Disclaimer: All recognizable people and situations are the intellectual property of JKR, but I am playing with them as I see fit.

Notes at the bottom.

PAIRING: Bartemius Crouch, Junior x Harry Potter

WARNINGS: Dark!Harry, violence, sadism, mental imbalance, unlikely situations, character death, Daddy!Voldemort, underage sex (Harry will be somewhere between 15 and 17, it will never be clear), light character bashing, Doctorish!Barty (movie portrayal, 10th Doctor influenced), language, and smut.

Bit of infodumping here in this chapter, just to get things set up. This is a challenge fic, of a sort; an experiment, if you will. Credit for the backstory to this entire fic and meeting scene between Harry and Barty goes to Belle's Noir, with whom I have been working to get this on its feet.

Concilliabule: A secret meeting of people who are hatching a plot.

Concilliabule
The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another. ~James Matthew Barrie

The sounds of terror were thick in the air, screams rending through the panicking masses. Harry closed his eyes and relished in it. This was obviously not planned by the Dark Lord; he'd have been informed and warned if his father had decided to make a move of this magnitude. But Harry could not help the pleased, delighted chill that ran down his spine at the permeating aura of fear.

"Oh Merlin, we're all going to die!"

Harry wanted to curse Ron himself; the idiot was wailing as they ran, nearly trampling Hermione in his haste. It was the most lively he'd seen the boy since his sister's death and Harry found himself disappointed. At least in his depression he'd been silent for a change.

He was lagging behind them, but neither of them noticed. Harry let himself be tugged off course by the terrified wizards that were stampeding from the Death Eaters, darting behind a wide oak tree at the first opportunity. He kept himself in the shadows as he peered around it, watching with steadily growing frustration as the Death Eaters spun the campgrounds' muggle caretakers over their heads, dodging the Aurors and Light-sided wizards that had come out to contest them. One Death Eater was holding a screaming woman, whether she was a muggle or witch Harry wasn't sure, under the Cruciatus while a child screamed from under her tormentor's boot.

It was not that the acts themselves were abhorrent to Harry; no, with his upbringing, finding anything morally repugnant was unlikely. But the plans he and his father had been concocting were dependent on surprise, on soul-wrenching, gut-curdling terror being inflicted and with as little opposition as possible. If the press or the Ministry decided that this was more than just some rogues…

"Fools," Harry hissed, just the smallest bit of Parseltongue slipping through, making his annoyance obvious. "Don't they realize just what they're risking?"

"And what are they risking?" asked a voice from behind, causing Harry to whirl round with his wand in hand and a Dark curse on his lips. "And just who are you?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, scrutinizing the man before him. He was tall and thin with clothes of the best quality, but it was obvious he didn't care much about his appearance. His shaggy brown hair looked like it hadn't been cut or styled in a great many years and it hung into sharp, intelligent brown eyes. Harry felt his breath catch in his throat and he was almost overcome with the desire to count each and every freckle on that strong nose with his tongue. "I'm Harry Potter."

"Are you really?" A speculative glint entered those brown eyes as he examined the young boy who looked more like his Lord than a Potter.

"Who are you?" Harry asked, trying to gain a foothold in the conversation.

"Oh, I do apologize," said the man, flashing a roguish grin that made Harry's heart stutter before resuming its beat at double the speed. "Allow me to introduce myself: I am Bartemius Crouch Junior."

Harry's eyes narrowed. That wasn't possible.

"Barty Crouch Junior is dead," he said in a steely voice. "Now tell me, who are you?"

That grin just widened and Harry spine stiffened in response.

"Oh, I assure you, I am very much alive." The man's eyes had an almost manic gleam that paired perfectly with his mad grin.

"Show me your arm," Harry commanded. Barty Crouch Junior had been a Death Eater and the Dark Mark couldn't be faked.

"Excuse me?" The man's brow furrowed and he looked genuinely confused.

"Your left forearm," Harry barked, unwilling to let his guard down until he knew what was going on. "If you're Crouch Junior, show me your Dark Mark."

The man looked a Harry appraisingly; they were at an impasse. Both unsure of the others loyalty and so were unsure of how much was safe to reveal. Slowly and with obvious reluctance, the man reached out with his right hand to push up his left sleeve exposing the faded Dark Mark to the cool night air.

Harry cautiously moved closer and gripped the man's forearm, thumb brushing over the skull. Before the man knew what had happened, Harry had his wand tip pressed against the Mark and was hissing in a way the man had only ever heard from his Lord before.

"Burn."

The resulting fiery sensation forced the man to his knees and he had to bite his lip to keep in his gasp of pain.

"Are you loyal?" Harry hissed out in English, sounding more like his father in that moment than ever before.

"Yes. Always," the man gasped out. Harry gave the Mark another hissed instruction and the burning stopped.

"Good," he said in an almost friendly voice. "Now then." Harry tugged on the man's arm lightly, encouraging him to stand, which he did slowly and on slightly shaking legs. Harry pulled a wand, Ron's if he wasn't mistaken, out of the man's pocket and held it out for the man to take in his left hand. Once the man had hold of it, Harry tapped his own wand once more against the Mark. Barty gaped and blinked in a slightly dazed manner as it pulsed. Only a second later Barty's face split into a wide grin as he felt the long awaited and much missed call of his Lord.

"There we go," murmured Harry. "The mother ship is calling you home." He chuckled at the confused look on the man's face. "Never mind. Just a few things then you can go to him. We need to stop those fools from doing further damage, but we must make sure I'm not implicated in the process. Now, I'm going cast a spell with your wand then you're going to stun me and Apparate before anyone else gets here. Is that clear?"

Barty just nodded, his face showing just how overwhelmed he felt.

"Good boy." Harry, still gripping Barty's left forearm turned until his back was against the older man's chest. He slowly moved his hand down the forearm and placed it over Barty's so that he was gripping the wand with him.

Harry pointed the wand in the air, whispered, "Morsmordre!" and, before the Mark had even finished forming, spun out of Barty's arms and was facing him again. Barty pointed the wand at the youth.

"Give him my love," Harry said with a cheeky grin, just milliseconds before the red light of the Stunner hit him and darkness claimed him.

It was nearly amusing that it had all started by complete accident.

In his father's words, he'd only been looking for sturdy, effective transport when he'd happened across the Dursleys in East Sussex outside of Brighton, hardly gone from Marge's house and in one of the last rural locations Southern England had to offer. It had been unseasonably warm and the car had overheated, stranding all three of them in the late summer sun.

They'd been discussing their trek back to Surrey when Voldemort had come across them, disembodied as he was, hitching rides on common animals in an attempt to get closer to civilization again. His last true host, a homely wizard who had retired to the seashore, had killed himself rather than keep on possessed as he was, and the Dark Lord had realized he would need to get into London to find a new magical host.

The initial possession of Vernon had only been as a pack mule, of sorts. They had been the first non-farming folk he'd come across in days, and they had been going back to civilization posthaste. But Vernon's possession, by chance though it was, had set off a series of events that boggled Harry even today. He couldn't imagine what his life would have been like if the Dursleys had not broken down that day, or if perhaps they had come home the previous day like they had originally intended. It was luck, pure and simple, and it had saved Harry's life.

In Vernon's mind, Voldemort had seen the pathetic wastrel he'd been, locked in the cupboard under the stairs. It had been an uninteresting tidbit at first, just another reason to be disgusted by needing to have any part of him associated with a muggle, but then… then he'd found the memories. A little boy, gaunt and dirty, angry and making objects fly around the room. Objects disappearing around the house, only to be found in the cupboard when the boy had been locked in for days. Burns inflicted over the stove (his Aunt had pushed his hands onto the burners when he did not perform adequately) healed the next morning.

It was only at that that Voldemort had ripped through Vernon's mind, sending him to his knees on the side of the road, gleaning every detail he could. That the child had been the one who had brought him, the Dark Lord Voldemort, to his knees had horrified and disgusted him. His father had hesitated at this part in the telling, but years later he had filled in the blanks. Initially, he had planned to kill Harry with Vernon's meaty fists, take the man home and wring the scrawny boy's neck. He'd been chagrined and apologetic when he told Harry this, but Harry had forgiven him easily.

In the end, obviously, he had not killed him. Voldemort had kept attached to Vernon, ruined mentally though he was now, directing him down the road only by the remnants of memory. His father said it had been his eyes that had changed his mind, Avada Kedavra green and terrified, but resilient nonetheless. Bright with life and glinting with fury, even at the young age of six.

There had been many obstacles in those early years. Petunia had needed to live no matter what, since the blood wards were tied to her. If they had fallen, Dumbledore would have been there in an instant. Vernon needed to be seen leaving the house for "work" every day at least for a little while, so as to allay suspicion. Harry could not be removed from the house, nor could Voldemort take a new body and still be staying in the house.

But a muggle body was a muggle body. It had no magical core, and Voldemort had been highly unhappy having to live without his magic, wandless though he was. And so he had begun to build one. Harry remembered hours of meditation for the two of them, himself for the building blocks of Occlumency, his father to weave magic into the obese muggle.

By the time Harry was eight, he had both a firm grasp on reading, writing, and math as well as a closed mind. It was only then that his father had conceded that he needed to begin his magical education, and he finally believed he knew how they could go about it without raising suspicion.

They had travelled much in the next years, both "as a family", dragging Petunia and Dudley along, and just the two of them with the use of a Time-Turner. With the Time-Turner, they could be seen "normally" in the neighborhood, but still portkey to the continent for a day, perusing Magical Paris, Berlin, or Moscow. Harry had been lavished with books and supplies there, his father spoiling him absolutely rotten. It was in those times, the Dark Lord's arm tentatively around his shoulders in an awkward attempt at closeness, when he first felt like he had a real family, a father, someone to belong with.

Petunia had been miserable in those years. Harry had watched her fade into the shadows, eyes dimming, skin becoming slack. Whereas she had always been a skinny woman with an unpleasant face, the loss of the husband she had known had done her in. Dudley became more dependent on her, since "Vernon" wanted nothing more to do with them. Both fell into shades of their previous selves. Harry couldn't help but think they deserved whatever came to them.

Marjorie Dursley had been the first person he'd killed. It was only a week before his Hogwarts letter arrived and his eleventh birthday, though due to the time-turner use he had no idea the age he'd truly been, just as he still was really unsure of his real age. But he remembered vividly how his father had watched in deep, deep pride with crimson eyes as he had made her writhe before him. He'd used flaying curses and skin-stripping hexes interspersed with Blood Replenishing potions to keep her living as long as possible, Summoning her toenails and teeth to him then banishing them back under her skin.

Harry missed those days sometimes. No Golden Boy persona to play, no watching his back every moment. Just he and Voldemort, exploring magic together, learning and growing closer together. His father had called him his weakness once when he was young, and Harry remembered the gratification he had felt later when his father had called him an asset instead, strong enough to stand beside him and not be a liability. He still felt that pride in every waking moment.

Consciousness was a sudden thing, the Rennervate jolting him like an electric shock.

"Harry!"

He blinked rapidly, trying to come back to himself, vision obscured by a sea of brown. As hair went up his nose he sneezed, and Hermione and her bushy head finally backed off.

"We were so worried, where were you? Oh Merlin, it's terrible!"

He peered up at the canopy of trees above him, taking in the fading green of the Dark Mark still sprawled across the sky. He shivered and pasted on a confused expression. "What's happened?"

This wizards around him began babbling near-incoherently, all rising to talk above the other. One man strode forward, and Harry was both displeased and curious to see that it was Crouch Senior. "You!" he snarled, leaning over Harry with his wand out. "Did you conjure the Dark Mark, boy?"

He hated being called 'boy'. His lip lifted in a snarl before Arthur Weasley filled his vision, standing over Harry with more authority than Harry had ever seen him muster. "Remember who you're talking to, Barty. The boy was unconscious when we found him; I doubt he could have had anything to do with this."

The Senior Crouch Summoned Harry's wand then, casting Priori Incantatem with a growl in his voice, but the last spell he'd cast with his much-loved Holly wand had been a locking spell on his trunk. The man's face contorted in anger. Harry snatched it back from him and clutched it close protectively.

"Look here," a woman Harry didn't know called, kicking fallen leaves to the side. "There's a wand here on the ground."

Crouch was out of Harry's line of vision immediately, and Harry took this time to sit up properly and try to push himself into a standing position. Mr. Weasley was at his side immediately helping him up, shakily asking if he was feeling all right. Harry tried his damndest not to shake the blood traitor's hands off of him.

"Whose wand is this?" Crouch bellowed, turning with the stick Harry knew the man's son had dropped only minutes ago. "Who is the miscreant that called the Dark Mark into the sky?"

"Oh blimey," Harry heard Ron whimper behind him.

Crouch stormed towards him, gripping Ron by the collar of his robes with shaking hands. Harry's eyes narrowed. Why was he so enraged? Was it only coincidence so soon after Harry had stood pressed against the man's supposedly long-dead son?

Another shout from the other side of the clearing had people racing away, but Harry took the moment to lean back against a tree, catching his breath and calming his thoughts. He Occluded as well as he could with all the madness around him, the air filled with sobs rather than screams now. Harry was glad that Barty the younger had been able to get them out of there as he'd wished.

He peered across at the commotion the others were making, a shout from Amos Diggory filling in his confused blanks. A house elf? What in the hell was going on?

Harry was becoming more and more agitated as the day wore on. He wanted to owl his father, but couldn't risk sending out Hedwig, and once he was in Hogwarts it was too risky to send out post. He wished he could have spent the last of his break at his father's estate in Little Hangleton, dreary and dilapidated though it still was. They had finally just been able to start repairing it with the return of his father's body and magic, and with the full wards finally cemented in place. However, as Harry-Potter-the-Orphan, he had no excuse to turn down the kindness of spending several days in a massive swamp of redheads.

He was free now, and though he wished he could see his father, he was glad to be back in Hogwarts. Magic sang here, vibrated across his senses, and rose in a joyous symphony with his own magic. It was a feeling he always forgot the stunning magnitude of until he returned to Hogwarts once more.

But that didn't make it easier sitting across from Ron and Hermione as they bickered like children.

"Slave labor," she was muttering, staring in horror as the meal changed from the main course to dessert. "I've been taking advantage for years now…"

"Cor, Hermione, relax!" Ron choked out around his spotted dick. "Like you said, you've been eating here for years. The House Elves are happy as they are, why else would they do it? Ya think that the Headmaster would really keep them if they were so impressed or whatever?"

"Oppressed," she muttered, glaring darkly at him. "I'll have you know—"

He'd never been happier to see Albus Dumbledore stand, congenial smile plastered in place, sky-blue robes bright and cheerful as he raised his arms. "Shh!" he hissed at them.

The announcements were much the same as they were every year right up until he mentioned the lack of Quidditch in the school year to come. He was joined by Fred and George as well as more than a few students from other houses on his feet, hands slamming into their house tables as they shouted denials. The Headmaster sent a quelling, gentle smile to them all and waved them back into their seats. "Now, now, children, there is a reason for this! This year Hogwarts has the highly dignified honor…"

The Tri-Wizard Tournament. He'd known, of course; his father had only been in proper contact with a few of his Death Eaters, but he still had eyes and ears everywhere. But cancelling Quidditch?

The excitement rose to a near fevered pitch, students chattering in excitement about the opportunity for "glory" in winning the tournament. Harry, himself, was far from looking forward to this. He knew that one of his fellow students was a servant of his father's, and that they would be Confounding whatever was choosing the Champions. It wouldn't do, of course, for Voldemort to appear to be overlooking Harry Potter. The Headmaster expected some kind of nefariousness of his former student, his father said. The Hea

Headmaster was entirely convinced that he knew all there was to know about him.

Harry wished he could shuck this persona away.

He let his eyes fall over his fellow students, wondering just who had been replaced. He had seen no obvious signs yet, but he was sure something would catch his attention soon. Whomever it was would not know his relationship with the Dark Lord, and would strive to make his life a living hell.

The excited murmurs turned into frightened shrieks as the doors to the Great Hall slammed open, bouncing off the stone walls. An absolutely horrifying man stalked in then, gnarled like an ancient tree, scarred and pock-marked with age and old injuries. His eyes were the most damning, frightening feature, though, and even Harry found himself shrinking back as lightning streaked across the Great Hall's sky.

Only one eye was human – though squinting, creased, and dark. The other was terrifying. It was round and large on the cragged face, never still even for a moment. It rolled and whirled, seeming to be trying to look in all directions at once. It pinned him as the man limped by and the owner tilted his head, a teeth-baring mockery of a smile on his face as he winked that one human eye.

Harry sat stunned as the man hobbled his way up to Dumbledore, who greeted him with pleased aplomb. His introduction put him down as the famous Auror Mad-Eye Moody, hunter of Dark Wizards and their new Defense professor for the year.

Harry watched him warily, pieces of the puzzle falling into place in his mind. His father had to be out of his damned mind to replace Moody of all people… but the biggest question was who with?

The answer came as Dumbledore dismissed them all, the entire Great Hall standing and speaking at once. Harry sought the grizzled Auror's eyes over the crowd and the man grinned… a half-mad, toothy, roguish grin so at odds with the face it was on that Harry could not help but laugh in horrified understanding.

This year would prove interesting, indeed.

A/N: Foremost, all credit for this plot idea, the inspiration, the meeting scene, the backstory, and permission to use all of the above goes solely to Belle's Noir for her fic Bittersweet. Read it. Going off the same idea, we intend to explore two entirely different directions, and I couldn't have done this without her.

I've written more in the last 24 hours than I have been able to manage in a year. Hopefully, this leads to the extra chapter of Paraselenic I wanted to write as a conciliatory thank you for all the ongoing support, the resolution to Embracing Absurdism, and the continuance of Yesterday's Dream. Here's hoping!

I found my inspiration high in writing this and subsequent chapters but my motivation waning, so hopefully some interest in this fic will bring me right back to heavy writing. Please review!