The chair at the center of the courtroom glowed gold. Chains slithered out from the armrests like living things, snapping tight around Igor Karkaroff’s wrists and restraining him. In the middle of it all, Barty Crouch Sr. sat like a monument to order itself—face carved from stone.
There was no emotion in his eyes.
“Igor Karkaroff,” Crouch announced, his voice cold and commanding. “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 order your immediate release. Until such time, you remain, in the eyes of the Ministry, a convicted Death Eater. Do you accept these terms?”
Karkaroff, pale and gaunt from months in Azkaban, leaned forward as far as the chains would allow. His breath came in short, ragged bursts.
“I do, sir.”
His eyes, bloodshot and wild, darted between the many faces above him, searching for any sign of sympathy. He found none.
“And what do you wish to present?” Crouch pressed, impatient.
“I have names, sir!”
The council shifted. Some members exchanged skeptical glances; others leaned in with interest. Karkaroff swallowed, throat dry.
“There was a—Rosier! Evan Rosier!”
A pause. The only sound was the faint shuffling of parchment as The Council flipped through records.
“Rosier is dead,” Barty Sr. stated flatly, without even looking up.
Karkaroff blanched, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. “I—I didn’t know…”
“If that is all the witness has to offer—”
“No, no!” Karkaroff’s voice cracked as he lurched against the chair, chains rattling. Desperation filled his tone. “There was—Rookwood! Augustus Rookwood!” he rasped, seizing the name like a lifeline. “He was a spy! Passed secrets straight from the Department of Mysteries!”
From the spectator’s gallery, Rita Skeeter leaned forward, quill flying across her notepad with an almost predatory glee.
Crouch’s brows lifted, just slightly. “Augustus Rookwood? Of the Department of Mysteries?”
“Yes, yes, the very same!” Karkaroff’s voice rose in pitch. “He passed information to You-Know-Who from inside the Ministry itself!”
Crouch nodded, impassive. “Very well. The council will deliberate. In the meantime, you will be returned to Azkaban—”
“NO!” Karkaroff screeched, twisting in his seat. The golden light around the chair flared brighter, and the chains tugged, more than ready to drag him back into the abyss. “Wait, wait, please! I have more! What about Snape?! Severus Snape!”
The courtroom stirred at the name.
From the edge of the chamber, Dumbledore rose. His face was calm, but there was a firmness in his gaze.
“The council is very much aware of this matter,” the headmaster said evenly. “Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. And, prior to Lord Voldemort’s downfall, he turned spy for our cause, at great personal risk—”
“That’s a lie!” Karkaroff shrieked. He thrashed against the chair, veins bulging in his neck. “Snape remains faithful to the Dark Lord—!”
“SILENCE!”
Crouch’s voiced cut through the chamber, roared between each of the sharp cracks from his gavel.
He stood, eyes blazing. “Unless the witness possesses any genuine name of consequence, this session is now concluded!”
The courtroom fell into an uneasy hush.
Karkaroff froze. His breath came fast and shallow. The chains stirred, preparing to drag him toward the shadows that led to Azkaban.
And then—
“Oh, no no no… there is one more,” he rasped, voice barely more than a whisper. His entire body was trembling now, the thin fabric of his robes fluttering with each shaky breath. “I’ve heard about one more!”
Crouch’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s that?”
Karkaroff’s gaze darted around the room, wild and vindictive.
“The name…” He gasped like a man breaking the surface after drowning.
“Yes?”
The room seemed to tilt.
Karkaroff’s eyes snapped up, locking with Crouch’s. “I know for a fact this person took part in the capture—and by means of the Cruciatus Curse, tortured the Auror Frank Longbottom and his wife!”
The chamber erupted into whispers. Voices of quiet disbelief, horror, and perhaps outrage. Even Dumbledore’s eyes darkened.
Crouch’s face twisted, impatience and something colder flashing across his features. He leaned forward, hands braced against the podium.
“The name, Karkaroff!” he thundered. “Give us the wretched name!”
Karkaroff’s lips curled into something between a sneer and a grimace.
“Barty Crouch…”
The words fell like lead into the silence.
Every head turned.
Karkaroff froze.
For a moment, he said nothing, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. He had another name. A real one. Someone who had stood beside him in the shadows, wand raised without hesitation.
Barty Crouch Junior.
He could say it. The son of the man glaring down at him. The truth, undeniable and damning.
But then what? His only remaining leverage, spent. A pawn sacrificed without a guarantee of his own freedom.
You're leaving your pets at home for the day and you want to leave the TV on for some background noise for them, what programming do you choose? (you have a TV with YouTube capability)
A TV channel but no particular channel
Sports channel
Nature channel
Movie channel
12 hour YouTube video but no particular YouTube video
12 hours of sweeping aerial drone footage of landscapes with soft music
general tw for abuse and self harm: been thinking a lot about all the ways young me had been brainwashed by my dad and how it affected how I see myself and the world. When I first started really showing the warning signs of severe depression when I was like 10-12 his solution was to pound into me this idea that I was situationally depressed which meant I wasn’t actually depressed and I should just get over it. I think on some level deep down he must have known he was the major cause and had to gaslight me to preserve his self image. Or maybe he really completely believed it because he has the introspection, empathy and self awareness of a wood tick. Either way, me internalizing that idea that situational depression wasn’t real or valid I think is part of why I started to act out and seek medications so desperately. I needed to validate that what I was feeling was real, so started to cut, abuse substances, engage in risky behavior, disordered eating etc etc even more than I had been. It had to be real then, right? I had the scars to prove it. I think it’s part of why I sought psych medication for every little thing (my doctor DID NOT help.) because it HAD to be chemical, right? Situational depression wasn’t valid in my eyes. It had to be something deeply and inherently wrong within me. But it wasn’t! It WAS situational. That doesn’t make what I felt any less real. That doesn’t take away all the pain I went through. I don’t have a chemical imbalance. I was a severely traumatized, neurodivergent child trying to make sense of what was happening in and around me and fuck him for making me feel like what I was experienced wasn’t real and neglecting to get me the help I needed. I mourn the person I might’ve been had I gotten the help I needed sooner.
i always call them the two idiots cause of how silly they r and cause of how much they make me feel the feels. but then i end up in situations like listening to bojan say jerč for a thousand times and i remember whos the real idiot around here
when u get this u have to put 5 songs 🎵 u actually listen to, publicly. then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (non-negotiable, positivity is cool)✨
