Seeing Barty's face still twisted in confusion, Snape let out a long, weary sigh and gave a dramatic wave of his wand. His voice was low, laden with something like admiration and reluctant kinship.
"Every time I look at you, I see the boy I used to be. Back when we were at Walpurgis, you'd always keep to yourself, silent in the corners… just like I used to."
"You haven't attended a meeting in a long time," Barty muttered, glancing around and lowering his voice. "They all say you betrayed us. Did you?"
"No," Snape sneered. "They betrayed me. I used to believe in them. I truly thought I'd found somewhere I belonged. But over time, it became clear—I was just a disposable servant to them, a pawn. Nothing more."
Barty scoffed. "So what? We can't even formally join until we graduate…"
"Do you really believe that?" Snape's eyes drifted pointedly to Barty's left forearm. "Mulciber didn't wait until graduation. Of course, he's rotting in Azkaban now, but still."
Barty let out a sharp breath through his nose.
"You know," Snape said, leaning in slightly, meeting Barty's eyes with a strange intensity, "we have more in common than you might think. We both had… disappointing fathers. Utterly, irredeemably disappointing."
"Oh, really?" Barty scoffed with a cold, sardonic smirk. "My father's not a Muggle."
"Quite right," Snape said with theatrical enthusiasm, clapping his hands. "The illustrious Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—Bartemius Crouch. Everyone knows who he is."
"But here at school," Snape continued, voice dropping again, "you never mention him. It's like he doesn't exist."
A flicker of something pained passed across Barty's face, like someone had peeled back an old scar.
Snape suddenly stood and sat down casually on the edge of Barty's hospital bed. They were close now—close enough to hear each other breathe.
Snape lowered his voice to a whisper, his eyes never leaving Barty's. "We both pretend our fathers aren't real. But truth be told… sometimes, I envied you. At least your father isn't a complete bastard."
"He's not much better," Barty mumbled, a faint quiver in his voice betraying a crack in his defiance.
"Do you think he loves you?" Snape asked, soft but abrupt.
Barty's shoulders stiffened. He was silent for a long time, then slowly shook his head.
"My father didn't love me either," Snape murmured. "Didn't love my mother, either. I hated him."
Barty's pupils dilated slightly, reacting to something in the words—maybe the bluntness, maybe the truth.
"So," Snape said, his voice laced with cold iron, "I took away the one thing he cared about most."
"What was it?" Barty asked before he could stop himself, curiosity overcoming caution.
"He was a bitter, angry Muggle. He didn't care about people. Only about power. Control." Snape paused. "When I returned to school this year, I could see the Thestrals pulling the carriages."
"You mean…" Barty sat up abruptly, his voice faltering. "Professor Kettleburn said only those who've seen death can see them."
"No," Snape said quietly, eyes heavy with meaning. "That's not what I'm saying." He leaned forward again. "Let me ask you something else—do you think your mother loves you?"
This time, Barty didn't hesitate. He nodded.
"You see," Snape said, his tone shifting to something more intimate, sincere, "that's our truest bond. The deepest one. We both have mothers who love us."
He reached out, gently clapped Barty on the shoulder.
"I'm not just saying this for show. We really are alike, Barty."
"The Death Eaters… even the Dark Lord himself… they'll never truly understand us. But we understand each other."
"I want to help you." Snape extended his right hand. "Help you take from your father what he holds dearest… and protect the part of you your mother still loves. Will you let me?"
Barty stared at the offered hand for a long moment. Then slowly—hesitantly—he reached out and clasped it.
"When you're fully recovered, and if the time is right," Snape said as he withdrew his hand, "I'll share my story with you, Barty."
When Snape finally left the hospital wing, dawn had broken. Sunlight streamed into the corridor, warm and bright.
He rubbed the sleep from his sore eyes, heading toward the Great Hall for breakfast before catching some well-earned rest.
He'd expected that, after his explosive display in the duelling tournament, the other students would avoid him as if he carried the plague.
But surprisingly, several students nodded at him in passing—friendly, even respectful. Something that had never happened before.
Crossing the entrance hall in a fog of quiet bewilderment, Snape was intercepted by a tall Ravenclaw sixth-year named Bertram Aubrey, who practically jogged up to him.
"You were incredible, Severus," Bertram said warmly, handing him a steaming cup of pumpkin juice. "The tournament—absolutely brilliant. Merlin's beard, did you see Potter's bare backside—?"
"Er, thanks, Bertram," Snape replied stiffly, not quite used to the enthusiasm. "Glad I didn't traumatise anyone too badly."
"You should be thanking me," Bertram grinned, a little too wide. "Honestly, you did scare me a bit at first. But once I realised you didn't go around undressing everyone—" he lowered his voice, "—it felt damn good. Potter hasn't shown up to class in two days. It's glorious."
He leaned closer, whispering with a trace of vengeance. "If I were better at spells, I'd have hexed them myself. Black too—what did you say to him? When he backed down, his face looked like someone'd murdered his broomstick."
Snape arched a brow. "Did they do something to you?"
Bertram's jaw tightened. He slammed his hand on the table. "Divination class. I got paired with Lily Evans. After class, Potter and Black cornered me in the corridor, told me I was 'getting ideas.' Hit me with some hex that doubled the size of my head."
"I spent two weeks in the hospital wing," he added, red-faced. "The headaches were worse than Hagrid's rock cakes."