Chapter 487: Riddle Manor
Dumbledore listened in silence until the conversation ended.
Sirius Black had not seen the two speakers himself—only dense bushes and lush green leaves swaying around them in the memory. Wormtail’s voice trembled with anxiety, just as it always had in the past.
It seemed even among the Death Eaters, Peter Pettigrew had never earned true respect or trust. And Dumbledore felt no surprise at that.
The other voice, however, was hoarse and low—nothing like the sharp, youthful tone of Little Barty Crouch. Yet that alone did not mean the man wasn’t him.
After all, if he hadn’t died in Azkaban, what had he endured over the years? The changes would be immense—natural, inevitable.
He could have used Transfiguration or a Potion to completely transform himself, assuming a new identity entirely. Only fellow Death Eaters would know who he truly was.
In fact, if his voice had matched the one in Dumbledore’s memory perfectly, the Headmaster would have been certain—this man was a fraud.
So Dumbledore didn’t waste time trying to identify the voice. Instead, he focused on the words themselves.
When he had finished listening, he tapped his wand against the Pensieve. The voices and images in the air dissolved, leaving only the silver-white memories drifting calmly in their spiral.
Sirius Black blurted out, “Dumbledore—was that really Little Barty Crouch? There was something suspicious about his death.”
Dumbledore paused, considering.
“Voldemort hasn’t fully resurrected yet. He must be in a state of extreme weakness. The only ones he’d still trust, who could easily command obedience from Lockhart and Garr Troke… there are very few among the Death Eaters.”
Malfoy, for example—what a coward. Voldemort only kept him close when power was strong. When the Dark Lord was vulnerable, Malfoy would never be allowed to know his whereabouts.
Sirius Black fell silent.
So… was it really Little Barty Crouch? Was Barty Crouch Sr. involved, too?
He opened his mouth to ask more, but suddenly realized—without concrete proof, Dumbledore could not voice his suspicions.
After all, Barty Crouch was still the head of the International Magical Cooperation Office. Though his influence had waned, many still held his letters in high regard, admiring him far more than the current Minister of Magic, Fudge.
“They’re targeting Harry,” Sirius Black said, eyes narrowed with dread. “Dumbledore… I remember that place. Shouldn’t we—”
He drew a finger across his throat, the gesture clear.
Dumbledore met his gaze, then said, “This matter is mine, Sirius. Your task is simple.”
“What is it?” Sirius leaned forward, eager.
“Protect Harry,” Dumbledore said. “That is the most important thing.”
…
The iron gate creaked open in silence.
Dumbledore stepped through the overgrown garden, wand flicking gently through the air. A ripple spread outward, invisible but palpable.
The stillness was absolute. Not even an insect dared to sing. Only the cold wind of night brushed past, stirring the old man’s silver-white beard and hair.
To others, the courtyard seemed empty and desolate. But to Dumbledore, every inch hummed with traces of magic.
Yet the source of that magic had long since departed.
He passed a wooden house and heard the soft, rhythmic drip of water. Peering inside, he saw an old man lying on the floor, eyes wide and lifeless, staring up at the sky. A metal kettle lay overturned beside him, fresh water seeping slowly from its rim. A half-eaten steak rested on a nearby table, the blackened fork tossed aside.
Dumbledore moved on.
He tapped the door lock with his wand. A soft click echoed, and he pushed the door open.
The corridor and great hall were thick with dust, reeking of decay. No one had entered in years.
Following the faint traces of magic, he climbed the stairs, turned down the corridor, and finally reached a room—meticulously maintained.
Inside, it was spotless. Heavy curtains blocked the sunlight. A thick Persian rug covered the floor. In the fireplace, logs still smoldered, embers flickering faintly.
On a side table sat a water cup and a small bowl. A fine silver spoon rested beside it. The bowl held a small residue of white liquid—something rare, perhaps a Potion.
Dumbledore took a step forward.
Suddenly, his brows twitched.
A crimson glow flared beneath his feet—faint, but unmistakable. Hidden in the soft fibers of the carpet, it would have been invisible in daylight.
Boom—
If someone had been standing in the courtyard below, they would have seen a sudden burst of thick, dark green smoke erupt from a window upstairs.
Then, as if time reversed, the smoke snapped back in an instant—leaving only a faint, foul stench in the air.
Moments later, Dumbledore descended the stairs. Aside from his hat being slightly askew, he looked no different than when he had gone up.
Then he went to the nearby cemetery.
Sure enough, one grave had split open down the middle. The bones were gone.
The old man stood beside the empty tomb, silent, his breath a quiet sigh.
He was becoming more certain than ever: the one helping Voldemort resurrect was Little Barty Crouch.
Voldemort was arrogant—overconfident. If Lockhart and Garr Troke had broken in, he might have killed them or forced them into service. But he wouldn’t have rushed to flee.
Yet Little Barty Crouch—someone who had survived prison, escaped, and hidden for over a decade—knew caution. He’d choose safety over risk.
Dumbledore had learned from other Death Eaters that Barty had once been exceptionally close to Voldemort—treated like a son. And Barty, in turn, had seen Voldemort as a father.
That bond gave him the chance to persuade Voldemort to take a safer route. The other Death Eaters? Not likely.
They even took Tom Riddle’s father’s bones.
But this cautious approach unsettled Dumbledore.
If they truly didn’t want their hiding place exposed… why had the fearful Wormtail dared bring Lockhart and Garr Troke here?
Standing in the desolate cemetery, Dumbledore narrowed his eyes, staring into the distance. His fingers traced the ancient wand at his side, recalling every detail, every subtle clue.
(End of Chapter)
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