Date: 01 December 2001 Characters: Barty Crouch Jr Location: Leaky Cauldron/Diagon Alley Open Thread
Barty's eyes rolled in a complete circle as he regarded his old home. The place had fallen into disrepair with both parents dead, and there was no one to sell off the property. He supposed that it had become the property of the Ministry with his death. The living room seemed to be markedly thick with dust, and it was here that he sat now.
Propped open beside him was the journal that he had stolen from Demas Forkwith. The name 'Draco Malfoy' scrolled across the left-hand page, the space beneath beckoning the touch of Barty's quill. He stared with great curiousity at the other inscribed name, 'Potter'. Of course, Barty knew by now that the Dark Lord had fallen at the hands of Potter, Dumbledore and company - his fingers flexed involuntary, regretful that Potter had been in their company once and left it unscathed - but it was strange to find Draco Malfoy publicly defending himself against Potter. A step down, and surely it had always been implicit that Draco Malfoy was better than Potter. At least, when it came to blood. When it came to the right side. Barty still had reservations when it came to the Malfoys (who afterall, had never really suffered for the Dark Lord).
Bored with re-reading the same three statements, he tucked the journal inside his jacket. He didn't trust Malfoy enough to contact him directly - he well remembered the boy's impulsive, careless mouth - so he wouldn't contact him at all, not yet. There was plenty to watch and find out before he made his first move.
Barty walked into the hallway of his home and disapparated.
He'd always liked London. Like anywhere in the world, there were places you didn't go, alleys you didn't walk through. Barty had dutifully avoided them until his teenage years -- not that late, those had been eaten by Azkaban -- when any possible lingering squeamishness had been snuffed from his conscience. The muggles here weren't the innocent, naive creatures that the Prophet now was trying to have everyone believe. They were knife-twisting, gun-pointing, pin you against the wall and take everything bastards. It was a very short step of understanding from defending yourself against the cold pain of a knife and the muggles who walked in the daylight. You learned to see them for what they were.
He drew the collar of his jacket high as he crossed the Leaky Cauldron, despite his disguise. It wasn't a real disguise, only a charm intended to persuade those who looked at him to forget his features. Barty didn't think any of the children at the bar swallowing brightly coloured alcohol would recognise him anyway.