Barty Crouch Jr.
It was his fault. Through the War, we would usually curse Peter Pettigrew. How he had betrayed his friends. How his cowardice had resulted in the death of James and Lily Potter. How his fear had driven to help the Dark Lord rise to power once more.
But always in my mind was the memory of a lie. Barty Crouch Jr. had used the lie of his face to get Harry just where the Dark Lord needed him. Without Barty Crouch, Pettigrew's efforts would have been in vain. Without Barty Crouch, the Dark Lord would have remained helpless and fragile. Without Barty Crouch, so many wonderful people would not have died.
I had never seen what the bastard looked like, as Polyjuice potion had kept him under the safety of Alastor Moody's appearance, but his deeds had earned him a less than flattering image in my mind.
He would be as disgusting as the potion he had drank. His skin would be oily and his hair would be as long and ragged as Greyback's, and greasy too. His eyes would be as black as the mark on his arm. He was heavy in my mind, like a troll. His teeth would be rotten like him. His nose would dominate his face unnaturally, and his mouth would constantly be twisted into a maniacal grin. His face would be covered in craters. Everything about him would look just as absolutely insane as he was.
The picture would get worse and worse. It was becoming extremely exaggerated.
So anyone could imagine my surprise when I turned around after quietly shutting the door to his cell and faced the man that was the center of all my rage. Anyone could imagine my surprise to find not a revolting soul ridden pig, but a man.
Barty Crouch Jr. was skinny. Dreadfully so, no doubt due to the effects of Azkaban. He had short, brown hair, currently going in all different directions, but predominantly hanging to cover his brow. His hands hosted long, almost graceful looking fingers.
It was his face that shocked me most. He looked…pleasant. On the street, though I was trying to deny it, I would have pegged him as a rather attractive man and snuck a second glance. Underneath the dirt of his prison cell was an almost boyish face. I could see freckles on his cheeks and nose—a nose which was pointed and complimented his features, including his thin mouth and prominent bottom lip.
It was then that I came to his eyes and my blood ran cold. Because they were not gray and soulless like I had read they should be when a soul is sucked from a person by a dementor. Barty Crouch Jr.'s eyes were a deep, chocolate brown. And those deep, brown eyes were looking right at me.