Summary:Barty reminisces before he recieves the Dementor's Kiss. Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition with use of the adverb 'well' at the beginning and end. BartyCJR cent (monologue-ish). Oneshot

Word count: 1,386

Well, I still remember the day I went insane.

It wasn't the blank obscurity of the Imperius curse, cast on me day and night religiously. It wasn't the horror of being hurled into Azkaban, either. It was the sickness that filled me, the nausea that squirmed like bile in my stomach, when my father, my own father, spoke those words without a flicker of remorse.

"You are no son of mine."

It didn't matter whether he had believed me or not. Dad was proud, too proud. Even if I was telling the truth and I was innocent, the taint spreading over my father's name, just for having a suspected Death Eater as son was crime enough. Every stain had to be washed clean; in this case, I was to be gone. He never really knew if the suspicions were true, and he never really cared.

See, my father was always too enthralled in his work to show me much attention. The small amount of love in his fraying, greying heart was dedicated to my mother, who was frail and ill for a long time, slowly heading towards death's door. I tried for his attention; at first I wasn't very clever, but I worked myself and studied half to death in my fifth year, for twelve OWLs. I succeeded in getting nine Exceeds Expectations and three Outstandings, but a small frown still played on my father's lined face when I proudly announced my results. I knew he'd been hoping I'd get an Outstanding in every OWL. Something for him to boast about.

I was angry with him, mindlessly angry. I felt like all my efforts had gone to waste. He was never interested - never gave a damn. The only time he ever spoke kindly of me was when he was discussing my future, that he had carefully planned and plotted from the day I was born. Crouch Senior and Junior, working alongside in the Ministry for Magic for peace and justice in the wizarding world.

Hell to him, I thought. I never wanted to join the Ministry. I never wanted to fight evil and capture dark wizards. I wanted praise. I wanted to be seen for my efforts and talents, I wanted to be rewarded.

So I did the inevitable; exactly what my father prayed I would never become. I turned to the Dark Lord.

I was young, eighteen. Maybe I was too young, too childishly minded to see what was ahead of me. He taunted me at first, questioned me. "Why should someone as young and innocent join my ranks, Bartemius? The foolish grow fearful in time to come, and the only way out is death. No one walks free."

His masked followers surrounding me sniggered simultaneously. He silenced them with a wave of his hand. Such power, such...authority. I bowed low.

"I will be forever faithful, my lord," I promised, staring up into his eyes bravely. I saw his smirk, and I felt the burn of his wand tip on my arm, brandishing his mark into my skin.

At first it was like a game. Play well to get well. I didn't do much, just followed simple orders. Stealing keys to houses and wiping clean the memories of a muggle was nothing compared to what the Dark Lord requested of me later. I was ordered to assist the Lestrange's in demanding information from two members of the Order of the Phoenix, by means of torture.

My chest tightened at the thought. I remembered the feeling; like a belt being yanked across my torso harshly. I'd never used an unforgivable curse on another person before. But the first time the word slipped from my tongue, and the spell hit Alice Longbottom square in the chest, I felt warmth flooding my stomach. I was fulfilling the Lord's desires, how he would reward me when we were finished. Reward far more than what my so-called father ever gave me.

Even though we never managed to retrieve sufficient information from the Longbottom's, we were still commemorated. We'd drive some of Dumbledore's finest completely crazy. They would never be able to fight for that old fool again, no. To hear my name read out with the Lestrange's, to her my Lord honour me...

The glory didn't last long. We were caught. Betrayed, by Igor Karkaroff. I never liked him. He was always watching, pretending he couldn't speak much English at the best of times, so he wouldn't have to take up the most difficult and dirty jobs. Why he wouldn't, I never knew. Isn't that what he signed up for? To be forever faithful to the Dark Lord?

Karkaroff got thrown into Azkaban as soon as someone noticed the dark mark on his arm. Of course, cowardly Karkaroff couldn't stand it. He couldn't even withstand the Dementors for Voldemort. No less than two days into his imprisonment he claimed to have names. I was there at his trail, pretending like I had part in the Ministry business...

At first he was useless. Pointless. He reeled off names of people already convicted, or already proven innocent, in Severus Snape's case. Officials around the room were beginning to complain that it was a waste of time. Then, before my father was about to condemn him back to Azkaban, he yelled out.

"Barty Crouch!"

Everyone in the room gasped. They all thought he was talking about my father, of course. I knew better. The cowards' face split into a grin.

"...Junior!"

I ran as soon as the word left his mouth, but they were too fast for me. Ministry officials grabbed me and thrust me in front of my father. He only looked mildly surprised. I couldn't go to Azkaban, I had to serve my lord! I tried to plead innocence.

"I'm your son!" I screamed.

"You are no son of mine," he replied smoothly, unblinking, his expression blank.

And my head exploded.

I felt like all my sanity was just wet-washed out of me with a hosepipe. At first I couldn't seem to remember anything other than the three curses hammered into me, the Dark Lord telling me to use them, my father telling me to block them. All of my work gone into those twelve OWLs really had proved meaningless. All I could see was death, all I could see was hate, all I could see was Azkaban.

It didn't take a great deal to get me out. I would have waited there an eternity, always faithful, always prepared for Lord Voldemort. But my dying mother had her wish; she wanted me free. It was easy. Dementors are blind, really. They sensed a dying soul entering, and a dying soul leaving.

Years I spent under my father's curse. He barely said anything to me. He hated me as I hated him. We were even, equal, square. Then years and years later, Winky had her eyes closed just a little too long at the Quidditch World Cup. I spotted Death Eaters. They weren't out looking for Lord Voldemort. They were just having muggle-fun. Scaring wizards and witches. I had to teach them a lesson. I knew they'd all be afraid when they saw the dark mark in the sky.

Maybe it was a miracle, maybe it was just coincidence, but Lord Voldemort came for me soon after. His body practically dead, but he was an amazing soul to be still alive. Too amazing to die. Too brilliant.

But I lost. Potter won. Potter would always win, here under Dumbledore's watchful gaze. He was too lucky. But nevertheless, I won't die unachieved. As I sit here, waiting for the Dementor to swoop in on me and suck away my soul, I know that without me, Lord Voldemort wouldn't have his body back. Without me, Potter would never have ended up in the graveyard, unwillingly prepared to give his blood. Maybe Potter isn't dead, but Potter will be soon.

My tongue flickers nervously. A habit I never managed to stop after losing my head. And now it's here. I can sense the cold and despair already. I don't fear soullessness; I welcome it. I grin as the Dementor approaches, laugh as it's horrible, mouldy face advances on me. It doesn't matter if I'm dead or alive anymore. Lord Voldemort lives. All is well.