-o-o-o-

"Those who have seen your face
Draw back in fear"

– The Phantom of the Opera

-o-o-o-

"So my Death Eaters fled at the sight of my Mark." Tom's silky voice almost slipped into a hiss and Harry could swear he saw a flash of red in his eyes for a split second. In moments like this the charming boy seemed much more like Voldemort than Tom Riddle and Harry had to remind himself that they were, in fact, the same person. Harry has just finished telling him everything that happened that night and what he found out from the Weasleys. "Then again," Tom continued bitterly, with anger displayed on his handsome face, "what else could I have expected from those, who so eagerly denied me to avoid Azkaban when I lost power?"

Harry was silent. He didn't know what to say and also he was a bit scared. Tom frightened him when he was angry, even though his anger wasn't directed at him.

"Bad luck with that Stunner hitting Barty," he said quietly.

"Don't worry about Barty," Tom stood by the fireplace, looking at the flames thoughtfully. "I'll pay him a visit myself. I'm strong enough now."

He remained silent for a long while.

"So what's the plan?"Harry asked.

"Thanks to Bertha Jorkins, I know who will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year. I'll have Barty take his place."

Harry instantly remembered his own brief adventure of taking someone's place – and appearance.

"Polyjuice Potion?"

Voldemort spared him a glance of surprised approval.

"Very good, Harry. I also know the Triwizard Tournament will take place at Hogwarts this year."

"What's the Triwizard Tournament?"

This time Tom gave him an exasperated look. Harry could practically feel his irritation in the air.

"A Tournament between the three largest European schools of wizardry." He explained incredulously. "Three champions. Three tasks." He turned back to the fireplace and Harry could see the flames reflecting brightly in his dark eyes. "My original plan was to have Barty add your name to the Goblet of Fire. He would guide you through the Tournament and ensure you reached the Triwizard Cup. He would turn the cup into a Portkey, which would take the first person to touch it to me… But, since you've decided to come to me willingly," his lips curved in a sly smile at the last word, "there is no need to put you through this charade." Then he frowned, lost in thought. "Unless… perhaps we should still go with it as a backup plan… in case there's no way to smuggle you from Hogwarts and back unnoticed."

"Why does it have to be unnoticed?" he asked."I don't have to come back."

Tom turned to him with something between anger and disbelief written on his face.

"You just asked me what the Triwizard Tournament was." He stated, like it was a despicable crime. "It was established seven hundred years ago. How could you not have heard of it?"

Harry could have cringed. He hated the way Tom glared at him. His sharp gaze was demanding and judging and it made him feel very stupid.

"I was raised by Muggles." He said in his defense.

"So was I." Tom hissed. "That is no excuse for ignorance. Not for those, who want to achieve greatness." When Harry lowered his eyes in shame, Voldemort said more softly, "You're only fourteen, it wouldn't do well to cease your education."

"I thought you wanted to train me yourself." he reminded him timidly.

"And I will," Voldemort snapped, his annoyance showing again. "I won't be able to spare you much time for quite a while, though. Rising back to power will keep me rather preoccupied with other affairs. Besides, I need you at Hogwarts, near Dumbledore. He believes you to be willing to play his little savior figure. Let him. A spy like you at the school might prove invaluable one day."

"You mean despite my ignorance?" Harry grinned playfully.

Tom finally looked at him properly, the corners of his lips lifting in an amused smile.

"You were willing to lose your wand to help me," Tom said with a warm twinkle in his eyes, making Harry blush. "You're brave and loyal. And talented, of course. The lack of knowledge can be fixed."

It was strange, going from being scolded to being praised like that. Tom's mood had the tendency to change drastically and sometimes it was difficult to keep up. He cleared his throat.

"So you still want me to take part in this Triwizard Tournament?"

"Perhaps. We'll see. It's better to be overprepared. Even if we don't need it in the end, there's no harm in you competing… Well, it was suspended for centuries due to a high death toll…," Harry stared at him in shock, but Tom waved it away like that little fact was completely irrelevant." But this is Dumbledore we're talking about. He would never allow his students to be in any real danger. He'll probably turn the whole Tournament into child's play. Also, I'll have Barty watching over you."

Harry might have been offended by the suggestion that he needs to be watched over, if Voldemort didn't look so incredibly sexy, saying that last sentence. Tom stepped away from the fireplace and wrapped his arms around his hips seductively. He took single strands of Harry's hair in his fingers and gently moved them away from his eyes. Harry felt shivers all over his body.

"Don't worry. I won't let anyone harm a hair on your head. You're mine, Harry Potter" he hissed possessively.

Suddenly Harry was pushed back and slammed against a wall. He yearned for those soft lips, but when they finally smashed with his, the hunger he felt only grew stronger. Ignoring the burning scar, he put his hands on the back of Tom's neck, trying to pull him even closer, but Voldemort gripped his wrists and pinned them above his head with incredible force.

Tom kissed him hard, then moved to Harry's neck, nipping it just enough to make it wonderfully painful.

"You're mine," he repeated hotly against his skin.

"Yours," Harry moaned.

-x-x-x-

Barty Crouch looked up from his newspaper. He thought he'd heard something upstairs. It was getting harder to keep his son under control. The moments when he was overcoming the Imperius Curse happened more and more often. Ever since the Quidditch World Cup fiasco, he kept a much closer look on Barty Jr. And it was so much more time-consuming, now that Winky wasn't there to take care of him anymore. He stared at the ceiling, straining his ears, but there was complete silence, broken only by the ticking clock. Perhaps he's just imagined it. He was starting to get a little paranoid.

He glanced at the clock, as his stomach rumbled. He gritted his teeth. The food delivery was supposed to be there thirty minutes ago. He never had to wait for food when Winky was around. As if in response to his thoughts, the doorbell rang.

Finally. He opened the door to a young, red-haired boy with freckles, who handed him a brown, paper bag.

"That'll be four sickles."

The boy took the coins and looked at Crouch expectantly. Seriously?

"You're half an hour late," he reproached him grimly.

He shrugged, "Busy night."

Chrouch grunted with dissatisfaction, but gave the boy another silver coin.

He put the bag on the table and took out two boxes with the catering company's logo on them: "Martha's. Just like your house-elf used to make!" He opened one of the boxes and ate a couple of mouthfuls of his meatloaf and rice. It was cold (no surprise there) and definitely nothing like his house-elf used to make. He thought back to Winky's delicious cooking sentimentally. Then he remembered he ordered two salads as well. He checked the paper bag, but there was nothing more in it. He sighed. He took the other box and went upstairs.

Barty Jr. sat in his chair, staring at the wall with dull eyes, just like Crouch left him. He put the box on the desk and turned around, just in time to catch his soon looking directly at him, his eyes perfectly sharp. He instantly reached for his wand, but Barty Jr. lunged at him, almost knocking him off his feet. He grabbed at his father's wrist, trying to tear the wand out of his hand, but even though he's recovered his health, he still wasn't strong enough to win in a physical wrestle, and once Crouch regained his balance, he threw him off with such force, that Barty Jr. flew back into the chair.

"Incarcerous!"

Ropes appeared out of thin air at once, and bound Barty Jr. to the chair. He struggled against the cords and yelled maniacally.

"LET ME GO! THIS IS INSANE!"

Crouch thought insane was the very word that described his son's face right now. He looked more like a wild animal than a person.

"Would you prefer to go back to Azkaban?"

Oh, how he wished to send his abomination of a son back to Azkaban, where he belonged, and let him rot there. But no, he couldn't. It was his beloved wife's last wish. He had to honor it. For her.

"What's the difference?!" The madman cried. "It's not like I've had a moment of freedom for years with you!"

"Oh, you've had a moment of freedom just recently," Crouch said with disdain, "and in that moment you've managed to conjure the Dark Mark and cause an international scandal. So I'd say that's enough freedom for the next several years for you."

That caused another wave of furious screams and struggling against the ropes.

"I have to go," he glared at his father with pure hatred. "I have to find my master!"

"You're not going anywhere," Crouch said sternly, straightening his shirt from their wrestle.

"You can't keep me like this forever!" he spat angrily. "The Dark Lord will rise again! And when he returns – "

But Crouch has had enough of the crazy talk. He raised his wand again and said:

"Imperio!"

All the expression from his son's face melted away. His eyes became unseeing once more, and he just stared ahead dully, with a slightly open mouth. Crouch made the ropes disappear and flicked his wand to move the chair with Barty Jr. towards the desk. Eat, he ordered, and his son obeyed in a robot-like manner. He left him to it and went downstairs to his own unfinished meal.

When he was done, he picked up the box and the paper bag to throw them away and sighed at the sight of the overflowing dustbin. He really needed to get a new house-elf. He heard the stairs squeak and a while later his son's hand appeared in midair, with his empty box. He was ordered to wear his Invisibility Cloak at all times when he left his room. Crouch has just stuffed the trash in the bin, when the doorbell rang for the second time that night. Maybe the delivery boy came back with the missing salads. He was not tipping him again, though.

He opened the door and froze, not comprehending what he was looking at. It was not the delivery boy. It was the most bizarre sight he has ever seen. There was a man Crouch easily recognized as Peter Petigrew, who was supposed to have been brutally killed in a massacre, by the mass murderer Sirius Black, a dozen or so years ago. What was even more bizarre however, was what he held in his arms. It was a baby-sized hideous creature, with a face he recognized as well. But it couldn't be… It was not possible…

He stared at its red eyes and snake-like nostrils, paralyzed with fear. He took a few steps back, in too much of a shock to react in any other way. The creature raised its wand.

"Imperio!"