Chapter Text
Cold, dank stone walls and floor marked a typical cell in Azkaban. There was a small square window situated high up on the wall, which let in a meagre amount of light.
There were only two prisoners on this level, probably because they had both been incarcerated within a short time of each other. Harry didn’t imagine Azkaban got many new prisoners.
The first week, Harry begged and pleaded every time a Dementor drew near. Every time they floated past his cell, he was forced to witness Cedric's death in the graveyard, his parents’ death, and Fudge sentencing him to Azkaban in the courtoom again and again.
The accused is sentenced to Azkaban for a period of two years for aiding and abetting the death of Cedric Diggory.
His neighbouring cell mate on the right side of his cell watched silently at first.
Then, after one rather vivid nightmare, Barty Crouch Jr. rattled the bars between their cells and said quietly, “Potter. Stop thinking about those memories that fuel the Dementors. Focus on your beliefs, your convictions.”
Trembling, desperate enough to accept any help, even from someone purportedly his enemy, Harry pushed himself to his feet. “Why’re you helping me, Crouch?”
“You convinced Fudge not to give me the kiss. I would say I owe you my life, were I not already sworn to another,” Barty shrugged once, nodding at his bare forearm, jet-black Dark Mark out in the open for all to see.
Walking closer to the bars separating their cells, Harry scoffed, “Fat lot of good it did. You’re still back in Azkaban.”
Barty’s answering grin was almost maniacal. “It’s different this time round, Potter. My lord is back and I have faith.”
Harry stared at the man he had once known as Professor Moody. “Must be nice to have such conviction.”
Barty met Harry’s eyes thoughtfully. “You don’t sound like a person who believe in your leader. Have you no faith in the esteemed Headmaster?”
Mentions of Dumbledore brought memories of the trial back to Harry’s mind. Of how Dumbledore had sat in stony silence, a sad and resigned countenance on his face as Fudge meted out Harry’s sentence. Not a single word had been spoken in Harry’s defence. Not a single sentence to Harry either, before he was led to Azkaban.
He cast his mind back further. Of how he had been left alone to deal with Quirrelmort in his first year, the Chamber of Secrets in his second year, and Sirius’ escape in his third year.
No, Dumbledore was not a figure who inspired faith.
Harry did not reply to Barty’s question.
“How do you know Voldemort would rescue you lot anyway? He could have better things to do,” Harry retorted spitefully. Misery loved company and all that.
Barty look thoughtful for a moment then cast his eyes downwards shamefully upon reflection. “You’re right. I'd be expecting too much of my lord. Why should He prioritise our rescue, we who have failed, when this is the best time for Him to gather our forces once more? Regardless, I’ll be ready when it’s time.”
Gently, Barty laid one finger on his Dark Mark, stroking it with a reverence that Harry had to look away from.
In that one moment, Harry was seized with a sudden envy. What was it like, to have such faith in one’s leader?
Harry didn’t know. He had always had to be the leader, the hero, the saviour. If he failed, it was all over. There was no one else he could rely on.
It had been like this ever since childhood.
Perhaps this time round, Sirius, Hermione or Ron could save him?
A small flicker of hope welled up in him.
That flicker wavered as days passed.
Harry was fading. With every night of nightmares, interrupted sleep and the torment of his horrible memories with every Dementor visit, Harry broke further. Even if help came eventually, he would not be alive by then.
Perhaps this was for the best, Harry thought in resignation. Perhaps he would finally experience peace. It had been sorely lacking in his life thus far.
The only irony was that he would be dying, not surrounded by friends on his latest adventure, but in the company of one who could be perceived as his enemy.
Even though, during his fourth year, Barty-disguised-as-Moody and him had grown rather close.
“You were my favourite professor, you know...” Harry whispered to Barty that night. If he was dying, there was no point in fighting anymore. He might as well come to terms with the fact that he had grown to like and respect the man.
Barty stared at Potter’s slight form in consternation as he bit his lips and paced his cell. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel anything about Potter’s impending death. The boy was his lord’s enemy.
But that soft whisper...
It tugged on his heartstrings.
He liked Potter, had formed some sort of a bond with him over the past year as his Defence teacher. And at the end of the day, Potter was still a kid.
Besides, no matter how much Barty would like to deny it, he owed Harry Potter a life debt.
Oh sod it.
He was going to save Harry-bloody-Potter.
And when the Dark Lord finally freed them, if and when his lord found him guilty of treason, he’d take the punishment without compliant.
Even up to torture and death.
“Potter. Listen to me. There’s a way to protect your sanity among the Dementors,” Barty whispered to Harry urgently, crouching by the bars separating their cells.
Lying on the cold, hard stone floor, Harry turned to look at Barty listlessly.
Barty continued telling him all about something called Occlumency. It sounded interesting, and was the most magic Harry had heard about in weeks since his wand was taken from him.
Having grown up unaware of magic, Harry had always been fascinated by magic since this world was revealed to him when he was eleven. It was one of the losses that had plagued him when he had been thrown into prison. And now, being offered a chance to continue learning magic in Azkaban?
Even if he was on his dying breath, it was an opportunity he wouldn’t pass up.
“You’ll teach me Occlumency?” Harry asked breathlessly, a spark flaring back to life in his emerald green eyes.
“Yes, I will. On the condition that you acknowledge the life debt that I owe you as fulfilled,” Barty said softly, his cornflower blue eyes glinting in moonlight.
“I agree to your condition!” Harry exclaimed, sitting up as he did so. By this time, he would have willingly learnt magic from Voldemort himself. Who cared that Barty was a convicted Death Eater who had a hand in torturing Neville’s parents into insanity?
Where was Neville when Harry was at trial? He had not even turned up at the trial.
And so begun Harry’s lessons on Occlumency in Azkaban.
Barty was a great teacher, Harry realised. He had the ability to simplify difficult, abstract concepts, such Harry could easily understand it.
Two weeks later, Harry had seen visible progress in his Occlumency.
The Dementors only affected him in his sleep now. When he was awake, Harry was able to hold up his Occlumency shields.
“You have to sleep, Harry,” Barty chided him when he realised what Harry was doing. “You’d go insane soon if you don’t.”
Somehow, over the weeks, Barty and Harry were now on first name terms.
“Can’t,” Harry muttered miserably. He’d rather go insane than face the horror of his nightmares. Sidling close to the bars to be near Barty, Harry sought what comfort he could from the only somewhat friendly face he saw in this hellhole.
“I realise I’m in no position to say anything,” Barty said after a moment as he reached through the bars and laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. “From what I have observed, most of your nightmares feature my lord in some capacity.”
Harry snorted weakly. “That’s an understatement. I don’t fear him, but his actions...Who else is he going to take away from me?”
Barty raised an eyebrow at that. “Who else do you have left, Harry?”
And wasn’t that the crux of the matter. Who else was Harry willing to protect from Voldemort? Before his incarceration, he might have listed a long list of names, beginning with Sirius, Ron and Hermione. But now...he wasn’t so certain.
“Is that why you’re not afraid of him?” Harry asked Barty curiously. Anything to keep his mind off things. “That night in the graveyard, I saw some of the other Death Eaters. They’re all afraid of him.”
Barty hesitated and licked his lips. “I’m loathe to speak ill of my brothers, if my lord has forgiven them, but some of them...their faith faltered. They did not search for Him when He was indisposed. They have reason to fear Him.
“For me, I have nothing to fear as there is nothing I would not do for my lord. Nothing I would not suffer for Him,” Barty declared fervently, looking down at his own Dark Mark. Quietly, he added, “My only fear is that I’ll fail Him.”
Harry could only stare. Barty’s devotion was palpable. What was it like, Harry wondered, to have such loyalty to another? “You’re alright with suffering his Crucios? Or does he not do it to you?”
Barty grinned somewhat bashfully upon hearing that question. He ran his hand through his sandy blonde hair. “Well, yes, I’ve experienced my lord’s Cruciatus before when I made mistakes. But I don’t hold a grudge over them, nor do I fear it. It’s like...hmm, those detentions you receive in school when you misbehave. Do you begrudge your professors for imposing them?”
Harry shook his head thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps one professor. But that’s to do with Snape imposing them on me unjustly.”
Barty scoffed. “Ah yes, that two-faced traitorous spy. I'll not speak of him until my lord passes his judgement.
"Now come, you need sleep. I’ll watch over you and wake you up when you have nightmares.”
Harry accepted Barty’s offer with a shy smile. He fell asleep next to the bars, with his hand and forearm pushed through the bars, cradled in Barty’s lap.