Chapter 508: Beech Tree and Oak Tree
Beech Tree moved to the side of the cloaked figure, digging into the damp soil with its roots and sinking deep. Then, as if exhaling relief, its branches and leaves trembled all at once before settling back into stillness.
The cloaked man pointed his wand toward the Spruce Tree ahead, murmuring a long, low spell. His voice was swallowed by the steady drumming of rain, so faint that even standing beside him, one might not have heard it.
Yet the Spruce Tree responded as though it had understood. Its branches twitched unnaturally, then the trunk itself began to bend—slowly, gracefully, like a creature stretching after a long sleep.
The ground around them trembled. Cracks split open, soil heaved upward, as if some colossal beast were rising from below. Nearby bushes and wild grasses leaned sideways, and insects scrambled out in panic, scattering in all directions.
But before the earth fully split, the cloaked man gave the Spruce Tree a firm pat on the trunk. Instantly, silence returned.
Only then did another shadow emerge from the depths of the forest. Cautious, hunched, the figure crept forward and stood before the Spruce Tree, lifting a quill to draw a circle of magical runes across its bark.
The cloaked man watched silently. When the markings were complete, he raised his wand again. The runes flared with a faint, sickly green light—then vanished without a trace.
"Continue," he said coldly. "Before the rain stops, you must mark every tree thicker than three arms’ span."
The man sighed, face grim. He nodded meekly and grabbed his quill and ink bucket, trudging off into the storm. Rain poured down his face, but he didn’t wipe it away—his expression said it all: he was suffering.
Golden strands of hair slipped from beneath his hood, clinging wetly to his face. His body shivered violently from the cold, limbs numb—but he dared not complain.
A flash of lightning split the sky, briefly illuminating the dark forest and the face beneath the hood—still handsome, though now gaunt. Lockhart had lost weight since last seen. Scars marred his neck. He bent forward, dragging himself toward another massive Oak Tree, his movements sluggish, drained.
Behind him stood Little Barty Crouch—the same man who had watched him with cold, mocking eyes. The look alone sent a chill through Lockhart’s spine. He wanted to run. But the thought of Voldemort’s wrath paralyzed him. He couldn’t escape—not even if he wanted to.
Voldemort had placed a cruel curse upon him. If Lockhart tried to flee or betrayed him, or leaked any intelligence, the curse would kill him instantly.
—Maybe I should’ve just stayed in Azkaban, he thought bitterly.
But then he remembered the Dementors—their soul-sucking touch, the crushing despair, the endless silence, the emptiness of the cell. He shuddered again.
In that moment, he couldn’t decide: which was worse? The Dementors’ torment… or Voldemort’s rule?
Either way, he had suffered.
Now, remembering the days when his books were bestsellers, when fans adored him, when Hogwarts girls flocked around him like moths to a flame—it all felt like a dream.
Tears welled in his eyes as he drew runes on the tree, his hands trembling. In his blurred vision, he made a mistake—skewed a symbol.
His breath caught. He forgot to cry. With a quick, furtive glance over his shoulder, he checked: Little Barty was busy casting a spell on another tree. He hadn’t noticed.
He dared not let him see. The potion ingredients in his ink were all illegal—gathered from across the world, smuggled through impossible means. If Little Barty found out he’d made a mistake, it would be a Cruciatus Curse at best. At worst… he’d be fed to Nagini.
Damn Death Eaters, Lockhart cursed inwardly. Even among allies, you have no humanity.
He muttered curses under his breath as he carefully covered the error with his hand, concentrating hard. Magic strained through him. His face flushed red. Slowly, the flawed runes faded, erased.
—He’d done it without a wand. In the grip of terror, he’d managed a wandless spell.
But there was no time to celebrate. Fear of being caught lingering too long on this tree drove him forward. He finished quickly, then moved on to the next.
Another Yew Tree stirred, then settled.
Small Barty caught a glimpse of Lockhart darting glances around the woods, his movements furtive, like a thief. He sneered. “Tch.”
He turned to leave—when suddenly, a corner of his cloak was tugged.
Frowning, he looked down. It was the small Beech Tree, one of its twisted branches caught in the fabric.
This was their first experimental subject.
No one knew why—whether the tree was too young, its spirit too childish; or whether the trunk was too thin, the runes never fully complete. Whatever the reason, it couldn’t remain still like the others. It wouldn’t stay hidden.
It kept following him—like a mischievous chick, always trailing behind, refusing to be shaken off.
Small Barty yanked his cloak free, stepped around the tree, and walked on. But after only a few steps, he heard the soft rustle of leaves behind him.
He turned sharply—there it was again: the Beech Tree, tiptoeing forward on its roots like a cat, careful, silent. When it saw him turn, it froze, pretending to be just another tree.
Small Barty frowned and walked on. Moments later, the rustling returned.
Perhaps the night forest stirred something deep—fear, loneliness, a quiet ache. For the first time, he found the presence not unpleasant. He even felt a strange urge to speak.
"Can you understand what I’m doing?" he said. "Of course not. You’re just a mindless tree."
The Beech Tree swayed its branches—pleased, as if it had been granted permission to stay. But of course, it couldn’t hear. It couldn’t understand. It couldn’t tell anyone.
So Small Barty continued, voice low, raw.
"The potion’s ready. Father’s bones. The servant’s flesh. All prepared. Only one thing remains… the blood of the enemy."
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"Only… Harry Potter."
He lowered his voice further.
"But the boy is well protected. I need a chance. We must create chaos—enough to pull him from his shield. And before the Master completes his resurrection, we must not be traced by Dumbledore."
He turned to gaze at the distant oval-shaped stadium.
"This tournament is perfect. In just a few days, ten thousand wizards will gather there. Harry Potter will be among them. You saw him, didn’t you?"
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Traitors. Rebels. And all those ignorant fools, sheltered and blind… they’ll pay. They’ll all pay."
(End of Chapter)
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