A/N: For the Duct Tape competition.
Prompt: Dragons.
It's harder than he thinks it will be, pretending to be someone else. He's used to his own almost-emaciated body, to the way his hair constantly flops in his eyes, to the pinky finger that always crooks to the right. This body is clunky, heavy. This body has a wooden leg and a magical eyeball that keeps rolling backward in his head and giving him the unsettling feeling that it can read his thoughts. It can't, of course-a magical eye isn't that magical-but the thought persists.
He's studied Mad-Eye Moody's mannerisms for two weeks (and wasn't that a treat to manage, considering the ex-Auror's paranoia and the way he would suddenly whip around and hex the next moving thing-he'd spent more time diving in and out of rubbish bins and bushes than actually following the blasted man, invisibility cloak be damned), but he knows it might not be enough. Surely Dumbledore will pick up on something wrong, and that will be the end for Bartemius Crouch Jr., escaped from Azkaban, presumed dead, and the Dark Lord's most loyal servant.
His lip curls as he stumps past the gates, his overly gnarled fingers clenched tightly around Moody's wand. It feels cold and unfamiliar in his hand, but it showed at least marginal attraction to his magic, and he knows that it will be better to use Moody's wand than his own. But he feels naked without it, the trusty wand (nine inches long, hawthorn, core of veela hair) that he carried throughout his years at Hogwarts and beyond, the wand his mother kept safe for years while he rotted in Azkaban, unable to do anything but scream whenever the dementors came near again...which was often.
Wormtail is with his Master, and he despises the thought. Wormtail is a traitor. A coward, who spent twelve years masquerading as a family pet to keep his old friends from rending him apart, limb from limb. He is not loyal. Not like Barty is. If there's one thing Barty despises, it is those who are disloyal. Wormtail is a sniveling wretch, but because he at least has returned to the fold, the Dark Lord has accepted him. It cuts Barty raw, but he knows better than to voice his displeasure. He has no desire to writhe beneath the Dark Lord's wand.
Hogwarts looms up in front of him, so close he nearly falls backward in surprise. He hadn't realised he was so close. Time to put on the mask, he thinks, taking another anxious swig from his flask of Polyjuice potion, just in case. Wouldn't do to sprout his regular leg in the middle of dinner, after all. I'm not Barty Junior, Azkaban convict and loyal Death Eater. I'm Alastor Mad-Eye Moody, loyal to Dumbledore-no, Albus-and committed to the cause without a fault.
A smirk crosses his face and he stumps up to the door, shouldering it open with his cane, and slipping through. The mask is firmly in place, and Barty's never felt more alive.