Peter crept slowly towards the front door of Barty Crouch's ivy-covered old estate, the bundle of robes in his arms shifting uncomfortably with every step. With the help of Nagini's milk, Lord Voldemort had managed to grow something of a body, but it was a horrible, corrupted one, slimy and wrinkled and red-eyed. Peter hated the feel of it against his arms, hated having to care for such a pitiful, revolting thing…but it would not be long, he knew, before Voldemort regained his strength, and then Peter would be safe and protected for the rest of his life.
"Knock, Wormtail," hissed Voldemort's feeble, child-like voice. He had taken to calling Peter by his old school nickname; Peter didn't much like it, or the memories of the Marauders it dredged up, but he didn't dare protest.
Nodding, Peter adjusted his hold on Voldemort and rapped quickly on the door. Footsteps echoed from behind it, growing louder and louder as they neared…Peter tensed as the door swung open and Bartemius Crouch Senior stepped outside, his eyes narrowed suspiciously at his visitor. "What is this?" he demanded. "Who are you?"
The bundle of robes shifted again in Peter's arms. Voldemort raised his wand, and Crouch's face went white with horror….
"Imperio," said Voldemort.
Crouch's horrified expression instantly cleared. He blinked, his eyes unfocused as if he were lost in a trance, fixated on something that no one else could see.
"Show us to your son," Voldemort ordered.
Immediately, Crouch spun around and led the way into his house, up the stairs and into a windowless bedroom. It appeared there was something lying on the bed, though Peter couldn't tell what—there were fragments of rope snaking among the sheets, and the mattress was creaking under the weight of something unseeable. As if in response to his puzzled expression, Crouch drew an invisible sheet off the bed to reveal a body concealed underneath; it was his son, Barty Crouch Junior, tied so tightly to the mattress that he could hardly move. He grinned around his gag at the sight of Peter and the creature he held.
Voldemort flicked his wand again, and the ropes fell away, slipping to the floor all around Crouch Junior. The boy in the bed let out a delighted laugh, his eyes flicking between Voldemort and his father as he yanked off his gag and climbed free.
"Leave us," Voldemort growled to the elder Crouch; with a vague nod, the Imperiused Ministry official turned and walked from the room, closing the door behind him.
Crouch Junior had sunk to his knees before Peter and Voldemort. "Can that really be you, my lord?" he asked, his voice breathless. "Come to rescue me from my father?"
"It is me," Voldemort rasped. "One of your father's Ministry colleagues helped me to find you. Wormtail and I came as soon as we learned you were here—I could not allow my greatest servant to suffer any longer."
Peter couldn't help but bristle at Voldemort calling Crouch his greatest servant—Peter was the one who had found him in Albania, after all, and he was the one who'd retrieved his wand for him and kept him alive all this time. But the Dark Lord considered him stupid and weak, just like everyone else. Once, long ago, he'd confessed to underestimating Peter…but he still continued to underestimate him, still thought he was worthless after everything. What did Crouch's son have that he didn't?
"Are you ready to risk everything for me, my servant?" Voldemort asked.
"Of course, my lord," Crouch Junior whispered. "I would do anything for you."
Voldemort's eyes gleamed at his response. "In order for me to return to full strength, I will need to be bathed in the blood of my enemy—of Harry Potter, particularly, the boy who defied me so many years ago. I need you to bring him to me."
"I'll fetch him for you right now," Crouch said quickly. "It won't take me long, my lord—"
"It is not so simple," Voldemort interrupted. "Harry is surrounded by protectors, Crouch, and I need him alive…we will use Hogwarts' Triwizard Tournament to get to him."
Peter blinked, surprised. Voldemort hadn't told him of his full plan, but he'd never expected the Triwizard Tournament to be a part of it.
"The Tournament is famous for its deaths and dangers—Harry can disappear in the middle of one of its tasks and Dumbledore will be none the wiser. You, Crouch, will enter Hogwarts disguised as Alastor Moody, the school's new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Wormtail will help you subdue him tomorrow night, just before he leaves—you will capture him and use his hair for Polyjuice Potion. You will interrogate him until you know how he speaks and how he thinks; then you will become him."
"Moody is a trained Auror," Peter murmured, remembering the fierce, paranoid Mad-Eye from his days with the Order. "Will me and Crouch really be able to—"
"Silence, Wormtail," Voldemort snapped. Peter's mouth instantly fell shut.
"I will do it, Master," Crouch said, ignoring Peter's protest. "I know how to impersonate an Auror, I've dealt with plenty of them before…you wish for me to take Moody's place at Hogwarts in order to force Harry into the Tournament?"
Voldemort gave a slow nod. "You will ensure that he is entered and made to compete—then you will guide him through the tasks as best you can, all the way up until the final one; that task will be a maze, Bertha Jorkins told me, in which the Triwizard Cup is hidden far out of sight. You will turn the Cup into a Portkey, which will bring Harry to the location I give to you; there I will be resurrected, and you and the rest of my faithful Death Eaters will achieve the power I have always promised you." Voldemort fixed Crouch with his red-eyed gaze. "Do you accept?"
In response, Crouch rose to his feet and took Voldemort's wrinkled, tiny hand in his; with a grin, he bent down to brush a kiss against his fingers. Unlike Peter, he showed no sign of repulsion at his master's stunted, unnatural form—to Crouch, Voldemort was no more a monster than he always had been.
"I will not let you down, my lord," Crouch promised, his fervent voice hardly more than a whisper. "By the end of the Tournament, Harry Potter will be yours."
