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Chapter 671: The Confession of Little Barty Crouch
There was nothing improper about the reasoning—Wade had simply omitted the discussion with Antoine, then deliberately highlighted Malfoy’s hint as a crucial clue.
The process of identifying Filch, in his telling, was even simpler.
Within the entire school, Filch was the easiest person to approach from outside, and the most likely to be overlooked. Furthermore, his sudden shift in attitude toward Wade was an obvious red flag.
On the surface, Wade had little interaction with Filch. Thus, Little Barty Crouch had never imagined that this administrator, universally disliked by students and even professors alike, would one day form a friendship with someone. He had even dismissed the possibility during the Dementor’s Kiss.
In a way, this Death Eater was eerily similar to his master, the Dark Lord—both possessed the same arrogance and stubbornness.
After hearing the full account, Sirius Black, who had silently witnessed the entire exchange, finally let out a breath of dawning realization. Dumbledore, meanwhile, gave a subtle, approving glance.
“Very perceptive, Wade,” the headmaster said gently, his eyes softening with rare warmth. “But what truly delights me is that while most people fixate on the light, you chose to extend kindness to our administrator—seeing value in someone overlooked, earning his trust, and making him willing to cooperate.”
Sirius Black shifted uncomfortably in his seat, scratching his cheek.
Dumbledore continued, “That is your greatest strength—seeing the places shrouded in shadow, hearing the voices of the powerless… This quality is worth more than any champion’s trophy.”
He paused, then spoke in a low, solemn tone: “Never lose it, Wade.”
A brief silence followed. Wade replied softly, “Yes, Professor.”
A single grain of sand can erode a thousand-mile dike.
Wade was well aware of the immense power that could be unleashed by a spark once it catches fire. He never underestimated anyone—no matter their magic or lack thereof.
And that was something Voldemort could never comprehend.
Even Dumbledore… perhaps he had yet to truly look down.
…
As they spoke, Snape and Moody had already returned with the potion. Professor McGonagall joined them, having just come back from Filch’s office.
The cramped room—rarely visited by so many—still lay cluttered with scattered parchments and broken filing cabinets. Dumbledore waved his wand, and the mess was swept into the corner, clearing space for the group to stand.
Moody, grim-faced, forced the potion into the mouth of the impostor.
Instantly, Little Barty Crouch’s body convulsed violently. Beneath his skin, it felt as if countless tiny serpents writhed. His nose twisted upward, his pale gray hair gradually transformed into a brittle, sun-bleached gold. His wrinkled face melted like wax, reshaping into the gaunt features of a young man in his thirties—sunken cheeks, sharp cheekbones, bloodshot eyes, fingers twitching uncontrollably.
When the transformation ended, a trembling, hollow-eyed wizard lay on the floor.
“Crouch!” Snape took an involuntary step back, his voice cracking with rare emotion. “Little Barty Crouch!”
The reshaping of his bones had awakened him from unconsciousness. He groaned, then turned his head—his eyes locking onto Snape’s.
Then they swept across Dumbledore and the others.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward instantly, blocking Little Barty Crouch’s view of Wade, shielding her student.
“Oh, Severus…” Little Barty Crouch grinned, his voice slithering like a venomous serpent. “How pleasant to see an old friend.”
Unlike Snape, Moody stepped forward without hesitation. He gripped the man’s jaw, forcing it open, and dropped a single drop of Veritaserum inside.
Little Barty Crouch writhed on the floor, but Sirius Black pinned his shoulders down. He watched, helpless, as the transparent liquid trickled into his mouth.
“No… no…” he mumbled, drool leaking from the corner of his lips. “You won’t… get anything… from me…”
Moody’s face twisted with disgust. His grip tightened like a vise around the man’s throat, squeezing until the struggling weakened, the eyes glazed over, the body limp.
Finally, he released him and wiped his hand on the hem of his robe.
Dumbledore knelt beside him, speaking calmly. “Can you hear me?”
Little Barty Crouch’s eyelids fluttered. His voice was flat, hollow. “Yes.”
“Tell me your story, Barty Crouch,” Dumbledore said. “Start from the moment you left Azkaban.”
With a dreamlike whisper, Little Barty Crouch began:
“My mother… begged the man I called father… to take me out. He smuggled me from Azkaban. She drank a Polyjuice Potion… transformed into me… stayed behind in prison… and died.”
“My father hid me at home. He used the Imperius Curse to control me… forced me to wear the Invisibility Cloak… a house-elf tended me. Later… something happened on an island… he became frantic, left on an emergency trip… forgot to cast the spell… I broke free… for a moment, I was clear-headed…”
“I found my mother’s old wand… knocked out the house-elf… escaped.”
“I knew he was searching for me… trying to bring me back… but it didn’t matter. Because I had finally found my Master.”
His breath grew ragged. A smug, triumphant smile spread across his face.
“My Master… oh, he’s far wiser than my father. He thought of using the forbidden magic from the Department of Mysteries—making everyone believe we were dead.”
“The Department of Mysteries?” Moody grumbled. “How dare he touch that? Even the Silent Ones—few would claim to understand what’s inside.”
“My Master needed Harry Potter,” Little Barty Crouch continued. “Needed him… to rise again, stronger than ever. The great Dark Lord cannot have weaknesses. So I searched… I found ancient Dark Magic in the Department.”
“The Quidditch World Cup final was perfect. Harry Potter, like his father, loved Quidditch. He’d be there.”
“But the Enchanted Forest… destroyed by that meddling Wizard Purity Party. The mascot, after drinking the potion, went berserk—ripped through the camp, caused chaos. It was the perfect chance. I caught Harry Potter…”
The room erupted.
“What?!”
“Wait—what?!”
They stared at Little Barty Crouch, then at Dumbledore—eyes wide with disbelief.
Then, the man’s face darkened with sudden terror and hatred.
“I thought I had him… I brought him to my Master… but it was all a trap. That wretched house-elf… he unleashed a terrifying magic… destroyed my Master’s body… again.”
“What?!”
The entire room gasped in unison.
Moody shot to his feet. Wood’s wooden leg slipped, nearly sending him crashing. Professor McGonagall instinctively pressed a hand to her chest, as if trying to hold her heart in place.
Snape remained the most restrained—yet the most complex.
His pupils contracted instantly, then froze again into the familiar mask of cynicism.
In his mind, a face flashed—James Potter’s face, almost identical.
“This… can’t be,” he whispered, so softly it was barely audible. Each word felt torn from between his teeth.
Sirius Black leapt up. “What did you say?”
Then he paused. His brow furrowed. “No… wait. I asked Harry. He didn’t go out alone that night. But—”
His eyes snapped wide, his breath caught in his throat. He almost cried out—but clamped his mouth shut.
He forced himself not to look at Wade.
But in that moment, his mind seized on a single thought:
That night… Wade had left alone.
(End of Chapter)
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