Severus Snape's harsh nature had its merit, along with his experience in Dark magic. He was swift, efficient, and quite unmoved while inspecting Fleur Delacour's state; all one could read in the arch of his eyebrow was wry surprise. The young girl had been Stunned—if a pocket of air in the soil had allowed her to breathe this long, it was by a pure stroke of luck. Without a word, Severus followed the headmaster's instructions, levitating her towards the hospital wing.
Albus stood up. By his side, Mr Kuldeep's expression betrayed his troubled countenance. Although there was fresh earth on his fingers, Albus felt compelled to reach out and touch the other wizard's shoulder.
"I'm so sorry. None of this was supposed to happen."
Mr Kuldeep nodded. "We must hurry. I'll send a word to Mr Ganghuli. If the other children have been buried like this too, they'll soon run out of air."
It was necessary to first release the creatures from the maze and dispose of the bushes with all their enchantments. The sphinx had been led out moments earlier, and Hagrid's task was to ensure the removal of the Acromantula, the blast-ended skrewts, and the leprechaun while Minerva would capture the Boggarts in boxes. When she heard of Miss Delacour's ordeal, she applied herself to the search even more desperately, shock having drained her face of colour.
Young Ganghuli returned halfway into their task and started shrinking the hedges back to their seed form. He worked quietly, yet small sniffs punctuated his spells, as if he could not contain himself. Coming closer, Albus saw moisture on the boy's face.
"What's wrong?"
Ganghuli's chin trembled. "N-nothing. It's… it's not important. It's just, th-that wizard was s-so rude. He called me a piece of h-houmous and sh-shoved me… I d-didn't d-do anything to him."
There was little room in Albus's mind to think of Naum Krum's entitled insolence for the time being; nevertheless, he patted the youth's arm.
"I'm sorry. That man is something else—he insulted everyone in the maze until Professor Hooch stepped in. I promise I'll deal with him."
The instant Aurora's section was free of hedges, the soil was upturned with magic—a single spell sufficed. They found no one else concealed below the ground. It was time to move on to Alastor's section, and quickly so; the Auror had admitted to having spent a significant portion of the task unconscious, which meant his part of the maze had remained unsupervised. One by one, the bushes shrank into the soil while the brown patches of grass were divested of magic. Every swish of their wands brought them nearer the centre of the maze, towards the point where Eunike the sphinx had guarded the path to the Triwizard Cup. Albus held his breath; he knew the moment of truth was upon them.
There was no patch of brown grass anywhere in sight. That part of Alastor Moody's memory had been a lie.
As he stood on the path where Fleur Delacour had been Stunned and prevented from reaching her prize, Albus pondered his suspicions, striving to find patterns in the events. It had started on the first day of school when Alastor had arrived after hours of delay. He had suffered a disturbance during the night: a level of disturbance severe enough to warrant an investigation by the Ministry. There was even more: both Justice and Sirius had reported the presence of an intruder around Hogwarts. Why, Harry himself had noticed one Barty Crouch breaking into Severus's office… only for potion ingredients to be stolen.
With a gasp, the headmaster turned on his heels and strode off towards the main entrance—whether to alert his staff or to seize Barty with his own hands, he was not sure. He did not get far: instead, he all but collided with Mr Kuldeep, whose voice shook with urgency.
"Mr Potter and Mr Diggory have been found! Pankaj just notified me. They're right in front of the maze."
There was such relief in this piece of news that Albus's knees nearly gave out. They rushed forth, the remaining hedges gliding out of their way. Leaving the maze felt like an entrance onto a stage: the wind, the noise, the glimmer of numberless enchanted globes seemed overwhelming at first. Yet what truly paralysed the headmaster was the sight of the two children in the grass. The few onlookers who had chosen not to partake of refreshments in the Great Hall were starting to congregate around them. Something was very wrong. The frame of one of the boys—it was stiff, the feet unmoving…
The old wizard practically flew over the ground; his blood appeared to have solidified into blocks of ice. Yet no matter how badly he wished to be mistaken, his sight had not deceived him. Cedric Diggory's eyes remained wide-open, but nothing aside from the motionless body was left of the young, healthy, gifted boy. Life had been snatched away from him.
By his side lay Harry, his face pressed into the grass. He was clutching the Triwizard Cup with one hand while the other one was closed around Cedric's. Just as Albus approached, someone from the Ministry was bending down to turn the boy—much too roughly—onto his back. The green eyes blinked at the night. He was bruised, bleeding, and shattered in spirit.
"Harry! Harry!"
Albus dropped to his knees, trying frantically to assess the extent of the boy's injuries. He did not expect smaller, desperate fingers to clasp his wrist with a surprising force.
"He's back," Harry whispered. "He's back. Voldemort."
Yes—the suspicion if not knowledge of Voldemort's return had been brewing inside Albus ever since he had noticed the inconsistency of the memories shared with the audience. He felt vaguely grateful for the fact that Gellert's vision, while having come true, had not presaged Harry's death after all. But Cedric—
"What's going on? What's happened?"
It was anyone's guess what Cornelius Fudge was doing there with a half-eaten sandwich in hand.
"My God—Diggory!" he breathed. "Dumbledore, he's dead!"
The crowd was thickening around them, the blank faces listening avidly and absorbing the words before spreading them further until they echoed.
"Harry, let go of him," Fudge said, not unkindly.
Sure enough, one of the Ministry employees attempted once again to pry the boy's fingers loose. Harry resisted.
Albus placed his palm on Harry's feverish hand. He rendered his unsteady voice as gentle as he could.
"Harry, you can't help him now. It's over. Let go."
The child's gaze bore into his.
"He wanted me to bring him back. He wanted me to bring him back to his parents…"
"That's right, Harry. Just let go now."
With a burst of irrational anger at the black-robed employee who kept handling the wounded boy, Albus stood up and pulled Harry to his feet. The poor child swayed: he had been pushed to the brink of his physical, emotional, and magical capacity.
"He'll need to go to the hospital wing—he's ill, he's injured!" Fudge was waving his sandwich around in his effort to be helpful. His voice dropped. "Dumbledore, Diggory's parents—they're here, they're in the stands…"
Albus's heart almost stopped. He whipped around to see whether the Diggory couple were coming among the wizards and students forcing their way onto the pitch. The minister carried on.
"I'll take Harry, Dumbledore, I'll take him."
This had a sobering effect. Even though Voldemort had recovered his body, he had failed in his plan to murder Harry. Nowhere was safe for the boy as long as Barty Crouch roamed free.
"No, I would prefer—"
"Dumbledore, Amos Diggory's running, he's coming over. Don't you think you should tell him—before he sees—"
This time, there was no mistaking them: the wizard was sprinting in their direction, his wife close behind him. Some of the teachers had already found their way to the commotion: a shaken Minerva had wound her arms around Pomona, who pressed her hands to her mouth, tears trickling between her fingers. Severus had returned as well.
With an unnerving sense of lucidity, Albus faced the exhausted child.
"Harry, stay here."
The next instant, the crowd parted to let the Diggorys through. Amos dropped to his knees by Cedric's body, panic taking hold of him. It felt immoral if not downright violating to witness his realisation and his desperate attempt to oppose it. It was unbearable to watch him call out to his son, imploring him to wake up. He wailed and choked on his grief, and then Ann Diggory's tears fell onto the boy's features as she held his face.
Even with this tragedy on display, the buzzing sounds of the crowd did not quieten. An entire group of people came running: Umbridge followed by Fudge's security team.
"Oh, minister!" The witch glanced down at the Diggorys, suppressed a little scream of horror, and started fussing over Fudge's robes, as if to check him for injuries. "Are you all right? We've been looking for you everywhere. It's not safe for you here." She motioned towards the head guard. "Take the minister to safety!"
"Dolores, I'm fine," Fudge protested.
It was clear whose orders held weight: arguing helplessly, he was steered out of sight.
Albus turned around. Harry was no longer standing behind him. No matter which way he looked, the boy was gone. Barty—Barty had taken him. Terror spiked to an overwhelming degree.
"Headmaster Dumbledore," a composed voice spoke suddenly, "young Mr Diggory's body needs to be moved as soon as possible."
Andrew Kim had emerged from the Ministry ranks. He slightly bowed his head.
"If we don't do it, there will be even more rumours and speculations. Besides, the grieving family needs some privacy. Please tell me which place is most suitable. I will assist you in any way you require."
It was true: more students were coming out of the castle if the growing clamour was of any indication. Albus considered Pomona, who hung back respectfully despite her own grief. He knew Mr Kim was neither his ally nor his friend. But in this instance, he was offering help, and help was sorely needed.
"Do you remember where the greenhouses are? Professor Sprout's office is located inside the second one. If you could please take Mr Diggory there—I will come as soon as I can. Thank you so much."
With a nod, Mr Kim strode off to give directions to his subordinates.
Time was of the essence. Young Barty Crouch could lead Harry out of the school grounds and force him to Side-Apparate, which had to be avoided at all costs. Albus briskly gestured for Minerva and Severus to follow him out of the Quidditch Pitch, away from the Ministry staff. They caught up with him in time to see him summon Lompy, the head house-elf.
"Please gather as many elves as necessary to locate Professor Moody," he imposed. "He might be anywhere in the castle or on the school grounds. If he is on his way out, prevent him from leaving. If he is hurting Harry, stop him at once. I wish to be notified the second he is found."
Obediently, the creature vanished, and Albus straightened up, his head spinning. Severus and Minerva stared at him; the witch was drawing a breath to question his orders.
"Alastor Moody is not who he says he is," he explained before she could ask. "He's an impostor, a Death Eater pretending to be Alastor. He put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire, and now he is trying to finish what he started."
As was customary in times of emergency, Severus's expression betrayed nothing. Minerva, however, leaned in, her eyes wide. Too many shocking events had occurred since sunset.
"Alastor? How—what—Albus, how do you know this?"
"I will explain later. First, we must stop him."
A pop rang out within seconds; this was how promptly the house-elves had found the culprit. Still disguised as Alastor Moody, Barty had not even tried to run away; he had chosen instead to find refuge in his office, bringing Harry with him.
One final order remained to be given: the elves were to lead Sirius towards Hagrid's pumpkin patch, where he would await further instructions in his Animagus form. This done, Albus signalled for the two teachers to hurry along.
Anger was surfacing now that uncertainty was over. A boy had died because of Barty's schemes. Another boy had barely escaped murder. Cedric's parents, his girlfriend, his close friends, Pomona Sprout, Harry—death ruined and altered lives; it left pain and grief and guilt in its trail. No matter how misled the Death Eater had been, there could be no pardon for this.
The castle was agitated, even though it was past midnight. As if sensing their urgency, the moving stairs glided smoothly, ready to transport them to the second floor. Whether through his senses, amplified by anxiety, or through imagination, Albus heard a raised voice; its sharp, aggressive cadence lent him the unbidden mental image of the late Crouch Senior. He brought his feet to move as fast as they could, his fingers tight around the Elder Wand.
A locked door meant nothing: the weight of his magic almost tore it off its hinges. There stood Barty with Alastor's wand in hand—he had pointed it straight at the boy—his good eye bulging with manic fervour the headmaster had never seen on real Moody's face. But he would never hurt another child—this Albus could promise.
"Stupefy!"
The impostor was sent flying across the chamber. He hit the wall and slumped over, unconscious. Albus's first impulse was to disarm him, which he did at once. Turning Barty onto his back, he wondered how he had never noticed anything was amiss. There had to have been signs, yet until the end, he had not felt suspicious. Behind him, the two teachers were taking in the scene.
"Come along, Potter." Minerva's voice broke with emotion. "Come along… hospital wing."
Harry observed them with exhausted bewilderment. His torment had to end tonight; prolonging it was unthinkable.
"No," Albus said firmly.
The witch's words were pained like a mother's, "Dumbledore, he ought to. Look at him. He's been through enough tonight."
"He will stay, Minerva, because he needs to understand." He knew that even if she disagreed, she would not disobey his orders. "Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery. He needs to know who has put him through the ordeal he has suffered tonight, and why."
A few words slipped out of Harry's mouth. "Moody. How can it have been Moody?"
The idea of a trusted teacher turning into a monster was comparable with the terrors the boy had already endured. Albus opted for a gentler tone.
"This is not Alastor Moody. You have never known Alastor Moody. The real Moody would not have removed you from my sight after what happened tonight. The moment he took you, I knew, and I followed."
A simplified explanation, but the one the boy needed to hear most. Harry ought for once to feel in control and not as a helpless child, always last to hear the news. For his sake, it was best to pretend as though Albus had no inkling about the Death Eater's true identity.
The Stunning Spell had not faded; the impostor still lay motionless. Behind him glistened the locks of a large trunk. It was so painfully obvious, now that they knew. With a sigh, the headmaster chose his course of action. He only had one doubt left: had he severely misjudged young Barty and his level of humanity?
Lowering himself to the limp body, he found a set of keys and a flask in the inner breast pocket of Alastor's coat. If indeed the Death Eater was more malevolent than Albus had given him credit for, the questioning had to be conducted on two levels: through Legilimency as well as a verbal confession. He instructed Severus to solicit Winky's help and fetch a vial of Veritaserum in the process. Meanwhile, Minerva's task was to escort Sirius upstairs so that Harry could soon be reunited with his godfather.
With this, Albus proceeded to unlock the trunk, one key at a time. He knew, deep in his soul, what manner of sight he was about to discover in the seventh compartment. This was the sort of trunk in which Aurors would bring criminals to the Ministry for interrogation. With its decoy compartments, the trunk was but a mode of transport; it had never been intended to hold a person captive for an extended period of time. Still, it had become Alastor Moody's prison for nearly a year.
Harry watched, astonished, as Albus climbed inside, landed beside Alastor's unmoving form, and bent down to assess his state. The wizard was alive—had this not been the case, the Polyjuice Potion would have lost its effect—but extremely weak; it was uncertain whether his legs could support him any longer. There was parchment-like dryness to his forehead; his fingers were ice-cold. What was more, Dark magic hovered in the air, testifying to the presence of an Unforgivable Curse. Alastor had been deprived of food and water, of his magical eye and his wooden leg, of light and warmth, of movement and even his free will.
"Stunned. Controlled by the Imperius Curse. Very weak." The headmaster kept his intonation even, as if Harry were his partner in investigation, rather than one of his students. "Of course, they would have needed to keep him alive. Harry, throw down the impostor's cloak; he's freezing. Madam Pomfrey will need to see him, but he seems in no immediate danger."
The cloak fluttered into the pit; together with a Warming Charm, it would suffice to keep the Auror more comfortable until the matron was called. After climbing out, Albus directed Harry's attention to the Polyjuice Potion inside Moody's flask. His mind, however, dwelled on a silent question. He had now witnessed the conditions of the Auror's captivity and could see only two possible answers: Barty was either a monster or a madman. Neither option made sense. This dissonance frustrated him to no end, but he had to remain collected for the child's sake.
They did not wait long. The body sprawled before them began transforming. The Auror's weathered features yielded to Barty Junior's leaner ones; his grey hair turned flaxen; the powerful frame shrank. Except this face… one could not call it young. No wizard of Barty's age was supposed to have a forehead lined with suffering, white streaks in his hair, or hollow cheeks. He had once been a student at this school, and this was the future he had achieved.
Albus felt his fury ebb. In its place came sadness and more questions with no simple answers.
The door flew open. Amid cries of shock, he heard a desperate lament.
"You is killed him! You is killed him! You is killed Master's son!"
Winky had flung her small arms around Barty's neck. One could hardly have pictured a more fiercely devoted mother. A twinge of guilt ran through Albus.
"He is simply Stunned, Winky. Step aside, please. Severus, you have the potion?"
He did. The vial changed hands in silence. After pulling the unconscious wizard into a sitting position, Albus administered the Veritaserum.
"Rennervate."
Barty opened glazed eyes. They were a very pale blue.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes."
They now faced each other on the same level.
"I would like you to tell us how you came to be here. How did you escape from Azkaban?"
With a deep breath, the impostor started speaking. He had a naturally quiet, thoughtful voice. As Albus listened, he lent half his attention to the pale blue eyes—words alone could not tell the full story.
Veritaserum was a powerful sedative, especially when amplified with distress and little sleep. It brought young Barty's memories to a sharp focus. Through his eyes, Albus saw the dark stone walls of Azkaban, stained with the prisoners' bodily waste. Faint, feverish, numb with cold, and light-headed with hunger, Barty was convinced he was hallucinating his mother's touch on his cheeks. He coughed at first when the Polyjuice Potion was tipped into his mouth; then he eagerly gulped down the rest of it. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he was only half-aware of the prison robes slipping off his limbs to be replaced with a witch's coat. Yet through it all, he felt his father's look of hatred boring into him like a beam of light. This, he knew, was real.
For a single heartbeat, Crouch Senior morphed, inside the memory, into a towering Rodolphus Lestrange. There was pure disgust in the Death Eater's expression. In turn, this face transformed into a Dementor's monstrous head. Dread bubbled in the young man's mind: visceral, uncontrollable, fresh enough to cut off his breath.
Albus intervened; he had to keep Barty calm if he wished to discover the full truth.
"And what did your father do with you when he had got you home?"
What followed was an oppressive sensation, a strange lack of air: everything was seen through a layer of magical fabric. Barty's life was confined to one invisibility cloak. Sometimes, there was comfort in remaining unseen by his father's hateful eyes, but this too dissipated once he realised he had been placed under the Tracking Charm. It was impossible to hide from his father's wrath—or walk freely, for that matter. But when he and Winky found themselves alone, life became tolerable. In the end, they learned to make the most of it. The house-elf cooked for him with love; like a parent, she tended to his slightest ailment. Their bond of trust had grown deeper than ever. And then, unannounced, came an intruder.
"Did anybody ever discover that you were still alive? Did anyone know except your father and the house-elf?"
Who could have foreseen the trouble Bertha Jorkins would cause? If anything, her visit seemed trivial. But she heard Winky's quiet chatter, peeked into the kitchen, and deduced for whom she had laid out tea and cake. No sooner did Crouch Senior enter the house than he was greeted with a shrill rant; the witch did not mince her words. He was working them to the bone, she claimed; he demanded overtime yet refused to fairly compensate them. And here he was, as corrupt as any official, having smuggled his own criminal of a son out of prison. She would tell everyone at work unless he granted her a well-deserved increase in salary.
Before she even finished, young Barty knew without a doubt she would not be leaving unscathed. There was nothing he could do. He was forcefully pushed into his room, from which he could hear the Memory Charms inflicted on Bertha, her confusion, and his father's annoyance at having accidentally damaged her mind. Then, for having let the woman into the house, Winky was punished. It appeared to last forever, no matter how loudly Barty screamed or pounded against the door in protest.
The memory blurred. A face flashed in the dark: Alice Longbottom, tied up and gagged, her eyes begging for mercy. At the sight of her, Albus almost lost track of the interrogation. He inhaled, pulling himself together.
"Tell me about the Quidditch World Cup."
"Winky talked my father into it. She spent months persuading him…"
The only way to convince Crouch Senior on any subject was to wear him down with logic without getting discouraged. Winky had learned this from her mistress and would use it in her intent to improve young Barty's life. After enduring punishment every time the topic reoccurred, she succeeded in breaking down Crouch's resolve. He agreed, if only to avoid the barrage of reasoning every single evening.
After years spent in captivity, breathing fresh summer air felt like being reborn. Barty's gaze drank in the beauty of the cloudy sky, marvelled at the green hues of grass, scanned other wizards' faces with curiosity. Even with the ever-present invisibility cloak over his body, it was thrilling to study the vast Quidditch pitch from the Top Box. He noticed, at one point, a wand sticking out of a boy's pocket.
"So you took the wand, and what did you do with it?"
Freedom. It was heady, it was seductive beyond anything Barty had ever experienced. Ideas sparked up on the spot: armed with this wand, he could escape and seek out the Dark Lord. But what of Winky? He could never abandon her. House-elves, however, were tethered to their masters with ancient magic; hiding her somewhere safe would only be possible if she were dismissed.
He was still pondering this when commotion erupted outside of the tent. It was all too easy to identify the perpetrators. And once Barty did, something inside him snapped. The Death Eaters' laughter brought back memories of screams, of pain, and terror. The Lestranges. Like blood flowing from a wound after a bandage was ripped off, emotions drowned him. He had to act. There was no stopping his magic or his fury and outrage.
Albus could not allow himself to hesitate, not now that he had uncovered the memory responsible for Barty's anguish. Despite the passing years, the thought of the Lestranges still haunted the young man. If the purpose of Legilimency was to learn one's personal truth, this memory was key, as much as he feared it or longed to forget.
The old wizard braced himself. A steadying breath, and then he forced his way deeper into Barty's mind, to the fateful day of the Dark Lord's disappearance.
Note: Thank you for bearing with us. We intended the interrogation to take only one chapter, but it got very long, and we thought it was best to split it—Barty's story deserves to be told in full. The second part is coming very soon. Thank you for reading!