Chapter 35

His Most Faithful Servant

"Do you love me?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Do you truly love me?"

Bartemius Crouch delved deeply into his wife's dark amber eyes and was transported to cherished memories of the past. She had always been his ray of sunshine, his savior – she had transformed a feeble, timid teenager into a strong, confident man. Going to his fraternity cotillion and taking Miss Alicia Knott was the best decision Bartemius ever made in his life.

"Of course I love you, more than life itself."

"Then do this one final thing for me, please…help me save my baby."

Bartemius looked away from his wife and his baleful eyes found the dark fortress looming behind her. The sight of Azkaban always sent shivers down his spine, even though he had visited the island several times before after handing down stern prison sentences. Tonight the sky was filled with swirling grey clouds, dropping sheets of rain onto the dark island below. Bartemius wrapped up his frail wife in his skinny arms, holding on to her for dear life – they had just exited a Ministry plane and were standing at the edge of the island. Waves crashed against a wooden pier, the ocean spray spritzing the drenched couple.

This was madness! Bartemius would be jeopardizing everything he and Alicia had worked and struggled to achieve. And for what? An ungrateful petulant son, a bastard who never cared about anyone but himself! They say you can't choose your parents, well, you can't choose your children either.

Bartemius gripped his precious wife even tighter and rested his cheek on the top of her head. The love he felt for her held no bounds, it had filled him up and sustained him for the past 25 years. He had never been able to deny her anything, had never once said no to her in all his life, but this was crazy. Nothing good could come from this foolishness.

The frigid ocean spray hung thick in the air; large raindrops fell like icicles from the heavens; the wind, a frozen rope chilling the gloomy pair to the bone – but all of a sudden Bartemius felt a deeper frost, something that chilled his inner essence. The Dementors had awakened.

Bartemius looked down at his beautiful wife, sleeping peacefully in their son's old bedroom. She was slight and frail – a former shell of the vibrant, strong woman she had been. Her eyes were no longer full of zest and youthful exuberance; her hair was grey and tangled, no longer the vivid auburn he remembered; her face, gaunt and skeletal, had lost the healthy cherubic countenance he had kissed so passionately on their wedding day. His son's life imprisonment – a sentence Bartemius himself had handed down – had ravaged Alicia like a terrible sickness, it had been as though she herself had languished in Azkaban alongside her son.

As Bartemius stared longingly at his wife, she began to shake violently and her features began to grotesquely distort. Her bones twisted and turned with harsh crunches, her arms and legs suddenly lengthening of their own accord. Her face slanted into a terrifying mish mash of skin, as if her facial muscles had lost all tension and firmness. Her greying hair shortened to small black strands, her white fingernails lengthened into dark chipped edges, and her amber pupils turned jet black.

Bartemius watched in disgust as his treasured wife transformed into the evil spawn he had fathered many years before – how could a son be so unlike his father? Bartemius "Barty" Crouch Jr. was finally home. Bartemius slipped out his wand and looked down at his namesake, an awful rictus of a smile on his lips.

How could my own blood have turned down such a dark path? Where, oh where, had I gone wrong? I gave him everything, provided him with an upbringing I could only have dreamt about – the best schools, expensive clothes, special training! He had every opportunity to succeed, every chance to become a great man and help further the wizarding world. Instead the selfish boy had turned into an arrogant monster, had willingly walked down a path of racism and evil.

Bartemius pointed his wand at his son and whispered an incantation of dark magic, he then slowly trudged to the bedroom door, stepped out into an empty hallway and found himself looking down at a waiting house-elf.

"Is the missus feeling okay Master Crouch?"

Bartemius did something he had not done in over twenty years – the proud man began to weep.

Bartemius "Barty" Crouch Jr. screamed in hot frustration, but no sound echoed forth. He wanted to slam his fists against the walls and lash out, but his arms stayed still and disobedient. He yearned to kick out in anger, but his muscles refused to comply. He could feel his father's imperious curse weakening, yet he could not shake off the burdensome yoke. He had tasted blessed freedom earlier in the summer at the Quidditch Word Cup – had been reinvigorated by that small adventure. The feeling of being in control again was delicious and he wanted that power back. Barty had been drifting in a dense fog for years, had been sleeping uselessly for far too long – it was time to break free!

Bartemius Crouch Sr. stood over his son, who lay prone on a large sofa in the family living room, and pointed his wand down at him, redoubling the strength of his imperious curse. His son struggled against the dark magic, fighting hard to regain his own free will. "Will you stop fighting me Barty, it's of no use – I won't let you escape ever again. You're last advocate is gone for I've sent that blasted house-elf away – from now on, it'll just be you and me in this big empty house."

"You're wrong …you're not alone…"

The hairs on the back of Bartemius' neck stood up straight in absolute fright, the unexpected voice sending fear shooting through his body. The voice was strangely high-pitched and cold, like a sudden blast of icy wind. Bartemius lowered his wand as a short balding man with graying hair, a pointed nose and watery eyes, brushed by him and began to revive Barty from the after effects of a prolonged imperious curse.

The icy voice continued, "You sent many of my loyal servants away, made them unduly suffer in the false name of justice. You slandered my noble reputation, sullied all that I had worked hard to build."

Bartemius stared blankly ahead as Wormtail propped up his son's limp body and poured a greenish liquid into Barty's waiting mouth. He continued to watch as color returned to his son's cheeks and light began to flicker in the long vacant eyes.

"You must pay for your crimes Bartemius. Turn around and look at me, you've the right to face your accuser…"

Bartemius slowly turned around against his will, terrified at the sudden change of events. This was incomprehensible! How had his shameful secret been discovered? Bartemius scrunched his eyes up tight, not wanting to face the high-pitched voice. He could hear the Wormtail moving behind him, could hear his son beginning to breathe normally again as he broke free from the curse's hold.

"Look at me Bartemius. Look into the eyes of your redeemer…"

Bartemius felt his eyes slowly opening and laid his eyes on the horrible sigh that was Lord Voldemort. His face gave an involuntary twitch of disgust – My God!

"IMPERIO!"

…Amos Diggory's head was sitting in the middle of the flames like a large, bearded egg. It was talking very fast, completely unperturbed by the sparks flying around it and the flames licking its ears.

". . . Muggle neighbors heard bangs and shouting, so they went and called those what-d'you-call-'ems — please-men. Arthur, you've got to get over there —"

"Here!" said Mrs. Weasley breathlessly, pushing a piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a crumpled quill into Mr. Weasley's hands.

"— it's a real stroke of luck I heard about it," said Mr. Diggory's head. "I had to come into the office early to send a couple of owls, and I found the Improper Use of Magic lot all setting off — if Rita Skeeter gets hold of this one, Arthur —"

"What does Mad-Eye say happened?" asked Mr. Weasley, unscrewing the ink bottle, loading up his quill, and preparing to take notes.

Mr. Diggory's head rolled its eyes. "Says he heard an intruder in his yard. Says he was creeping toward the house, but was ambushed by his dustbins."

"What did the dustbins do?" asked Mr. Weasley, scribbling frantically.

"Made one hell of a noise and fired rubbish everywhere, as far as I can tell," said Mr. Diggory. "Apparently one of them was still rocketing around when the please-men turned up —"

Mr. Weasley groaned.

"And what about the intruder?"

"Arthur, you know Mad-Eye," said Mr. Diggory's head, rolling its eyes again. "Someone creeping into his yard in the dead of night? More likely there's a very shell-shocked cat wandering around somewhere, covered in potato peelings. But if the Improper Use of Magic lot get their hands on Mad-Eye, he's had it — think of his record — we've got to get him off on a minor charge, something in your department — what are exploding dustbins worth?"

"Might be a caution," said Mr. Weasley, still writing very fast, his brow furrowed. "Mad-Eye didn't use his wand? He didn't actually attack anyone?"

"I'll bet he leapt out of bed and started jinxing everything he could reach through the window," said Mr. Diggory, "but they'll have a job proving it, there aren't any casualties."

"All right, I'm off," Mr. Weasley said, and he stuffed the parchment with his notes on it into his pocket and dashed out of the kitchen again…

…Arthur Weasley felt a familiar squeezing sensation and then his feet hit solid ground. He stood on a freshly mown lawn, in front of a lovely townhome, on the corner of a residential neighborhood. Looking around he saw scattered trashcans, crumpled flower beds and a crowd of muggles staring at the townhouse from the across street. A group of police officers were talking loudly with each other and a man in a long black cloak. And off to the side, standing alone and looking mad as hell, was a gnarled and mean looking wizard.

What the hell has that crazy Auror done this time? Arthur let out a long sigh and began walking up the police officers with the most encouraging smile he could muster…

…A weathered man stood stark naked in front of a full length mirror, glowing eerily from moonlight streaming into his bedroom through a large window pane. His hair was a twisted mane of grey knots and tangles that was marbled with blonde white streaks, remnants from his more youthful days. He leaned heavily upon a long oaken staff, for his right leg was missing and in its place stood a notched wooden peg, made of red oak and maple. His face was rough and mean – it appeared as if it had been carved out of weathered wood by a sculptor who had only the vaguest idea of what a human face should look like.

His coarse skin was scarred and burned, living breathing sandpaper. His mouth was a diagonal gash and a large chunk of his nose was missing. Faded cuts and gashes covered his chest and back, for wounds from dark magic never healed properly and his white skin was mixed with angry red blotches and rubbery scar tissue, faded stiches crawled along his arms and leg.

His right eye was small, dark and beady – a dark pinwheel. It had seen much, borne terrible witness to a great many tragedies and atrocities – friends murdered, enemies slain and innocents tortured. The other eye was large, round as a coin and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye moved ceaselessly, never blinked, and moved independently of the right eye – right now it was whirling all around its socket, allowing the wizard to see 360 degrees.

To the right of the man lay a large wooden desk, upon which stood large, glass spinning top. Next to the desk was a small table, which held an object that looked like an extra-squiggly, golden television aerial – it was humming and shimmering in the moonlight. A large mirror hung on the far wall, but it was not reflecting the bedroom, instead, shadowy figures moved around within the mirror, though none of them was clearly in focus.

Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody stared at his gruesome reflection – a retirement gift after thirty years of battling dark wizards. Moody suffered from the frustratingly ignominious fate that so many other brave warriors in human history had – relegation to a retirement of neglect where past heroic deeds were long forgotten by an ungrateful public.

When the Death Eaters were at the height of their powers, the Ministry and general populace had leaned heavily on brave men like Moody. They needed his courage on the front lines, his courage in the face of evil and his valor in defending the innocent. Moody had given his life and soul, literal pieces of his body, to combatting dark wizards and their twisted brand of magic – in payment for these services rendered, the Ministry and wider wizarding public had given him a meager pension and a few rickety medals.

Moody closed his eyes and ran a gnarled hand through his long grey hair, pulling at the angry knots that never seemed to smooth out. He reached for a brown trench coat draped across a small chair and dug into the pockets, eventually finding a small canister. He tipped a few different colored pills out of the canister into his palm and gulped them down in a single breath – almost immediately the dull pain in his joints began to ease and he felt a tiny bit of relief from the every present pain.

He limped over to a large, four post bed and tugged on a large sweater and some warm leggings – the cold nights always wreaked havoc on his beat up body. He groaned with the bed as he plopped down onto the old mattress and lay back. As was his nightly custom he whispered an ancient prayer to long forgotten Gods and gave the room one final wary glance before he tucked his weary bones into bed.

Moody had shut his eyes for only a moment when they flashed open again and flicked towards the spinning glass top. It whined and hissed and began to spin as if a strong wing was passing over it. The aerial's slight humming picked up in intensity until it began shaking so violently it whipped right off the table top. Moody snapped his head towards the strange mirror hanging on the opposite wall – the shadowy figures were becoming clearer, Moody could now see the whites of their eyes.

Moments later Moody tore out of his bedroom with the speed of a younger man. He wore black boots and the trench coat, with a small knapsack tightly secured on his back. He deftly sprinted down his second floor hallway and slid down an old wooden bannister, barely making a sound. He leapt off the bannister and landed in a tight roll, as he came up he fired a stunning spell at a shadow quietly moving through his open front door. The red streak flew past the shadow, through the front door and exploded into his front year, sending up an eruption of grass and dirt.

"He's awake!"

"You bumbling fool!"

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Don't kill him you idiot!"

Moody dove behind a large sofa and threw a handful of dust towards the center of his living room – the dust hit the floor with a spark and plunged the entire room into total darkness. Moody calmly sat up against the leather backed couch and tried to comprehend what the hell was going on.

He had always been on alert since the jackasses at the Ministry had pushed him out of their employ. It was true that, ever since his exit from government employment, he had a tendency to overreact to strangers in an aggressive manner, which had given rise to his jocular nickname – but his so called "paranoia" was the only reason he was in a boring retirement and not a deep dark hole in the ground. And tonight, in his very home, his worst fears had finally come to fruition.

There were two of them, one clearly the leader of this criminal expedition, and they had somehow gotten past all of his safeguards and protective enchantments with ease, had been able to breach his front door before he had even realized he was in the danger. And stranger still, they didn't want him dead. Why? Must be Hogwarts!

The only change in his life recently had been Dumbledore's urgent request – Moody was off to that great big castle, to be useful once again. This attack must have something to do with his new teaching post!

Moody reached into his knap sack, pulled out a fake tooth and jammed it into the back of his mouth – a trick he had picked up watching a muggle movie a few years back. The fake tooth was a soft capsule that would release a deadly poison if Moody bit down on it, instantly killing the former Auror before he could be captured or tortured – I'll be damned if I'm ever taken prisoner again!

The darkness had begun to dissipate, spurring Moody back into action. He reached into his coat, grabbed a circular disk and threw it up high. The disk hovered in the as if deciding on a course of action and then shot off towards a far wall, smacking into the wood. The disk projected out a hologram of Moody, complete with him waving a wand and shouting. Immediately two stunning spells shot off towards the hologram, the dual red beams flying through the projection and blasting a large holes into the wall.

Moody watched the beams, judged where one of their casters was standing, reached his arm over the sofa and fired off a spell, "Incarcerous!"

Thick black robes shot out of his wand and flew towards a small, chubby man in a dark corner of the living room. They wrapped themselves around the man's legs, pulling tight as pythons. He gave shriek of fright, swayed violently and then slammed into the floor.

"I can't move Barty!"

"Shut up Wormtail! Use your wand and free yourself!"

Moody ran the names through his dark magic mental rolodex, but came up empty. Wormtail? Barty? Who were these cretins? Moody rolled away from the sofa and came up roaring – "Petrificus Totalus! Incarcerous! Locomotor Mortis!"

"Protego!" – a gleaming shield appeared in front of Barty and Moody's spells bounced around the living room, destroying the furniture and what remained of the walls. Barty then grabbed the legs of a small table and swung the furniture towards Moody while yelling, "Expelliarmus!"

Moody ducked out of the harm's way, but the flying furniture distraction allowed the disarming jinx to hit him. His hand burned as his wand shot out from his grip and soared away, clattering uselessly to the ground. Barty's triumphant smile quickly melted into fear as Moody charged him in a tightly controlled rage. Moody tackled the startled wizard and slammed him into the ground, his grizzled body landing on top of Barty's skinny frame. A loud snapping told Moody that he had fractured one of the Death Eater's ribs.

Barty squirmed in pain, gasping for air like a fish out of water. Moody leaned in close and whispered, "Different when you've got to fight someone up close, isn't boy?"

Moody pushed his forearm into Barty's chest and wrestled away his wand, flinging it aside; he grabbed Barty by the throat and squeezed tight – Barty's mouth opened wide in terror. Moody shifted forward and drove his knee into Barty's chest, then reached into his own mouth and yanked out the fake tooth, which he dropped into Barty's gaping maw. He then put a large palm over Barty's mouth and reared back with his other hand. "Let's see if you can survive this, you filth!"

Moody filled his clenched fist with all the frustration and pent up anger he had been feeling – for my fallen comrades!

"Crucio!"

The torture curse hit Moody with the force of a runaway train – he flew off Barty and slammed into the bannister, shattering both the wood and his left arm. It felt as though all his old scars were ripped open anew, he thrashed around in agony like a worm on the hook – he would surely die from this mind splitting pain at any moment. After a few agonizing seconds of the torture, the torment subsided as quickly as it had come. Moody lay twisted and broken on his back, barely able to lift his head. He stared at the ceiling, scorch marks from rebounded curses lined the wood. He could hear footsteps, heavy breathing and excited voices filling his living room.

"Took you long enough! What the hell were you doing while I was having the life chocked out of me?"

"I was under duress too, there were heavy ropes suffocating –"

"Suffocating? They were around your legs you blithering idiot!"

"You were told to treat me with respect!"

"Shup up Wormtail and close the bloody door. Your bumbling stupidity has caused quite a ruckus and lost us precious time! Get this damned room cleaned up, the muggles must've heard the racket and raised an alarm by now, the Ministry will be here soon."

Moody's body still spasmed from the pain that had wracked his body just moments ago, his dizzying blue eye spinning uncontrollably in circles. Barty's bleeding face appeared over him, blood dripped from his cut lips and splashed onto Moody's face – he spat out the fake tooth and yanked out a long grey hair from the Auror's mane, giving the old warrior a twisted grin.

"The Dark Lord sends his regards."

Hundreds of miles away, Severus Snape dropped the blue-glass jar of toad hearts he had been carrying to the Hogwarts' store rooms. The glass hit the metal stone floor and shattered into a thousand tiny blue pieces – pickled juice and small hearts splashing all over his black sandals. Snape clutched left forearm in a tight spasm; he rolled up his sleeve and let out a quick gasp – his long dormant dark mark burned white hot, a forked tongue smiling up at him.