Harty Jr.

Harry Potter and Barty Crouch Jr ship.

Opinions
HPshipper: Can work if written well

T
Harry sunk to his knees slowly, making sure his sobs were quiet. The body before him was not dead, he knew that – he could see the rise and fall of the man's chest, steady as it ever was. He pressed his face against the still-beating heart, staring at the dark looming figure in the corner of the room.

"Give him back," he whispered, voice so quiet and broken that he heard himself only in his mind. The Dementor did nothing, its presence sucking away his happiness and his memories.

His sobs grew louder and louder until he was aware of his screams, of people slamming the door open and dragging him from the room. He thrashed, kicking and shouting and screaming, desperately fighting against them.

They pried his fingers from the man's hand, and the door shutting as they carried him out was like a death sentence to him. That was like the door to his heart, and it shut, containing the man he fell in love with … the man who had his soul stolen from him.

Dumbledore was shaking him violently, but Harry wasn't willing to placate the man, only thinking that he was tired of being shaken and that the old man needed to get rid of that unpleasant habit.

"What was your relationship with Barty Crouch Jr.?" he shouted, angry and anxious.

At the least, Harry thought, he waited until they made it to his office before confronting him. He didn't want to answer – what was the point? Barty was all but dead.

Barty, the man he loved, was gone because the minister was too much of a coward to enter a room with an incapacitated Death Eater without some kind of over-the-top protection. He didn't even have control over the Dementor! If Harry could, he would pour over books to find a way to retrieve a soul from a Dementor – but he wasn't stupid. He knew it wasn't possible.

Dumbledore was staring at him and when he asked again what his relationship with Barty was, Harry felt like the man already knew. "Harry, please … you must speak to me."

He turned his head away, and laughed and cried and broke.

"He saved me …"

There was fire and confusion burning away the once exciting day, though he supposed it was still exciting, just for a different reason. He heard Hermione scream his name and turned to follow her, but lost sight of her too soon. Frantic people pushed and pulled at him, and her shouts became fainter and further away, buried underneath the sound of fire and people screaming and crying.

Someone – though it may have been more than one person – shoved him hard, causing him to fall. He saw legs and feet leaving behind tracks in the worn dirt, and right before his eyes, a man. A man who was forced to the ground much the same as he, trampled and stepped on and stomped on. He felt nearly detached to the world as a hand feebly reached for him and desperate eyes met his own. Harry flinched and looked away. Was that going to be his fate if he couldn't get up?

The collar of his shirt was suddenly choking him, as if someone had jerked him up using it as leverage. He gasped, coming face to face with the man who pulled him from the crowds – an oddly familiar face that he couldn't seem to place. The man smiled, but not in a kindly way. There was a dark edge to it, a dangerous edge found in aristocratic purebloods. His savior tsked, saying, "It seems I have just found myself a lost bird – and a pretty one at that. Well? No thanks for saving your life?"

"… and I was drawn to him like birds to the air –,"

Harry couldn't help but stare stupidly as the man patiently waited for his thanks. Finding his voice, he looked away into the screaming masses and said hesitantly, "Yeah … thanks."

There was death and destruction all around him, and he had to wonder what purpose it served. What good was causing death and pain? There was nothing to accomplish from this besides breaking people, destroying lives.

Fingers turned his face away from the chaos, gentle fingers that were so cold and smooth. "Don't look," the man whispered, pressing their foreheads together.

But how could he not look when he could hear them so clearly? He stared out from the corner of his eyes, and then lips – smooth and slightly chapped – claimed his. All that registered in his mind was that there was a foreign tongue invading his mouth, trying to find a way down his throat. He panicked, pushing the man away, and it worked. The man drew back, gaze filled with satisfaction and triumph.

"I told you not to look," the man said, pulling on his hair and holding him so that all he could see was the man. For the first time, Harry took in the appearance of his savior. He looked messy and ragged, which could have been product of the chaos around them, but Harry felt uneasy about it.

The man, sensing his doubts, frowned, hissing, "I saved your life, don't forget that." And lips were claiming his again.

He yielded this time and did not fight back, giving in to the kiss, but not participating.

"– and Headmaster, even the birds that cannot fly long for the air."

"Remember," the man said again, voice layered in emotions, so deep and aged. How did he not hear it sooner? The pain and sadness … and he was blind to the lines on the man's face, just in the corner of his eyes, leading a trail inwards, mapping his history. Harry lifted his hand slowly as he came to his realization, tracing the man's lips as he said again, "I saved your life."

Something indescribable appeared then in the man's eyes, and Harry found himself stumbling backwards as the man let go. There was charred ground as far as he could see – black and ash and nothing.

His savior backed away, a bitterly grim smile on his face. "Blackbird, remember I saved your life. You are mine, now. Forever mine and I'll never let you go. You won't be free from me … I'll see you again, and if you're clever enough, you'll see me also.

"Morsmorde!"

Hermione and Ron found him, fussing over him. He stared at the sky – at the skull and the snake, feeling trepidation rise in him like bile. "That is the mark of the Dark Lord … the same mark he uses to brand his Death Eaters," came the voice inside his head, each word falling like a drum beat, like a death sentence.

"A life for a life … he saved mine, and I saved his. It was so easy to point them in the wrong direction … so easy that I didn't have to want to do it for my arm to automatically point the opposite way."

There was something about Professor Moody that seemed familiar, something that made him squirm in his seat, something familiar in the way he held himself and looked around the Great Hall imperiously. It was a ridiculous thought. Forgetting a face like that was impossible, and yet …

He looked away, denying himself his own thoughts.

Unluckily for him, he did have classes with the ex-Auror, after all – and being in his presence was like torture. The way the man waved his wand about with confidence, sure of his own actions and so willing and ready to cast the spells despite that they were Unforgiveable Curses, Dark Magic, scared him. It scared him because it was the same confidence he saw in his Savior. What scared him most, however, was the way the professor stared at him, looking at him with a dark look, mocking him with the slight upturning of lips.

He consulted the Marauder's Map that night, and set out once he was sure Gryffindor Tower was fast asleep.

The hallways were dark and empty save for him walking through them with practiced ease. He was so used to wandering late at night, so familiar with these halls that he glanced at the Map only once. That was a foolish mistake on his part.

"Potter!" a gruff voice called out, and Harry heard the thumping walk that was Mad-Eye Moody's, wondering why he hadn't heard it sooner.

"Professor Moody," he mumbled, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as the retired Auror cast a Lumos.

The man huffed, saying, "Don't call me professor – not yet. Haven't done anything but show you a bunch of fancy tricks." He waved his wand around, suspiciously looking about until he was satisfied. "Come with me, Potter," he said, and walked away. Harry stared after him for a few moments before he tentatively followed.

"Where exactly are we going?" he asked, narrowly managing to avoid tripping over his own feet.

Mad-Eye didn't pause as he called back, "My office Potter. Now be quiet – you never know who's listening in."

Harry stayed quiet after that, staring at the man's back, not sure whether he should trust him. The Map told him that this man was not Alastor Moody, but someone else. It didn't mean that the man was his Savior, but he wanted him to be so much.

"You see, I was already addicted to him, to his scent, his voice, his eyes. That's all that was needed to plant the seeds."

They went up stairs that spiraled and in through a wood door, effectively tucked away from the curious eyes of students. Inside the room were odd little things – or not so little, in the case of the large trunk that screamed. Big, round frames of glass sat, their purpose unknown to Harry. A mirror, large and unclean, reflected faces that scowled and grimaced and spat. But he was led away from all that through another door, hidden again by shadows.

Within the door was a bedroom, much less eccentric than the office outside, merely containing a bed with darkly colored sheets and many pillows, a bookshelf pushed against the wall and other little things you'd expect to be in a room.

In no uncertain voice, the man commanded him to stay, and roughly pushed him forwards before walking out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Harry was left alone in the dark room. Adrenaline rushed through him, right alongside with fear and anxiety. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, waiting for the man to return. If this man, this Barty Crouch Jr., was not his Savior and was working for the Dark Lord –

Well, that was a useless thought. His Savior cast the spell that brought Voldemort's Mark to life, after all. Groaning, he fell back, one arm going up to cover his eyes. How had it come to this? He was pining over a Death Eater.

The bed beneath him was surprisingly soft and oddly warm. There was silence and the sound of breathing in the air. He lay there, listening to the air – and then a loud thump sounded, like heavy footsteps and the movement of noisy objects. The door slammed open. He swallowed thickly, breaths coming shallower and heart beat increasing. Be still, he told his heart, a blush threatening to creep onto his face.

A figure loomed over him, his face hidden in shadows. How silly, he even thought that the silhouette was shaped like his Savior.

A heavy hand bore down on his chest. The man leaned forward, and Harry gasped. Another hand covered his mouth. Panic threatened to overcome him but he fought it back, thinking, "This is him."

The hand on his chest found its way to his throat, exerting a firm pressure, enough to inspire fear. He couldn't breathe, but he stayed still, unmoving and just thinking that this man could be his Savior. Whether he was suffocating from the smothering darkness or because of the hand around his throat, Harry did not know. His hands flew up, trying to pry the man's fingers from the around his throat when he felt as if the darkness would take over him. He was obliged and turned over, gasping and choking on air. "Your name is Barty Crouch Jr., isn't it?" he rasped between gulps of air.

The man – having neither denied nor confirmed his name – had retreated to the back of the room, leaning against the way with his arms crossed. A shadowed look crossed the man's eyes, his voice deep and scathing as he murmured, "People think you're so special. You, a mere boy. How could a child, a baby, have defeated the greatest wizard of all time?" His voice grew louder and angrier toward the end of the sentence.

Harry braced himself on his arms, staring at the man. "You saved my life," was all he could say, all he wanted to say.

The man laughed. "I did. My sweet little blackbird," he whispered, hand cradling the back of his head, softly pressing their lips together. He pressed kisses on his forehead, avoiding the scar, saying, "And you even figured out my name." A hand crept up his shirt, cold against his heated skin. Harry closed his eyes, expecting more, but the hand withdrew.

"Barty," Harry said reverently. His Savior, his Barty.

"You are mine now," Barty said, fingers tugging on strands of his hair, "my caged songbird."

"He listened, without patronizing me."

Harry was in a state of turmoil. Everything always had to happen to him. Of course it did. Conspiracy theories lingered at the back of his mind, too afraid to be brought up front because the only explanation would be Voldemort, and that would be accusing Barty of doing this to him. He was in the man's bedroom currently as the man waited in the office for the Polyjuice to wear off. Harry spoke of Ron and the tournament and all the wrongs done to him in such a short amount of time. Barty didn't reply, but Harry knew his voice carried through to the other room.

The door opened, and Barty wasted no time crossing the room, pushing Harry down on the bed, nuzzling his cheek, his neck. He was pulled into the man's chest, and they laid like that, Barty's fingers stroking his side, the two of them comfortably fitting together.

"You turned Malfoy into a ferret to me," Harry said at last, laughing. His lover grunted, looking away. He ran his fingers over the man's cheek, feeling the change in heat.

Barty took his wandering hand into his own hands, bringing it to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the palm. "Not entirely for you. I don't like the Malfoys much, and it was fun."

He smiled and began to speak of other things that weren't always of importance.

There was quiet murmuring of simple talking filling the room, and Harry felt as if he was being heard for the first time.

"And you never noticed, did you? The amount of time I spent with him. Then again, you probably did, but you just didn't care. I spent the nights within his room, and when I didn't, I longed for him until my heart ached, Headmaster.

"So many sleepless nights I spent all alone, thinking and pondering on the ways I could have fallen in love with a Death Eater. I wonder if you understand what it is to love this way and lose it so cruelly.

"What I feel for him is so consuming, the need, the want, the desire, the joy, the happiness. And there is sadness, so overwhelming that some nights I cry desperately and sob until morning comes.

"And there is love. When I first realized that I love a Death Eater it hit me so violently that I threw up and laughed hysterically until I slumped in resignation. But that was so long ago. Now all I feel is acceptance and love.

"The nights where the longing washed over me were so countless. Whenever I could I went to see him. You wonder what my relationship with him was, but if I told you the story, would you even comprehend it?"

It was an odd routine that he was used to – just minutely edited. Instead of his aimless wanderings throughout the castle at night, he had a destination. This was not his first time following this route, but the exhilaration coursed through him violently, anticipation griping at him. And there! He slipped inside the alcove – pushed far back and hidden, the ideal spot to hide the room of a paranoid man – and whispered quick words; then he was inside the room.

Hands immediately grabbed him, covering his mouth, tangling through his hair. A dark voice cooed at him, murmuring, "Sweet little blackbird, have you finally come to me at last?"

Harry shuddered, struggling slightly to free himself. Barty loosened his grip only a bit, pressing the smaller body against the wall, trapping him effectively. "My beautiful blackbird," he said, voice resonating, causing shivers to tap away at his spine. Smooth, lightly chapped lips brushed over his throat, his neck, his shoulders – Harry closed his eyes, loosing himself to the sensations. His hands started roamed without his knowing.

The man's hair was feathery soft under his fingers, he realized absently as a sigh of contentment escaped him. "Barty," came the breathy whisper.

Barty drew back, removing his hands, and stared at Harry, his gaze dark and satisfied as he watched the teen gasp and draw uneven breaths, trying to regain a sense of calmness. He hummed, leading the boy to the bed in the adjacent room, past all the strange things in the office – the glass with faces, the trunk that screamed and shook angrily at sporadic times.

The bed was a familiar sight. He felt Barty's fingers stroking his stomach firmly, nails just lightly scraping skin.

"If you used magic to see who I would miss most instead of just guessing, I would have found Barty under the lake, not Ron. I told him that … but I'm sure you don't want the details of what happened afterwards."

He was just one glowing, disoriented mess. He didn't return to the Tower that night, and slept beside Barty for the first time – and without nightmares, safe and sound in the comfort of his lover's arms.

He was broken, so broken. So many things ran through his mind: Cedric, dead – Voldemort, resurrected – Death Eaters …

He cut that thought off. He had seen death today. Death and blood and darkness. His mind tried to think of Barty, but he desperately thought of other things. Not Barty, never Barty. He couldn't blame Barty for this, only Voldemort – it was Voldemort's fault.

The form of Alastor Moody picked him up from the ground, one arm slung around his shoulders, guiding him away. He hated that it wasn't it his lover's voice soothing him, even if it was his words. His mind was spinning, spinning. It was as if the entire year had finally caught up to him. He couldn't breathe – couldn't even think about breathing. This was insane; falling in love with a Death Eater, ignoring that said Death Eater was planning his death. "Barty," he sobbed, but the man shushed him.

There was the sound of glass clattering, and he looked up, confused. "The Polyjuice is wearing off, but I don't see why you need to take it again. It's just us."

The man shook his head. "No, Dumbledore is coming, now that I've got his Golden Boy and all." Barty turned, giving him a smile, but it looked so wrong with Alastor Moody's face.

The door slammed open, and then everything was a blur. There was shouting – there was always shouting – and dark looks and so many things said that he could barely comprehend. Suddenly, he was pulled forward by the Headmaster, arm pulled out to show the ugly, bleeding cut.

He looked up, staring into Barty's eyes. He wanted – so desperately wanted – to ask Barty, while he was still under the influence of Veritaserum, if the man loved him. But he wouldn't, not while others were looking in, and because he could never betray his lover like that. No matter how this year ended, Harry would always remember that he loved Barty Crouch Jr. Nothing could change that, not even if the man decided to return to Voldemort's side, if he wasn't there already.

Silence, suddenly, and then more screaming and shouting. The Dementor swooped down, down, down. Right before his eyes, the soul of the man he loved was stolen. He broke and shattered, like glass. Harry reached out slowly, covering the man's hand with his own. It was cold, as it always was.

"Are you happy now, Headmaster? That was the story, edited so that it wouldn't disgust you too much," Harry spat, voice still shaky from his crying.

Dumbledore sat still, silent for the entire story. Finally, he said, "You loved him then? Barty Crouch Jr. – Death Eater and most loyal servant to Voldemort?" Each word fell like a hammer nailing down conviction.

He snorted, and laughed, drawing a hand down his face. "Have you not been listening? I love him. I still love him."

The Headmaster took a breath, as if preparing to say something, but no words came out.

Everything had fallen around him, all because he fell in love with a Death Eater.

The war was over – had been over for several years – and Harry Potter finally allowed himself the chance to think back upon his fourth year at Hogwarts. He couldn't fool himself any longer. There was no verbal proof that Barty ever loved him. Whatever feeble hope he clung to was lost, and all he could think of was that Barty planned for his death – the death of his master's greatest enemy.

He had a life ahead of him now, without Barty. The past must remain the past, and maybe one day he'll remember a memory that told him all he needed to know about what Barty felt for him, but not now. He needed to piece himself together again, find the broken shards that fell apart in that office so many years ago.

This is the way the world ends … not with a bang but with a whimper.

''Harry looked absolutely at peace in his sleep. Barty stared at him curiously, not understanding how the boy could have nightmares when he was sleeping so well. Carefully, he brushed the boy's messy hair to the side, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.''

''He smiled grimly, pulling Harry into his arms. Was this his punishment? To grow close to his assignment, his task? He felt grateful that he wouldn't be present in the graveyard. He didn't trust himself not to come to the boy's defense, not after tonight, at least. Sighing, he drew the covers back over them, covering his young lover's bare body. "I love you," he whispered to empty air, and then pretended he never said it.''