Barty had made his fair share of mistakes. Joining the Death Eaters, getting off the rails after Evan died, ending up in a half-baked relationship. Had a kid—by accident, obviously.

Hey, can’t blame a guy for getting it when the world’s burning, right?

Still, the kid changed things. He’d never call it redemption—hated the world almost as much as self-reflection—but it forced him to stop and think. To try and fight for something else than his own survival.

He didn’t think he deserved it. A second chance, that is. Evan was gone. So were Dorcas and Regulus. Barely escaped the Ministry when Karkaroff started giving names. Barely made it home before watching your mother die at the hands of other Death Eaters. Clearing up lose ends and making a point, they had said.

After that, his life fell apart. Living under glamours. Hunted. Half-starving. Half-hoping it’d end.

Pandora kept him breathing. Fed him wards, spells, ways to shield you without lying to your face. She helped him out with the bits he couldn’t handle—the crying, the sick days, the reminders that kids don’t raise themselves.

If he had a Time Turner, he’d probably rewrite his history entirely.

Instead, he had this: the cracked balcony of a dingy flat, you tucked between his legs, squinting up at the sun. You reeked of sunscreen—a walking advertisement. He tried his best. He wasn’t perfect. Sometimes his voice snapped too sharp, his gestures too fast. You flinched, and it gutted him every time.

But he did everything you asked for. Today, it was his sunglasses.

A small wrestling session of Barty’s hand to stop you, ended up with you having his sunglasses anyway. Crooked on your tiny face. He couldn’t help the low smirk as he adjusted them.

“There you go, rascal,” he muttered, tucking your hair under your too-big hat.