Chapter 503: Goodbye, Antoine
"I... well... um..."
Staring into Harry's emerald eyes, Remus Lupin faltered, utterly at a loss for words.
"Hey, Harry! Wade!"
A cheerful voice cut through the silence. Michael stood a short distance away, arms full of water jugs. "You're finally here! Just wait—let me put these down, I'll be right back!"
Michael hurried off, and the interruption gave Remus Lupin time to compose himself.
"That man over there," Remus said, pointing subtly, "is Barty Crouch. I'm sure you remember the name."
Harry frowned, thinking. "The one who sent Sirius Black to prison without a trial?"
"Yes." Remus placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "So you can understand why he wouldn't want to see us. And why Sirius and I don't want to see him either."
Harry gave a grim nod.
Though he understood, deep down, that Sirius Black had been imprisoned for over a decade partly due to his own failure—Harry still couldn't help but resent the Ministry of Magic officials who had failed in their duty.
Remus exhaled, relief mixed with worry. He studied Harry's expression, his own face etched with concern and confusion.
After Sirius returned with intelligence about the eavesdropped conversation, they had investigated Crouch’s family tomb. The results were disturbing: the grave of Crouch’s wife contained the skeletal remains of a young man—Little Barty Crouch’s body. But the tomb where Little Barty was supposed to be buried was empty.
It confirmed their worst fear: the boy had not died. He was still alive—serving Voldemort.
The truth was chilling: Crouch’s wife had drunk a Polyjuice Potion, taken her son’s form, and died in his place—sacrificing herself so her son could escape Azkaban.
If that was true, then Barty Crouch must have known. Possibly even orchestrated it.
The man once hailed as a pillar of resistance against darkness now stood in moral shadow.
Yet after careful investigation and probing, Dumbledore concluded that even if Crouch had once slipped—smuggling the boy out of prison—he had not fully fallen to Voldemort.
In fact, the man had been exhausted lately. Many claimed he acted strangely—sometimes as if searching for something. Others whispered he’d given up, his ambitions crushed.
But Remus and Sirius didn’t care about Crouch’s politics. All they cared about was protecting Harry—especially since Voldemort had set his sights on him.
Compared to the protection James Potter had received, the Phoenix Society’s efforts now felt laughably inadequate: no concealment, no Priori Incantatem charm, no truth told to Harry—yet he was still expected to attend the Quidditch World Cup, a massive, chaotic gathering of wizards from every corner of the world.
Sure, one could argue it was for Harry’s health and growth, and that Voldemort’s forces were now so weakened that they only had a few loyal followers left—far from the days when Death Eaters ruled with fear.
But Remus couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling.
All they could do was watch Harry closely—because if they let their guard down, Voldemort might steal him, turn him into a resurrection blood vessel.
Soon, Michael returned, hands empty, leading Wade and the others on a tour.
"Sure, we came for the World Cup," Michael said, incredulous, "but who actually only comes to watch the match? Come on—have you ever seen so many wizards from different countries gathered like this? Don’t you think these people are way more interesting than any Quidditch game?"
Harry wasn’t convinced—yet as Michael dragged him through the sea of tents and crowds, his thoughts began to shift.
They spotted the Irish national team’s mascot, a magical creature that suddenly transformed into a cheetah. They saw an Eastern wizard carrying a stunning Phoenix King Bird.
"Look," Michael said, pointing at a group of young wizards huddled together. "I bet they’re students from Castrobsche."
"Castrobsche?" Harry frowned.
"It’s a magical school in Brazil," Wade said. "I heard their castle is built from golden stone blocks—looks like a temple."
Unfortunately, the school hadn’t brought their castle along, so Wade and the others merely glanced at the group before moving on.
After weaving through a maze of tents, they spotted a group of young people dressed in identical uniforms.
"Beauxbatons robes!" Michael gasped, nearly shouting. "Merlin’s beard! Why didn’t I see them before?"
Wade and Harry turned. Instantly, they understood why Michael looked like he was about to faint.
Several girls in silk robes sat on the grass, chatting—each one refined, elegant, like figures from a painting. But one stood out—utterly breathtaking.
She had silver-white hair cascading like a waterfall, porcelain skin glowing with a pearlescent sheen, a slender, graceful posture, and flawless features. A single smile sent a shiver through the air.
Michael took a step forward—then froze as Wade yanked him back by the collar.
"What are you doing?" Wade asked.
"I—I just want to say hello," Michael said, grinning foolishly. He brushed his hair back. "You want to talk to her too, right? Admit it, Wade—when it comes to this, you’re totally outmatched."
"Go ahead," Wade said, smirking. "But I’m warning you—girls this stunning, who haven’t been swarmed by suitors? There’s a reason."
"I know," Michael said. "Most people feel like dirt just looking at her. But I’m different."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small mirror, adjusted his hair, checked for dirt, then slipped it back in. With renewed confidence, he strode toward the group.
"Think he’ll make it?" Harry asked, still staring.
He’d been stunned by her beauty too—but his heart belonged to Qiu Zhang. He wasn’t as lost as Michael.
"Who knows?" Wade said. "I’d love to know."
They watched Michael approach. Closer and closer. The girls noticed him. They smiled, said nothing, didn’t shoo him away—just watched, like they were waiting for the show to begin.
Michael nervously tugged at his sleeve, cleared his throat—then suddenly, something felt wrong.
A towering shadow loomed behind him, immense and oppressive, like storm clouds pressing down.
Slowly, he turned.
A woman stood behind him—nearly as tall as Hagrid. Her cold eyes stared down at him, her voice low and icy:
"Boy. Are you lost?"
Michael: "..."
---
When Michael slumped back, shoulders drooping, Wade and Harry burst into laughter, faces red, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
"Go ahead," Michael said, feigning nonchalance. "Laugh all you want. At least I tried."
They didn’t hold back. Michael glared at them, but after a few seconds, he cracked up too.
"Hey," Michael said, grinning, "I also know where the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team is staying. Want to go see Krum? The famous Seeker? Rumor has it he’s the best in the world."
"Of course!" Harry’s eyes lit up instantly. "No hesitation!"
Wade was about to speak—when suddenly, he noticed someone in the distance leaning against a gray tent, waving him over with a subtle gesture.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. Then he smiled again.
"You two go ahead," Wade said. "I’ll catch up. Just need to use the restroom."
He watched them leave, then turned and walked toward the gray tent.
The man inside—long, wavy curls framing his face—gave him a radiant, sunlit smile.
"Six months," the wizard said, grinning. "Has it really been that long, Wade?"
"You never stop calling when I’m in class," Wade replied, glancing past him into the tent. "So, Antoine… is Gellert Grindelwald here too?"
(End of Chapter)
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