Author Note: This story does not typically comply with some of the canon aspects or its timeline. Instead of Barty Crouch, Jr. being convicted when he was nineteen, he was imprisoned when he was twenty-seven. Igor Karkaroff did not confess the names of the Death Eaters until years later. Barty Crouch, Sr. was still Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when his son was placed on trial, hence he was there to sentence him to a lifetime in Azkaban. He left his position after his son's trial and was placed in charge of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

Azkaban is not only guarded by Dementors, but it is also guarded by witches and wizards.

Cover art by MrBorsch on DeviantArt

Beta read by ElvishPenguin12. All other mistakes are ours.

Chapter 1: Impurities

The darkness and the cold were driving him mad. Not that he wasn't already mad, according to everyone else he was the very definition of madness. It wasn't his fault that they didn't understand him. Even his own parents never did. Many people speculated that it was that very reason he was in this godforsaken place. "His father should have paid better attention to him," they said. "That boy was never right in the head."

Those idiots. If he had his way he would show them. He would show all of them.

He sat on the freezing stone floor of his cell, lost in thoughts of hatred and anger. The stiff fabric of his uniform scratched at his skin. His tongue flicked out of his mouth, a habit he'd developed in childhood and never outgrew. He didn't mind it, he thought it intimidated people. They had always thought him odd and the tongue-flicking habit of his had just reinforced that idea. They had always stayed away from him, giving him the distance he craved.

It was his third week in Azkaban, though it felt like much more time had passed. He could hear the screams and wails of other prisoners - day and night - until they were silenced by the Dementors. They begged for mercy; to be released from this hell hole. They proclaimed innocence and spouted other lies that were merely desperate pleas for escape.

It would be him next. When those horrid, dark creatures would come and feed off of the little happiness he had left, his screams would mix with the rest. There were no ears to hear them, except for the guards, but they only snickered at their cries.

He gazed up at the barred window high on the wall, his only view of the outside world. He could see the night sky from the small opening. Even in this pit of despair, he found joy in looking up at the stars, crystallized dots in a black canvas. When he was a boy, he would sometimes dream that he could jump high enough to reach them and fly through the vast reaches of space. Now, it still remained a dream.

He was a wingless bird stuck in a cage.

Moonlight shone through his window and illuminated his darkened room. One toilet and one hard, metal bed. That was all he was permitted. The rest was stone and metal bars that surrounded his every sight, the constant reminder of his location making him nauseous. He heard the gate down the hall creak open and he turned his head at the noise.

"Here are the upperlevel prisoners, Mr. Tyler," a man's voice echoed from down the corridor.

"Are you sure you want come here with me, Rose?" A different man asked. His voice sounded familiar to him. "Going with me to the lower level was one thing, but this floor has more . . . brutish criminals."

"Dad, I can take care of myself," a defiant female voice replied.

The steps were getting closer to his cell. He could see the faint figures through the shadows, the tips of their wands illuminating the corridor. When they reached his cell, he was able to have a proper look at the visitants. A group of guards were encircled around apparent civilians. One of them he recognized as Peter Tyler, the Warden of Azkaban. In the past, he occasionally found the man at his house talking to his father about the Ministry of Magic.

Tyler was new in this position, a job he had earned a little more than a year ago. As the warden of Azkaban, he was in charge of the highest security level prison in the entire Wizard World, filled with the most ruthless criminals to have existed. He was the one to ensure that none could escape while working with merciless Dementors as well. Indeed, the job certainly paid a high salary for the man with that responsibility.

Pete was also new money, gaining his fortune through his invention of pumpkin juice, previously known as Vitex. New money, Barty snorted at the thought. That was the worst kind of wealth. He knew that before, the popular millionaire was simply a lower-class wizard who lived in the housing estates of South London with his wife and daughter. They were just poor scum that had gotten lucky and polished themselves up. It did not change the fact that they were still indecent filth underneath.

But his disapproval of Peter Tyler went deeper than the acquisition of his wealth. It was of whom he had married. Pete was a pureblood wizard who had stooped as low as to marry a Muggle. A bloody disgusting Muggle. A vile taste entered Barty's mouth whenever he uttered that word - Muggle.

Next to Pete stood a young woman, around fifteen or sixteen. Her long blonde hair tumbled down her pink hoodie. Her lashes were thick with mascara, but he couldn't help but feel that even without the make-up, she would still be beautiful. Hidden beneath her lashes were bright hazel eyes that seemed to flicker with gold in the light. Her picturesque appearance was out of place in the dark prison.

Ah, so this was the girl that he heard some of the guards gossip about. "Pete's hot daughter."

"Dad," he heard her whisper. "Isn't that Mr. Crouch's son?"

"Yes, that man right there," a guard answered her,"is Barty Crouch, Jr. That one's a bit mental if you ask me. But that wouldn't be a surprise as he's a damn Death Eater."

He didn't like this particular guard. In addition to his putrid breath and rugged appearance, he would always give him dirty looks. When he would receive his routine Dementor visit, the man taunted him with his begs for mercy. He would spit in his face, toss his food on the floor, and sneer at him.

"If it was up to me," the guard continued, "he wouldn't have a life sentence. No, he would get the Dementor's Kiss."

"Well no one asked you," the girl shot back at him. Barty could feel the girl's intoxicating eyes continue to look at him and it took every ounce of his willpower not to look up and meet her gaze. "Merlin's beard, he looks worse than the others. How long has he been here?"

"I think it's been almost a month since his imprisonment," Pete answered her. "You shouldn't give him too much pity, Rose. That man's the reason one of your schoolmates, Neville Longbottom, no longer has any parents. He and his Death Eater friends tortured them using the Cruciatus Curse. They were driven mad, never even given the peace of death. They lost their minds and now, to this day, they're instituted in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries."

Barty could still feel her eyes on him and he tried focusing his attention on the stone slabs beneath him. He'd already counted the exact number of bricks - maybe he could recalculate… just to make sure.

"I feel sorry for his father," Pete went on. "The man dedicated his life to bringing criminal wizards to justice and it turns out his own son is a follower of You-Know-Who, torturing and killing others in his name." He sighed, shuddered, and glanced around nervously. "Alright, let's keep going, Rose."

"Yeah…" Rose gave Barty one last look before she turned and headed off with her father and the guards.

Barty watched as the lights dimmed while the group walked farther away from his cell. He found himself observing the girl's golden-blonde hair sway across her back with every step. After a few minutes, his room returned to silence and he was once again alone in the dark with only his thoughts to keep him company.

"Rose, I think this is one of your maddest ideas yet," Mickey said as he unlocked the gate and it creaked open.

Mickey Smith had been Rose's best mate for as long as she could remember. She had grown up with him in the Powell Estates, went to school together, even dated at some point - though he was a few years older than her.

Jackie and Pete treated him as their own son. Pete was sort of a mentor to Mickey in the Wizard World, as his gran, his guardian, was a Muggle and could not provide him with the knowledge or experience he needed. It was Jackie and Pete who drove Mickey to King's Cross Station to begin his first year of Hogwarts.

When Mickey was seventeen and Rose was fourteen, his gran passed away. Mickey dropped out of Hogwarts and started working at a Muggle mechanic shop to pay for his gran's flat. When Pete was given the position as Warden of Azkaban, he immediately asked Mickey if he wanted a job as well. Mickey eagerly agreed and Pete hired him as a guard.

"Oh shut it, Mickey. You're acting like we haven't done this before." Rose rolled her eyes while peering out into the dark corridor as she tried to balance a tray of food in her hands.

"Sure we have, with lower level prisoners." He looked behind him before closing the gate. "Not with the upper level lot. Not with a killer. Not with a bleeding Death Eater."

Rose groaned in exasperation. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, I only want to talk to him. That's all. Besides, there are bars separating us if anything does go awry and he is as psychopathic as they say he is. Why do you have to be such a coward sometimes?"

"Coward?" Mickey spluttered. "I'm only talking sense while you're the nutter who wants to see a murderer. Do you know there are more Dementors on this floor? I, for one, don't want to get snogged by those things. I don't know why you do it. The things you do sometimes…it's beyond me to even understand it."

Rose ignored him as she walked down the hall and looked through the individual jail cells. Mickey followed her from behind, still muttering complaints, but had given up on trying to dissuade her. After passing several cells, she found him.

He was still sitting in the same huddled position as when she last saw him. His gray, striped prison jumpsuit was ragged and worn despite it only being used for a month. His dark brown eyes stared blankly at the ground, dark circles surrounding them. She could tell that beneath the clouded irises was a haunted expression – she didn't know if it was because of the past or present. A powder of dirt was smeared beneath his cheekbone. His gaunt face had a sickly pale complexion. Thick brown hair was disheveled and flopped over his forehead. He didn't seem to have a recent shave as a five o'clock shadow darkened his jaw. Despite all of this, she could see he was of noble birth - his straight Patrician nose and sharp, high cheekbones were enough proof of that. Overall though, his appearance and expression showed a resigned man, damaged and battered, ready to wave the white flag.

Empathy was an emotion Rose was naturally inclined to. It defined who she was, helped her have a deep understanding of others. Her parents called it a curse and a blessing. It was beautiful to care so much, yet they thought sometimes she would care for the wrong characters. Evil and cruelty were minor factors that she would always ignore - they were irrelevant when evaluating a person's character. Jackie and Pete worried their daughter would be blind to see the "bad" in someone, and would only see the good. It was for those reasons that people were tricked, shammed, or hurt in the real world…they were simply too innocent and naive for their own good.

Rose empathized with the stranger. Something about him drew her in. The pain and loneliness radiated from him, almost suffocating her with its negative power. She felt like she was drowning… This man needed someone to save him - someone to pull him out from that never-ending dark pit of negativity. Staring at him, Rose realised suddenly, that although the man seemed half-dead, his eyes hadn't lost the spark completely. There was still a soul left behind. A soul which had survived all those terrible deeds and horrible crimes he had committed. And sometimes, she thought, life would shape you into a person you never thought you would become.

They stood by Barty's jail cell, staring at the tattered man before them. Mickey fidgeted in his spot and nervously looked at the prisoner behind bars. Rose noticed Mickey's apprehension and felt sympathy for her friend.

"Mickey, do you want to stand by the gate and keep a look out while I talk to him? You know…for guards and Dementors."

"I…" Mickey hesitantly started, but was cut off by Rose.

"It's only going to be a few minutes, yeah?"

He sighed and made his way back to the gate. "Pete's going to kill me when he finds out," he muttered.

Rose kept her eyes on Barty and waited to see if he would notice her. When his gaze did not leave the ground, she dusted off the floor in front of her and sat down facing the bars. She crisscrossed her legs and rested the tray of food on her lap. She was beginning to have second thoughts, but took a deep breath and prompted herself to complete the task she wanted to do.

"Hello," she said. The man glanced at her for a moment and looked away. His eyes now faced the wall in front of him. "My name's Rose. I brought your supper, thought you might need some food." She slipped the tray into the small opening in the door of his cell, made to fit trays the exact size. A delicious, mouth-watering fragrance permeated the air, overthrowing the constant moldy and putrid odor of the prison. His meal was supposed to be fish and chips, except the cafeteria had run short of fish so all that filled his tray was chips and a bottle of water. The man looked at the food warily before he reached out and took a handful of the greasy food. She was relieved when he began munching on them greedily.

"So I just…you seemed a bit lonely here. My friend, Mickey, he told me it's a bad idea coming here, but what does he know right? The man can be a wimp sometimes. Maybe that's why I broke up with him. N-not that you needed to know that," she stammered while playing with a silver hoop earring that dangled from her ear lobe. "I just think that everyone needs company, no matter who you are. My mum says that there are so many people in the world because they all need someone to talk to. 'Course I think that-"

"Are you gonna witter on all night?" the man cut her off, giving her a scrutinizing look.

She brightened when he finally spoke. "I-Sorry I develop a bit of a gob when I don't know what to say." She bit her lip. "I know it's hard. The first month always is. You can feel the Dementors eating away at your happiness at every visit. I just think the way they treat prisoners is just…inhumane. No matter who you are or what you've done, no one should be treated like this. Imagine, we live in such a magical world filled with wondrous things…yet we can create such horrors and nightmares within it." She sighed. "'Course Dad disagrees with me, thinks the prisoners deserve it. Reckon it's because of that job of his, filling his head with rubbish. He's the Warden."

"I know."

"What?" She scrunched her eyebrows together.

"I know that your father is Peter Tyler. I know you're his daughter…the one with inferior blood. It's a shame that wizards these days pollute their family line with," he frowned in disgust, "Muggles."

"Well, I guess that's one way in seeing it. Dad didn't really marry my mum 'cause she was a Muggle," Rose shifted uncomfortably.

"And who do you think you are talking to me so casually?" He got up from his spot and took three long strides to stand by the bars. He wrapped his hands on the cool metal and peered his face between them. His sudden actions caused Rose to jump and slowly stand up. She gazed at him, startled. "Do you even know who I am? Who my father is? I have the wealth worthy of Kings and Queens, I have delved into the deepest recesses of magic… Magic you can only ever dream of controlling." His tongue flicked out for a second, wetting his lips, while his eyes widened in a manic manner. Rose's eyes glanced at his flitting tongue. "So next time, think about who you're talking to, Chav. Because I certainly don't want to talk to a filthy mudblood."

Rose's hand whipped in the air and connected with his face with a loud slap. It was a blow she knew her mum would no doubt be proud of. Barty's jaw dropped.

How dare she! No one has ever touched me this way, he thought.

How dare he, that inconsiderate little…Rose let the thought drop.

"Listen 'ere, Mr. Crouch." She winced a little as she heard her accent turn thicker, her childhood roots becoming evident. It was something she couldn't control when her emotions got the best of her. "I don't care what your upbringing is or who your father is. I don't care if you were wealthy or the bleeding Queen of England. I don't care who you think you are because you know what I see? Just a formerly rich git who is rude and…and…" She was temporarily distracted by the thick brown strands of hair on his head. "Not ginger!" She shouted at him, wondering, for a moment, whether she could have thought of an even more moronic insult. Not ginger? Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. That's the best you could have said? Not ginger? She really couldn't think when she was angry. She was quick to conceal her humiliation and looked at Barty straight in the eye. Holding her head up high, she huffed at him and stormed off, leaving Barty to stare at her retreating figure.

Not ginger? he thought as he ran his hand through his hair. What possessed her to say that? He walked back to his original place and slumped on the cell wall, cradling his reddened cheek. A small sense of guilt nudged at him. But this is how it's supposed to be, right? He was a pureblood wizard who shouldn't have any association with the likes of mudbloods, even from her social class. They were abominations. They were a disgrace to wizard kind. It was what the Dark Lord had always taught them, and it was an ideal he worshipped.

Yet, this one seemed different.

The odd thing, however, was that as he thought about her, and about that charming smile and kind voice, he felt cracks appear in his inner walls. Walls which he had constructed years ago - a sort of defence mechanism against emotions - the very thing that made others so weak. Those little cracks however, had allowed something small to slither in. A spark – a spark was all it took to light the flame.