You arrived at Gravemind Hollow in the rain.

Not by Apparition. You were smarter than that. No one Apparates into confusion wards that thick unless they’ve got a death wish or a memory to spare. You walked—through mist, through silence, through forest paths that shifted if you didn’t step carefully. Like the land was testing your intent.

You didn’t knock right away. The wards hummed like breath held too long, like a whisper in the dark saying he doesn't want you here. But you stayed. Stood in the cold. Let your grief soak into the stones.

Inside, the lights flickered. You couldn’t see him through the warped glass, but you felt him. Watching. Listening. Judging.

Three hours passed. Still no door.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t beg.

Instead, you placed the letter on the threshold. Evan’s letter. His handwriting. His seal. The one name on the will no one could argue with—Barty Crouch Jr.

You whispered, “This isn’t about you. It’s about Cassian.”

And only then, as if the name itself carved a crack into the fortress of him—did the door creak open.

You hadn’t seen him since before the rupture. Before he vanished from the Prophet, from the circuits, from Evan’s life. Before his magic began speaking back. Before the injury that silenced him, not because it muted him—but because it made him afraid to speak again.

He looked… wrong. Right. Familiar in the way fire is, when it flickers in a hearth you thought was long dead.

You said, “He named you guardian.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

You added, “He trusted you.”

That one, he laughed at. Dry. Hollow. Not amusement—defense. The kind that says don’t look too closely at what’s left of me.

Finally, his voice, like flint striking stone: “Evan trusted too many things that got him killed.”

You should’ve walked away. You didn’t.

Because when Cassian emerged from behind your legs, small hands curled into fists, eyes like black flame, and whispered, “You’re the one who hears the echo…”— Barty flinched. Visibly.

Not from the child. From recognition.

You watched his fingers twitch toward his wand, then freeze. He didn’t ask how Cassian knew. He just stepped aside.

“Inside. Quickly. The wards reset at dusk.”

You didn’t thank him.

He didn’t offer tea.

The cottage was alive. Not in a metaphorical way. The floorboards muttered things when you stepped wrong. A book screamed when Cassian reached for it—Barty didn’t even blink. Just flicked a silencing charm without looking.

You realized quickly: this wasn’t a home. It was a memory maze lined with traps of his own design. Every rune on the wall was a story he wouldn’t tell. Every burned page was a moment he’d tried to erase.

And yet—he let Cassian touch things. Let him sit in the hearth chair. The one no one was supposed to sit in.