Chapter 531: Little Barty Crouch's Escape
The light flared violently, growing brighter and paler with each passing second—then vanished into thin air in the blink of an eye.
But Little Barty Crouch knew better. That spell hadn’t disappeared. A silent torrent of searing flame, blazing like the heart of the sun, surged forward. In just seconds, the door, the walls, the giant serpent, and the figure clutching the bundle—all were reduced to ash. The transformation was instantaneous, total.
Only the infant inside the bundle lingered for a heartbeat longer. It let out a gut-wrenching scream, thick smoke gushing from its distorted face, forming a monstrous, agonized visage in midair—before being devoured by the flame.
“No—!” Little Barty Crouch shrieked in agony, his voice raw and broken. With a wrenching effort, he tore open his sleeve, screaming as if his very soul were being ripped out. “Aaaah—You bastard! I’ll kill you! I will kill you!”
His cloak, strained beyond endurance, suddenly loosened—then snapped forward like a furious serpent, lashing out at Wade.
Firebird Mihal shot from its perch, expanding midair and slamming into the cloak with full force, sending it flying back. Though it restrained its flames, a deep, blackened scorch mark remained on the fabric.
As the cloak tore away, its sharpened hem was wrenched free from Little Barty Crouch’s thigh. The wound gaped open. Blood, hot and thick, spurted out uncontrollably.
The man roared in defiance, trying to counterattack—but his body betrayed him. He collapsed to his knees, unable to resist. Wade struck his wand from his hand with a swift motion, then crushed the slender stick beneath his boot.
The cloak and Firebird clashed violently, crashing from the room into the open air. If Mihal had wanted to destroy it, the cloak would’ve melted into slag. But as it was, the phoenix relied solely on physical force, keeping the battle fierce but contained.
Wade spared a glance. He didn’t order Mihal to go all-out.
Little Barty Crouch gasped, his mouth hanging open, his throat still convulsing from the earlier pressure. He drew in ragged, broken breaths, slowly lifting his head. His eyes locked onto the wand pointed at his forehead—the tip still faintly glowing with a dangerous red light.
That same light had turned his master into ash.
Blood dripped steadily from his body, splattering onto the floor.
Wade’s cloak, woven from metallic threads, had taken a terrible toll. As the man fought it, not only his neck and thighs were wounded—but every inch of his body bore cuts and bruises. Internal organs had been crushed by the relentless pressure.
And yet, this broken, bleeding man seemed to feel nothing.
He stared into the cold, calculating eyes of “Harry Potter”—and finally understood.
He swallowed hard, twice, then forced out a hoarse whisper: “You’re not… not Harry Potter… Who… who are you…?”
Wade blinked. Instead of answering, he asked, “Is this your final words?”
Little Barty Crouch let out a dry, rasping laugh. “You think… you’ve won? You think this is over? No… The Dark Lord… cannot die!”
Before he could finish, he slammed his hand onto the ground.
The floor beneath him exploded into fragments, the room twisting and collapsing in a thunderous eruption.
Wade instinctively stepped back—just in time. In that split second, Little Barty Crouch rolled aside, seized the old kettle that had brought them here, and vanished from the spot in a flash.
Wade remained alert. Seconds later, the cloak collided violently with Firebird in midair, then was slammed hard into the ground.
“Wait! Wait! What’s happening?” the cloak wailed in pain. “Help! Master! Mihal’s attacking me! Is this some kind of betrayal? Are you trying to eliminate me—your loyal right-hand—just because you don’t like me?”
Firebird froze mid-strike, hovering above the cloak, tilting its head to examine it. Then, with a sharp motion, it swung one wing and slapped the cloak’s hood.
“Ah! How dare you strike me? I may have no face—but my hat is delicate! You’re ruining it!” the cloak whined, then groaned dramatically, rolling on the ground as if grievously wounded.
Wade exhaled. All tension drained from his body. He dropped to the ground, then lay back, utterly spent.
The wand’s red light flickered—then popped out with a soft pfft, releasing a tiny flame. It was smaller than the fireball Nobeta once produced by sneezing.
Mihal, now back beside Wade, tilted its head curiously at the tiny flame. It leaned down, gently touched it with its beak—and the flame vanished with a soft pop.
Mihal: …
It stared at the spot where the flame had been, then, with a hint of disbelief, used its claw to scrape at the floor, as if trying to dig the fireball out from beneath the wood.
The cloak slithered back into the room, whispering with wounded dignity: “Master… Mihal hit me…”
“You were under a Confusion Charm,” Wade said simply. “You mistook us for enemies.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out two chocolate bars, ripped open the wrappers, and shoved them into his mouth. After a few minutes of silence, he finally felt a little strength return.
During that time, the world before his eyes began to twist and blur. He knew—Polyjuice Potion was wearing off. He removed his glasses, slipped them back into his pocket, and his vision cleared.
“Let’s go,” he said. “This kind of noise will draw the Ministry of Magic. We need to get back to camp.”
Mihal chirped twice.
“I know,” Wade said, voice flat. “He’s run back to camp too. But right now, his priority is healing. Then searching for a way to restore Voldemort’s phantom spirit. He’s not going to waste time chasing us.”
He tapped his robe with his wand. The fabric subtly shifted in color and style.
“He was beaten by someone tied to the Wizard Purity Party—Braun. What does that have to do with Hogwarts student Wade Gray?” he added.
—Nothing, of course.
Mihal tilted its head, its round eyes seeming to ask: Isn’t it all you?
The cloak almost spoke up—but remembered its earlier mistake. It swallowed the retort, instead letting out a strange, muffled gurgle.
Wade tucked the two little ones away. He glanced at the scorched remains of the room—no need to check the damage. With a flick of his wrist, he Apparated away.
If there were other subordinates still under Voldemort’s control, or any dangerous magical creatures lurking outside, Wade wasn’t in any condition to face them. Not now.
He left a note for Dreian, asking him to send someone to investigate later. Then he returned to camp.
The chaos wasn’t over—but the cursed Boggart and the Bride of the Bulgarian Team had mostly been contained. Most of the wandering wizards had found safety. The camp was quiet now, save for a few tents still smoldering.
Wade sighed, found a secluded, open space, and reopened the closet dimension. He tapped the bell on top.
Moments later, the children began emerging from within.
“Merlin’s beard…” Ron stared in disbelief at the empty camp, eyes wide. “Are we… the only ones left alive?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ginny Weasley shot back, stepping onto her toes. “Where’s Bill?”
“Is it over?” Michael asked. Liam silently supported Wade. “You look exhausted. What happened?”
“Kreacher! Kreacher!” Harry called out frantically. “Let’s reassemble the tent!”
Soon, the tent rose again, standing tall in the center of the camp. Wade sank into the sofa, finally at peace.
Kreacher brought him roasted meat and hot chocolate. Padma handed him a slice of cake. Hermione flipped through books, searching for information on why magical creatures had suddenly gone berserk.
Fred, Michael, Harry, and the others stood by the entrance and windows, chatting quietly but keeping watch—on the lookout for any strange intruder that might return to attack.
Remus Lupin arrived just as the tent flap parted. He paused, eyes widening at the scene: calm, relaxed, almost too peaceful.
“You didn’t hide in the forest?” he asked, stunned. “Wait—didn’t you hear the explosion outside?”
The group exchanged glances. Then, with innocent, wide-eyed expressions, they chorused:
“Outside? We’ve been celebrating this whole time.”
Remus Lupin: …
(End of Chapter)
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