to make Leandre furrow his brows. He waited, just a moment, for the usual scolding. The telling of him to stop leaning against Abraxas, but this time the silence reined far longer than it normally would’ve. It was almost unsettling.
“Octave...?” he eventually murmured, “Are you... proud?”
Octave blinked as if pulled from a spell, yet he still didn’t answer right away. He watched his little brother. The emotional, open-hearted Leandre, and couldn’t help but wonder if Slytherin was really the best fit for him. Eventually, Octave nodded, slowly, firmly, “Yes... Slytherin is acceptable...”
Leandre eased, contented to feel Abraxas and Octave’s praise in the choice. Over his head, the two older boys traded silent looks.
‘Please, help me look out for him here.’
‘I will make sure to show him how things are around here.’
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Characters: Irma Crabbe Black, Pollux Black, Cassiopeia Black, Marius Black, Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Gellert Grindelwald, Albus Dumbledore, Abraxas Malfoy's Father, Fleamont Potter, Horace Slughorn, Crouch Family (Harry Potter), Rosier Family (Harry Potter), Original Rosier Family Characters (Harry Potter), Carrow Family (Harry Potter), Malfoy Family (Harry Potter), Original Malfoy Characters (Harry Potter), Original Abbott Family Characters (Harry Potter)
Additional Tags: Original Character-centric, Major Original Character(s), Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Purebloods (Harry Potter), Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Pre-Tom Riddle
Series: Part 1 of The pure-blood family of Arnoult
Summary:
In the year 1910, 11-year-old Henri Arnoult leaves his hometown in France to attend the magical school of Hogwarts, per his parent's request.
Little does he know the family tree he will create there.
