He stalked back upstairs to his war room - the library repurposed with a long dining table spread with maps and intelligence and an increasing amount of corpses as he lost his temper quicker with each passing day. There was still a chance to fix this. There was the summer solstice, there was Nagini.
It was time to get vicious.
...
Dear Draco,
My dear son. We missed you terribly over the Yule break. Our guests kept us preoccupied such that I do not believe I would have been able to properly spend time with you had you come home, but it would have been nice to visit with you regardless. Your mother and I appreciate the photos from the Yule Ball. I am glad you enjoyed yourself. You are growing into a young man before my eyes. I still remember when you were small enough to fit into my arms, now old enough for smart robes and a date to a ball.
I will spare you further embarrassment. Unfortunately, I do not write purely out of love. I bring news. Very important news. You must burn this letter after reading it.
I sent your concerns directly to D.L.V. I admit, he thought it was childish exaggeration until after he viewed my memories of Potter's performance in the first task. No doubt you have been made aware that his forces attempted to apprehend the boy during the ball, and that the plan failed, likely due to Potter's Dark Magic. I had hoped the boy might be removed quickly, but it seems he is resilient.
I must urge you now to disengage with your snooping. Do not speak to Potter, do not look at him, do not think about him. Make no move that might encourage his anger. We have no clue to what extent of power this boy possesses. He is outwitting our Lord at every turn. A child does not slay a dragon with not a scratch to show for it. A child does not control the Uncontrollable Flame.
Remove yourself from Potter's mind, I urge you. D.L.V. has further means to be rid of the boy and we must pray that they work. We both appreciate you bringing your finds to our attention, but you must keep away from Potter. Other allies at the school will continue to investigate.
Your mother will not survive it if you come home this term in a coffin.
Burn this letter immediately.
Be careful!
Lots of love, your father
...
Mad-Eye Moody, or Barty Crouch Jr., whichever, whatever, sweet Mother Magic, he'd been doing this shit for too long - kicked his stump leg onto the desk in his office. He'd set down the blood wards and the impenetrable charms and the variety of detection devices and was ready to enjoy an evening of peace and fucking quiet. He pulled out the various prosthetics and tugged off his coat. In truth, the cost of the constant polyjuice was starting to add up. The bitch who taught Potions now, after Severus had lost it and ran off, kept her storage under a tight lock. It wouldn't surprise him if she was using blood wards on the things.
Point was, that he needed to ration carefully until Malfoy could fetch more ingredients from a supplier down in Germany. That meant he had ten whole hours as Barty a night, hidden away in his quarters. He was not displeased, forgive him if he wanted a moment in his own fucking skin. He licked lovingly at his lips as his flesh morphed back into his own. Ugh, it was so disgusting to be Moody. He hated Moody's skin. Wrong in all the wrong places, too thick too old too weathered and limbless. He got this weird feeling sometimes, where it felt like the potion was wearing off like his leg was still there when it wasn't. A ghost attached to a dead stump. Having two legs was a blessing he wouldn't take for granted.
He popped the lid open to the trunk.
"Hey, dipshit! Hungry?"
"Fuck you, Crouch!" Moody called from within.
"You feking wish, old man. We both know yer cock don't work anymore. You should get a fake one of those too." Barty shouted. "I gotta touch the feking thing every time I gotta piss and it's nasty. You get the clap in yer youth or somethin?"
"Holy hell, shut up! Where's my dinner?" Moody was the boringest man ever and never appreciated any of Barty's jokes or attempts at small talk. He tossed the ungrateful fucker his dinner, a smooshed sandwich, and a handful of cold, soggy chips. He had added a little tub of pudding, as a treat. It was Christmas, after all.
The two men ate their meals in silence.
Barty rolled the crick out of his back. The truck was hardly comfortable. Maybe Moody deserved a pillow for his arse. Hobbling along on the pegleg was doing all sorts of damage to Barty's joints and muscles. Everything ached, everything was different and wrong and even his real body felt off. He'd spent so much time as Moody it was hard to forget he wasn't Moody, that he had both his legs and his teeth and two eyes.
Well, it was easy for his body to forget. Tricking his mind - his instincts, his mannerisms, his voice, it was all another thing. Oh, that reminded him -
"Oi, how well d'you know Sirius Black, eh? Feker asks a lot of questions."
"Thank god, finally!" Moody was always disappointed that no one had noticed he was down here. Barty thought it was sad. The lonely, miserable bastard had no friends. Barty honestly thought he was doing a terrible job at impersonating him, and it was embarrassing for everyone involved that no one had noticed.
"Yup, he's real anxious about our drinkin' habit, that nosey bitch. You were as abstinent in yer liquor as a Catholic priest, eh Alastor?"
"How do you know what a Catholic is?" Moody asked. "And what sort of shit is Black noticing?"
"I got an O in my Muggle Studies NEWT, obviously. Know thy enemy," Barty paused for a moment as he attempted to lick his eyeball. He could not reach. "And I think I might've finally feked up, to be honest. He's on me like a - uh. Like a thing that clings to ya. I tried to kidnap the kid, didn't work. And Black was like eh, where are running off to, where'd you come from? I was like bitch, shut up what are you asking for? I got all grumpy and screamed about vigilance and how much I hate crime and he gave up. But he's suspicious now, ain't he?"