A/N: I have chosen not to explain the entire history of the Triwizard Tournament because everyone should know it already. Also, I'm going by book canon, since Barty Crouch Jnr's relationship with his father isn't discussed much in the movie. This is set during the third task in the Triwizard Tournament.

Bolded italics are Barty's flashbacks.

The name Barty will only be used for Bartemius Crouch jr.

Story Title: Freedom

School and Theme: Hogwarts, Number 4 Privet Drive

Special Rule: Harry dies in the Battle of the Graveyard. (Write an A.U. you have never written before.)

Main Prompt: (quote) "Don't let yesterday take up too much of today." - W Rogers

Additional Prompts: (colour) emerald green and (emotion) jealousy

Year: 6

Wordcount: (2795)

The crowd in the stands were as noisy as ever, their clamour reminiscent of a thousand squawking birds. Candles and torches lit up the former quidditch pitch, illuminating countless faces. A maze made of hedges loomed night sky was studded with stars. Emerald green grass waved slightly in the breeze, and the summer air was warm. Bartemius Crouch jr., currently masquerading as ex-auror Alastor Moody, stood in a corner, watching.

He was watching, and he was waiting.

The plan had been simple. When the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament was finally underway, Barty would eliminate all the contestants – except Potter.

The plan had been simple. Yet Barty had failed.

When Potter had touched the Triwizard Cup, port-keying him to a graveyard far away, he hadn't been alone. Diggory had gone with him.

The time ticked past. The crowds still cheered. They had no idea, none at all, what was about to happen.

Bartemius fidgeted nervously, never letting his eyes waver from the spot where Potter and Diggory would undoubtedly return, their eyes glazed over and their hearts still.

Breeze rushed over him, sweeping back the greying hair that wasn't his, tugging on the cloak that he hadn't bought. All this planning. All this careful manipulation. It might all be for nothing if Potter won this battle. Oh, how Barty wished he was there, in that graveyard. How he wished he could see his master returned to full glory, see that power so reverently spoken of! Yet Bartemius Crouch was here, standing on a Quidditch Pitch in an old man's body. This was his mission, this was his purpose.

It had been a while now since Potter had touched the cup. If there was one thing Barty knew, it was that Potter was quick on his feet. Cedric Diggory, the Hufflepuff "Hero", was at the graveyard too, and there was a reason the Goblet had spat out his name. It wasn't for his good looks, that was for sure. Barty fidgeted again, darting Moody's magical eye around the place. He was worried beneath his calm exterior. He told himself to be patient, that his master was far stronger than a mere teenager, that there was no need for concern, no need for such anxiety—

Barty took a deep breath, focusing instead on the green, green grass.

He had always liked the colour green.

Perhaps it was his imagination, perhaps not, yet Barty sensed that the crowds behind him had dulled; their voices slightly quieter. Maybe they had unconsciously sensed something.

For a split second—so barely there, so easy to miss—the entire stadium seemed to hold its breath, though no one quite knew why. With a flash of blinding blue light and a sharp "pop", two figures blinked into existence, lying face down on the grass. The crowd roared to life again in an explosion of noise and colour. Voices crashed over one another in a bid to be heard. Screams ripped through the night air, tumbling and rolling like a particularly violent wave.

"Who's that?"

"There's two of them!"

"What's happening?"

"Harry?"

"It's Potter!"

"What's happening?"

"Harry!"

"Diggory!"

Barty watched the figures intensely, his heart suddenly in his throat. Were they—they had to be—surely—

Yes.

Potter and Diggory were dead. He clunked hurriedly over, pushing his way through the hundreds of students as they poured out of the stands. Relief seemed to sweep over him so suddenly that he felt almost giddy.

Barty Crouch jr. had finally, wonderfully, miraculously gotten rid of his masters enemy. He struggled to contain a grin, imagining what the Dark Lord would say to him when he returned. How Barty would be praised! He would be a hero, welcomed with open arms—

His thoughts were interrupted as a man shoved past him, sweeping away the crowds. His eyes were red, his face frozen in a mask of utmost fear.

"Son?" The man called out, reaching the two corpses. "Cedric?"

Time slowed as Barty watched Diggory's father. Something stirred inside of Barty—a feeling he hadn't felt in many years. Diggory's father knelt down next to the corpse, rolling him over. Glassy eyes stared up at nothing, the life drained from them forever. An unearthly wail ripped through air,

"My son!"

Suddenly, everyone was screaming and crying and shouting. It was havoc. It was pandemonium. Two smaller forms rushed out of the crowd—Granger and Weasley, Barty remembered—hovering near the very much dead form of Harry Potter. He looked so insignificant and so tiny in death…

Barty stepped back amongst the crowds, slowly slipping away.

Harry Potter, the boy who lived, was dead.

Harry Potter, the enemy of the Dark Lord, would never fight again.

Everything had gone to plan, so what was this feeling that rose inside him? It felt poisonous and strange. Barty hadn't felt it in years. Why now, of all times, did he feel jealous? Images rose unbidden to his mind.

He was a boy again, looking up at the father who never loved him, who never cared. He was sitting in a courtroom, slightly older now, screaming his innocence. He was a young man, failing to fight off the effects of the Imperius curse.

Bartemius Crouch jr. looked at the corpse of Cedric Diggory and the grieving man who knelt beside it.

Bartemius had never had a father like that.

Barty's father had been cruel, cold and uncaring.

Jealousy erupted from every fibre of his being.

They were sitting at the dining table, the large pink ham claiming centrepiece. It was Christmas. Barty was 11.

Mother was there, father was there, and even the house elf hovered uncertainly in the corner. Yet no one spoke.

Snow fell outside, covering the landscape completely, erasing even the colour of the grass. It was a pity. Barty liked the colour green.

It was because of this that his father wasn't talking to him right now.

Forks clinked against plates, the tension rose and no one uttered so much as a cough.

According to Bartemius Crouch Snr., Barty should have been in Ravenclaw. In the house for smart people.

Like his father.

His cold, uncaring father, who hardly ever noticed he had a son.

Barty was smart, there was no denying that. But he'd never liked the colour blue, and he wanted to be so much more than just smart. He didn't want to be like his father. He never had. The Sorting hat had placed him in Slytherin, and that was that. Barty had made real friends there, people who shared the same views as he did, people who had his back. They taught him new spells, new curses, who was good and who was bad.

Barty wasn't just going to be like his father. He was going to be more.

Looking across the table at the cold-hearted man, he smiled.

By the time Barty had left Hogwarts several years later, he was already deep into the Dark Arts. No one had suspected such a thing, of course. No one who knew him well, anyway. So it was little surprise that Barty's own father was completely horrified when he was told that his son—his own son—was one of the torturers of Frank and Alice Longbottom.

The trial was short, but every word stuck in Barty's head. As did every emotion. The fear when he saw the dementors. The hatred and humiliation when he saw his father. The anguish when he was told of his fate. The jealousy when he looked back at the courtroom when he was being taken away, and realised that everyone who sat there was free. So free, and so unlike him.

He barely remembered Azkaban, wisps of memories floating out of his reach. He didn't even remember when he was taken away, or the last time he saw his mother's face. After a week, though, he was back to his usual self. Barty didn't really care much about his mother's death. He hardly knew her, and she had been on the wrong side during the war, anyway.

One day, however, he thought of his master. His master, beaten once but sure to rise again. Barty and the Lestranges had talked of venturing out, trying to find him. They'd tortured the Longbottom's for information but none had been forthcoming. Yet Barty knew the Dark Lord was out there, biding his time, waiting for those loyal to find him.

Barty snuck out of the mansion he was imprisoned in. He had no wand, but that didn't really matter. As Barty crept onto the lawn, the sky just starting to lighten, he heard the front door squeak open. His heart hammered against his ribcage.

"Master Barty?" A shrill little voice called out. It was the house-elf, Winky. "Master Barty?"

He couldn't be caught. Whatever happened, he needed to reach his master. He leaned backwards, towards the shadows of a tree. Twigs cracked under his shoes.

No. No, no, no.

"Master Barty!" Winky appeared, a frown creasing her already ugly face. "You is being very naughty! You is getting us into trouble!"

"I need to find him," Barty said hoarsely. He felt a stab of self-hatred. He couldn't even escape his own house to find the Dark Lord. "I need to find my master."

Wink went very pale.

"Master must come inside now." Clicking her fingers at him, she half-ran back to the house. Bound by elf-magic, Barty found himself unwillingly following her.

The next day, Barty stood in one of the many sitting rooms, pale light streaming through a dusty window. His father sat in a chair. Mr Crouch's eyes were made of steel.

"I know what you did," Mr Crouch said.

Barty did not reply. The green curtains fluttered at the window, reminding him of his allegiance.

"You unlocked the door and went outside. You're not allowed outside."

Barty could hear the clock ticking in the hallway.

"You're lucky Winky brought you back here."

Mr Crouch steepled his fingers, looking into his son's eyes with a fierce glare. They showed no remorse. "Now, why would you go outside, knowing that I have forbidden you?"

Barty grinned. His father had always been one for getting to the point.

"I wanted to find my master."

A flicker of fear passed over Mr Crouch's face.

"You really did…" he breathed.

"My master is everything. He is glorious. He will force people to kneel at his feet."

"Show me your arm, Bartemius."

"He will reign over all of us!"

"How dare you—show me your arm!"

"I will be his most treasured follower! I alone shall be rewarded beyond the dreams of mortals!"

Mr Crouch got to his feet, striding over to Barty. Barty grinned as he bared his left arm. A red mark stood out, the image of a skull and a snake proclaiming his loyalty. Mr Crouch looked at his son, furious. He pulled out his wand, murmured something softly, and in a split second a dream-like haze washed over Barty.

Sometimes, when Barty regained control of his mind—which was rare and for little more than a few seconds—he felt the anger gnawing at him. It swiftly turned into hatred. A fiery, red hatred. Hatred at his father, mainly. Yet with the red-hot anger came the memory of a spell, and flashes of emerald green light. Of all the shades of green, that was his favourite. It was so much more than just a colour.

When the mist that covered his mind started fading, it was like waking from a dream. Memories nudged at the edge of his mind. Memories of his master, of the Dark Lord in all his splendour, ridding the world of the undeserving. The Dark Lord, with his emerald green spell, toppling the powerful from their thrones.

Years passed. Every so often, Barty would fight off the effects of the curse, and try to rejoin his master. He always failed. His hatred grew stronger and stronger, consuming him—even reaching past the mists that encircled his mind. Hatred that was mainly directed at his father. His father, who had never cared and never noticed. But with hatred came power.

Barty remembered the day he'd gone to the Quidditch World Cup. The day he'd snatched a wand from someone's pocket, casting the Dark Mark into the sky. Scaring away all those that claimed they were followers of the Dark Lord, when really they were all cowards. The anger he'd felt that day… He'd wanted to crush them into dust, crack their spiny little necks, tear out their hearts—

It had been thrilling.

Even when he'd gotten caught.

His father had dragged him back to the house, throwing spell after spell at him, cursing at him. Barty had laughed. Barty knew he had power and his father didn't. He'd been put under the Imperius curse again, but it didn't matter.

Barty remembered, too, what had happened 10 days later.

There was a knock on the door, reverberating throughout the entire house. Both members of the Crouch family woke sluggishly from sleep. Mr Crouch opened the door, staring out into the rain-spattered darkness. A figure stepped out of the shadows; there was a whisper of a spell and Mr Crouch's eyes glazed over.

Barty woke, this time not from sleep, but from the final effects of the Imperius Curse. Fire fizzed through his veins. He felt so very, very alive. With heart-stopping exhilaration, he realised who had freed him. Who had oppressed his father.

The Dark Lord.

Barty laughed.

He was back.

He wanted to kill him, to release all this pent-up hatred at his father. Barty Crouch jr. held his wand up at the weak, pathetic figure. He was ready to curse his father into oblivion, to feel the satisfaction that came with knowing he held the power over life and death. See the wonderful emerald green light, see the terror in his victim's eyes, see the fear, the pain—

But as he opened his mouth, he stopped, and stilled his wand. His mind ticked over in its usual manner. That would be neat and tidy, but not half as satisfying. It wouldn't be much of a punishment; it wouldn't be anything near what his father had done to him. Barty had no need for the Imperius Curse right now, but perhaps something more interesting…

After all, he had used this before, all those years ago—

With the usual thrill that came with such spells, Barty muttered one word.

"Crucio."

He smiled.

Barty closed his eyes against the rush of images clouding his vision, but they were memories, so it didn't help. The stands seemed so much quieter, even though they were bursting with noise. His father, his cruel, uncaring father was dead. Gone. Departed. Murdered. Killed.

Bartemius Crouch Snr. was no more.

In a flash of emerald light, Bartemius Crouch Snr had been wiped from the earth.

There was no cause to be jealous, because lack of a caring father had turned into anger, and that anger had freed Barty. Barty's mother had been caring, but she had held Barty down. Even when she had told him that she didn't care that if he was in Slytherin, Barty had been able to see that she was scared.

Scared of who her son might become.

Scared of the truth.

Barty opened his eyes. Through the press of students, he could see Potter was still there, his corpse bloodied and pale. Mr Diggory was shielding his son's body, evidently distraught. Barty could smell the stench of death emanating from the two boys.

The jealousy dissipated.

Triumph took its place.

Barty had once and for all, gotten rid of Harry Potter.

His mother was dead. His father was dead. His enemy was dead. The Dark Lord had risen.

Quickly, Barty slipped past the stands, up the lawn, and made his way to the castle. He melted into the shadows.

Bartemius Crouch jr was free. Finally, completely free. It was the start of a new reign, of hope and power, freedom and glory. It didn't matter that Barty's father was—had been—the head of a ministry department. It didn't matter that Barty had been unloved and neglected all these years. Barty wasn't weighed down by his past anymore. He wasn't the man he'd once been. He wasn't the boy he'd once been. He wasn't a victim of the Imperius curse, or a prisoner in his own house in his own house.

He could be great. He could be powerful.

With a grin reaching ear to ear, his eyes lighting up in insanity, he cast the Dark Mark into the sky. Emerald green light lit up the inky darkness.

He.

Was.

FREE.

A/N:

Explanation of prompts:

-"Don't let yesterday take up too much of today." - W Rogers

While this is not actually said word for word, throughout the fic, Barty slowly realises that he has control over his father, not the other way round. This means he can no longer be held down by his family. Their expectations and their ideas don't have to apply to him. Barty can therefore forget about his family, and move on.

-emerald green

There's a lot of emerald green things in this fic, from grass to curtains. Emerald green reminds Barty that he owes allegiance to Voldemort, no matter what his father says.

-jealousy

Barty was jealous of Cedric Diggory, because Barty's father was never kind or caring.