Chapter One - Prelude

After he died, he woke up.

In retrospect, this was his first of many clues that something was off.

Trying to move, all he was able to pull off was a bunch of wiggling with little to no precision. Speech? Ear piercing wails with pathetic lungs and a bloated, useless tongue. Even seeing was right out. Washed out colors with everything so far out of focus that even opening his eyes was headache-inducing.

It was a lot to take in all at once. Trying to calm down and focus, even that proved difficult. Deep breaths? Fat chance of that with his weak, atrophied lungs. In fact, caught between gasping for air and trying to speak, he didn't like his chances of calming down.

At any rate, he would do his best. Very calm, calm as can be. Picture of serenity.

For now, he decided to table the growing list of issues until later, and focus on what he did have.

Hearing, and…

Yeah, hearing. Not too shabby.

"Congratulations, Mr. Crouch, your wife has given birth to a—"

"Yes, yes, that's fine. I'm well aware of why I've come all this way," the other voice interrupted, annoyance giving way to actual concern. "Tell me now, how is my Cecilia?"

Right, there was a lot to unpack right there. Apparently he had woken up just in time to be born. Neat.

It was also super weird, so he decided to table that as well.

His fragile concentration broke when a sense of dizziness and air passing over his skin told him he was being moved. A rough exchange of hands had him hanging in front of what he assumed was a man. Vision was still touch and go, but his theory was confirmed when the person spoke with a suitably deep voice, the same rude one from before.

He focused on the sounds once again.

"So this is the boy." It wasn't a question. Another shift of grip and his body was turned back and forth without care. He got the feeling he was being inspected.

The man grunted, "Acceptable."

Such tender fatherly love. His heart was bursting at the seams already.

A moment passed before he spoke again, sounding confused, "What's wrong with him? Why has he stopped crying?"

Because he was dead inside, and this was all an illusion. He tried to say as much, but it came out as incoherent gurgling.

Right, babies couldn't talk. Duh.

"Oh, it looks as though you have quite the calming touch, Mr. Crouch."

The nerve of some people. He could stop crying on command, thank you very much. This Crouch fellow also seemed to ignore that ridiculous theory and settled for humming in thought.

"How strange."

On that much, they could agree. It was all very strange.

The next few months went by very slowly, from his baby perspective

Admittedly, his perspective was limited to how often he ate and shat and slept. Not exactly a foolproof method of keeping track of time, but it would have to do.

Eventually, he did get more of his bodily functions in order.

His sight matured soon enough. That was nice, sort of. His vision was limited to a few feet, but any improvement was welcome. With the newfound power of eyesight, the first thing he confirmed was that he was now very small.

That much was obvious, but having a visual confirmation was nice.

Anyone he had met so far spoke to him with very telling childish babble-talk. They praised him for being such a cute baby, which he found horribly insulting. He was not cute, he was handsome. Those people could go fuck themselves. For another, they called him a baby.

Big red flag, that.

Finally, everyone he met was very tall.

Or perhaps they were of average height. It was hard to tell from his crib.

Oh right, the crib. Also a big hint.

You know what, there were just a lot of hints, okay?

From the crib, he quickly got used to several regular visitors.

There was the man who spoke to him first, who claimed to be his father. A severe man with a dark toothbrush mustache and a stern face. He also had a stern voice, a stern way of standing, and a stern way of existing in general. So he was a pretty chill dude.

While his presence was consistent, their interactions were not. His visits were brief, and the man paid him no mind after their first meeting, in favor of the bedridden woman.

Ah yes, the woman. His mother. Fair features with short blond hair and blue eyes. Her pregnancy had left her thin and unnaturally pale. She was nice enough, if a bit grabby. Seeing as he was an infant, he could understand. He didn't at all mind the warmth. It was so easy to be cold in a body this small.

Then there was his brother.

The young man introduced himself as Bartemius, or Barty. If it was possible, he looked even more chill than their father. He had their mother's straw hair and freckles, and their father's everything else. Initially, he seemed distant, but his eyes lit up when the child in front of him gurgled, and his brother was immediately taken with him.

He visited sporadically, but always for hours at a time. Not when their father was around, though. Those two made a point of never being in the same room.

He got the distinct impression that they weren't very close.

The same could not be said for his brother and mother. When they weren't cooing and doting on him, they were speaking in hushed, but loving tones to each other. It was super adorable, and Art's own chest warmed at the sight of it. Perhaps this new life wouldn't be all that bad.

That's right, his name was Art now. Art Crouch. That was it. Period.

Well, technically his full name was Artorius Caecilius Crouch, first of his name. King of the andals, rhoynar, and the first men, lord of the seven kingdoms, and protector of the realm.

Because apparently their family was of some relevant social standing, and he was expected to have a big dumb name.

But by golly, he would start going by Art as soon as he could talk.

It was surprisingly easy to get on board with the whole reincarnation thing. Assuming that this was his new life. It might be hell, heaven, or some sort of purgatory, but he reasoned that the less time spent dwelling on the why and how, the fewer headaches he would have.

With that line of thinking nipped in the bud, Art could focus on making the most of things. He had a loving brother, a mother who cared for him, and a father who, despite being cold and stern and a total jerk, worked hard and seemed to love his wife.

There were worse families he could be born into, he reasoned.

Most of a year went by before Art grudgingly admitted that he might have been too optimistic.

How out of character for him.

To be fair, things had been alright for a time. He and his mother were released from the hospital and had finally gone home to the Crouch family estate. An older three-story brick house that had a washed-out red color, a spotty tile roof, and a stone courtyard. It had some ten acres of trees and overgrown vegetation surrounding it.

A bit worse for wear, yet surprisingly homey-looking.

Even more surprising, was that they had a servant. A weird fantasy looking imp, of all things. She was introduced as Winky.

Art calmly accepted this as more evidence of him having gone mad.

Unsurprisingly, Winky was taller than he was. She had pale, leathery skin, bat-like ears, a crooked nose, and she wore a toga around the house.

Togas were baller, so she was okay in his book.

She became very emotional upon seeing him, blubbering and crying and swearing up and down to attend to his every need. Art wondered if she had any outlets besides indentured servitude.

It didn't seem like it.

She ought to try soap operas. Maybe some slice of life anime.

Barty still came by, but it wasn't nearly as often, and his appearance grew more haggard and disheveled with each visit. The light in his brown eyes had gone fierce.

Lately, he did not shy away from arguing with their father, with ever-increasing volume and emotion.

They spoke of a war, a dark lord, and blood purity. Genocide, politics, torture, and the morality of fighting fire with fire in a national crisis.

Intense subject matter, and a fountain of new information.

It was around this point when Art came to the tentative conclusion that his new fake life was taking place in the Harry Potter universe. A leap in logic? Maybe, but it was the best guess he had at the moment. Now, this brought up an interesting point. If this was magical Britain, then what do?

Realistically, he couldn't do much.

For you see, Art had never seen the movies, and Art had never read the books. Oh no, those were full of devilry and paganism. But Tolkien and Lewis were fine, because they had good Christian symbolism or some garbage. Thanks mom.

A bit embarrassing, in retrospect.

If he put his mind to it, all Art could really remember were memes, quotes, a few character names, and maybe some iconic plot twists. Internet cultural osmosis was a hell of a thing. It was a weird set of circumstances, but a lack of foreknowledge was a lack of foreknowledge. Nothing for it.

With a shrug, he vowed to wash his hands of all of that nonsense. Easier for everyone involved, but mostly less work for him.

It was all just too complicated to bother with.

So naturally, his life saw fit to complicate itself, the bastard.

His mother, whose health had never really fully recovered, was now looking more sickly and unsteady by the day. His father claimed it was only stress, and that it would soon pass.

Being a pessimist at heart, Art maintained a healthy amount of skepticism.

They spent most of their time together. She was a depressing presence, but she was his mother, so there wasn't much he could say. Literally. Speech was hard. Anyway, he had the privilege of watching her slowly get worse, which sucked.

Then she was sad all the time, which also sucked. But unlike her sickness, sadness was contagious.

With this in mind, Art grudgingly went out of his way to make her happier.

Calling her 'mum' was enough for a couple weeks of peace. He decided it was worth the work of getting his tongue to cooperate.

He allowed her to bear witness to his first steps, as well. A moment of pride, trivial as it might seem. Crawling was not something he would miss. For the first time in a while, she laughed without care.

She was still getting worse. Quickly and consistently.

Winky found him sitting outside her room as she dozed, a carefully blank look on his face. She was quick to assure him that everything was fine, and that the Mistress would get better in no time.

Art grinned at her with his shiny new teeth, and laughed like a child who didn't yet understand loss. Not as hard as it sounded.

One cold October evening, Barty pulled him close and told him he would be gone for a while. He said there was something he had to do and to take good care of their mother. It was just over a week before his first birthday, and Barty promised he would be home in time, and that everything would be better soon.

For lack of a better idea, Art hugged him. "Bye, Bart."

A fairly childish nickname, but it seemed appropriate.

Barty left the house fighting tears, but with resolve burning in his eyes.

Shivering, and not just because of the cold autumn air, Art tried to reign his emotions in. He had to work against his instincts, and hope it would work out for the best. Today was the thirtieth. November ninth was just around the corner. He started counting the days after that. There was no need to panic, none at all.

At least there was Halloween to look forward to.

The dark lord was defeated, and Art thought that it had made for a good Halloween celebration. He had never seen his father smile before. Granted, he was gone moments later, a department head's work was never done and all that, but it was a memorable sight. His parents had actually kissed in front of him. Art barely noticed the enchanted sweets in all the excitement.

Three days later his brother was sentenced to life in Azkaban, by his father.

That sure turned the mood on its head.

For all that they disagreed on Barty, Art had never heard his parents yell so loudly, had never imagined that his mother knew such words, or that his father possessed such a fiery temper. Entire chairs had to be replaced after that, not to mention the dishes.

Winky flinched at each crash, no doubt eager to clean it up, before ushering Art away to his room.

After such an exciting few days, Art's first birthday ended up being very subdued. How could it not, with what had happened?

To the surprise of no one, his father had found a reason to stay late at work once more, and Art knew he wouldn't be home at all that night.

Winky was silent and respectful of the mood, head bowed, no doubt grieving in her own way. She loved the family and hated to see them apart. Art knew this because she repeated it several times a day.

His mother's eyes were red and puffy, from tears shed, and even she could barely summon the energy to smile. Art couldn't hold it against her. It was a dour mood, and who gave a single fuck about a baby's first birthday? No one, least of all the baby.

When Winky finally put him to bed, he was awake for hours.

Not for the first time, he wondered why he was being made to experience this. Not for the last time, he wished things would be better, and yet was unable to believe that they could be.

It seemed strange and cruel, this whole situation. Wasn't reincarnation supposed to be a good thing?

Purgatory, then. It made the most sense.

By comparison, the next year was almost normal.

The house was quiet.

His mother looked dead already. Corpse-like, sitting in her chair, occasionally turning her head, stretching her lips in a strange facsimile of a smile.

It had gotten to the point where Art was barely allowed to see her. When they were together, she was wrapped in many layers of blankets and robes. She looked solemn, and her eyes were empty. When she spoke, she talked about Barty, and what a wonderful boy he was, and how he could never do the things they said. Or she argued with his father, about the sentencing. It was an old argument, and they both knew the steps.

She talked about him when no one was around at all, or even when Art was right in front of her. Tragic and depressing. But Art would be lying if he said he didn't feel resentful about it.

His father threw himself into his work, even more so than before. Apparently he had been demoted, but you wouldn't guess it by looking at his schedule. Rare were the days when Art saw him around the house, or indeed saw him at all.

When Art was at the house, Winky was his only companion. Her speech ticks were grating, but she was nice, and she let him walk around the grounds when the weather allowed for it.

It wasn't all horrible. Art did get to leave, on occasion.

The house was all gloom and doom, all the time. Ironically enough, it was his father who decided he should be taken out and about. Oftentimes this just ended with Art shunted off to an unlucky underling.

At least it broke the monotony of learning how to speak and walk.

The most interesting trips occurred when his father wanted him to be properly socialized. On those days he was forced to play with kids his age.

Well, sort of his age. To be honest, Art was about nineteen months past caring about the reincarnation thing. Existentialism aside, he was mostly dying of boredom. Art wouldn't pretend these snot-nosed toddlers were his equals, and he turned his nose up at the lot of them. The little blonde kid seemed equally snobbish, so he could at least appreciate his taste.

But if Art was destined for a life of magic and adventure, he would have to get used to dealing with dumb kids at some point.

That is, he would at least pretend to get used to it.

The reprieve had to end at some point, however.

That point arrived nearly a year after his brother was sent to Azkaban. If he wondered why his second birthday felt more like a funeral, he only had to wait a day to find out why.

Art stood near the front door, watching his father carefully ease his mother into her coat. His father's face was taut, lips set in a thin line. While his mother took slow, labored breaths, unused to being on her feet after so long spent bedridden.

It was sudden, and he couldn't help but wonder what was going on.

"Winky!" his father barked, startling Art back into the moment. The house-elf popped beside him in the next instant, handing him his bowler hat.

"Yes Master Crouch! Winky is being here," she piped up brightly, in much better spirits than anyone else. It sounded very hollow, but Art wasn't about to call her out on it.

"See to it that Artorius is fed and put to bed by seven. We will not be back tonight."

"Oh yes, sir. Winky is making sure that Master Art is eating and sleeping-"

"Where?" Art interrupted, eyes dipping to the floor when his father turned his way.

After a rather pregnant pause, he replied stiffly. "Hospital."

Art looked up. It was about damn time.

At his father's clipped response, his mum gave the man a harsh look, before her face fell and she wiped her eyes. Shrugging out of his hold and taking a few shaky steps over to Art, she carefully went down on one knee, and held her arms out.

He hesitated, before walking into the embrace.

One arm holding him tight, her other hand ruffling his blond hair.

"Art, my boy," she whispered, so quiet only he could hear. "This may not make sense right now, but I know that you'll remember… You have to. Just take care of your brother, Art. Be a good boy, and look after him and your father. Promise me that." Holding both sides of his head, she brought his face in front of her own and looked him in the eye.

Art didn't want to look at her, but he did.

"Promise me, Art. Please."

"I… I promise," he mumbled back, not quite sure what she was talking about.

Her serious expression was swept away by a smile. Her first genuine one in a while. It was like she had been afraid he would flinch away and refuse. He resented that implication. The temptation had been fleeting, at best.

She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his forehead.

"I love you so much, Art."

"I love you, mum."

It was easy enough to say, yet he wondered if he meant it.

His father chose that moment to clear his throat to get their attention, putting away his silver pocket watch with a resigned sigh, "Cecilia, I believe we have an appointment."

Taking a few seconds to stand, his mother nodded to herself, eyes hardening with resolve.

Barty had that same look, when Art had last seen him.

"Yes, I believe we do."

His parents walked outside, where a fresh coat of snow covered the grounds, crunching softly beneath their boots. They came to the center of the courtyard and stopped, preparing to apparate.

He waited for some sort of goodbye. A smile or wave would be enough.

With a crack of thunder, they were gone.

Dead, the both of them.

The stress of Azkaban was too much for Barty.

Their mother was too far gone to recover.

Was. It was weird, referring to them in the past tense.

Cecilia Crouch née Bones was buried on the estate, under a wispy old elm tree.

A private, closed casket funeral was held. Apart from him and his father, his mother's family also attended. Those who had survived the war, that is. It was quiet and sad, as funerals tended to be. No doubt there had been a lot of funerals lately. Some token words were exchanged, but Art's father was not an earnest man, and Art himself was two.

Neither cried or said anything to the other.

The body of Bartemius Crouch Junior was buried by the guards of Azkaban. There was no service or even a mention of one. Shockingly, his father called in sick and locked himself in his study for a whole day. But again, he said nothing to Art. Art said nothing back. Because there was nothing he could bring himself to say, and no one he could trust to say it to. Also, again, only two years old.

To think that he had started his new life with such optimism.

Absolutely hilarious.

A deep breath. Deeper than he had managed when he arrived.

This wasn't the end. Only two years had gone by. Not much, not in the grand scheme of things. Life could improve, hypothetically.

His father was stern, strict. No room for failure in his mind. But for better or worse, he paid attention to Art once there was no one else, and now? Now there was no one else.

Besides Winky, that is.

Sometimes in those rare quiet moments, he would tell himself to look on the bright side.

At least the worst of it had passed.

Relevant Notes: I will be posting the next three chapters right after this one.
After that, I will update on Fridays (I have a backlog of 5 more chapters, so hopefully the muse stays with this one).
If the dourness of this chapter puts you off, just know that there will be a tonal transition until the end of chapter 4. Hence me posting them together, letting you know what the story is.
Spoiler, it doesn't stay grim and angsty at all.
Also spoiler, the protagonist is intentionally abrasive. Sometimes it's too much, I try to balance it, but that's the character.