Rosekiller

Backstory|Nineteen|Parents Suck

I don't give a damn bout my bad reputation
You're livin in the past
It's a new generation

Sunday, June 24th, 1975

Barty had just gotten home from school the day previous. It was unreal to him that his fourth year was over.

His father was acting different then usual. For Barty's whole life, he and his father had had a decent enough relationship. But when he got home from Kings Cross, Barty Sr was ignoring his son.

He barely spoke a word to him, and when he did it was on behalf of his mother.

At dinner his second night home, Barty asked his father if something was wrong.

"Father, is something bothering you? You've hardly spoken to me since I got home"

"I'm fine, Bartemius"

"Are you sure?"

"I'm fine. However, you are not. I received photos from an anonymous student. Photos of you..kissing..the Rosier boy AND the Lupin boy" Barty Sr sounded disgusted as he spoke those words.

"Oh" Barty replied. He put his head down and crossed his arms, waiting for a firm telling-off. Instead, his father asked him a question, "are you one of those..people?".

Barty snapped his head back up quickly. "What do you mean by 'those people'?" Barty asked. He could feel his face going red with anger.

"Queers! Homos! Faggots!" His father said, standing up and holding himself up with his hands.

Barty stood up as well, "What if I was?!".

"Are you?!"

"Maybe! Would it be so horrible if I was?!"

"Yes! It would be horrible! Do you know what it could do to our family's reputation to have a faggot son?!"

"You're such an asshole! All you care about is our reputation!"

"Go to your room and don't come out until you get over whatever this is" Barty Sr ordered.

Barty huffed and left the table, purposely knocking over his chair as he did so.

Thursday, July 24th, 1975

Barty was locked in his room for most of the summer. After the mishap with the Weasley child, he was stuck. His mother would bring him food and water, and collect his dirty clothes for washing.

He hated being inside his room for so long. It had no decor, and not one hint in it that it was Barty's room (apart from the picture of Barty with his friends on his nightstand).

The room had a dark brown wardrobe, a double canopy bed, two plain brown nightstands, and a bookshelf filled with books he'd already read. He had his own bathroom, but even that was pretty bare.

His father had taken down all of his posters and pictures and DIY stickers off his walls. He'd even taken the black shoes he'd drawn on (which were hooked onto the wall).

Barty was furious. It felt like his father had taken away his individuality. His freedom. All because of a stupid argument and a stupid red haired child.

Friday, August 1st, 1975

Barty was lazily laying in his bed, throwing a sock ball in the air, waiting for his mother to bring him dinner.

Instead of the familiar soft knock, he heard keys jangling. His father unlocked the door and came in without knocking.

"What the fuck! Get out!" Barty yelled, throwing the sock ball at his father.