Summary: A moment with Barty Crouch Junior, involving a radio playing some popular rock and roll, interrupted by his father. Before he dabbled in the Dark Arts and got his Mark. Set around 1977, making Barty around 15, having just taken his O.W.L's.

This originally started off as a one-shot that was inspired by the movie Pirate Radio, and the viewpoints people had on rock and roll when it first started becoming popular. I figured the views on rock and roll would apply to the Wizarding World as well, maybe even more so for the old-fashioned families. And then I kept adding chapters to explore the early period of Barty Crouch Jr's life before Azkaban.

I finished this in 2011 and am currently going back through and doing heavy edits and additions, since my writing style has changed. It's likely I'll be expanding and adding new content, as I've had an idea for years regarding this story and I just never had the time to come back and work with it.

Anything that you recognize, I do not own. This goes for HP as well as the bands mentioned within. I own the OC, Audrey Edinhardt.

Summers were once his favorite time of year, the only time he was free of obligations and able to pursue what he wanted. More often than not, Barty devoured the books within the family library and spent time with the other children who lived nearby, or snuck into the kitchen to help Winky prepare a meal for his mother. His father came home at a decent hour and would at least attempt affection with his wife and young son in a house where politics were left at the door.

And now, several years later, they were walking through the house and into the backyard, decorated with floating balls of soft, glowing light and tables covered in the good family linens. He could hear the guests greeting one another as he leaned on the wall beside the window, a finger holding back the heavy curtain just enough to take a peek and see who he was being forced to put a show on for.

He hated the summers between Hogwarts years. The large house felt empty now, not as big as he thought it was as a child, half of the rooms covered in sheets but never allowed to collect dust. It had stopped being his home some years ago, after his father began taking dinner in his study and barely kissing his wisp of a wife on the cheek. He had his mother, and their elf Winky, and a hole filled with excuses and pardons and anger.

But Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, always managed to be home for the party his wife painstakingly spent months arranging and planning. And he had reminded his son of keeping the peace and not mentioning current events.

A moment of reprise for those facing the dark topics every time they enter the office, he said.

Rumors flew off of the lips of everyone at school, as they had for the past few years. Disappearances, deaths, picking sides. Most of the major players for Voldemort had graduated some years ago. Present students spoke highly of Voldemort, of his ideals, of his actions, and were already recruited with plans to take the Mark after graduation. Regulus was stuck within his family's pureblood supremacy and pride and already bore his Mark as one of the younger members.

Regulus was his ticket away from all of this nonsense.

Barty turned away from the window, letting the heavy curtain fall with a soft thump. He picked up the tie on his bed, a paisley patterned thing with swirling blues and purples his mother had bought on one of her good days, and crossed his room to the mirror to put it on.

A soft knock met his ears as he finished slipping the wide end of the tie through the knot. "Barty, are you dressed?"

Her voice was soft today, he noticed. Feminine and loving as she tried not to strain herself fussing over meeting demands.

He tightened the knot and straightened it, flipping his collar back down. "I'm coming," he replied, his tone neutral. He grabbed his jacket, which was hanging on his closet doorknob, and slipped it on as he stepped out of his bedroom to meet his mother.

"Presentable as a baby Hippogriff mother," he said, buttoning his suit jacket as her fingers pushed a stray hair out of his face.

Her blonde hair was pulled back into a chignon, hiding how thin it had become, her dress soft and made from a dark plum color, with beading on the bodice and the sleeves loose. Traces of the bags under her eyes were nowhere to be found. Guests would praise her for keeping up with fashion trends and she would be seen as an ideal, healthy, Minister's Wife.

"Don't talk like that. Your father…"

"Must make a good impression if he wishes to become Minister for Magic, as everyone keeps reminding me." Bitterness seeped into his voice. "And yet, he can't be bothered to care about his own family? About you?"

She took his arm as they headed downstairs, as she always did these days. He sighed, shoving his anger down into his stomach to be dealt with later.

"Winky can only do so much, Mother, especially when I'm away. Surely there's a break in-between paperwork and meetings." He amended, for her sake more than his.

"He cares, Barty, in his own way. Best behavior tonight, please?" They stopped on the landing and she looked up at him, a glimmer of the warning look she used to give him as a child behind her eyes. She no longer had the energy to fully muster it anymore, he realized, or perhaps she knew he might not listen anyway.

"Of course, mother," he kissed her forehead and they continued down and through the house to the patio and backyard.

She had outdone herself this year. The tree held some of the glowing lights as well, smaller and softer, like the fireflies darting about. Swags of fabric were hung on the perimeter of the space and moved to the gentle breeze passing through.

Barty wandered through the space after leaving his mother near the door to greet guests, finding a few familiar faces of graduated students interning with the Ministry. He shook hands, a smile easily finding its way to his lips every time. His father's co-workers had all received the spiel of his twelve O.W.L's and praised him for his accomplishments and dedication, gushing how his father was probably so proud.

He bit his tongue, every bit of him wanting to retort that his old man had a funny way of showing it.

He was seated between his parents at dinner, the table shared with his father's closest co-workers and advisors. Barty tuned out the Ministry ramblings of money and laws and so-and-so's vacation to the continent. He had long since stopped picking up his head every time someone called his father's name, their shared name with a different suffix, as no one ever addressed him anyway. Which was quite fine with him.

The tables were cleared some time later and the small orchestra picked up their instruments, playing a selection his mother had spent days putting together. Guests paired off to dance while others grouped together to finish conversations. Barty was able to slip away back into the house to get a moment to himself, heading down a half-flight of stairs into the kitchen.

He often ended up here when he couldn't sleep while he was on school breaks. His father's study was the house library, which had stopped being accessible years ago, when his summers became unbearable. The books were probably untouched, their spines dusted but never opened, the leather likely to creak if they were. It hummed with tension when it was unoccupied during the day and was no longer a space Barty felt comfortable in.

The kitchen was always warm and welcoming, no matter the hour.

Winky was probably outside, attending to guests, but he was far from alone.

A girl around his age, if her style of dress was any indicator, was sitting at the small table against the far side of the wall and fiddling with the radio that always sat there. She was muttering to herself about the wavelength as white noise crackled through the speakers.

Barty stood there, pondering how she thought it was completely okay to touch someone else's property without permission. Especially something he had fought with his father to put in the house in the first place.

She found her station, some kind of loud Muggle music he heard when he was in London. The radio only played Wizarding stations when hit with a spell, since his mother loved Muggle classical music and wanted to be able to switch between both realms' music.

He had heard this tune before, he realized, in the library and in common spaces with the other Houses. Glimpses of the colorful covers of the black discs had revealed names like "The Beatles", "Pink Floyd", and "The Who". Barty would never admit it, but he liked it well enough, for Muggle noise.

"You listen to Muggle music?" He asked, catching her off-guard as he walked closer to the table. She jumped in her seat and stood, staring at him as she recognized him as a member of the household.

"Sometimes," she replied. "It's something they seem to have gotten right." Smart girl, tip-toeing on the subject without committing to a side, but he found himself agreeing with her.

He finally got a look at her now that she was facing him. Pale, a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, green eyes with a note of curiosity in them. Her dark brown hair was braided on either side of her head before it was fashioned into a loose, low, tangle at the nape of her neck. She was another familiar face from inside the castle walls. Her sundress was a subdued blue with a full skirt that fell to her knees, with blue sandals of a similar hue.

"You're in my year, right?" He slipped into the seat across from the one she previously occupied, undoing his jacket buttons to make sitting more bearable. She followed his action, smoothing her skirt before sitting down. "Ravenclaw?"

"Indeed. We had Charms and Potions together last year," she replied, nodding once. "My father works in the Department of Mysteries, a close friend of your father's." He caught the expression that crossed her face, one children of Ministry workers knew well and exchanged frequently when eye-rolling was not an option; a tight, thin smile that did not reach the eyes and a quick raise of the eyebrows. It was often a moment of mutual acknowledgement of not wanting to be at a boring event with government officials. "I'm Audrey."

A flicker of recognition crossed his face; she had been partnered with a Slytherin and stuck doing most of the work while her partner sat back and received the same grade. The boy had bragged in the Common Room about getting put with a smart partner and that he doubted she would even want his input anyway.

"Barty." He offered a hand out to her and she shook it firmly. "Junior, obviously," he added, the words laced with light sarcasm.

"I don't know, I see some grey hairs claiming otherwise." Her eyes went to his hair, searching through the locks for stray hairs, and her face fell as she caught his heavy gaze and unfazed expression. "Sorry. It was a bad joke."

"It's alright." He said, eyes falling on the radio again, hesitantly asking, "The Beatles, right?"

She nodded.

"They're not that bad," he admitted.

Audrey rose from her chair and stepped away from the table to face him. He realized she was perhaps five-foot-four, small compared to his six-foot-one frame, and was holding out her hands to him, swaying in place to the music.

Sod it, he thought, getting up and taking her hands, following her movements.

He spun her out, brought her back. Crossed their arms, untangling them by spinning and bringing them over their heads, backs to each other, before spinning back again. She laughed as he attempted to dance by himself, looking like a daft fool, but he found himself thinking she had a pretty laugh rather than being insulted. She looked just as silly when she danced on her own but she hardly seemed to mind. Several songs passed, a mash-up of different artists melding together as they smiled at each other and continued to dance.

The music stopped suddenly, replaced by a shriek of static before the radio switched off, taking them both by surprise. Audrey turned to the table with the idea to take a look at the device before Barty put a hand on her forearm, alerting her to the presence of his father in the doorway, his wand arm stiffly lowering. Her face dropped in embarrassment while Barty's stayed neutral and blank, hardly surprised. He knew what waited for him when everyone would leave, the same routine he'd had since he stopped complying to his father's whims.

Crouch Senior did little to hide his anger, his eyes wide and unblinking as he accessed the situation, mustache twitching under his nose.

"How dare you play that rock-and-roll filth in this house, Junior," his father growled, keeping his volume low.

"Sorry, Father." Barty replied automatically, hardly managing a fake tone of guilt.

"Sorry, Mr. Courch." Audrey apologized, her eyes dropping to her feet as the tension in the air rose to an uncomfortable level.

"Wandering through a guest's house unaccompanied is a mark of rudeness, young lady. As you are with my son, the point is moot. I will not tolerate such behavior again."

She pulled her head up to look at him straight in the eyes, her expression serious. "Yes, sir."

Crouch Senior stood aside from the doorway and stiffly gestured with his wand-free hand to the hallway leading outside and both of them darted out of the kitchen and into the night with the other guests as fast as they could.

She took his hand for a brief moment, squeezing and then letting go as she flashed him a mischievous smile, which he returned. He had not had such a moment of freedom in his house in a long time.

"I'm sorry I got you in trouble." She murmured.

"Don't be, I'm sure I would have managed to screw something up tonight and earn his ire anyway." She looked at him with wide eyes and he sighed, realizing he said too much. "Please don't…"

"I don't pity you, Barty. He's a cruel man in the Ministry, I hear, and I'm just…disappointed that it's bled into his family too." She took his hand again, her skin warm, and she looked up at him with a smile. "Regardless, I had fun."

"Me too."

A beat passed before she dropped his hand, realizing she needed to find her parents among the lingering guests. They said their goodbyes and he turned to go and find his own mother, who was likely exhausted. He would likely see Audrey in school in the fall in class, but chances of them even talking were low, not just because of different friends but because of the tension between the students and Voldemort's rise. He was a Slytherin, he was automatically categorized as part of the movement by association.

As he sat in his room later that night, nursing a swollen cheek with an ice-pack, he found himself recalling her smile, her bright eyes, and her laughter.