Chapter 649: Golden Cup
“Dumbledore…” Lucius Malfoy struggled to keep his bloated stomach from bursting, his face pale for a split second before a wave of venomous hatred flooded his eyes.
“I’ll have to start from the night of the World Cup Final… Dumbledore, you could never imagine who I ran into…” He twisted his lips into a bitter smile. “Little Barty Crouch— you remember him, don’t you? He’s still alive! It was him who cast this curse on me.”
Dumbledore did not seem surprised. Yet, he leaned forward slightly, his expression one of keen interest.
Lucius clenched his left arm so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His voice cracked with sharp intensity: “I never thought the Dark Lord— after abandoning even Bellatrix Lestrange, that madwoman— would keep Little Barty Crouch by his side… and worse, actually intend to pass on his power to him!”
Now, Dumbledore truly felt astonishment. He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of doubt flashing in his eyes—not doubt that Lucius was lying, but doubt that the man had been misled by false information.
How could Voldemort, a being so obsessed with absolute control, ever prepare a successor? Even in death, he would have clung to power until the very last breath. He would never relinquish it.
But Lucius was utterly convinced. In the months since his transformation, the only thing he had done besides surviving was think—over and over again.
The memory of that night replayed endlessly in his mind: the boy’s expression, his tone, the spells he’d cast—each detail sharpened with time. He even rolled up his sleeve, pointing to the Dark Mark.
“Back then, the Mark grew clearer and clearer. We all sensed it. The Dark Lord was returning.”
“To test this, and to prove our loyalty after his return, we decided to stir up some trouble at the World Cup camp.”
Seeing Dumbledore’s expression grow icy, Lucius hurried to add: “The forest’s corruption, the strange behavior of the mascots— none of that was our doing. We weren’t ready to go that far. At most… we wanted to find a few Muggles…”
Under the Headmaster’s cold, openly disdainful gaze, Lucius abandoned his explanation mid-sentence, rushing through the rest of the story—how he’d been hunted by Sirius Black, how he’d seen Sirius transform into a squirrel, and how he himself had then fallen victim to the Transformation Curse.
Then came the fruit of his months of reflection.
“You don’t understand, Dumbledore!” Lucius suddenly stood, pacing frantically in the office. His face was deathly pale, tinged with a sickly flush. “The magic that twisted the forest, the spells that drove those Boggarts and the Bulgarian Bride into madness… and the curse that turned me into a toad— that kind of power? Crouch never had it before! This magic— this level— only the Dark Lord could teach it!”
Dumbledore remained seated, fingers steepled in a half-moon shape. His half-moon spectacles never moved, only the occasional flicker in his eyes betrayed his deep thought.
On the branch above, Fawks, who had been sleeping, stirred awake, his feathers fluttering nervously.
“Dumbledore… did Snape ever tell you— during that time— how our Dark Marks grew so dim? Almost… as if they’d faded beyond recognition?”
He faltered, his throat convulsing as he tried to speak. But he couldn’t bring himself to utter Voldemort’s name.
“…as if they were when that man last lost power…”
Back then, thanks to Harry Potter, the world believed Voldemort was dead. Yet, the Marks had never vanished so completely.
“At first, I thought it was the side effect of the transformation. But later… I don’t know how long it was… one day, the Mark suddenly reappeared. Clearer than ever. And it began to burn.”
Lucius’s pupils contracted sharply. He gasped for air and collapsed back into his chair, staring at the trembling tea cup on the desk as if it concealed some terrible truth.
Dumbledore already knew about the transformation. He’d been informed by Snape— even the timing was known. He also knew the Mark had heated up, but not enough to signal a true summoning.
Snape believed it meant Voldemort was recovering— again.
But why again? And why had it dimmed the first time?
The Potion Master was utterly confused. He feared he’d been cast out from the inner circle, that Voldemort now doubted him— and that when the Dark Lord finally called, Snape might find himself standing in a trap prepared by the Death Eaters themselves.
Dumbledore and Snape had debated this very possibility— a theory that had left both of them uneasy.
Now, from Lucius Malfoy’s lips, came a different explanation.
“This is succession— pure and simple! Total succession!”
Malfoy stared at the Dark Mark on his arm, now deeper in color than ever. His eyes burned with a storm of conflicting emotions— hatred, resentment, jealousy, doubt.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm. Then he continued, voice low and trembling:
“The Dark Lord entrusted to Little Barty Crouch the only magic he could master— and gave him the power to punish me at will. Even that golden ring— the one that nearly killed me— was his creation…”
His face twitched. A faint, grinding sound seemed to echo in the silence.
“I know it’s hard to believe… but he entrusted him with the entire command of the Death Eaters— and everything else. He made him his heir.”
He paused, then added softly, “Think about it. There were signs. Long ago, Little Barty Crouch saw the Dark Lord as his father. And the Dark Lord— I mean, The Dark Lord— treated him with unusual closeness. He called him… my child.”
—Was that just manipulation? Or had it been real all along?
“Dumbledore… you’ve heard of Gellert Grindelwald, haven’t you? He once prepared a successor. Perhaps that’s where the idea came from. After all… the Dark Lord’s condition must have been worse than anyone imagined.”
Dumbledore’s eye twitched almost imperceptibly. Without a word, he pushed the tea cup a little closer to Malfoy.
“Thank you…”
The small gesture shattered the mask Lucius had been holding. His eyes reddened. He seized the cup and drank deeply.
The hot chocolate slid down his throat— warm, sweet, soothing.
Lucius Malfoy set the cup down, his resolve hardened. He looked up.
“I have one more secret to tell you, Dumbledore. You know of Hufflepuff’s Golden Cup, don’t you?”
(End of Chapter)
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