I am not writing this because I could not mentally take it but...
Imagine⌠being an Obscurus and best friends with Barty Crouch Jr.
You were eight years old when you met him.
A Muggle girl, too loud, too wild, too alive- a stark contrast to the quiet, polite boy with a sharp mind and a father that loomed over him like a shadow.
But with you? He wasnât a Crouch. He was just Barty.
You built forts out of logs, ran barefoot through the pond, and shared a locket- two halves of a whole, a symbol of forever.
Imagine⌠falling sick the moment he turned eleven.
It started with headaches. Then nosebleeds. Then days where your limbs felt too heavy to move.
Barty didnât understand. No one did.
One day, you were climbing trees and stealing sweets from the corner shop.
The next, you were shaking, feverish, slipping through his fingers.
And then- he left.
Hogwarts. Magic. A world you couldnât follow him into.
He promised to write every day.
He did.
But no letter could stop the way your bones ached or the way the shadows in your room whispered.
Imagine⌠Barty researching Obscurials.
He was fourteen when he figured it out.
When he read about children who grew sick and died because they suppressed their magic.
Except- you werenât suppressing it.
You never had magic to begin with.
But somehow, it was still killing you.
Imagine⌠Barty growing more desperate.
He tore through the Hogwarts library like a man possessed.
Potions. Enchantments.
He tried everything. He talked to anyone- everyone. He promised anything for answers. Anything for help.
Ancient texts. Dark rituals. Forbidden spells.
Once- he even tried to give you his own magic. Like a childish fever dream, something to awaken yours. Take yours. Fix yours.
It failed. Of course it did.
But that didnât stop him from trying again. And again. And again.
Because Barty Crouch Jr. was a lot of things.
A prodigy. A disappointment. A son with too many expectations.
But to you- he was just a boy who couldnât stand to lose his best friend.
Imagine⌠your final conversation with him.
You were eighteen, frail and pale, sitting in your childhood bed as Barty paced beside you. He had spent every year of his life loosing himself to try and regain you.
And it was tearing you apart inside.
He told you about his latest discovery, about the ritual he was planning.
He swore he was close.
You smiled. Soft. Knowing. Because he was always close.
And then you said it. So soft. So sweet.
So scratchy.. so quiet..
âBarty, itâs okay.â
And it broke him.
He fell to his knees beside your bed, clutching your frail hands, begging you not to go.
Because who was he without you? What identity did he have if you weren't there? What was all the Outstandings for? The letters? The years he spent learning every nook and cranny of magic- if he couldn't stop it?
Not yet. Not when he still had so much to fix.
âI canât,â he whispered. âI canât watch you die.â
And so, you gave him one final gift. Because he had give you so much.
Too much.
âThen donât,â you whispered. âClose your eyes.â
He did.
âPicture me."
And he did. And when his face twisted in anguish, you tutted. Running your small- much too small hands, through his black locks. âNot like that. Like me.â
And there she was. The vibrant ten-year-old who once dragged him through the streets, laughing like she had all the time in the world. Tugging him into alley ways and sneaking away from his parents.
âWrite to me,â you said, voice barely a breath. âWrite to that girl. That way⌠it will be like I never left.â
So he let go of your hand.
And he left.
He left you alone in that bed.
He walked away, fists clenched, locket pressed to his palm.
He didnât look back. He forced himself through the meadow in your back yard, the bond you used to run in when you were younger, the swings that rocked.
And then- the explosion.
The shockwave knocked him to the ground.
The sky split open behind him.
And as he lay there, gasping, the locket in his hand felt heavier than ever.
You were gone.
Imagine⌠Barty writing letters to you all the time. From his years in the war, tales of Voldemort and his friends.
Even in Azkaban he made use of the walls and his nails.
Then under his imperious curse it was like a safe haven in his mind.
At first, they were daily.
Then weekly.
Then only when he could remember your face.
One day, he woke up and couldnât remember if your eyes were green or blue. Brown or black. Purple or red.
Then your hair.
Your smile.
Your laugh.
And then, finally- your name.
He tried to write to you that night.
But the ink wouldnât flow, because his hands hesitated.
Because for the first time in his life-
He didnât know who he was writing to.
And that- not Azkaban, not the Dementors, not even the war-
That was the moment Barty Crouch Jr. truly died.
And the cruelest thing; in this form of death; he still wouldn't see you. Not yet.
