Caught

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Three - Origins

Bright blue light flashed repeatedly in the room, the rhythm by which it flashed increasing in speed and intensity, eventually rousing the two inhabitants of the room. Magical alarm clocks existed in various types: some simply imitating Muggle alarm sounds, others flashing light on the set time, while Zonko's alarm clocks could produce miniaturized dragons made of light, the accompanied dragon's roar included. To Barty Crouch, being woken soundlessly worked best and immediately put him in the right state of mind – that of constant vigilance. It shouldn't be a surprise then that the first thing Barty did that morning was reach for his borrowed wand and aim it at the unexpected person in his bed.

Several seconds later saw a wand laid down on a night table and Barty shaking Harry gently awake.

“Potter, wake up,” Barty said. That night had been the first night he allowed Harry in his bed, though the boy had been coming to his private quarters regularly for several weeks already. It meant a certain evolution in their relationship, if you could call what they had going on that. There wasn't much time that allowed to converse during regular life, Barty had to pretend to be another, while Harry had to 'socialize' with his class mates to keep up appearances of being someone people expected him to be. The time they spent together mostly was filled with more sexual acts. To Harry it meant temporary release of 'regular' life, to Barty it meant catching up on what he previously missed and be himself. Seeing the Boy-Who-Lived on his knees before him was an exhilarating image, returning the favor strange yet wonderful. As far as business arrangements went, Barty thought none even got close to being as beneficial as the one Harry and Barty had.

“Mmm,” moaned Harry, unwilling to lose whatever precious sleep he had. Sleeping with two in one bed wasn't all that pleasant as he imagined, the image of two persons sleeping peacefully in each other's arms highly unrealistic. Whereas Harry was a quiet sleeper, hardly moving during his dreams, Barty was a trasher, sleeping as fitful as one could. Even if it probably was something that grew during Barty's time in Azkaban, Harry disliked it. When Barty was sleeping, Harry was fighting to maintain his side of the sheets and avoid being crushed by Barty's weight as the older man twisted and turned.

“You have to get up,” Barty continued, “before the morning rush to breakfast reveals you were here.”

Harry nodded, still refusing to open his eyes. “I know,” he murmured.

Barty pulled the sheets off them and rose, mentally going through the steps he took each morning before taking the Polyjuice. He grimaced, thinking of the classes he had that morning. Second year Gryffindors and Slytherins, a true menace, especially the interaction between fashion queens Romilda Vane and Rosa Winter, Gryffindor and Slytherin respectively. As far as he knew those two girls were in some kind of elaborate competition to garner the attention of Harry Potter – the image. Barty loved teaching, he really did, but he would be awfully glad when his infiltration would be over. Teenage romance just wasn't his thing.

By the time he left the bath room, 'Mad-Eye' was back in action and no sign remained of the most famous Fourth Year Gryffindor. Real life recommenced.

---

It was a good thing it was a Wednesday, Harry considered, seating himself next to Hermione Granger. They only had Charms at ten o'clock, allowing him to have an easy morning and recuperate of last night. He always knew his submissive side reigned his sexual preferences, nonetheless that didn't mean Harry particularly cared for the 'afterglow' of having Barty inside him. It was, to use the term correctly, a pain in the ass Harry wasn't really used to. He couldn't help himself though; getting buggered was like flying to him: it unfocused his mind of a multitude of thoughts and impressions and gave him a damn fine kick/orgasm as well.

That is why Harry was one of the last students to leave the Great Hall that morning, why he was one of the lasts to arrive in the corridor of the Charms classroom and why he unintentionally heard his classmates gossiping about the supposed love triangle between Viktor Krum, Hermione and him. It was utterly ridiculous. He only hoped the Bulgarian Seeker wouldn't want to confront him now that most hate mail going to Hermione had decreased. Harry wasn't really interested in being in close quarters with his fellow Champion. Krum's breath stank.

Two hours and a quick lunch later found Harry reclining in a chair by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, trying to block out the 'information' filtering in from his fellow Gryffindors. It wasn't something he was very proficient at, trying to separate himself from the people surrounding him, but a necessity if he wanted to avoid a repeat of his first year, or even his second year, when the crowd of people in Diagon Alley and Hogwarts overwhelmed his senses and directed his course of actions towards the epitome of a knight: loyal, brave, sincere, impulsive, gullible. His behavior during those years wasn't whom he truly was, it was what people expected, wanted, him to be. It always took weeks at the Dursleys, where the wishes were unoriginal and sincerity a contradiction in terminus, for him to recover what he 'lost' at Hogwarts. It wasn't until last year, his third at Hogwarts, that he was able to consciously comprehend the influence of his gift on himself. Surprisingly, responsible for this change were the Dementors and their effect on Hogwarts' population; they curved his gift considerably, giving him the mental break needed to think of a 'master plan', his personal ulterior motives and opinions of various subjects, ranging from the wizarding separation with the Muggle world to the matter of the concept of the greater good. The end of that year and the subsequent attack by the Dementors and the escape of Wormtail shaped his master plan in what it was to this day – even if Harry sometimes forgot the grand scheme of things.

Despite Rita Skeeter's attempts to prove the contrary, Harry slowly retracted himself from his friendship with Hermione Granger as well as Ron Weasley. Their friendship was one originating from the time Harry's ratio went haywire, it wasn't something he longed to maintain longterm. They weren't whom he needed, hardly held any surplus value to him. In another life, maybe their friendship would have worked out – a life where he wasn't confronted with possibilities at every turn of the road, wasn't reminded of humans duplicity constantly.

Harry sighed. For some reason every time that Romilda Vane girl passed by, he lost his concentration and was left in an antisocial mood. There was something inherently evil about that girl that truly frightened Harry, but he couldn't point out what exactly. Not even Voldemort scared him as much as Romilda Vane; at least Voldemort was a logical being.

Harry shook his head, banishing nightmare-daydreams of Dark Ladies after his manhood to a faraway corner of his mind, and went to his dorm room to read further in 'Unspeakable: Truth In Myth', a Hogwarts library book written by Joan Stuart describing everything known publicly about the famed Department of Mysteries, less known facts and myths concerning the place. It was an intriguing book, written much better than any of Lockhart's books.

---

“Why did you do it?” Barty asked, eying the younger wizard next to him curiously. It was the last weekend of Easter holidays and meeting up with each other became more and more difficult with the Third Task approaching. They were in Barty's private chambers – the only place in Hogwarts Barty felt comfortable and safe to drop his Moody disguise. At the moment, Harry Potter laid on his side wearing nothing but a thin silk night robe. Barty was on his back so he could watch the door and the large foe glass mounted on a closet next to the bedroom door; boxers were the only clothes he wore.

Harry glanced intently at his lover. It was a stupid gesture really, since he knew Barty could be trusted, but it didn't hurt.

“What do you know of the Muggle Second World War?” Harry asked.

Barty frowned. “Muggle Second World War? Isn't that the one stimulated by Grindelwald?”

Harry nodded. “It was, though Grindelwald's influence only restricted itself to influencing people like Hitler. The Muggles did the rest for him. One of the things the Muggles lead by Hitler did though was gather political enemies and Jews first in camps and prisons worse than Azkaban.”

Barty nodded slowly. The Ministry of Magic did the same thing when Death Eaters controlled it in the late seventies; send political opponents to Azkaban and torture information out of them. To hear that these camps were worse than Azkaban though... That frightened Barty, even if it strengthened his believe that wizards and witches were better than Muggles.

“Around six million people died in these concentration and eliminations camps, most of through starvation diseases and experiments,” Harry added.

Barty squirmed. There were only about sixty thousand wizards and witches in Britain last time he checked, six million was a number he could barely comprehend.

“Muggles have invented devices that work like Pensieves, showing what you might call recorded memories through a box with a window, televisions they call them. A lot of Muggles nowadays have these boxes. My uncle used to force me to sit in front of them and look at documentaries, recorded memories accompanied by a voice explaining the memories. Often they were the most terrible ones available, depicting the survivors of these camps. Men your age weighting thirty kilos, mass graves with dozens of bodies, ovens were they burned the bodies, chambers where they forced people inside and killed them by spreading a deadly gas,... Those images scared the most grown up men you could find, so I shouldn't tell you what kind of an impression they leave behind on a child. When a documentary was finished, my uncle would come into the room, sit beside me and tell me that people like me deserved to be in those camps, that it was a pity these camps didn't exist anymore, otherwise he would have sent me to one of them.”

Barty swallowed. He definitely had too much imagination. He could easily create an image for each of Harry's descriptions. Muggles, it seemed, were even more cruel than any Death Eater he knew. Besides Walden McNair perhaps, that man had a sickly interest in the bodies of the dead. And it wasn't to create Inferi.

Harry continued, his voice taking a distanced undertone. “The Dark Lord fears death, you fear not being in control of your mind, I fear ending up in a place alike these Konzentrationlager. The Dark Lord made sure his death could be prevented, you seek ulterior control over your environment. I'm taking steps in preventing a situation I fear might arise.”

“That's a justifiable reason,” Barty concluded, feeling slightly more at ease with his bed partner. It went against his nature to trust anyone aside his Lord, but trust was a two-way road and if Harry Potter trusted him with his secrets, then Barty felt he could trust Harry with his secrets – even if the major ones weren't really hidden.

Harry moved closer to Barty, his mouth edging closer to Barty's for a hungry kiss. Barty obliged. Harry moved his body so he was on top of Barty, Harry's hands wandering from the older man's hair to Barty's boxer shorts, stroking them passionately.

Barty grabbed Harry's night robe and put it off his lover. His hands wandered to Harry's back, clutching the Boy-Who-Lived's back.

“Can I ride you?” Harry breathed between kisses, taking Barty's manhood in hand. Barty didn't need any more encouragement. His boxers were quickly removed. The feeling of a dick near his own caused Harry to moan gratefully. A quick lubrication spell of Barty's wand swifted their lovemaking.

It was after all a human reaction, that of seeking confirmation of trust after a confession.