Moody was standing, staring at the spot where Harry's body had been, his eyes wide with shock and horror at what he had done. The rage that had consumed him moments ago dissipated, replaced by a sickening realization of his mistake. He cursed himself internally, knowing the consequences of his actions. The Dark Lord would not take kindly to this failure; punishment was inevitable.
As Moody berated himself, a sudden impact sent him crashing against the wall. He scrambled to his feet, wand at the ready, only to find Harry standing there, alive, his eyes blazing with rage and determination. Moody's confusion was evident as he tried to comprehend what had just happened.
Moody's gaze sharpened as he pieced together the events leading up to this moment. The realization dawned on him, a mix of admiration and resentment coloring his tone. "Illusion magic," he stated flatly, his voice devoid of its usual gruffness.
Harry remained silent, his posture and expression unyielding, confirming Moody's suspicion without a word. "When?" Moody pressed, seeking to understand the extent of Harry's foresight.
"Something seemed off when you started questioning me about dark magic," Harry replied, his voice cold, "so I took a precaution. Constant vigilance." The irony of using Moody's own advice against him wasn't lost on either of them.
Moody's response was a twisted smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "You're not at all as they described," he mused aloud, eyeing Harry with a newfound respect mixed with caution. "I can feel the power coming from you. That stance, too... If I didn't know any better, I'd assume you were a professional duelist."
In response, Harry's expression turned into a snarl, his patience wearing thin. Without warning, he launched a spell at Moody, who deflected it with ease. The exchange escalated quickly, the air crackling with the tension of their confrontation.
"You're not Moody. Who are you?" Harry demanded, his instincts screaming that the man before him was not the Auror he claimed to be.
At this, Moody—or the person masquerading as him—let out a maniacal laugh, chilling in its glee. "See for yourself," he taunted.
Before Harry's eyes, the man began to transform. The weight seemed to drop from his body, the magical eye popped out, and the wooden leg detached itself, clattering to the ground. In place of the grizzled Auror stood a gaunt, thin man with hollow eyes and a predatory smile.
"Who are you?" Harry repeated, his wand still trained on the imposter.
"Barty Crouch Jr.," the man introduced himself, his voice a sinister echo of the man Harry had thought he knew.
Harry's recognition of Barty Crouch Jr.'s name sent a shiver down his spine, his mind racing as he recalled the details Professor Blackwood had shared about Voldemort's most dangerous and loyal followers. These were wizards and witches of formidable power, known for their ability to take on multiple aurors without sustaining any damage. The realization that he was now facing one of them alone tightened Harry's grip on his wand, his body instinctively preparing for a battle of life and death.
"You were supposed to be in Azkaban," Harry stated, more to ground himself in the reality of the situation than to elicit any response from Crouch.
Crouch's silence was unsettling, his eyes a void of madness and malice that no amount of Occlumency could shield Harry from. The brief distraction cost Harry, as he narrowly avoided a spell that whizzed dangerously close, demolishing a chunk of the wall behind him. The realization hit Harry hard and fast; Crouch's speed was exceptional.
Recovering swiftly, Harry retaliated with a barrage of spells – a blasting curse aimed at destabilizing Crouch, a cutting curse to injure, and a stunning curse to incapacitate. Each spell was dodged with a dancer's grace, Crouch's movements eerily fluid under the moonlit sky.
Then came an orange spell, its speed unparalleled, leaving Harry no choice but to conjure a shield. The impact of the spell against the shield sent shockwaves through Harry's arm, forcing him back several steps. The raw power behind the spell was a clear message; Crouch was not only fast but possessed a level of magical strength that Harry had rarely encountered.
"Not only is he fast, he's also very powerful," Harry realized, his mind racing to find a counterstrategy. The knowledge that he was up against a wizard of such caliber forced Harry to recalibrate his approach. It wasn't just about casting spells now; it was about outsmarting one of Voldemort's most dangerous followers.
"I'll have to be really careful," Harry thought, steeling himself for the next phase of the duel. Every move from here on out had to be calculated, each spell cast with precision and intent. The stakes were higher than they had ever been, and Harry knew that any mistake could prove fatal.
Understanding the disparity in their speeds and experience, Harry knew he had to shift his strategy. The realization that Crouch was not only fast but also possessed a level of magical prowess that rivaled the most powerful wizards Harry knew, forced him to adapt quickly. Ducking under another spell that nearly grazed him, Harry felt the weight of Crouch's madness and power, a combination that made him a deadly adversary.
As debris from the demolished wall scattered, Harry's mind raced for a solution. His usual reliance on agility and quick thinking seemed inadequate against an opponent like Crouch, whose speed and intent to kill were unlike anything Harry had faced before. The laughter that erupted from Crouch was chilling, a testament to his insanity and his enjoyment of the duel's deadly stakes.
"Show me your power, Potter. Show me how you defeated the Dark Lord," Crouch taunted, his voice dripping with disdain and madness. His mood swung wildly, an unpredictable and dangerous edge to his already formidable skills.
Forced into a defensive stance more often than he liked, Harry acknowledged the harsh reality: his spells were ineffective against Crouch. It was time for a change in tactics. Recalling his magical training, Harry decided to tap into the raw elemental power he seldom used. Conjugating lightning with a focused intention, he launched it at Crouch, immediately following it up with a blasting curse. The combination was a gamble, hoping to catch Crouch off guard.
Crouch's shield absorbed the lightning, a testament to his reflexes and magical strength, but the subsequent blasting curse managed to push him back slightly. It was a minor victory, but it gave Harry a glimmer of hope.
"You're good, Potter. But not nearly good enough to beat me. You lack the experience," Crouch boasted, regaining his footing with an ease that belied the impact of the blasting curse.
Without a moment's hesitation, Crouch unleashed a flurry of spells aimed directly at Harry. Each one was lethal, designed to kill, not just incapacitate. Harry realized then that this was not just a duel; it was a fight for survival against a madman who had nothing to lose.
In that moment, Harry's resolve hardened. Experience might not have been on his side, but he had something else – determination and the unwillingness to give up. Dodging and weaving through the barrage of spells, Harry prepared to make his next move.
Crouch charged towards him with unnerving speed, Harry was momentarily caught off guard. The intense physicality of the duel became apparent as Crouch grabbed him and threw him to the side, causing Harry to crash into the windows. Before he could gather his senses, Crouch was upon him again, leaping forward with ferocious intent. The impact shattered the window, and both combatants fell from a significant height.
In the rapid descent, Harry's training kicked in. He pointed his wand at the ground, casting a cushioning spell to soften their landing. Just before impact, he shouted, "Arresto Momentum!" His wand glowed with a purple light, significantly slowing their fall. The spell worked just in time, and Harry's body gently touched down, though the relief was short-lived.
Scrambling to his feet, Harry spotted Crouch also rising, several feet away. Despite the fall, Crouch's insane smile was undeterred as he complimented Harry, "Quick thinking, Potter. You're a lot better than they give you credit for." His tone was mocking, filled with a madness that chilled Harry to the bone.
Without hesitation, Crouch launched another spell, a purple jet of light that Harry parried away. "The Dark Lord isn't going to be happy with Malfoy. He gave us the wrong information about you," Crouch muttered, almost to himself, revealing a trace of frustration with their intelligence.
Determined to end the duel, Harry concentrated all his power into a blasting curse. Crouch hastily conjured a shield, but the force of Harry's spell was too great. The shield shattered, and Crouch was thrown backward with violent force. Harry hoped that would be the end, but to his dismay, Crouch staggered to his feet, laughing maniacally.
"Your spell work is magnificent, Potter, but let's see how you handle close range," Crouch taunted, suddenly conjuring a dagger and rushing towards Harry.
Reacting instinctively, Harry conjured his own dagger, meeting Crouch's charge. The clashing of their blades sparked in the dim light, each strike more desperate than the last. Crouch, skilled in melee combat, managed to slice Harry's shoulder, drawing blood and eliciting a sharp cry of pain from Harry.
Gritting his teeth through the pain, Harry channeled his frustration and anger, releasing a blast of lightning directly from his hand. The bolt struck Crouch squarely in the chest, burning through his shirt and scorching his skin. The attack forced Crouch back, his laughter turning into a cough as he assessed the damage, his eyes burning with an unhinged fire.
Crouch raised his wand to the sky, Harry felt an ominous surge of magical power emanating from it. Crouch's voice was a deadly whisper, chilling in its finality. "I'm going to end it here," he declared. "Fiendfyre."
Harry's heart sank as he recognized the name of the spell; immense, uncontrollably hot flames burst forth from Crouch's wand, soaring into the sky and morphing into the forms of mythical beasts. The fire creatures, a terrifying spectacle of destructive magic, swirled above them, their fiery forms threatening and alive. Crouch's laughter rang out maniacally as he directed the flaming beasts towards Harry.
Desperate, Harry responded the only way he knew how, firing bolts of lightning at the beasts in an attempt to hold them off. When lightning proved ineffective, he resorted to blasting pure magical energy, but each effort drained him more, his reserves of strength waning rapidly. Sweat poured down his face, not just from the exertion but from the intense heat generated by the Fiendfyre. As the fire inched closer, Harry gritted his teeth, feeling an overwhelming sense of despair. He closed his eyes, bracing for the end.
Suddenly, a loud boom echoed through the area, and Harry felt a surge of cooler air. He opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by blue flames that were pushing back the cursed Fiendfyre. Turning around, he saw Professor Blackwood striding towards him, his expression one of furious determination. As Blackwood glared menacingly at Crouch, another loud crack resounded, and Professor Dumbledore appeared beside them.
Crouch cursed loudly at the sight of the two powerful wizards. In a desperate move, he pulled something glowing blue from his pocket. Clenching his teeth and closing his eyes, Crouch seemed to struggle with the object, his body tense with effort. Moments later, a thunderous sound filled the area, so loud that Harry was forced to cover his ears, the ringing nearly overwhelming him.
When Harry finally dared to look again, Crouch had disappeared. The immediate threat was gone, but the air was still charged with tension. Dumbledore and Blackwood exchanged quick glances, their faces a mixture of relief and concern.
Harry gasped for breath, still reeling from the ordeal, Blackwood and Dumbledore rushed over to his side. Blackwood, with a flick of his wand, performed a quick diagnostic spell to check for injuries. His tone held a mix of concern and exasperation as he asked, "How are you, Potter? Always getting yourself into trouble, aren't you?" Despite the sarcasm, his eyes scanned Harry carefully for any signs of serious injury.
Harry managed only a scowl in response, too winded to come up with a retort. Dumbledore, ever the voice of reason, intervened. "Let's get you to the medical ward before we have any further discussion," he said decisively.
In that instant, Dumbledore's phoenix appeared, flashing brightly. With a soft cry, it enveloped them in a blaze of flames, and they were transported directly to the medical ward. As they arrived, Dumbledore called out, "Poppy!"
Madam Pomfrey came rushing out, her expression fraught with concern. "What is it?" she shouted, her eyes widening as she took in Harry's battered state. Quickly, she ushered him to a bed, her skilled hands moving efficiently as she began her assessment. "Dear God, Harry, how do you keep getting into these situations?" she muttered, using her wand to scan him thoroughly.
"It seems you have magical exhaustion and a deep cut on your shoulder from a knife. How did this happen?" Madam Pomfrey looked from Harry to Dumbledore, seeking an explanation.
Harry glanced at Dumbledore, who nodded slightly, giving him permission to speak. Harry began recounting the events that had led to his confrontation with Crouch, including the dangerous spells and the near-fatal encounter with Fiendfyre. As he spoke, Dumbledore's expression grew darker, his concern evident.
"I'll be right back," Dumbledore said abruptly after Harry finished his explanation. With another flash, he was gone, leaving Harry with Blackwood and Madam Pomfrey.
"It seems the wards of Hogwarts have been damaged," Blackwood murmured under his breath, almost to himself but loud enough for Harry to hear.
"Is that how Crouch was able to get away?" Harry asked, piecing together the implications of the damaged wards.
Blackwood nodded solemnly. "Yes, it appears so. The breach in the wards must have provided him with an opportunity to escape using some form of powerful magic, possibly tied to that glowing object he used."
Madam Pomfrey, overhearing part of their conversation, shook her head in dismay as she continued treating Harry's wounds. "Focus on getting better, Harry. We'll handle the rest," she advised, her tone both stern and caring.
As Harry lay back, letting Madam Pomfrey's skilled hands heal his wounds, he couldn't help but feel a mixture of relief and unease.
Dumbledore returned to the medical ward, he was not alone. Accompanying him was an old, grizzled man who appeared worse for wear—Alastor Moody, the real one. As they entered, Dumbledore called out, "Poppy!" prompting Madam Pomfrey to rush over. Her expression shifted to one of shock and then professional concern as she quickly assisted Moody onto another bed adjacent to Harry's.
"Good to see you again, lass," Moody grumbled, his voice raspy but imbued with a familiar grit.
"You too, Alastor. Though I'd prefer you being in a better condition," Madam Pomfrey replied, already busy administering potions and waving her wand to assess his condition.
Moody chuckled, "I'm glad to see a reunion. But there are dire circumstances that need to be explained. Alastor, start us off," Dumbledore interjected, turning the mood towards more serious matters.
Moody nodded slowly, his face somber. "Well, it all happened after you offered me the position at Hogwarts. I was wandering through a ground after I heard reports of Death Eater activity there. I wanted to investigate it myself. That was when I was hit from behind by three Death Eaters. They got the better of me, I apologize, Albus."
Dumbledore dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. "It wasn't your fault, Alastor," he assured him gently. He then added, "We can continue this discussion after you get better. For now, you need to rest, my friend."
Moody, looking visibly relieved, nodded and drank a potion that promptly put him to sleep.
All eyes then turned to Harry. His brow furrowed with confusion and concern, he asked, "Sir, I thought Crouch Junior was supposed to be in Azkaban?"
Dumbledore shook his head, his expression grave. "He's not supposed to be in Azkaban. He's supposed to be dead. Reports I had received told me that he died about six months ago. I'm going to have to talk to Crouch Senior about this," he stated, his eyes hardening with the resolve to seek answers.
"But how was he able to break the wards of Hogwarts? Aren't they supposed to be super powerful?" Harry inquired further, trying to grasp the magnitude of what had transpired.
"No magic is infallible," Dumbledore explained, his tone serious but calm. "The wards are indeed powerful, but they are not indestructible. However, I am surprised that he managed to damage them to a degree where he could escape. If he had been using it to enter Hogwarts, I'd suspect he would've died due to the backlash of the magic."
Dumbledore's thoughtful musing was interrupted by Blackwood, who insisted, "We can talk more about this later, but for now, rest."
With a nod of agreement from Dumbledore, the focus shifted back to recovery. Harry, his mind swirling with the day's revelations and the fatigue of battle, closed his eyes and let sleep take him, while Dumbledore and Blackwood quietly exited the medical ward, leaving the room in a hushed stillness.
Exhausted and wounded, Crouch fell heavily to the ground outside the darkened hideout. His body burned with pain, each breath a struggle, his magical reserves nearly depleted from the night's exertions. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he forced himself upright and stumbled toward the looming mansion that served as their current headquarters.
As he staggered through the dimly lit hallways, Peter Pettigrew met him halfway, his eyes wide with a mix of concern and fear. Crouch, in no mood for pleasantries or pity, snarled viciously and shoved Pettigrew aside, continuing his painful trek upstairs.
He reached the room where Voldemort was waiting, the air thick with dark magic and dread. As he entered, Voldemort's piercing gaze met his, the Dark Lord's eyes narrowing in immediate disapproval and suspicion.
"What are you doing here, Barty? You're supposed to be on your mission," Voldemort hissed, his voice cold and menacing.
Swallowing his fear, Crouch stammered, "They found out who I was." His voice was a mix of despair and exhaustion, knowing well the gravity of his failure.
Voldemort's magical aura flared in anger, a tangible wave of fury that filled the room. Crouch felt an overwhelming pressure against his skull as Voldemort brutally invaded his mind, sifting through his memories with invasive force. He collapsed in agony, his cries muffled by the carpet as Voldemort witnessed every detail of the encounter at Hogwarts.
"Crucio!" Voldemort snarled. Instantly, Crouch's body was wracked with unbearable pain, his screams echoing off the stone walls. "You let a child provoke you!" Voldemort's voice was a venomous whip, lashing out as he intensified the spell. "Perhaps you have truly gone insane."
After what felt like an eternity, Voldemort finally ceased the spell, leaving Crouch trembling and gasping on the floor. "You are fortunate, very fortunate that I gave you that ward breaker. You would've been dead by now," Voldemort continued, his voice dripping with disappointment. "I am disappointed in you, Barty."
With a weak nod, Crouch listened as Voldemort commanded, "But at least you were able to get the boy's blood. Give me the dagger, Barty." Trembling, Crouch handed over the blood-stained dagger, which Voldemort promptly sealed in a preservation jar, likely for some dark ritual yet to come.
"Go to Pettigrew. He will give you a potion," Voldemort concluded, his tone indicating that the conversation—and Crouch's immediate suffering—was over for now. "We will discuss your punishment later."
Nodding weakly, Crouch left the room, each step away from Voldemort's presence easing the tightness in his chest slightly. Yet the fear of what was to come, of the punishment that awaited him, lingered heavily as he made his way to find Pettigrew. This night had been a failure, and in Voldemort's domain, failures were paid for in pain and blood.
Voldemort retreated deeper into the shadowed recesses of his chamber, his mind churning with the vivid images pulled from Crouch's memories. He brooded over the fact that Crouch had lost control so easily, a failure that had nearly compromised their carefully laid plans. However, Voldemort was not entirely displeased; the ritual blood had been forcefully taken, salvaging something from the debacle.
Crouch, despite his flaws and the deterioration wrought by Azkaban, remained a formidable wizard, one of Voldemort's most trusted inner circle members. The fact that Harry Potter had managed to nearly best him was both impressive and unsettling. Voldemort pondered this deeply.
The Dark Lord's equal
The notion was both laughable and irksome to Voldemort, who dismissed it with a cold sneer. Powerful the boy might be, but he was not as powerful as Voldemort himself—especially not once the ritual was complete and he regained his full strength. Then, he would personally ensure the boy's demise.
Yet, there was one detail in the memories that gnawed at him—the flames that the other professor used to combat the Fiendfyre. It was an unexpected and highly effective defense, one that had obviously been taught or given by someone else. The mysterious blue flames had quenched the chaotic and destructive magic of the Fiendfyre, a feat that intrigued Voldemort greatly. What magic was this that could counteract one of the most uncontrollable and powerful curses known to wizard kind?
Voldemort's interest was piqued. Never before had he encountered or heard of such a defensive spell capable of neutralizing Fiendfyre so effectively. It suggested new depths of magical theory and practice that he had yet to explore or understand. This realization did not sit well with him; knowledge was power, and any unknown variable like this was a potential threat—or a potential weapon.
Determined to uncover the secrets behind these mysterious flames, Voldemort decided that further research was necessary. If such magic existed, that could thwart even the mighty Fiendfyre, it was imperative that he learn of it, master it, and ensure it could never be used against him again. With a new resolve, he began to plan his next steps, his mind already racing through ancient texts and arcane lore that might shed light on this new enigma. Meanwhile, the preparations for the ritual continued, each step bringing him closer to the ultimate power he sought and the final confrontation with Harry Potter that it would inevitably bring.
He would need to rearrange his new plans due to Crouch's mishap. However, it was no trouble for him. He was the Dark Lord after all.
Harry groaned as he attempted to rise from his bed in the hospital ward, his body aching from the recent ordeal. Madame Pomfrey, hearing the noise, quickly rushed over and gently but firmly pushed him back down, her tone both stern and caring. "Stay in bed, you've exhausted your body and it needs rest," she instructed, handing him a few potions. Harry grimaced as he swallowed the bitter concoctions, but soon felt some relief as the dull pain began to subside.
Just then, he noticed a figure entering the hospital ward. Looking up, he saw Dumbledore approaching with a concerned expression. "How are you feeling, my boy?" Dumbledore asked softly.
"A lot better than last night, Professor," Harry responded, managing a weak smile.
Dumbledore nodded and returned the smile, a glint of relief in his eyes. "I'm glad." He then straightened up, his demeanor becoming more serious. "Would you be willing to come to my office for a brief moment so we could talk about last night's events?"
Eager to leave the confines of the hospital ward, Harry nodded in agreement. At that moment, Dumbledore's Phoenix appeared, and with a flash, they were transported directly to the headmaster's office. They landed smoothly, and both took seats as Dumbledore settled into his own chair behind the desk.
Harry then recounted the entire encounter with Crouch once more. Dumbledore listened intently, nodding at intervals as Harry finished his tale.
Taking a deep sigh, Dumbledore began to explain his perspective. "The Hogwarts wards alerted me when he used the Fiendfyre spell. Unfortunately, one of the many flaws of Hogwarts is that it only picks up on spells that have the potential to destroy the entire castle. Professor Blackwood and I got there as soon as we could." He paused, his expression turning grave. "It seems the artifact that Crouch had used, coupled with the Fiendfyre, damaged some of the Hogwarts wards. Not a lot, mind you—90% of them are still up and fully functioning. However, even damaging 10% of Hogwarts is an incredible feat. I myself would probably only be able to damage 15% if I used every bit of magic I had before I died from exhaustion."
Harry listened, relieved to hear that Hogwarts was still largely protected but sobered by the revelation of its vulnerability. "If only I could've beaten him," he lamented, a hint of frustration in his voice.
Dumbledore chuckled heartily, a sound that filled the room with a sense of warmth and reassurance. "You did wonderfully, my boy. You almost beat him, a very impressive feat, may I say. Crouch is one of the most dangerous Death Eaters from Voldemort's group. He's taken down an entire Auror squad by himself when he was in his prime," Dumbledore reassured him.
"That being said, we will ramp up your training regimen once again. We do not know what Voldemort is planning, but you must be prepared," Dumbledore concluded.
Harry nodded.
And there you go, told you i'd have the chapter to you before 6 month's.
I decided to go a little AU with this, but i promise i have everything built up.
Also The Is Up. The Next Chapter will be published there in 2 days and here in a week or so.
remove the spaces.