She let the question of years slip away as Artemis moved on. The discussion of dates and chronology was probably better held until a few more cards were on the table. Merlin, keeping everyone straight in her own head was enough of a puzzle half the time.
"Likely one of the best, if not among the best-known. After all, the company he kept speaks well enough for him," she answered. "Barty's capable of just... delightful things."
It was in fact the only venue in which she appreciated a childlike thrall: memories of the eager but surgical hiss of his wand. In addition to their more recent endeavors she had his recollections to sift through. Despite the occasionally troubling images behind his eyes, the echoing vibrato of his mind struck a sort of harmony with her own.
Artemis' interest in the history of the first war had been a handy discovery. It had allowed her to test out the waters, to gauge a response on the safe ground of purely academic or philosophical discussion. There was a rapport, and a suitable measure of confidence. She hardly expected Artemis to be scandalized by the company in which she found herself.
With a decided air of smugness she added, "You know, it would seem death has ever been too skilled at keeping truly remarkable people in its grasp. And really, don't you think there are a few of us out there who deserve another go at things? Perhaps as a saving grace, to prevent to loss of the most noble houses."
Whether Barty would have ever had children, absent the war, and Azkaban, and then the second war, wasn't entirely clear to her. It wasn't unthinkable, but it was difficult to envision such an arrangement without things getting complicated. Or messy.