Harry stared at the map in horror: The neat, clear lettering of Neville's name was visible in Moody's office with Bartemius Crouch.
Before he could think about it, he let the map flutter to his bed, already racing out the door and down the steps. So clear was his need to get to his friend, to save him, he didn't even hear Hermione calling after him. It was a gut reaction, an impulse: See a friend in trouble, see a threat, do something.
He'd just reached the portrait hole, steps away from clambering out, when he felt fingers curl around his wrist.
"Harry, hold on," Hermione pleaded frantically. "Listen to me for a second!"
Harry turned to look at her. Her eyes were fearful and she was clutching his wrist in a vicelike grip that would give a devil's snare a run for its money.
"We need to help Neville!" Harry insisted. "We don't have time for this!"
"I'm worried about Neville, too!" she cried. "But we have to be smart about this."
"Hermione, he's in there with the Death Eater who tortured his parents!" Harry responded heatedly. Why were they even still talking about this?
"I know," she said quickly, "I know. But, Harry, he's been in there alone with Moody before—so have you! I don't know what Crouch's plan is, but it clearly doesn't involve attacking anyone just yet. He's worked hard to blend in here. He won't just throw all that away to attack Neville."
"So you think we should just leave Neville in there?"
"I think that's safest," Hermione said urgently. "I don't like it any more than you do, but this isn't like the Shrieking Shack when we thought Ron was in immediate danger. Crouch's target isn't Neville—it's you. He's not going to give himself away by attacking Neville now, not when he could've done that at any time this whole year."
Harry let out a breath. When he actually took a beat to consider the situation, he could see she had a point. And yet, he still didn't like it; he wasn't someone used to standing back and doing nothing.
Sensing that she was getting through to him, Hermione added, "If we let things play out, Neville will leave that office soon enough, unharmed. But if we go racing in there, alerting Crouch to the fact that we're on to him, who knows what he'll do."
Though she was confident in her words, he could tell by the slight shake in the hand that still wouldn't let go of his wrist that she was clearly worried, too.
Her eyes searched his, and he could read a thousand emotions in hers—fear, desperation, anxiety, love, compassion, and underneath it all was her relentless levelheadedness, that shrewd, logical nature of hers that had saved his life time and again.
She had always backed him, even when she thought he was being foolish and impulsive. If he ran into that office right now, he had no doubt that she'd be standing by his side, and then he'd be putting both of his best friends in danger.
"Harry, please," she repeated forcefully.
He let out a breath. She was right. Logically speaking, Crouch wasn't going to attack Neville unless someone gave him a reason to. And yet, nothing about doing nothing felt right to him. Neville was his friend, and standing back felt like abandoning him.
"We can't just sit here and wait," Harry said, and he felt Hermione's hold on his wrist lessen as he spoke.
"We won't," Hermione replied. "We'll—we'll go find Professor Dumbledore. So he can be ready to do whatever he has to as soon as Crouch is alone."
It was a good plan. Harry nodded at her, and Hermione summoned the map from where he'd left it atop his bed. When she caught it, he mentally berated himself for not even bothering to wipe it clean before he'd left.
Dumbledore wasn't in his office, and after what felt like hours of searching later, he couldn't be found anywhere in the castle either.
"Maybe he left?" Hermione suggested. "Or he's in Hogsmeade?"
"There!" Harry said, pointing to Hagrid's hut. Clear as day were the names Rubeus Hagrid and Albus Dumbledore, appearing quite still. They were probably sitting down at Hagrid's table.
"That's perfect!" Hermione said. "We can tell him without worrying anyone will be listening in."
They checked the map for anyone who could get in their way—Crouch was still in his office with Neville, Mrs. Norris was skulking around on the fourth floor, Filch was in the staff room, and Peeves was bouncing around near Ravenclaw Tower.
"We should take the stairs by the trophy room when we head down to the second floor—they're furthest from Moody's office," Harry said. Hermione nodded.
Harry wiped the map clean, and tucked it into his pocket.
They hurried down a couple of staircases, then reached a dead end—the stairs had a pesky habit of moving—so they raced down the corridor that housed the prefects' bathroom, past several bored and sleepy portraits—they didn't get very many visitors down these corridors on Sundays. They ran around corners, through tapestries, up a flight of stairs just to go back down another, through a secret passageway that enabled them to bypass Mrs. Norris, down two more flights and through the trophy room and down another two flights. They had reached the marble staircase, and Harry could see sunshine streaming into the entrance hall from the open oak doors—they were almost there. Just one more flight, across the foyer, and they'd be out on the grounds, on their way to Hagrid's hut.
He took the last of the stairs and then skidded to a halt.
There, standing 10 feet in front of him, were Neville and Crouch, still wearing Professor Moody's face.
He felt Hermione jerk to a stop next to him, heard her slight intake of breath, but didn't dare look at her for fear they'd give themselves away.
Crouch smiled broadly, walking over to meet them, Neville in tow.
"I was just having a chat with Longbottom," he said. "He told me you've got some wounds that need looking at, Granger. I told him I couldn't give him anything for you unless I saw your hand, so we came to find you."
"Down here?" Harry asked skeptically.
"He said you'd been down in the kitchens," Crouch answered. "Now, let's have a look."
He gestured to Hermione to raise her hand, and Hermione did, trying to act as normal as possible. Harry could see her hand shaking slightly. So could Crouch.
"Just hurts a bit still," she said by way of explanation, offering Crouch a tremulous smile. Harry relaxed slightly beside her—she always had been good at coming up with lies that sounded like reasonable explanations.
Crouch studied her hand and then nodded.
"Come along to my office," he said. "I've got just the thing."
"Oh, honestly, Professor, it's not that bad," Hermione protested. "Madam Pomfrey said the ointment she gave me just takes a little while to work."
"Even still, you should take care of it now," he insisted.
"Thank you, but we actually need to get out to Hagrid's," Hermione replied. "He's expecting us."
"Oh?" Crouch looked surprised. "He usually dines with Professor Dumbledore this time on Sundays."
Harry felt his stomach drop. It had been a good lie—letting Crouch know an adult would come looking for them if they didn't turn up—if only Dumbledore didn't have a standing invitation to Hagrid's.
"You can come have tea with me, and I'll look at your hand. I insist," Crouch said, and there was a menacing undertone that sent a chill down Harry's spine. But it was impossible. How could he possibly know?
Harry and Hermione glanced at each other, and then Harry took a closer look at Neville. He hadn't said anything yet, not even hello, which was strange for him. What was wrong with him?
Harry slid his hand into his pocket, feeling for his wand, but before he could do anything, Moody twirled his own wand in Hermione's direction and she gave a little jolt.
"Yes, tea sounds lovely," she said, a bright smile on her face.
And Harry knew exactly what was wrong with Neville—and now with Hermione. With sickening certainty, he knew that his best friends were under the Imperius curse.
Moody grinned at Harry once again. "What do you say, Potter?" he asked quietly. "Will you come along with us to my office, or shall I have a private discussion with your friends?"
Harry weighed his options. Just outside the oak doors, the courtyard was teeming with students, and so was the Great Hall, not 20 feet away—but who would believe him? And what would Crouch do to the other students if they tried to stop him? And if he didn't go with Crouch, if he managed to escape, what would Crouch do to Hermione and Neville?
His heart was beating faster as he remembered Crouch's words when he taught them about the Imperius Curse those many months ago: "I could make it jump out of the window, drown itself…"
Harry felt his insides rebelling at the thought. It was Harry that Crouch wanted. He couldn't abandon his friends now, and yet going with Crouch wasn't a smart play either.
He couldn't think, couldn't move, searching for something to help them, and it came in the unlikeliest form: Out of the Great Hall walked the Weasley twins. George was whistling a jaunty tune, and Fred was holding a giant cake that they must've nicked off the Gryffindor table. They looked happy and carefree and completely at odds with Harry's current predicament.
"Oi, Harry!" Fred called. "Fancy a—" He saw Professor Moody and cut himself off. "I swear, Professor, we have no plans to do anything with this cake but eat it."
"And if you should happen to hear about a certain Slytherin git getting a cake thrown in his face later on, I can promise you it has nothing to do with this here cake," George added. "Definitely some other cake."
Moody looked at them impassively. "Carry on then, boys," he said, and Fred and George saw nothing amiss with that. This was, after all, the man who turned Malfoy into a ferret.
But Fred and George were frowning at Hermione.
"Nothing to say, Hermione?" George asked.
"Where's your ever-present look of disdain and disapproval?" Fred asked.
"Actually brother, I'm pretty sure her patented display of dismay and disgust is only present when we're around," George whispered.
"Well, we're around, aren't we?" Fred responded.
Hermione shook her head disapprovingly, and Harry knew it had been a command from Crouch.
"There it is," George smiled. "I almost thought there was something wrong."
Crouch turned to Harry. "Are you coming, Potter?" he asked, his eyes boring into Harry's.
And then something clicked for Harry. Any other Death Eater would've killed Harry months ago—or done something to him right here. Crouch may have put his name in the goblet of fire, but he also helped him with the first task. Whatever this plan was, it didn't involve killing Harry just yet, which gave him something he desperately needed—time.
And just like that, Harry had a plan. Telling Fred and George was risky—Crouch could have them under the Imperius before Harry even got the words out—but Harry didn't need to speak to tell the twins anything.
"Yeah," he said, "tea in your office sounds great."
He moved forward, pushing between Neville and Fred in a way that made Fred lose his balance and drop the cake. Harry hoped it looked accidental to Crouch, like he was so nervous about the circumstances that he just couldn't help it, and as the cake smashed into pieces on the ground, Harry slipped the map out of his pocket and down onto the demolished cake. He turned his body, so Crouch couldn't see it, hoping he wasn't looking at the floor with his magical eye.
"Harry!" Fred admonished.
"Sorry," Harry said.
He looked at Fred, caught his eyes, and then looked down at the cake significantly, making sure not to move his head so Crouch wouldn't get suspicious. Fred and George flicked their eyes down imperceptibly with the practiced ease of two troublemakers who were used to avoiding the watchful gaze of authority figures. They looked up at Harry questioningly, and he gave them a slight nod before turning to Crouch.
"Let's go," he said, with as much steel in his voice as he could muster.
Crouch looked back at Fred and George suspiciously, but they were each holding a handful of cake, threatening to hit the other with it. The map had vanished out of sight.
The walk up to the second floor and to Moody's office sped by, even as Harry desperately hoped to delay them as much as possible. He hoped he hadn't miscalculated—that Crouch wouldn't decide to chuck the whole plan the moment he got Harry alone, away from the prying eyes of the paintings. He slid his hand into his pocket and grasped his wand, weighing the merits of attacking Crouch now. But he wasn't a match for a Death Eater, especially one who had total control over his two best friends—he knew that. What he needed was reinforcements.
It was all down to Fred and George. If they looked at the map, they'd probably think it was Barty Crouch Sr.—but they'd have to at least be suspicious about that, and Harry hoped with everything he had that they would go and get a teacher.
It wasn't in Fred and George's nature to do that, but it was all he had. Until then, he just had to keep Crouch talking, keep him from doing whatever he was planning to do, keep his friends alive and safe.
Each portrait they passed—three ladies having tea, a man walking a dog down a country lane, a court jester performing for a crowd—all seemed to be looking at him with pity, as if they knew Harry was walking toward his doom.
Hermione and Neville entered the office, and Crouch gestured for Harry to follow. To the left was Moody's desk—piled high with dark detectors—behind which sat a bookcase filled with books about Defense Against the Dark Arts. In the corner stood a trunk.
To the right was a small sitting area—and Harry felt sickened when Neville and Hermione sat down in a couple of armchairs, helping themselves to tea like this was a perfectly normal, ordinary Sunday.
Across from Harry, Moody's foe-glass hung on the wall, indistinct, shadowy figures moving around in it. Harry briefly closed his eyes, berating himself once again. He had completely forgotten about the foe-glass. He wasn't exactly sure how they worked, but that must be how Crouch had found out.
He turned around and heard a faint—yet deafening—click. The door had been magically sealed.
Crouch leaned back, studying him. "You know what my favorite dark detector is, Potter? My foe-glass. You see, a foe-glass isn't like a sneakoscope, which goes off every time someone lies, even if that lie is harmless. A foe-glass doesn't just show you someone who dislikes you—it shows you someone intent on doing you bodily harm, someone who poses a threat," he explained. "A trained wizard can hide himself from a foe-glass, so that he only shows up in it when he's right outside your door. But that requires practice, discipline, the ability to control your emotions. Which means occasionally, the foe-glass can pick up enemies from further distances—like across an entire castle, perhaps—if that enemy isn't shielding his emotions and poses a big enough threat."
And then he confirmed what Harry already suspected.
"Not long after Longbottom got here, your face popped up," Crouch said. "And there's only one reason why you'd show up in my foe-glass, Potter. If you somehow found out my secret."
He looked at Harry curiously. "How did you find out?"
Harry needed to keep him talking, needed to get his eyes away from the foe-glass, so he wouldn't be alerted to help when Fred and George got it.
"What does it matter?" Harry asked, as he edged toward the desk.
"I can just ask Granger," Crouch replied. "She's quite agreeable right now."
Anger churned inside Harry. "She can fight it off," he insisted. "She's stronger than you think."
Crouch's face looked hollow, his eyes haunted, like he was reliving a bad memory.
"It can take even the strongest wizards years to fight against the Imperius when the person who cursed you knows what they're doing," he said.
"I didn't find it that difficult," Harry retorted, earning a look of pure rage from Crouch. Harry inched to the other side of the desk, forcing Crouch to turn away from the foe-glass.
"How did you find out?" Crouch asked again.
A different tack then.
"Snape accused me of stealing boomslang skin," he said. "And we saw you buying it. And then we saw you in Snape's office."
"Snape," Crouch sneered, pure venom in his voice. "There's nothing I hate more than a Death Eater who walks free." His mouth was curled into a grimace, his eyes hard, and Harry thought perhaps it was the truest thing this man had ever told him.
"Did you know him?" Harry asked. "Back in your Death Eater days?"
Crouch snorted derisively. "Don't think you can distract me from my goal, Potter," he said. "This may have put a kink in my plans—"
"A kink?" Harry asked incredulously. "Voldemort wanted you to put my name in the goblet of fire, to get close to me. That's going to be pretty hard to do, what with me knowing you're a Death Eater and all. Puts a bit of a damper on any student/teacher bonding you've got planned."
Crouch's nostrils flared. "How dare you say the Dark Lord's name," he hissed, advancing on Harry menacingly.
Harry noticed he didn't exactly deny being in league with Voldemort.
"Why did you put my name in the goblet of fire? And then why'd you go and help me with the first task?" Harry asked.
Crouch smiled faintly. "The Dark Lord's plans aren't for you to know," he said.
"If you were going to kill me, you'd have done it already," Harry said. "Voldemort wants something else, doesn't he?"
Crouch narrowed his eyes. "You're not as dumb as your house suggests," he said. "But it's no matter—this is nothing a memory charm won't fix."
"Obliviate!" Crouch shouted at the same time Harry countered with "Impedimenta!" and jumped down behind the desk. He heard dark detectors skitter off of it from the combined impact of their spells.
Harry heard Crouch moving around the desk, and he scrambled to the other side.
"Stupefy!" Crouch yelled, and Harry barely managed to deflect it as he was thrown backwards, crashing into the table that held Neville and Hermione's tea kettle. They looked at him blankly as he rolled off the now broken table and behind the love seat across from them, no hint that they even noticed the mess.
Harry had a brief image of the Dursleys' neighbor, a little girl named Gemma, who often had tea parties with her teddies in the yard, and the thought of comparing his friends to those stuffed animals—playthings—sickened him.
Crouch advanced on Harry with grace and ease—he was more powerful than Harry, more practiced than him, knew more spells than he did, and as Harry tried to hold off his attacks, Crouch deflected his spells effortlessly. The only thing saving Harry was the fact that Crouch didn't seem to want to hurt him—Obliviate, Stupefy, Petrificus Totalus, Rope-Binding spells… all designed to capture, not kill.
Why didn't Voldemort want Crouch to hurt him? What was his master plan?
Harry needed to get Crouch off balance.
"Incendio!" Harry shouted, and Moody's wooden leg burst into flames. He doused it with water, but it was too late—most of the wooden leg was gone and he was limping even more now, unable to fully support his weight on one side. Harry hit him with a knockback jinx that sent him smashing into his desk.
And still, Neville and Hermione sat, drinking their tea. Harry looked at Hermione—tried to will her to snap out of it—but it was hopeless. The only thing that could break an Imperius was Crouch lifting it, Crouch dying or Hermione's strength of will breaking it herself.
Harry looked at the foe-glass—the shadows looked a bit more defined, but maybe that was just his imagination.
Crouch hobbled up on his good leg, and let out a cry of frustration. "Reducto!" he cried, exploding the love seat in front of Harry. Harry felt shards of its frame pierce his skin as he covered his face from the debris.
Crouch sent a shot of yellow light at Harry, and he crashed into the wall behind him. His head snapped back painfully, and his wand rolled from his hand on the impact. He struggled to get up—could feel pain in his ankle and felt blood dripping down his head.
Crouch conjured up a walking stick and advanced on him, laughing cruelly, wand raised, as Harry fought desperately to reach his wand—he needed help, needed something—but while his fingers were achingly close, the wand remained just out of reach.
"Obliviate!" Crouch yelled, but his wasn't the only voice Harry heard.
Hermione was standing, her wand straight out, her eyes focused on Crouch as she aimed a hex-deflection spell at Crouch's Obliviate, knocking it off course. Harry felt his heart soar—she'd fought off the Imperius!
She looked at Harry, relief and fear evident in her eyes, her intelligent brown eyes that no longer bore the docile look of someone controlled, and Harry smiled at her, feeling renewed vigor for the fight.
Harry stood up. He might not know spells that were designed to kill, but he did know spells that could slow Crouch down—Expelliarmus, Petificus Totalus, Locomotor Mortis, Furnunculus, Rictumsempra—Harry tried anything that could hold him off, that could give Fred and George time.
He felt Hermione move beside him, adding her wand to the effort. But even with her added skill, they were shouting curses that Moody waved away effortlessly—he was used to this sort of prolonged battle and they were not.
The room had been destroyed. Torn books were strewn across the floor, dark detectors littered the ground and almost all of the furniture was smashed up. Inexplicably, the foe-glass remained on the wall—Crouch must've used the strongest sticking spell out there for it.
Harry felt more cuts and bruises, a painful slash on his back. Hermione had a nasty gash on her arm and a split lip.
Crouch looked at them coolly. "Enough of this," he sneered. "Stop resisting me or…"
He trailed off, looking pointedly at Neville. Their friend stood up, dropping his teacup to the ground where it smashed with a comically silent tinkle considering the noise they'd just been making. He started walking toward the window.
"Oh!" Hermione cried, and Harry heard those words once again—"I could make it jump out of the window"—and without hesitation, Harry hit Neville with a banishing charm that hurtled him across the room, smashing into the wall. There was blood gushing from a cut on his head; he was dazed—had possibly been knocked unconscious.
Harry let out a shaky breath—better knocked out than dead. Somehow, Harry doubted that Neville's accidental magic would save him when he was under the Imperius Curse the way it saved him when his Uncle Algie accidentally dropped him out a window.
The window! The courtyard below was filled with people, and if Fred and George hadn't figured out his clues, maybe someone else could. With a surge of inspiration, he aimed a banishing charm at some of the broken furniture. It flew out the window, the glass shards twinkling in the sunlight as the entire mess fell to the ground. Surely, someone would come investigate that.
Catching on, Hermione cast a spell that let out a piercing, persistent wail. Harry covered his ears—saw that the others had, too—and he sent up a silent prayer that someone would hear the noise.
Harry glanced back at the foe-glass—and saw Professor Dumbledore and Hagrid! Elation ran through him— all they had to do was hold him off long enough for the cavalry to arrive.
Crouch's head followed Harry's gaze and when he saw Dumbledore's face staring back at him, his own face twisted in fury. Before Harry realized what was happening, a nonverbal spell knocked him and Hermione back painfully.
Gripping the floor, Harry struggled to get up, raising his wand once more at the grizzled man—only he was no longer grizzled. His hair was shorter and turning fair, his scars were disappearing, and with a clunk, the charred remains of his wooden leg fell to the floor and a flesh-and-blood one regrew in its place. The magical eye popped out and rolled across the floor, as a real one replaced it in his eye socket.
Harry heard a strangled sort of sound next to him, and glanced over to see that Neville, now fully awake, had managed to claw his way up the wall, half standing now. No longer was there the placid expression of someone who'd been Imperiused on his face. He was transfixed, his face awash in terror and hatred and anger, as he recognized the man standing in front of them as the one who had tortured his parents.
"Y-you!" Neville gasped.
Crouch smiled cruelly at Neville, laughing pitilessly, and Neville, forgetting all pretense that he was a wizard, rushed forward, tackling Crouch to the ground.
Seeing their opportunity, Harry used the disarming charm on Crouch, successfully grabbing his wand, while Hermione shouted "Alohomora!" at the door. They rushed forward, intending to grab Neville and run, but Crouch snatched Neville's wand from his hand and shot a burst of purple light at Neville. Harry vaguely heard Hermione's scream—she was standing next to him, yet seemed far away—but far louder was the sickening thud as Neville fell to the ground.
And then Crouch looked at Harry and Hermione, and Harry knew exactly what spell he would use next. Crouch had been playing with them, but Albus Dumbledore, the only wizard Voldemort ever feared, was on his way. Harry and Hermione were standing between him and the door, and there wasn't time left for games.
Harry could see it in Crouch's eyes. After all, that's what Crouch had been trying to teach them in their first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson this year, wasn't it? How to know when you're about to be hit with the Killing Curse.
Did Hermione see it, too?
There was no defense against it, no way to protect yourself. Harry had survived once because of his mother's sacrifice, but that wouldn't save him now. And yet, Harry knew with total certainty that this Killing Curse wasn't meant for him. Crouch had put his name in the goblet of fire for a reason. Even now, he hadn't attacked Harry with lethal force. Whatever Voldemort's plan was, he didn't want Harry dead yet—and Crouch had followed that plan this entire duel.
Dumbledore and Hagrid were looming larger in the foe-glass, but Harry doubted they'd be in time to stop it.
Harry saw Crouch raise his wand, a maniacal gleam in his eyes. Harry didn't have time to think, could only move purely on instinct—and he rushed toward Hermione, pushing her to the ground. His vision was obscured by a sea of dark curls as they fell painfully to the ground together.
Harry was vaguely aware of the sound of the door crashing open at the same time a cold, cruel voice shouted "Avada Kedavra!"