WHATS IN YOUR FILE.
NAME: Bartemius “Barty” Crouch Jr. GENDER & PRONOUNS: Cismale, he/him. HOUSE & YEAR: Ravenclaw, 7th. BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood. AFFILIATION: Death Eaters.
WHAT DO THE RUMORS SAY.
POSITIVES: Studious, imaginative, skilful. NEGATIVES: Cynical, cruel, aloof . LOOKS LIKE: Cody Christian.
WHAT IS THE TRUE STORY.
Loves his mother dearly, but despises his father.
Suffered a lot of cruelty from his father during his childhood.
Has a thirst for knowledge, somewhat of a prodigy.
Finds most people quite irritating to converse with.
Has a slight obsession for the Dark Arts, finds them fascinating.
I 1958
Your peers came into this world as the apple of their fathers’ eye, their heirs, the ones they had been waiting for all along. Meanwhile, you came as a nuisance, a disruption to your fathers carefully laid out plans. Your young mother blissfully cradled your tiny frame in her arms, finally having found a purpose, something to put all her passion into. Until now she had only been a girl, living all alone in a big mansion that had never started to feel like her own but now she had a purpose, now she was a mother. Your dad saw you for the first time almost two days after you had been born. “Work.” He muttered under his breath to the young woman holding his child. You were named after him anyway; it was the proper thing to do after all. And while your father could barely manage to look at you for another two seconds, your mother’s fingertips carefully caressed your cheek. “Barty.” She mumbled reverently, overwriting your fathers wish. You would never become Bartemius like your father, you were hers from the beginning so you proudly wore the name she gave you.
I 1964
With your nose scrunched in disdain and anger, you watched the son of one of your mother’s girlfriends run through your garden like a berserker, disregarding the flower your mother so carefully and lovingly planted just a week earlier. You had watched her closely, fascinated by the care she took. She had explained to you that the young plants were fragile, that you needed to be very careful so that they would have a chance to grow and become strong and beautiful. Your beloved Mother, she always knew too much of fragility. When the heat of the midday had started to tire her you told her to sit down and finished the work, recreating her every step, being careful not to destroy any of the delicate petals. You had felt her proud and adoring gaze on your back.
Now she wasn’t saying anything as the careless boy trampled the little flowers that had sparked such joy in her. You knew she was too polite to do so; you knew she didn’t want to anger her friend. You, however, had no issue doing so. Rage was pulsating through your veins as you stormed towards the other kid, as fast as your legs would carry you, and pushed them into the little creek running through your garden. Pleasure fulfilled you as you watched him sputter and cry out for his mother. He had deserved it. Your mom scolded you a little, asked you what you were thinking to push the other boy into the water but you could see in her eyes that she knew. She knew what you had done and she was grateful for it. If anyone understood that beautiful and delicate things needed protection it was her.
I 1967
More often than not these days you found yourself with your head bowed over a book and whenever your mother spotted you like that she ruffled through your hair and called you her “smart boy”. Pride lit up her eyes whenever you showed her how good you were doing with your teacher. It was so easy to make her happy and proud, at least whenever she was actually around. These days she spent a lot of time in her bed, managing only the slightest of smiles whenever you slit through the bedroom door to visit her. Your father wouldn’t even have noticed unless hadn’t you begged him to call a doctor for her.
The next day you diligently waited outside your mother’s bedroom for the doctor to come out again, worry burying creases into your youthful face. When he came out though all he told you was that your mother was fine, that she just needed rest and quiet for a while. He gave you a pitying look as he laid one hand on your shoulder and told you not to disturb her too much. You could see it in his eyes, that he wasn’t being entirely honest to you, that he didn’t think you were old enough to understand. That night you tried asking your dad about it, which only prompted him to let out a snort and shaking his head. “Your mother was never equipped for real life.” He just mumbled, which was all the information you would get from him that night. Anger started swelling in your stomach as you looked at him with disbelief, how could he say something like that about his wife? There wasn’t an ounce of worry for her in his gaze, he just plainly didn’t seem to care.
That day sparked a newfound interest in medicine for you as you were hellbent on finding out what illness actually ailed your mother. Days were spent in the library, instead of meeting up with your friends in order to enjoy those last days of summer. The house was eerily empty and quiet with your father at work the entire time and your mother barely ever leaving her bed. The doctor had told you not to disturb her but every now and then you still sneaked into her room. You wanted to ask her about her symptoms, but whenever you started inquiring, she just took your hands in hers and told you not to worry. How silly of her to think that was even possible.
I 1972
Coming back to school after the summer was bittersweet. School was alright, you even enjoyed most of the classes and some of your peers weren’t even too bad. However, it also meant leaving your mother all alone. She had seemed fine when you left, waving you goodbye from the door of the mansion. You had made her promise not to be alone too much, knowing all too well how isolation worsened her condition. It didn’t help much that word about Audrey Crouch’s mysterious disease had spread over this last year, turning her into somewhat of a spectacle for her usual girlfriends. You knew worrying wouldn’t help you much, but it was what you did the best. While all around you your housemates were excitedly sharing stories about their summer you solemnly unpacked your books. All too often you felt like an old man among kids, as your concerns seemed all too different from theirs. It was hardly tolerable to hear them making tiny issues out to be disasters when your life had never granted you such luxury.
Over the last year, you had been able to figure out that your mothers’ ailment was most likely one of the mind, not the body. A theory your father obviously didn’t care about, which he had made abundantly clear by throwing his glass at the wall behind you, missing by only centimetres. The thought of how much more choleric he had apparently become over the last year also didn’t do much to stop your worrying about your mother’s well-being. Over the summer your father had paid you more attention than ever before, seemingly hell-bent on picking arguments with you over just about anything but especially your mother. Having spent years without a care about her, his sudden involvement only made your blood boil with familiar hatred. After all these years of ducking from his gaze, you weren’t going to continue like that. Finally, you were at the same height as your father and both of you knew that the time of his undisputed authority had gotten to an end.
Back at Hogwarts however, you needed to remind yourself how to be a boy, how to walk a little less straight and speak a little softer. Not that you were good at it, blending in, or that you really cared for it either. Your only friends were those you had known for as long as you could remember and even in their eyes, you could spot the bewilderment at his behaviour at times. However, while others with similar patterns of behaviour were secretly called weirdos or even freaks, you were more of a mystery than an outcast. For some reason, your harsh words and the smug smirk you had fashioned for your façade seemed to intrigue people, even though they weren’t the kinds of people you were even remotely interested in associating with. Popularity had never been far up your list of priorities anyway.
I 1977
The light of your wand was the only thing spending even the slightest bit of illumination as you squinted in order to make out the words written on the pages before you. Small illustrations accompanied one of the rare texts about dark magic you had been able to acquire. What had started as an eccentric hobby was now your main field of interest, leading to you spending your nights up and reading instead of sleep. Dark bags below your eyes had long since become your constant companion, alongside ruffled hair and raised irritability, even though that last one was more of a permanent character trait than a momentary condition.
You long since left the lanky boy, that consisted mostly of anger, behind. Or maybe you had just become a more polished version, hiding the rage behind smooth words and a hollow smile. Most people were still insufferable to you, especially those your own age but you had learned to hide your contempt. These days you channelled your more destructive instincts into this, dark magic. The words still prompted a sinister grin to appear on your lips. Busying yourself with learning about one of the things your father despised the most had been the initial motive for your intrigue with the Dark Arts but those days had long passed, while your interest stuck with you.
Therefore, when you had heard about the Dark Lord and his following it didn’t take much to convince you. You could feel that there were big things happening, that history was being written and you so badly wanted to be part of that. There was such an allure to this movement that seemed to have just the right place for you. You finally found the darkness that had been brewing inside of you for many years mirrored in those around you. It certainly seemed that maybe this is where you, the boy with the dark thoughts and ambitions, might find your place after all.
WHAT ARE YOUR RELATIONSHIPS.
EVAN ROSIER: Friend, one of the few people he gets along with. RABIA SHAFIQ: Vaguely irritated by, but also admires. DIRK CRESSWELL: Enemy, often fights with. ISOBEL CLEMONTE: Attempting to manipulate. THEO STEBBINS: Potions partner, cannot get along with.
