Fragments of a Broken Son.
StoryGirl.
His father had never truly loved him. Sure, he had been proud of his many, numerous achievements at school, but when it came to showing his affection outside of the ministry and the business world, Bartemius Crouch Sr. was quiet, preferring to leave his wife to shower her adoring affection on their only child.
So when it had come time to face the world and tell everyone that he was a Deatheater, proud and true, to face his father as the enemy, Barty Crouch Jr. had gone head-first into the fight with uncontrolled glee.
After all, Voldemort, at least had showed him some affection whenever he achieved something of great importance, and that was more than could be said about his own father; his own flesh and blood. Barty Crouch was a pathetic father but a strong man, silent and always watching.
But he hadn't seen his own son fall into the darkness, and when he had finally realized it, it was too late. Barty had fallen, and he couldn't be redeemed. His mother may had wished and prayed it to become so, but he wouldn't let himself fall for his father's tricks once more. "Come back to me son," He had said, peering softly at his son's form, a scowl on the younger man's face. "Come back, and we can be a real family again."
He had regarded the statement with disinterest, Bellatrix cackling happily as he walked away from his own father, who shook his head, and watched until they had disappeared from his sight.
Months before his imprisonment, his mother had arranged for a dinner to be held, to congratulate Barty's promotion in the Ministry. Your father, she had said with adoration, was hand picked by Fudge. Barty had scowled, and secretly, slipping his hand into his robes, run a finger over the Dark Mark, the skull that now tainted his skin before nodding at his mother and taking a seat; waiting for the arrival of his father.
He had never shown, and Barty had left in a fit of anger, slamming the door so hard that a picture had fallen off the mantle, a deep crack slicing the image of his father's arms around his son's shoulders into half. No matter how much his mother had tried, the picture had never been the same again. There had always been a deep crack between father and son.
And that picture reflected real life. As Barty stood outside the hall, struggling against the chains that now bounded his thin wrists, he hoped that whatever little love his father held for his only son, shone through during this trial and saved him from a life of despair and tragedy. Bellatrix, on the left side of him, regarded her own thick chains with disinterest, smiling evilly at the Dementors that hovered just out of sight, ready to escort them to Azkaban if the trial did not fall in their favour.
They entered the Hall to boos and angry shouts. Barty, head down, only looked up to gaze once at his mother, his father diverting his eyes from his son, the Dark Mark standing out, tarnishing his left arm. His mother broke out into sobs, raising a handkerchief to her eyes as she looked sadly at her only child, standing before the court, not yet even a man.
And then, Azkaban had been his future.
But his mother had argued with his father, and in the end, his love for her caused him to switch their places, going home with his son instead of his wife, whom he left to die in the cell that his son had once occupied. They staged a fake burial for the mother that had given up her life for her son, for the woman that had made Barty Crouch leave her behind in Azkaban, leave her behind to a fate that was worse than death.
And thus had begun his imprisonment, his fights with his father, the small surges of power he felt when he could break free of the curse for a small period of time. Winky had struggled in her obedience under her father and the desire she felt to allow the boy she had practically raised herself to have a small amount of freedom. In the end she had won, and he had been allowed to escape the house to attend the Quidditch World Cup.
And then, he knew he was going to return, triumphant to Voldemort.
And nothing had tasted so sweeter than the taste of metallic blood on his lip that he had broken open in joy, after he had cast the Dark Mark into the night sky.
Barty Crouch would be a faithful servant and return to his master.
And he would secure his happiness.