August 18th 1994, Dartmoor
After the veelas had left the field the game started. Harry was spellbound by the quality of the players and the game overall. During a lull in the noise he meant to hear a desparate whimper. Not having looked around in the box he did so now. Right behind him an elf was sitting. The little being, a female possibly, was holding her hands before her eyes and trembling. Harry was just about to talk to her when Ron elbowed him.
"Look at Krum! Did you see that?"
"Yes, that was a Wronski feint, wasn't it?" Harry did not want to be impolite so he watched the match for a while before turning back towards the elf.
"Hello, my name is Harry. What's yours?"
The little one opened her eyes only for a moment. She answered in a hurry, "It's Winky, kind sir."
The boy thought about possible reasons for her terror.
"Are you frigthened by the game or is it our height?" Below the benches a metal grid provided a unimpeded view towards the ground. If the elf suffered from vertigo she sat on the worst possible place.
"Height," came back in a whimper. Mrs Weasley had packed sweaters for all of them, in case the match lasted into the night. The dufflebag containing the garments stood next to Harry's seat. The boy dug out his own, Ron's and the ones for the twins and spread them below Winky's seat, thus blocking the view towards the ground 40 feet below. Softly touching the elf's arm he said, "Miss Winky, you can open your eyes, you can't see the ground anymore."
Harry was quite sure that Winky did not enjoy being at the match but at least her trembling had stopped. Due to the chaos that followed the game he soon forgot about her.
Barty Crouch Jr., sitting under an invisibility cloak next to Winky, could not believe his eyes and ears. Right in front of him was the child who had brought about his lord's demise! The Imperius curse his father had put him under had been growing weaker and weaker, this coincidence now gave the still young wizard the fortitude to break free from it. But he stayed where he was. Barty knew that his previous strategy – open opposition against his father – had not worked. Besides, he was confused and without a plan. For a moment he was tempted to snatch the wand sticking out of Potter's backpocket. Merlin, did no one teach this young wizards anything? Or at least buy them a wand-holster? For a second he contemplated just to snatch the boy, thin as he was, and throw him over the railing in revenge for vanquishing his lord! But there were bound to be security measures in place for eager or drunk spectators, just like on Hogwarts' Astronomy Tower.
And Potter had just been kind to Winky, the sole reason Barty hadn't succumbed to madness yet. Even a few minutes out from under the curse helped his mental stability. The urge to kill the child receded quickly. How should a toddler defeat the most accomplished Dark Lord in centuries? No, Lily Potter must have done something, some sort of mother's magic, right before her death. Barty tried to focus. He needed to get stable, he needed to find the Dark Lord, one thing after the other.
The invisible wizard planned to fake the Imperius. Winky had proven to be somewhat sneaky in interpreting his father's commands. Barty was quite sure that she would not rat him out unless questioned directly. Prepared to hate the boy with every fibre of his being he was moved by the child's kindness to an unknown elf. Most wizards did not even notice the beings, much less care about their comfort. As it had been Winky's idea to attend the World Cup she had not protested their seats. Barty had offered to fake an illness when he had learned that they were to be in the top box but Winky had not relented. She felt she owed it to her mistress and little master. In the end Barty had agreed because he thought not going would be worse for Winky's well-being than going. But he chastitized himself for not thinking of Potter's solution for her vertigo. For now he listened to Potter and the family he was with, storing information, and enjoyed the match.
September 1st, 1994, Hogwarts
Damn, it hurt to be Alastor Moody! How the old auror could function without drinking himself into oblivion was anyone's guess. Ah, there was the Potter boy, again with the redheads, Weasleys.
Barty was still reeling from the chat he'd had with Albus Dumbledore the evening before. His life under the Imperius of his father had been very dull, but the events of the last two weeks erased any boredom. After the World Cup, where someone had toyed with Muggles, he had managed to dupe his father and fake the Imperius. Snatching his father's wand had been easy. He commanded the old man to take back any orders from Winky before Obliviating the man, now with his own wand, which had been returned to the family after Barty's `death´ at Azkaban.
For years he had plotted his revenge but now all bloodlust had left him. Barty chose not to dwell on his showing his father mercy, he told himself that playing it cool aided the Dark Lord most and that he could find his father any time he wanted to. What really hurt was leaving Winky back at home. The young wizard promised himself to fetch her as often as possible.
It had been ridiculously easy to find the Dark Lord. Laying eyes on the creature without revulsion was difficult, however. Barty thought that he could have managed if Voldemort's outer appearance wasn't at least as bad as his state of mind. Pettigrew and he had done so much more than anyone else of the Death Eaters currently not in Azkaban and still they got Crucio'd daily, twice on Sundays! There was no rhyme nor reason to the Dark Lord's plans. And there were Muggle portraits in that crumbling manson. Mr Thomas Riddle Sr. and Mr Thomas Riddle Jr. looked like his lord before a baby had vanquished his body. That meant that the Dark Lord, who rode on a wave of Pure-blood supremacy, was a Halfblood or even a Mudblood! Barty had never felt as betrayed as now, not even by his father's behaviour towards himself. Although ill-advised Crouch Sr's actions towards his son spoke of the wish to do best for said son. The Dark Lord's actions behooved seemingly only himself, and that under a false pretense. Why the Pure-blood faction of the Wizengamot could not see beyond their inbred noses was anyone's guess. Too many wizards and witches had already lost their lifes. James Potter might have been on the other side of a political conflict, but he had been the last Potter and Peverell heir, families with magical gifts that should not be lost. Same with the Blacks. One son dead, likely at the Dark Lord's hand, and the other mad in Azkaban. Bellatrix could not be counted to continue on the Black legacy, even before Azkaban Rodolphus could only stand to bed her with the help of potions. That was another old family lost! Barty was thoroughly confused, too many long standing convictions were crumbling at the same time.
For now he checked old year books after coming across an award for services to the school by one Tom Marvolo Riddle in the trophy room during his rounds. And there he was: the Dark Lord had been at Hogwarts from 1938 to 1945. He had been a stellar scholar, prefect, Head Boy, but there was no Riddle family in the wizarding world. Barty made a note of his Slytherin year mates, maybe he could talk to some of them.
Two weeks later he had found out that none of them lived any longer, at least not in England. Corvin Rosier had had a heart-attack at the comparatively young age of 68, Cantankerus Nott Jr. had died during a splinching accident, Mikhael Dolohov of some unknown poison presumably administered by a house-elf and Carol Mulciber was a permanent resident of the Janus-Thickey – Ward. No wonder Dumbledore was wary of the Dark Lord.
Barty found that he liked teaching. During his time at Hogwarts his favourite professor had been Filius Flitwick. And to an extent Minerva McGonagall, until he could no longer stomach her blatant favouritism of Gryffindor and her blind loyality to Albus Dumbledore. He was appalled now how the school was run under the successor of Armando Dippet. The education pupils had in DADA was sadly lacking, yet no one, not the headmaster, nor the board of governors seemed to care. Why did no one shell out a few gallons for a cursebreaker on the subject? The Unspeakables might undo the curse for free, thus making it possible that Englands wizarding future was able to defend themselves. What really galled the young man posing as a seasoned auror was that privately Dumbledore meant to send this bunch of ill-prepared children out to fight his war! Barty as Moody had yet to find out why it was so important that little Harry Potter – the boy was really looking more like a firstie than like someone in year four – fought the most evil wizard of his time alone, on his own.
Interesting was how Severus seemed to be truly frightened by the old Auror. There was bound to be a story behind the Potions master's arrest and short stint in Azkaban. Sometimes, when his younger, angry self was looking for an outlet, he needled his colleague on purpose, murmuring `leopards´ or `Dementor fodder´ in passing. The last taunt he stopped to use after a few times, after McGonagall had told him of Harry Potter's usual reaction to the black wraiths. `Growing a conscience, Barty?´ he talked to his mirror image.
Another thorn in his side was Longbottom. Stories in the teachers lounge did not fit what he saw from the boy. There was raw power but an inability to focus. Barty remembered the toddler crawling over to his mother during Bellatrix' Cruciatus. Brain damage, perhaps? Poppy Pomfrey would be the obvious person to ask but she behaved in a peculiar way whenever he was near. And Moody's body seemed to have an ingrained reaction to the heaving bosom of the matron, behind all that starched linen. As Barty himself swung the other way he tried to avoid the elder woman as much as possible.
The Potions master was returning from the Forbidden Forest with a basket full of fungi and herbs.
"Dinner or ingredients, Snape?"
The man startled at this comparatively neutral address.
"The latter. The dunderheads mangle them anyway, there's no need to buy dearly from the apothecary."
"Ah, yes. I am used to some stupidity from Auror cadets, but teenagers are indefinitely worse. How's Longbottom at potions?"
Snape shuddered. The man who could sit next to the Dark Lord, who would let Nagini slither over his boots without flinching, shuddered.
"He exceeded Cornelius Mulciber's record for melted cauldrons in his second year. That boy `invented´ at least three new poisons by brewing things like Boil-cure or Pepper-up wrongly! I had situations in my classroom that could have cost us the whole year of Gryffindor-Slytherin-class in one swoop."
"Longbottom cannot concentrate and he has trouble remembering incantations but he is powerful."
Snape's shoulders sagged.
"There should be classes that address learning difficulties. We are so severely understaffed that all one can do is keep the brats alive."
"And yet you arrange study groups and tutoring, I saw the message board in the common room."
"How?"
"Once a Slytherin always a Slytherin." And it was true, Alastar Moody had been a Slytherin in his youth, just as Barty Crouch Jr.
"It is not enough, but my students usually come from families that can afford extra tutoring over the summer. Still the magical world is lacking basic pedagogy."
Barty as Moody laughed because during their last tea Albus had shoved another bunch of complaints against the Potions master in an already stuffed-to-the-brim folder.
"And that from the most feared teacher at Hogwarts! Dire, indeed."
"No one died in my class yet. Slughorn and all the others before him had at least one casuality a year. And my NEWT students are sought after all over Europe. They live and they learn, that has to be enough. You are welcome to mollycoddle the brats at your leisure."
"I might. Back to Longbottom – why hasn't Minerva assigned him a tutor?"
Snape hesitated, "Minerva's deputy headmistress as well, she does not have the time. And Gryffindors work differently from my snakes."
"Albus is dumping a lot of work on her, aye. But a physical check-up and a talk about grades once a year should be possible."
"Longbottom's grandmother forces him to use his father's wand. It is of no consequence in potions but may factor in other subjects."
"Preposterous! The wand choses the wizard!"
"You are of course welcome to take that up with Augusta."
"Pah! A new wand and a permanent Transfiguration to look like his old one would do it, no need to involve the old harridan!"
"The old harridan is your contemporary, I believe? I have to get these stored." With that the younger man was off, leaving Barty deep in thought. In the evening he cast every conceivable privacy charm upon his chambers – the portraits he had long since turned over to Filch for storage – and summoned Winky. The little elf was overjoyed to lay eyes on her `Little master´.
"Winky, you are in contact with other elves I believe?"
"Yes, Master Barty!"
"And what do they think about the Dark Lord? Elves are an older race than wizards and witches, they have seen Lords come and go. You need not fear to anger me, I will listen to anything you have to tell me."
Winky wrung the seam of her tea-towle in her gnarly fingers.
"Speak up, Winky!"
The elf finally started to answer, "A long time ago we elves were happy that someone was doing something against the loss of the Old Ways. But then your Lord started to use dark magic, too much of it, and killed a lot of wizards with old blood."
"What do you mean with old blood?"
Did he imagine it or was Winky looking at him pityingly?
"Thems Half-bloods and Muggleborns, as you call them, are old blood, too. No Muggle can birth a witch or a wizard, just as they cannot birth a goblin or an elf. They ain't Muggles really, just Squibs. And your Lord killed wizards, too, calling them blood-traitors. The Houses Potter and Black are nearly extinct, Carrows are mad, as well as MacNairs. He's done magic of the blackest kind, making himself insane."
Barty was lost in thought. Winky was right, from what he knew about the Dark Lord and from what he saw here at Hogwarts. The classes were nearly half of what they had been in his time here. The war had cost too many lives. There had been some in the ranks that had tried to caution the Dark Lord, trying to reign in his temper. They'd paid dearly for their presumption. For now Barty resolved on finding out where his former brethren stood. He was not yet at the point where he could decide to end the strange creature Pettigrew tended to in that rotting mansion in Little Hangleton.
Severus Snape was worried. His relief that Moody had treated him comparatively civil was soon tempered by worry. He was sure that the paranoid Auror was plotting something that would end badly for himself. The Potions master craned his neck to prevent the tension headache from forming fully and turned to his marking again.
Harry was appalled. Quidditch was to be cancelled because of some sort of tournament! Just as well. The boy had already worried about his ability to continue playing his favourite sport. His wrist had been broken again this summer, he had no strenght in it, and he was much too week from malnutrition to steer the broom with his legs alone.
Barty was deep in thought. Dumbledore wanted him to show the Unforgivables to fourth years and up? Theory, all right, but showing? In a class where quite a few of the children had personal experience with the curses? Harry Potter might be too small to really remember the green light that had killed his mother in front of his eyes but Susan Bones had been four years old when her parents had been killed. And Neville Longbottom saw the results of a prolonged Cruciatus every time he visited his parents. The Goyle boy cried every time when he had to Transfigure a mouse into a snuffbox, according to staff-room gossip, what would it do to the child if he had to see a mouse tortured and killed? Barty was confused and distracted and questioned more and more his previous convictions. If Winky was right – and elves usually were – there were no true Muggleborns, they were resurfacing Squib-lines. And while Bellatrix had been the main perpetrator in torturing Frank Longbottom and his wife into insanity he, Barty, had participated in the wake of the Dark Lord's destruction. He felt guilty about his actions then and he was resolved to help the Longbottom boy as much as he could.
A Saturday morning detention for the child was his chance.
"Mr Longbottom, is it true that you are using your father's wand?"
Neville looked like a deer caught in the headlights.
"Yes, professor. My grandmother wishes me to honour my father with it."
"Understandable, but completely wrong. You have heard probably, that the wand choses the wizard. Professor Sprout told me that you excel in Herbology. Your father was very good in offensive and defensive magic but unable to grow a pansy. It is entirely possible that what you need from a wand is diametrally different from his needs."
"When I use Hermione's or Gregory's wand everything is easier. But my Grandmother will never consent."
A cautious approach was needed now.
"We should not worry Augusta, but on the other hand you will need a wand that fits. There is a war coming on. Tell me, Mr Longbottom, if there was a way to assuage your grandmother's demands and still for you to use a fitting wand? I am thinking about a permanent glamour on your new wand and an unbreakable box to keep your father's in."
The boy was still undecided.
"I can take you to Ollivander's right now. He will follow my wish not to tell your grandmother anything. And I think that your parents would support you in this if they could."
The child seemed to grow a few inches.
"Let's go, professor."
"Right, lad. I will inform your head of house that we are going to Ollivander for wand maintenance, which is not a lie I'd say."
An hour later saw a skipping Longbottom heir, transfiguring stones on the path from the Apparition point with total ease with his new wand, glamoured to look like his old one. Ollivander had been appalled that the boy had been using an old wand and had readily agreed to keep their confidence.
Right, now that only left saving the Potter boy from an ominous death at the hand of that abomination that had been the Dark Lord. The next DADA lesson with the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff fourth years gave Barty an idea. Little Susan Bones, niece of the formidable Head of the MLE Amelia Bones, was getting her shield right before anyone else. Even during his true Death Eater days Barty had known the Head as an scrupulously fair witch and from the Order meetings he attended as Alastor Moody he knew that she also did not give in to Dumbledore's demands if she thought they would bend the law.
The Dark Lord wished for him to manipulate the Triwizarding Cup into chosing the Potter boy as Hogwarts champion. Barty felt secure in ignoring this order. By the time the Dark Lord would learn of his plans to be thwarted he should long been gone. He carefully extracted a memory of Pettigrew, the strange creature and enough pointers as to where the two were hiding, put it into an unbreakable phial and sent it to Amelia Bones' home address.
Then he summoned Winky, dismantled the wards on his office and made an international Portkey. He dressed light – Ecuador was bound to be warm at this time of year – and waited for the Polyjuice to run its course. Leaving the bottle of the potions next to Moody's pegleg he wrote a message to Snape where the original Moody could be found, clasped his trusted elf's hand and spoke the activation phrase.
And thus Hogwarts was again in need of a new defense teacher.
Fin
Epilogue
Barty Crouch Jr. landed in Ecuador as planned. He visited a magical cosmetic surgeon and a wizard known for his proficiency in faking documents, complete with life stories matching them. The young man invested his mother's dowry wisely and lived a fulfilled life as procurer of exotic potions ingredients. Eventually he met a man he liked enough to spend his days with and lost nary a thought on his homecountry or his personal history.
Bartemius Crouch Sr. was demoted but did not go to prison. He spent the rest of his days rattling around in his manor.
Harry Potter finished his fourth year in a wonderful mood and without battling an insane megalomanic for a change. Pettigrew's capture brought a long overdue trial for Sirius Black who lost no time after his acquittal to get guardianship over his godson. Eventually a goblin healer noticed something strange in the boy's scar but. The 1/128th part of Voldemort's soul was extracted with a ritual and destroyed like the other Horcruxes.
The Triwizarding Tournament took place at Hogwarts and Cedric Diggory became its worthy champion.
Winky took a while to get used to living in Ecuador but as her beloved `Little master´ was here she persevered. One day her master told her of the Quidditch game which had started everything, when a kind boy had tried to help a frightened elf. Sometimes, when she had indulged in a few butterbeers too many, she fancied herself as the one elf that had started the destruction of the Dark Lord Voldemort.