His first nights in Azkaban were the worst of it. It was freezing cold and filthy, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the mental torture. He had never felt such blackness—like everything good in his life had been swallowed up forever. He screamed for his mother until his throat was raw and bloody.

That was a year ago. It seemed as though each day was the length of ten—the same cycle of horrors on repeat—a never-ending loop of suffering that slowly leached away his remaining sanity. He didn't scream anymore now. He didn't make noise at all. He had always been lean, but what body mass he had quickly melted away, leaving a corpse cloaked with sallow skin.

Now Barty lay on his side in a pool of rancid liquid—a vile combination of soured water and bodily fluids. He watched a maggot crawl out of yesterday's bread. He could barely move. It wouldn't be long now. He'd been losing consciousness more and more often, which was a bit of a blessing in itself, but he knew in his lucid moments that it meant his body was failing.

The man down the hall said he was "losing the will to live." In the beginning he tried to talk to Barty—asked him questions about school and quidditch and his family. He didn't answer.

His father was the heartless Ministry sod who'd sent him to Azkaban in the first place. Useless, pathetic old man. What good was having a father that worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if he refused to pardon his only son? And his stupid mother, she was of no use to him either. The spineless woman had done nothing to stop his father from throwing him in here. As a boy, Barty had loved his mother, unlike his boring, workaholic father who'd insisted on that god-awful name.

"Bartemius Crouch Jr."

He despised his name almost as much as the man who gave it to him.

He remembered both of them at his trial—his father's cold indifference and Mother's pitiful display of emotion. She'd blubbered throughout the whole thing, and fainted when his sentence was handed down. Oh, she'd begged his father to clear him of all charges, he knew. The night before they'd taken him away he'd lain downstairs, bound to his bed by a Sticking Charm, listening to them.

"My baby!" She had wailed. "He's just a boy, Barty, please, there must be something you can do!"

Of course the old fool wouldn't hear of it—"Elizabeth, your son is a Death Eater."

She gasped sharply. "Our son!"

"…Our son." His voice was sober, chastened.

Then Mother, quieter: "I don't believe you."

"He tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom so excessively the Healers at St. Mungo's say they won't ever regain their sanity."

"Not my boy. He wouldn't." She'd sobbed.

Barty couldn't see through the ceiling, but he could picture well enough the pathetic display taking place. His father would let her cry in his arms and pretend to listen before feeding her the company line about upholding Wizarding law. He never gave a damn about either of them—him or Mother.

Barty had to strain to hear his father's muffled voice. "Elsie, we have witnesses that saw him do it. The proof is…incontrovertible."

So what? His stupid father wouldn't know proof if it hexed him between the eyes.

"My sweet boy," his mother gulped through tears. "How could we let this happen, Barty?" His father murmured something to her, too quiet for Barty to hear through the vent.

"Please," Her voice was raw. "Bartemius—"

"He'll have a trial. I can't—it's all I can do." He sounded surprisingly guilt-ridden, but Barty knew it was all an act. The great Bartemius Crouch. His precious Department of Magical Law Enforcement was more important to him than his family would ever be. And if he had any doubts about sending his only son to Azkaban, it was only because he knew his reputation would be destroyed—not because he held any affection for him. His father had never loved him. Not like he loved Barty's mother. His son had always been a failure in his eyes. Never smart enough or organized enough or ambitious enough.

He was ambitious now, though, wasn't he? He was one of the Dark Lord's most faithful servants, proving his loyalty time and time again; rising through the ranks quickly. He was the one chosen over Black and Malfoy and Rosier—handpicked by the Dark Lord for the job.

Guess that wasn't the sort of ambition his father was looking for.

He had no remorse for those two foolish aurors he'd tortured into insanity. Oh, he'd pled not guilty at his trial, begging his father's mercy and crying for his mother. His fear was real—the thought of Azkaban really did terrify him—but his innocence was a farce. His father knew it, of course, but Mother had always been gullible when it came to her darling son. He'd been careful to keep her unsuspecting, even when he was a boy. His second year at Hogwarts, Professor Slughorn had sent an owl home, expressing his concerns about Barty's "display of disturbing behavior"—He'd caught him in the dungeons trying to Imperius one of the first years. Of course, Slughorn couldn't know that he'd nicked the letter from his office and replaced it with one that said he'd been recognized for outstanding marks in his class. Narcissa Black had charmed it to look like Slughorn's handwriting. Once she'd taught him how, he did the same for every letter home, not that there were many after that—he quickly learned the art of deceit.

At school, he soon found he wasn't the only one. Evan Rosier, Regulus Black, Severus Snape, Avery and Mulciber. Then Rowle joined their group, followed by the Carrows and Scabior and Travers. It wasn't long before they earned a reputation for ruthlessness and spite—no one dared interfere with them. They ruled Hogwarts and anyone who got in their way quickly learned what they were capable of.

All that was gone now, though. He was cold and hungry and reliving his most awful memories over and over again. He lay slumped on the wet stone, too far gone even to shiver, let alone drag his weak body to the bed. "Barty?" A soft voice muddled into his head. No one had called him by name in a year. Opening his eyes, he saw them there, standing outside his cell. A fever dream, surely.

Then a dementor, waving the door open with a rusty screech. Then a voice—the man from down the hall. "Crouch. When's my trial?" Then perfectly shined black Oxfords in front of him. Then beside them, a pair of tiny feet in red lace-up shoes he'd purchased from Hogsmeade when he was a third year. He blinked slowly.

"Mother?"