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Mrs. Petunia Dursley of Number Four Privet Drive was proud to say that she was raising the perfect child, thank you very much. Her four year-old son Dudley was a fine, strapping lad with blue eyes and golden hair that made him look like a baby angel. He was a rambunctious, playful child, the strongest boy on the block, taking after his fine, strapping, boisterous father.
Contrary to the opinion of his preschool teacher, her Duddykins wasn’t the least bit spoiled. Nor was he in any way a bully. He was just a sweet boy with strong opinions, strong hands, and a loud voice. What did those teachers know? Glorified babysitters, the lot of them! Those harridans employed at that school could never understand her Diddy-kins the way his Mummy could. They didn’t have that special connection to her precious son, the kind of connection that allowed her to anticipate his needs.
Dudley had insisted, as he did most nights, upon sleeping in his parents’ bed, snuggled up with Petunia. Vernon was starting to get stroppy about it, but that was too bad. It’s Petunia’s job as a mother to be there for her son anytime she needed him, day or night. If there’s one thing the gossipy, backbiting housewives of Privet Drive genuinely agree on, it’s the fact that a mother is always on-duty.
Those old spinster at Dudley’s school didn’t understand that it was a mother’s job to give her son anything he wanted. She wasn’t about to deprive her son of anything based on the half-baked advice of those old hags.
Petunia smiled as she held her sleeping son and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Dudley smiled in his sleep and snuggled into her chest. Her sweet baby boy. She tried to get some sleep herself, knowing that Duddykins would wake up and need her soon. But she felt… off. She couldn’t describe it, but it was preventing her from getting her usual beauty sleep.
Mr. Barty Crouch Jr of Cell 1208, Death Eater Row, Azkaban Prison, was proud to say that he was raising the perfect child, thank you very much. His four year-old Dark Prince was a brilliant, powerful boy, destined to lead the Wizarding World to greatness. He had thick, dark hair and delicate, aristocratic features that made him look like a younger version of Barty’s dearly departed Regulus. His powers unfolded day by day- a Parselmouth capable of independent flight and more wandless magic than most adult Wizards. Harry reminded Barty of the Dark Lord more and more with every day that passed.
Contrary to the opinions of Sirius and the judgmental Dementors who hung out just outside his and Sirius’s cells, Harry was not in the least spoiled. He was a sweet boy who knew what he wanted and knew that it was Barty’s job to give it to him. Isn’t that why the Dark Lord’s spirit sent Harry to him in the first place? So he could raise the abused orphan boy (Abused by Muggles, no less! And Padfoot still worried about Harry getting spoiled!) as the Prince he was meant to be? Barty had to believe that, or he would lose all hope.
Aside from errands done in his owl form, Barty had rarely been outside of arm’s reach of Harry since the day the little boy appeared in his cell. Harry had flourished under Barty’s attention and devotion. Although still small and skinny for his age (no matter how much Barty fed him), he was powerful and confident, a natural leader.
Sirius hated the fact that Harry refused to sleep in his own bed. Jealous, Barty supposed. But his Little Lamby had slept in Barty’s arms every night since the day his sweet prince appeared in Azkaban. One of the first things Barty brought to Azkaban as soon as he mastered his owl transformation were three beds: one for Sirius in the cell next door, one for himself, and one for Harry.
“Good night, Lamby,” Barty had cooed, tucking Harry into his brand-new twin bed after reading four stories, singing seven different lullabies, bringing him a glass of water and a cup of warm milk, and, at Harry’s insistence, checking under the bed for filthy Muggles (a term he had picked up from Barty to describe his awful relatives, whom he still had nightmares about. At long last, Barty’s Little Prince was ready to be tucked in to his new bed and kissed goodnight.
Barty pulled the Dora and Diego comforter over Harry’s small body and slipped off to his own bed. A few seconds later, Harry padded across the cell in his new footie pajamas and joined Barty.
“What is it, My Lamb?” Barty asked. “Did you need something?”
“Yes,” said Harry. “I wanna share a bed with you!” Harry climbed into Barty’s arms.
Barty snuggled the small boy as they both fell asleep. After months of curling up on the floor with all the blankets and old robes they could find, desperate to keep warm, Harry seemed to fit perfectly in Barty’s arms. Now that he had his Lamby in his arms again, Barty realized that he had been feeling an emptiness in his chest since he first put Harry into his own bed. Harry’s presence filled the void like nothing else could.
As time went by, Barty had, at Sirius’s insistence, tried to get Harry to sleep in his own bed. After all, the Dark Lord’s heir deserved a cozy bed all his own. (Although that wasn’t how Sirius put it. Padfoot had simply made the same old noises about Harry getting spoiled and becoming too dependent on Barty. As if it wasn’t Barty’s job, his current purpose in life, to tend to Harry!)
But Harry, now four years old and clever for his age, refuted Barty by pointing out that Barty himself had said that everything in the cell was Harry’s, that he didn’t have to worry about doing without or having anything taken away. As Harry pointed out, this meant that both beds belonged to him. So, he was already sleeping in his own bed. And he wanted to share the bed he was sleeping in with Barty. He didn’t want to share the bed he wasn’t sleeping in, but that bed was still his, even if he wasn’t using it, because Barty said so. So, the only bed Harry wanted to share with Barty was the bed Harry was already sleeping in.
Barty found himself unable to argue with that logic, even if he wanted to. Really, he had no reason to force a separation. His Little Prince would sleep on his own when he was good and ready.
Sirius simply rolled his eyes and continued with his delusional rambling about Harry getting spoiled.
Tonight, Harry curled up against Barty’s chest and fell asleep, while Barty whispered words of love and devotion into his ear. Harry smiled in his sleep, while Barty cooed about Harry’s imminent Princehood, ruling at the Dark Lord’s side.
Barty was glad Harry was feeling better. His Lamby had come down with Dragonpox last week. For four days, poor Harry had to deal with painful, itchy spots, a fever, and a tummy-ache. Luckily, Barty was able to keep him as comfortable as possible, tending to him all day and waking up the instant Harry needed something during the night.
Barty shifted slightly, trying not to disturb the sleeping Harry. He felt… off tonight, for some reason. He couldn’t describe it, but it was keeping him from falling asleep. He squeezed his eyes shut, determined to get some rest before Harry woke up and needed him. He couldn’t properly care for his Little Prince if he was tired all day.
Petunia always woke up the instant Dudley needed something. Her day usually started the second Dudley woke up, wanting breakfast. Her baby was an early riser, and she usually had Dudley toileted and dressed with breakfast ready by the time Vernon got up. This morning, she prepared a large omelet for Vernon and scrambled eggs for Diddykins. Usually, Dudley cleaned his plate when Petunia served scrambled eggs. Today, however, he wasn’t having it.
“Mummy! I don’t like eggs!” he screamed, throwing the plate with the suddenly-reviled eggs against the wall. “I want pancakes!”
“Of course, Diddykins,” Petunia cooed, rushing to comfort her son and clean up the mess. “Mummy will fix you some pancakes!”
“Yaaaay!” Dudley shrieked, clapping his hands happily, having gotten his way once again.
Despite the fact that Petunia was exhausted and now had achy limbs for some reason, she hurried to make pancakes for her precious baby.
Petunia’s vision began to blur. She really was tired. She felt a wave of nausea hit her and leaned against the counter. Dudley noticed his mum pause in her cooking. “Hurry, mummy!” he screamed. “Fix my pancakes NOW!”
Petunia put her head in her hands and groaned as the screaming continued.
It seemed to Barty that he only had his eyes closed for a few seconds before he was woken up by a small boy jumping on the bed. “Wake up, Barty!” Harry screamed happily. “It’s morning now!”
Only his Little Prince could be happy about waking up and finding himself in Azkaban. Despite his exhaustion and feeling of off-ness, Barty beamed at the sight of his sweet Lamby.
“Good morning, Harry,” he cooed, giving the boy a hug and kiss, which Harry happily returned. “Go get dressed, and I’ll fix you something yummy for breakfast!”
Harry ran off to choose which of his thick, warm, designer robes he would wear that day. He selected a green velvet one and black fur boots (perfect for Azkaban’s arctic weather, which kept their cells cold, despite liberal use of warming charms). He tried to comb his hair (he was a big boy, after all), but didn’t spend very long on this task. He hated combing his hair, and he knew that Barty could fix it for him while giving him plenty of snuggles and treats.
He hurried to the table, where Barty had already set out a plate of…
“Eggs!” Harry shrieked, scandalized. “Yucky! I hate scrambled eggs!”
“But you’ve been eating eggs every morning for a week,” Barty tried to protest. “You told me they were your favorite!”
“They’re YUCKY!” Harry insisted, throwing the plate against the stone wall. “I want pancakes!”
The sound of the plate breaking and Harry’s yelling woke Sirius, who wandered over curiously. “Shhh… shhh, my love,” Barty said soothingly, pulling Harry into a hug. “I’ll make you all the pancakes you want,” he promised.
Instantly, Harry brightened and ran off to the corner of the cell that served as the kitchen. “I wanna help cook!” he shrieked excitedly, flying up into the air as gracefully as the Dark Lord Himself in order to reach the flour and sugar.
“Of course you can, Lamby,” said Barty, smiling adoringly after him while casting a Cleaning Charm on the mess of scrambled eggs and broken china.
“You shouldn’t let him get away with that,” Sirius commented.
“Get away with what?” Barty asked, genuinely confused. He looked over at Harry, only to see him helpfully arranging the ingredients, measuring cups, and mixing bowl. His perfect little angel. Harry blew him and Padfoot kisses, just as Barty taught him. Barty pretended to catch his and clutch it to his heart.
“With throwing his plate, screaming at you, making a mess.”
“Why not?” asked Barty, genuinely confused. “He was upset because he wanted pancakes instead of eggs for breakfast, and now he’s gonna help me make them.” Barty cast another adoring look at Harry, who was now hissing at the snakes that decorated the rim of the mixing bowl.
“It teaches him that you’ll give him whatever he wants if he screams and yells.”
“I always give him whatever he wants,” Barty pointed out. “He doesn’t have to scream or yell.”
“That’s because you spoil him,” said Sirius.
Oh, for the love of… Not this argument again. Barty didn’t have the energy to deal with this. He was exhausted, and, for some reason, his limbs ached.
“He’s not spoiled!” Barty insisted. “He just knows what he wants and knows it’s my job to give it to him.”
“Why don’t you try giving him a bit of discipline?”
“Because he never does anything wrong,” Barty said simply. “He’s my perfect little Lamby.”
“Barty, come cook with me!” Harry called. Despite his aching limbs and exhaustion, Barty hurried to obey.
“You’re spooooooooiliiiiiiiiinnnng him!” Sirius said in a singsong voice at Barty’s retreating back.
Barty ignored this in favor of carefully measuring out the ingredients for Harry to pour into the bowl. He allowed Harry to break the eggs (his Lamby’s favorite job), then fished out the yolks, leaving them with the egg whites the recipe called for. Barty’s vision began to blur. He really was exhausted. He continued the task on autopilot, slicing strawberries to add to the batter.
It was then that Harry noticed the welts beginning to form on Barty’s face. They were the same welts he himself had only last week. “Go to bed, Barty,” Harry commanded. “You’re gettin’ Dragonpox.”
“I’ll finish fixing your breakfast first, Lamby,” Barty yawned.
When an exhausted Harry was reluctant to go to sleep at night, Barty used stories, lullabies, warm milk, and bribery in a process that could take hours. Harry’s method for putting Barty to bed was much more efficient. “NO!” Harry screamed. “Go to bed NOW! I want you to GO TO SLEEP!”
“Yes, My Lord,” Barty said automatically, turning the stove off before hastening to obey.
Barty hurried to bed and pulled up the covers. Harry came over with the bowl of sliced strawberries. “I’m gonna give you breakfast in bed, cuz you’re sick,” his Lamby announced. “Strawberries are yummy, and I don’t hafta use the stove!”
“Thank you, dearest!” said Barty, touched.
Barty and Harry shared the bowl of strawberries while Harry “read” Barty all the Dora and Diego books (in practice, this meant flipping through the pages and pointing out all the pictures of Marvolo the Owl- Barty’s favorite character).
Barty smiled sleepily as Harry cuddled up against him, chattering engagingly about the misadventures of Marvolo. His Little Prince wasn’t the least bit spoiled.