Controlled Perfection
Some only childs are smothered in love as if it were a blanket, meant to encase them in their parents’ safety. Their household runs purely on it. It seeps though each crack as steady as water running in a waterfall. Others are quite neglected, though those case studies will be studied in forecoming chapters.
It is not often that they are watched so severely, to a point where they question their every moment. To a point where they are unsure if each blink is scrutinised just as deeply as each breath.
Bartemius Crouch Junior, aptly named after his father, was such a case. Expected to maintain their pureblood superiority through his relations and expected to maintain their reputed intelligence through his work. Expected to be just like his namesake.
Every straying thought was frowned upon; no curious questions did ever escape young Barty’s lips without consequence. With his looks mirroring his mother, the least he could do was act as if his father intended. Or at least, that was what he was told.
Any dreams of independence were squashed as soon as they arose. He’d be a Slytherin, like his father. No other house was acceptable. He’d befriend other pureblood families only. He’d be expected to mingle accordingly at each pureblood party. And of course, amidst it all he’d have to marry a pureblood.
His father claimed he had no prejudice against muggleborns in public. Yet he’d be the first to call them ‘mudbloods’ behind closed doors.
Barty never met anyone nearly as ambitious as his father. He’d been preparing to be Minister for Magic since he’d heard what an important job it was, back when he’d been seven. Of course, he never failed to let his son know what a disappointment he was for not having such ambitions.
“You’ll never get into Slytherin with such a lack of ambition.”
He’d never wanted to. But of course, Barty wasn’t stupid enough to speak his true thoughts.
Didn’t matter anyway, not when they were controlled half the time.
Most pureblood kids learnt Occlumency and Leglimency at ten. Sirius and Regulus Black* had achieved it at nine, and even that was rare coming from a family known for their strong shields and warding abilities. Barty considered himself a professional at seven. He’d always been an overachiever, after all. Not like it was engrained into his very being.
Somehow, instead of being proud at the achievement (who was he kidding, his father would never be proud), Barty only got punished.
“You think you’re so smart? Hiding your thoughts from me?”
“You disgust me. By the time I was your age, I’d already known what path I needed to take.”
“Imperio.”
The one thing of his father’s he could never overcome was the Imperio curse. The marks from beatings were healable. The scars from the occasional crucio could fade with the right treatment. But breaking an Imperio was near impossible. Especially cast by someone with not only such power, but such a desire to control.
If there was one thing that Bartemious Crouch Senior could not destroy, it was his son’s innate desire to teach anyone, everyone to throw off such a curse.
The Imperio curse was weaven into his life, interlocked within his own magical core. His body shrunk back at mere thought of the curse. His magic could sense it, could taste its essence before it was even cast. Like a mother’s instinct, the heaviness in one’s gut, or the damning feeling of Knowing, every bone, nerve and blood cell was attuned to the very feeling of the curse, locked and prepared for it to strike. The same way a mouse freezes in fear before the strike of a snake, his body would still as if he’d been hit by the body-bind curse.
Of course, his father had long not needed such a spell like the body-bind curse to get his son to freeze. The frequent anger on his face was more than enough.
Barty had no true friends, none within the purebloods at least. Most of the kids stuck to themselves or family, making polite conversation. The Black brothers were rarely separate and one could barely tell the where each Black sister started and ended. The trio had been thick as thieves since birth, Barty presumed. Then the Rosier siblings, each presumed to be cursed, weren’t much better either. Or maybe they were just as mad as the Blacks, though no one dared to call anyone in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black mad. To their faces, at least.
The Malfoys were domineering — though Barty figured Lucius seemed to be in some situation similar to his own. Though, Lucius seemed more capable of pleasing his father than Barty was. Of course, he couldn’t be expected to see behind facades when he was so busy upholding his own.
“Do our family name proud, son.”
He should have realised it was impossible. Stupid, naive, little boy.
He’d put his all into impressing his father. Sacrificed his happiness, his interests and friends to make him proud. He’d given up everything that made him unique — if only he’d known it was pointless.
The only thing he could truly be grateful for was the fact that he did realise. He did learn. He stopped striving for validation, he managed to save himself from his father’s clutches. If little Barty could see him now, oh how happy he’d be.
You’re free. We’re free.
It only took nearly a decade and a half.
The only child, controlled and molded into perfection. A boy crafted to meet his parents impossible expectations. A carbon copy of his father. What a relief it is then, that he strayed from that path.
Bartemius Crouch Sr would do what he can, trying to drag his son back into his clutches. The imperious curse, naming his son a death eater, sentencing him to Azkaban. But Barty would get away. He’d survive. He’d learn to live.
He’d be announced a war hero. His father would lose his iron-clad grip on him and the rest of the country. His mother, the coward, would finally realise her loss.
But most importantly, little Barty Courch Junior would finally be loved for him.
The miniature Bartemius Crouch would divert their family line from the harsh expectations. He’d learn to love and be loved. He would learn to care.
A boy, frightened to think his own unique thoughts, will learn to scream them instead. A man incapable of self-expression will never let his drive for his father’s validation stop him again.
A new generation will learn to overthrow the imperious curse by his example. No child to their circle will ever have to suffer the struggle of controlled perfection. Not while he lives and breathes. He will break the cycle. Or so he hopes.
And such, is the tale of Bartemius Crouch Jr, or as he prefers, Barty Crouch Jr.