Chapter 529: Little Barty Crouch
The black robes of Little Barty Crouch billowed in the wind, a faint flush rising on his pale face as joy—almost happiness—lit up his features. With a Transfiguration Charm, he had turned the proud Lucius Malfoy into a toad, using the golden ring enchanted by Voldemort himself—effectively making the Dark Lord and himself join forces in punishing the traitor.
Had time permitted, he would have unleashed seventeen or eighteen Cruciatus Curses upon Malfoy, letting him truly feel the depth of his fury and hatred.
—How dare he claim that such a despicable creature was no different from himself? To Little Barty Crouch, that was the most vicious insult imaginable. No punishment could be too severe.
But then he thought of Lucius Malfoy, now reduced to a creature of filth and decay, forced to live in stinking mud, feeding on cockroaches, earthworms, flies, and spiders. The image brought a smile to his lips. His anger vanished, replaced by dark amusement.
With a light heart, he stepped out of the forest, adding a strand of black hair to a small vial of Polyjuice Potion. He stirred it twice, then passed it to the side.
A bat dropped from the tree, transforming into human form. It glanced fearfully at Little Barty Crouch before snatching the vial.
“Bring me Harry Potter,” Little Barty Crouch said. “Sirius Black is his godfather—gaining his trust will be effortless.”
“Yes.” Garr Troke drank the potion, grimacing through the agony of bones dissolving. In seconds, he stood transformed—now a perfect likeness of Sirius Black.
Silent and precise, he donned Sirius Black’s clothes, picked up his wand, and departed without a word.
For the past few nights, he had already followed Harry and the others, tracking the location of their tent. Tonight, the adult wizards would be distracted by the chaos of the camp. The students’ magic might be strong, but Garr carried potions and tools prepared by Little Barty Crouch—overpowering a child would be simple.
A flicker of guilt stirred within him… but he reminded himself: his life was in another’s hands. He had no choice.
He silenced the voice of conscience, mimicking Sirius Black’s expression as he sprinted toward the Black Family Manor tent.
At that moment, he had no idea what awaited him.
The fake Sirius Black had left. Little Barty Crouch did not linger. He knew that if the bat succeeded, it would find him.
The Death Eater pulled up his hood and hurried toward the chaos of the camp.
Though Voldemort had not yet fully returned to his body—his infant form still fragile—the man Little Barty Crouch regarded as history’s greatest Dark Wizard still possessed astonishing magical knowledge.
At Voldemort’s side, Little Barty Crouch had received rare instruction—his mastery of Transfiguration had grown immensely, and he had been exposed to ancient, vile curses few dared to learn.
After the failed Curse in the Murder Forest, Little Barty Crouch’s gaze turned to the camp. Then, suddenly, he saw it: the mascots brought by the Ireland team—perfect targets for his spell.
Hundreds of Boggarts gone wild… far more chaotic than clumsy trees.
Exactly as he had planned.
Even Dumbledore had arrived, but containing thousands of rampaging Boggarts—without letting them escape into Muggle cities—was no simple task. It would take more than one powerful spell.
Disguised with a charm, Little Barty Crouch strolled through the camp like a man enjoying a leisurely walk. He sprinkled a special powder—crafted from Boggart hair and nails—over his body. The mutated creatures, sensing kinship, ignored him.
Others were not so lucky.
A group of adult wizards stood back to back, forming a desperate circle. Inside, several children stared in panic.
A dozen Boggarts swarmed them, wands flashing as spells flew.
“Target them! Aim!” someone shouted inside.
“They’re too fast!” a witch cried. “Wait until they’re close—”
Her voice was cut short by a scream.
On the other side, a wizard cracked under pressure, firing wildly. One Boggart broke through the defense, slashing a massive wound across his shoulder before lunging toward the boy in the center.
“Stupefy!”
A spell struck the creature mid-leap.
Amos Digory from the Ministry of Magic burst through, shouting, “Don’t stop here! Fall back into the forest!”
Little Barty Crouch sneered, passing by.
As he passed a fortress-like tent, he suddenly heard a voice—out of place, too calm—inside:
“Don’t worry, my dearest ladies. I’ll protect you.”
A freckled wizard stood at the entrance like a knight, declaring, “I don’t like boasting, but last month I tamed a Hungarian Horntail!”
Little Barty Crouch raised an eyebrow. He leaned close to the window and peered inside.
Two brides of the Bulgarian team sat within, their long hair glowing with soft silver light, faces serene and gentle.
—Still survivors?
He said nothing.
Silently raising his wand, he pointed it at the two women. His lips moved, whispering a spell.
Around them, several wizards remained, oblivious to the danger outside, too busy flattering the brides.
“I’m the Dueling Champion,” one declared proudly. “I don’t even need a wand to defeat a hundred Boggarts at once.”
“I… I have a Portkey,” stammered a bald man in tattered clothes. “It can take you straight to my manor. We’re in the international transit business—my monthly Galleons could fill a room.”
Then, the bride’s face twisted in pain. She opened her mouth, as if to speak—but only a scream of agony escaped.
Her body began to twist, contort. In an instant, her elegant form transformed into a monstrous creature: eagle’s head, eagle’s claws, long wings, yellow-brown eyes blazing with bloodlust. It lunged forward, slashing at the nearest man.
Screams erupted behind him.
Little Barty Crouch turned, satisfied.
He moved through the chaos, avoiding the line of sight of the Aurors, casting subtle spells to re-release already-controlled Boggarts or sow further confusion among Ministry personnel. The disorder would persist—until Garr brought Harry Potter to him.
Then—his step halted.
His eyes widened in shock.
A look of astonishment flashed across his face, quickly replaced by cold fury and hatred.
Not far ahead, a dark-haired boy with glasses stood, having frozen a Boggart with Petrificus Totalus. He bent down, lifting a pregnant witch from the ground. The night wind stirred his hair, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead stood out clearly in the moonlight.
(End of Chapter)
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