Not a single word was uttered among those of us who now occupied what had only moments ago been assumed as Professor Moody's office. It would've made for an unbearable silence if not for the distant, muffled wails from the commotion that still lingered far below on the castle grounds. If my attention had not been so preoccupied, I might've wondered if one of the cries I was hearing was still that of Cedric's father, but Barty Crouch held my gaze with such a blazing intensity that even my very thoughts were ensnared by him.

Part of me wanted to run to him and make certain he was real. I wanted to free him from the ropes that were binding him. I wanted to touch him, to hold his face in my hands, to lose myself in those dark eyes just as I used to so very long ago.

Another part of me wanted to turn and run the other way. I wanted to run from the room, and I wanted to never stop running, because this part of me knew he was somehow connected to the horrifying tragedy I'd just witnessed— to the dead child lying on the grass below.

Yet all of this was overshadowed in my mind by a single desperate question: how could he be here at all?

The sound of footsteps approached from behind me and, with great willpower, I finally tore my eyes from Barty's gaze. I'd only barely stepped aside to allow passage before Professors McGonagall and Snape hurried past me to join Dumbledore. It wasn't until then that I realized Harry Potter, injured and unsteady, was standing at Dumbledore's side.

Snape paid me no mind. McGonagall, however, spared a glance over her shoulder at me. I assumed she was confused by my presence, but she must have then seen something in my face, and whatever it was she saw, it melted her expression into one of sympathy before she looked back to Dumbledore. I attempted to compose myself and found that the sight of Barty had sent new tears streaming down my cheeks.

As I dried my face with the back of my sleeve, a small house elf darted into the room.

"Master Barty, Master Barty!" came her shrill cry, and I recognized her as Winky, the Crouch family's house elf. I'd met her once before, so many years ago, on the day Barty had invited me to his home to celebrate his outstanding N.E.W.T. scores. She was one of the most attentive and loving house elves I'd ever met. Now she threw herself, disheveled and dirty, to the floor in front of Barty.

"What is you doing here, Master Barty?!" she continued to shriek, her fingers gripping the ends of her bat-like ears and pulling them downward. "You isn't ought to be here! You is getting into trouble!"

Barty's eyes flickered to stare down the length of his nose at her, and his lips curled into a scowl.

"You is belonging at home! You isn't ought to be here," Winky continued, until she put her face into her tiny hands and wept. Barty merely looked away as if she weren't there. I'd never seen him act so cruelly toward her.

"Severus," said Dumbledore, who'd been so still and quiet that his voice surprised me despite its gentle tone, "do you have the potion?"

Snape placed a small vial of clear liquid that I recognized as Veritaserum into Dumbledore's waiting palm. Dumbledore then stepped toward Barty.

"Kindly open your mouth," instructed Dumbledore, and I knew I wasn't imagining the faintly threatening edge to his soft words.

Barty glanced around at each person in the room as if weighing his odds. I didn't know if I could bring myself to duel him if it came to that, but he must've decided the odds were stacked too highly against him anyway, for he gave a cheeky grin before complying. Dumbledore tipped a few drops into Barty's open mouth. Barty grimaced at the taste but swallowed it down nonetheless. I hoped he wasn't foolish enough, for his own sake in these circumstances, to try and resist the serum.

"What is your name?" Dumbledore asked.

Barty locked eyes with him and spoke plainly, "Bartemius Crouch, Junior."

My heart gave a jolt. It was the first time I'd heard his voice in nearly fourteen years. The sound of it, deep and rumbling and just as I remembered, struck me even harder than the sight of him had, and I put my hand against a desk cluttered with magical artifacts to steady myself.

"Son of Bartemius Crouch, Senior," continued Dumbledore, "Head of International Magical Cooperation?"

"Yes."

Dumbledore's voice softened. "And where is he now?"

There was a pause, and then a grin spread widely across Barty's face. "By Hagrid's hut, where I killed and buried him."

Winky's agonized wail filled the room. If not for the constriction in my chest that suddenly kept me from drawing breath, I might've joined her.

Dumbledore waited for Winky to quiet into shaky sniffles before continuing. He questioned Barty about his escape from Azkaban; his captivity under his father; his deceptions while in disguise as Moody; and his successful plot to revive Voldemort by manipulating both Harry Potter and the Triwizard Tournament.

I listened to the interrogation as though from underwater or behind glass. I heard the voices and the words they formed, but it all seemed so apart from me.

Barty had murdered his own father. Voldemort had returned to power. The boy I once loved had just reignited one of the most devastating wars in all of history.

I felt sick.

Winky was still bleating "oh, Master Barty!" through her tears. Snape's brow was furrowed, McGonagall's lower lip trembled, and Harry looked as though he desperately needed to lie down.

Barty merely lolled his head back and smiled. "He will reward me," he said with satisfaction. "I alone was loyal to the Dark Lord. He will recognize me as a hero!"

"The man you worship," muttered Dumbledore pityingly, "has never recognized anyone beyond his own self."

The smirk on Barty's face fell. Dumbledore turned away from him.

"Minerva," instructed Dumbledore, "please go to the grounds and alert Cornelius Fudge of our prisoner. He may want to question Crouch himself. Then I would like you to assist Amos Diggory and his wife in any manner they require."

McGonagall nodded and swiftly left the room, her hand reaching up to her cheek as she rounded the corner.

"Severus," Dumbledore now turned to Snape, "please take Alastor Moody to the hospital wing, and bring Winky along with you."

Snape drew his wand from his robes and conjured a floating stretcher in midair. Then, from a large, open trunk by the wall, Snape extracted the unconscious body of the real Moody with a levitation spell, and he laid Moody prone on the stretcher, which followed him as he then hastened away. Winky, her face shiny with tears, trailed after them, seemingly no longer able to look at Barty.

Dumbledore finally turned to look at me. I flinched, his gaze alone ripping me from my reeling thoughts and thrusting me back into reality.

"Miss Harper," said Dumbledore quietly, "I believe you and Crouch were acquainted?"

It was stunning that he recalled me so well from my academic years. I stole a glance at Barty, who now stared me down as he'd done when I first entered the room. "Yes," I breathed.

"Will you please stand guard here while I take Harry elsewhere? I'm sure the Minister will come about in no time."

The part of me that wanted to run had my body bracing, but I forced myself to breathe. "Yes."

Dumbledore nodded. He gently took Harry's arm and guided him out the door.

Barty and I were all who remained, and the silence between us was broken only by the distant unrest on the castle grounds. My hands began to tremble. I tried desperately to think of what I should say after all I'd just heard.

Then, as he watched me, the tension in Barty's face gradually eased, the corners of his mouth tugging into the very slightest of smiles.

"Hello, June."