After the burning down of the Quidditch pitch by the Death Eaters, where they killed and destroyed everything in their path. Anyone who dared to fight back was blasted aside, and anyone who met their eyes was cursed on sight.

Barty Crouch Jr. and the other remaining Death Eaters had already vanished by the time the Ministry arrived, spoiling their fun. Now, deep within the forest, they gathered again, conjuring new plans and darker ideas.

“I have a plan to get this Potter kid,” Barty said ominously. “I can’t share much, if one of you gets caught, it could ruin everything. But believe me… it’s risky. And worth every bit of it.”

The others didn’t know what to make of it, but they trusted him.

For the son of a highly respected Ministry official, Barty was cruel, unpredictable, risky, but also clever. Even when he seemed impulsive or outright mad, there was always a method behind the madness. He was always in control. Always.

So no one questioned him.

They were given a time and place. “When the World Cup begins, there’s a graveyard nearby,” he grinned, eyes glinting. “Go there. Take Peter Pettigrew. That rat knows what to do.”

Barty chuckled darkly, already relishing the moment in his mind.

But he had work to do now: brewing Polyjuice Potion, ensuring Dumbledore remained unsuspecting, and making sure Harry Potter felt safe around this “new and improved” version of Mad-Eye Moody.

Once everything had been discussed, the Death Eaters dispersed. Some heading off to lay the groundwork, others slipping back into hiding.

Barty made his way to his hideout when, after half an hour, he heard a twig snap. He spun, wand raised.

A child stood in the clearing. You. A young face in a place no child should be. He narrowed his eyes, then tilted his head.

“Oooh, did your parents forget you?” he asked smugly.

He lowered his wand and stepped closer, mistaking you for the child of a fellow Death Eater. No one from the Quidditch camp would be this deep in the forest, he reasoned. It didn’t even cross his mind.

He’d been gone too long to remember who belonged to who. But he did know that Death Eaters weren’t exactly model parents. Some used their kids as bait, others brought them on missions.

“Come on, little knight. I’ll bring you back,” he muttered, placing a firm hand on your back to guide you through the woods.

He wasn’t particularly fond of babysitting what he assumed was a Death Eater’s brat. But leaving one of their own behind? That went against everything he stood for.