This story is mine, all mine. The characters and locales may not be, though.

I Think, Therefore I Am

"The moment that - that thing entered the room, it swooped down on Crouch and - and..."

Professor Minerva McGonagall was quite right in her description of what had occurred in the office of the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and her statement of what she saw was an entirely accurate summation of events. What she didn't see was what happened after. Something involving a dementor, a woman, a watch and a promise.

Prologue

It wasn't a conscious decision, the brief hesitation before she opened the door. She wasn't afraid of the man on the other side, or the news she had come to deliver. Nor did she care much for the politics involved (her current appointment to Head of Magical Law Enforcement had been at the disgrace of the man she was about to see). Were she the type to ruminate on her actions, she might come to the conclusion that the seconds pause was in sympathy for a life lost, nothing more. Amelia Bones wasn't a woman who fell into tales of woe, nor did she have any particular opinion on the victim, but a life lost was a life lost. Some could call the circumstances tragic, others might see it as justice; Amelia just saw a life that had been unnecessarily cut short. And someone had to deliver the news.

She turned the knob and entered the office.

Perfectly parted grey hair bent over a stack of parchment. Only when he noticed her presence did his frame straighten and his quill pause. He placed the feather swiftly back into the ink bottle and Amelia noted the slightest downturn of his shoulders. Their departments had little reason to communicate, and for Amelia to appear personally could only mean one thing.

"Madam Bones, I take it you've come to speak about my son?" He deduced.

"Yes Bartemius, I'm sorry."

She didn't need to say the word, it was already understood. There was only one real thing to report from Azkaban (with the exception of an escape, which was very unlikely. How Sirius Black had managed it still remained a mystery).

Bartemius Crouch cast his eyes towards a picture on his desk. "When was this?"

"Last night. Azkaban reports that the dementors say that he is no longer suffering." She generally wasn't one to mince words, but that was the exact phrasing she had received in her report.

"I see. Well, I must inform my wife, I can't imagine she'll receive this well." He stood. "If you'll excuse me."

"Of course."

Amelia had made it just outside the door when a wiry lad in oversized robes burst into the office, an equally pale boy with red hair right behind him. "Mr Crouch is in a meeting at the moment, I must insist-"

The puffing blond ignored him, his attention split between Amelia and gulping down air, "Madam Bones."

"Deakin? What is the meaning of this?"

"It's alright Weatherby," Crouch interjected, forestalling any comments from the redhead who was still trying to remove Deakin from the room.

Weatherby - or Percy as he's more accurately known - looked at his boss, and then Madam Bones. "Very well, I shall wait outside." Considering the door was open and Amelia Bones was already outside, Percy took this to mean back at his desk by the department entrance. His departure went unnoticed.

"I trust this is important," Amelia prompted Deakin, who held up one hand to stall, and the other to his chest. It was quite possible Deakin had never run so much in his life.

"Yes Ma'am. It's about Crouch."

"Yes, I have already informed his next of kin, as you can clearly see." The impatience in her voice spoke volumes on social cues and etiquette, all of which Deakin was oblivious to.

"No ma'am, I mean he's not dead."

"What?" Echoed across the room, and Deakin finally realised where he was.

His eyes bugged as he noticed Bartemius Crouch standing behind his desk. "Err..."

"What do you mean, he isn't dead?" Amelia pressed.

Deakins' eyes seemed to pull his gaze back to Amelia. "They were transferring him out of his cell, and he suddenly woke up."

"One does not simply 'wake up' from death," Crouch said.

"The dementors must have made a mistake," Amelia surmised.

"No ma'am, that's the thing. They're adamant he was dead. And now..." He trailed off.

"Now what? Spit it out, Deakin." Amelia ordered.

"Now they won't go near him, ma'am," Deakin finished.

The silence following that statement was almost tangible. Quick to act, Amelia was the first to speak. "I apologise for any undue concern I may have caused you, Bartemius. Rest assured I will be getting to the bottom of this."

"Amelia, if I may-"

"I'm afraid I must insist," She cut him off, "at least until we understand the situation."

When he looked ready to protest, she added, "I'll make sure our top Auror to sorts this out, and I will keep you informed of the outcome."

With little else to say, Crouch simply nodded.

Madam Bones nodded in return, before quickly sweeping from the room. Deakin quietly followed.

Crouch stood there as the door shut, his mind awhirl. When he eventually sat down, he picked up his quill and a fresh sheet of parchment, though work was currently far from his mind.

.-.-.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Rufus Scrimgeour, I am the Head of the Auror Office for the Ministry of Magic."

Barely visible under the sparse light Rufus' wand emitted, the man's mouth formed a small 'o'. "And who am I?"

Rufus turned to the warden, whose name was Phillip. Phillip G. Anthiel. He was short, grey-templed and balding with a lean - almost gaunt - figure. He was the last in a long line of short, balding Anthiels whose physical appearance stemmed from their long-serving position as caretaker of Azkaban. Before that, the Anthiel family had owned an athenaeum. With his square, half-rimmed frames it was easy to picture Phillip delivering stern glares to anyone who dared raise their voice above a whisper as he lectured on the intricacies of magical theorem.

It was this very quality about him that made his opinion worth hearing to the likes of Rufus Scrimgeour.

"It is not a trick," Phillip spoke in a smooth, measured tone. "Since awakening, he seems to have no recollection of where he is or even who he is. Or anything at all pertaining to people, places or culture. I have personally checked for evidence of a memory charm."

"And?" Rufus nudged.

"Nothing. He genuinely does not know a thing."

"But I can hear."

They both turned to the man in the cell. He had his hands in tucked in his pockets and an innocent look on his face.

"He must be lying then." Rufus declared. "Veritaserum shall settle this."

"Veritaserum can be fooled," Phillip countered, "and I don't believe he is lying."

Rufus turned his attention to Phillip and waited for an explanation.

Phillip did not disappoint. "The dementors had announced him deceased. Whether it is true or not remains to be seen. However, since that point they refuse to be in his presence - not out of fear, it seems, but rather... disinterest. It's as though he has nothing they want. And we all know what they want..."

The gears in Rufus' head began to spin. "They feed on happiness..."

"And were he a true amnesiac, he would have no memories for them to feast upon. An empty shell, as it were." Phillip finished.

"You speak as thought his memories are gone, not repressed. There is no magic that can do that."

"That you know of."

Rufus and Phillip faced their captive, who spread his arms wide.

"Still here." He smiled. "And still can hear. Did you just say 'veritaserum'? That's Latin, isn't it? Latin..." He tasted the word on his tongue. "Latin. Lat-in. Lat-IN. And Dementors, you said?" He frowned. "Fitting, I suppose. They're not a lively lot, are they? Bit of a downer at parties, I imagine."

"You remember." Though it was a question, Rufus posed it more like an accusation.

"Not really," he replied. "Though it does seem sort of... familiar. Latin, latin..." He chewed the word over. "Veritaserum and Dementors... Can anyone else taste that? It's sort of," His tongue darted out as though he were tasting the air, "I don't know. Well, I do know," he corrected, "I just can't... remember." His tongue flicked out again.

Rufus stepped closer to the cell. "Who are you?"

"I don't know."

"How did you do this?"

"I don't know."

"What did you do?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" He looked down at his outstretched arms with a frown.

Rufus tried another track. "So you admit this is your doing."

"No, I admit that I don't know. Pay attention Rufus. Honestly I'm disappointed. Phillip here is using that tiny brain of his to some surprisingly astute results, and the best you can do is hope to trick me into a lie? That doesn't say much about the Auror Office of the Ministry of Magic, does it?"

"Well what do you know?" Rufus was quickly growing annoyed.

With a smirk his prisoner slowly slinked up to the bars. "I'll tell you what I don't know, Rufus Scrimgeour, my name. So I'll make you a deal; you tell me my name and I'll tell you what I know." He flexed his eyebrows, smiling in the knowledge that he would get exactly what he wanted.

When Rufus could see no measurable loss at parting with the information, he replied. "Your name is Bartemius Crouch."

"Bartemius Crouch." He tested it out.

"Junior."

"Junior? Does that mean there is a Bartemius Crouch Senior someplace?"

Rufus smiled. "My turn. Tell me what you know."

"Oh, that," He shrugged." I know you can't wrap your hand around your elbow and make your fingers meet."

Rufus stared at Barty Crouch with a look that sent most people scurrying. The only effect it had on Barty was to incite mimicry, right down to the muscle twitch in the jaw.

"Keep him locked up," Rufus instructed Phillip, though his eyes focused on Barty. "No one is to have any contact with him. If you notice anything else - anything - I want you to inform me immediately."

Barty merely raised an eyebrow, and Rufus turned and left.

His palpable anger quickened his stride, and Phillip scurried to keep up. "There is one thing."

Rufus halted so suddenly that Phillips' glasses slipped down his nose when he stopped to avoid running into him.

He pushed the frame back up his nose and continued. "His clothes."

"What about his clothes?"

"Well, they're not his clothes."

"Phillip..." Rufus may have stopped walking but his patience was still making its way out the door, thanks to a certain convicted criminal.

"He's too clean," Phillip explained. "No one thinks to send clothes in for the prisoners - most of them are still in the clothes they were convicted in. But Master Crouch, his are new. Clean even."

Rufus thought back to the man in the cell. Pressed and clean and perfectly fitting his frame. With no wand to create or alter, they surely had to come from someone. "Who gave them to him?"

"That's the thing, no one knows. When the dementors brought him back to his cell, he had them on."

The next words sprung out of Rufus' mouth before he had time to think on them, "Are you sure it's the same person?"

Phillip's reply was simple, "Who else could he be?"

AN: For those who may be interested, this story takes place in the same universe as another fic I'm writing ("Twenty Years Apart"). However if you're not a fan of Supernatural don't worry, this story will stand alone (pending a possible cameo).