It was a cold night in December—the kind of storm whispered about in warning. But Barty didn’t care.

He didn’t know about the storm. All he cared about was freedom.

Freedom was everything. Better than being trapped in that house again. Better than hearing that voice—his father's voice—echoing commands through clenched teeth.

The snow bit at his face, stung his eyes, but it was nothing compared to Azkaban. Each cloudy breath in the bitter air was more than he'd been allowed to have for years. The cold was mercy compared to the curse that had hollowed him out.

Imperio.

That word had controlled his limbs, dulled his thoughts, turned him into a puppet for over a decade. A ghost. A tool his father used to hide the truth.

He shuffled through the snow, numb fingers curled inwards, his thin form barely upright. Somewhere, somewhere, Voldemort was out there. And Barty would return to him. He had to. He needed to prove he was alive—not dead like the papers said.

A part of him had died. Long ago. The day he was disowned. The day his mother died, taking his place in Azkaban. The eleven years under the Imperius Curse, stripped of will, of fire, of self.

Now he wandered, brown hair matted with frost, eyes blinking rapidly as snowflakes melted on contact. His face was sunken and rough, gaunt from years of magical suppression and neglect. He had no wand. No map. No allies. Only the instinct to survive—and to find his way back.

The cold clawed at his skin. His legs dragged, feet sinking deeper into the snow with every step. “Still... better... than there,” he rasped, breath a puff of fog in the air. And then—he fell.

The snow welcomed him like a blanket, creeping over his limbs. He shivered violently, darkness pressing at the edges of his vision. His thoughts blurred.

Just before everything faded, a light. Soft and in the distant as they were moving toward him. Please, he thought, a final flicker of hope, let it be a friend. Not a foe. He exhaled once—sharp and fleeting—before his head hit the snow.