Who: Bartemius Crouch, Sr. and Bartemius Crouch, Jr.
What: Barty v. Barty
Where: Their home, Sr.'s study
When: Tonight
Bartemius Crouch surveyed his son scrutinizingly, as he often did, assuming that if he did not keep careful vigil over his son that he would get up to misbehavior from which the family would never be able to recover. It was especially important that now, more than ever, the family maintain a good image. Being made Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was not to be taken lightly. People looked up to him, people respected him, people depended on him in this time of terror and need, and he would not let down his public for the world.
But that included his son conforming to the image Bartemius Crouch had carefully sculpted.
"Son, we haven't conversed much since you graduated school," he began, formal as he always was.
His son's lip curled. "No,
father, I don't believe we have. What riveting topic could you possibly wish to discuss now?"
He was annoyed, but his vague sense of parenting knew that now was not the appropriate time to show the annoyance he was feeling. "I had hoped to discuss your future, in all honesty. I am aware of the plans we had discussed earlier in the year, but with this unforeseen change of events, I am not so sur—"
"Unforeseen!" Barty scoffed, looking at his father in wonderfully real disbelief. "I wouldn't be surprised if you had orchestrated the events that preceded this 'unforeseen change' so that you would be made—"
"
What," Bartemius snapped, his quiet demeanor all but abandoned, "have I told you about interrupting when I am speaking? You will speak when spoken to and
only in the event that the statement requires your response. I did not raise you to be a mannerless heathen."
Clenching his jaw, his son replied, "Yes,
sir."
"Furthermore, I am shocked and appalled that you would think, even in jest, to accuse me of such heinous actions—do you think the Wizarding world thinks lightly of that, at all? I am stunned,
horrified, that you could even jokingly make light of that event."
"Yes, sir," his son replied, still with an emphasis on the
sir, like he was spitting out some filthy word. Bartemius's teeth clenched. He strove to re-establish his calm.
"As I was saying, I have made arrangements for you—" he saw his son's mouth open and flashed him a warning glance, "with one of the department heads. I think you will enjoy International Magical Cooperation—you've always shown a knack for magical law in your studies. With your determination and effort, if you give even half the effort you give in disobeying me, you'll make junior Minister by the time you're twenty-five."
Barty barely allowed time for the information to sink in before the rebellious rage was making his fists clench. "I'm
not working for the Department of International Magical Cooperation."
"You don't have much of a choice," his father said, looking annoyed. "You'll be staying here, and working with me."
"You just want to look like a good family man to '
your public'—I don't even think you realize how power-hungry you are!" Barty yelled. "You think you can shoot for Minster of Magic from where you are—but once people find out what a liar you really are, do you think they'll want someone like
you representing them? You're
every bit as evil as the people you think you're fighting."
Bartemius let him finish his tirade, and then raised an eyebrow, cold fury emanating from him. "You'll want to be very careful about what you're talking about,
son."
The word burned his son's ears, because he tried to forget so often that that was the bond between him and the man sitting in front of him.
Silence.
"You'll begin work Monday. You'll skip the first-year internship—it's a waste, you already know the material and I can pull enough strings to give you a suitable job for the time being," his father began curtly, while his son was staring at the floor in a murderously mute manner.
"I'm not staying," Barty raised his glance, defiantly. "I'm not staying here with you. I'll do the job, but I am starting at the intern-level and I am leaving."
"Don't be an idiot, Bartemius," his father scoffed. "I've raised you better than that. You have the chance to impress some very high authority figures; do you really want to give that up to satisfy some silly whim?"
Barty looked at his father as if seeing him in a new light—realizing for the very first time that the man before him was more evil than anything he had ever read about in newspapers, seen first-hand, or anything. This man was not capable of love, or even affection. This man's ears were deaf to the cries, pleas, and sobs that fell upon them.
"You haven't raised me to be anything," Barty said slowly, venomously, still attempting to make sense of this new revelation, "except a monster."
More silence.
"I'm leaving. I'm taking my inheritance and moving out. I don't give a damn about your job or your position or your future plans. If I take this job you've so lovingly laid out for me, it'll be because I finally have some semblance of how to bring about your undoing."
He walked out of the room, pausing only to turn and stare at his father, both faces carefully devoid of any emotion before Barty slammed the heavy oak doors shut.
Bartemius Crouch, Sr. returned to his work with nary a change in expression.
