https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-699-The-Poisonous-Serpent-in-the-Church/13685922/
https://novelcool.info/chapter/Chapter-701-Raven-and-the-Streaming-Mirror/13685928/
Chapter 700: Dementor's Kiss
Little Barty Crouch let out a muffled groan of pain, but it quickly melted into a look of relief—his memories were being examined by the Master. What greater proof of loyalty could there be?
He felt a hand, rough and merciless, rummaging through his mind. Voldemort could have silently invaded another’s thoughts, but now, he deliberately chose this method—brutal, invasive—to assert his presence and absolute authority.
Little Barty Crouch knelt on the floor, trembling, as scenes from his past flashed across the sea of his consciousness:
—Throwing the old Administrator into the box…
—Standing at the door in Filch’s identity, watching Harry Potter and his friends laughing and chatting as they entered the Great Hall…
—Deliberately targeting Wade, dragging him into the office, just as he was preparing to strike… only for Sirius Black to suddenly appear…
The pace of the memory search slowed abruptly. Magic pierced his mind like a blade, splitting his skull with agony.
Yet Little Barty Crouch restrained the instinct to fight back, maintaining a posture of absolute submission.
Alastor Moody, face twisted with loathing, forced Veritaserum down his throat, then interrogated him with a ferocity that bordered on violence.
“No… no… don’t let me betray the Master…” Little Barty screamed through the pain, his willpower so fierce it resisted the truth serum. His magic flared uncontrollably.
Moody was thrown backward, crashing hard into the wall.
Then Dumbledore appeared—suddenly, violently—filling Little Barty’s vision with blinding light.
He was forced to return to his original form, exposed. Recognized.
Bound to a chair, his head slumped, lifeless, as if already dead.
Outside the door, voices rose in heated argument.
“He must not be handed over to the Ministry of Magic, Dumbledore!” Moody roared, spittle flying. “They’re useless! Give him to me! Just three days—I swear, in three days, I’ll make him confess everything!”
“No, Alastor,” Dumbledore replied, voice calm but unwavering. “This man is a fugitive from the Ministry. He belongs to them for interrogation and custody. I trust Rufus Scrimgeour—he’s every bit as capable as you.”
“You don’t worry about this method letting him slip again?” Moody pressed, anxious. “I don’t trust those reckless youngsters!”
“Rufus is no longer young,” Dumbledore said. “And Kingsley has fought through more battles than most. It’s time to pass the torch to the next generation. Let them enjoy the peace we’ve earned. I’m too fond of my old friends to let them burn out.”
Suddenly, a massive explosion echoed from afar—something had detonated. Screams erupted in chaos.
Footsteps faded rapidly. The people waiting outside the door departed.
The man bound to the chair twitched his fingers.
After a moment, a tall boy slipped silently into the room. He glanced around, quickly shut the door, then sprinted to Little Barty Crouch’s side.
“Mr. Crouch… Barty Crouch?”
Little Barty raised his head. “You… who are you?”
“I’m Ryan Smith,” the boy said. “I serve the Dark Lord, just like you.”
As he spoke, Ryan waved his wand swiftly, freeing Little Barty from his restraints, then handed him a potion to restore his strength.
Though dazed, Little Barty instinctively disliked the arrogance in Ryan’s tone. Doubt, wild and unchecked, sprouted in his mind like weeds.
He grabbed Ryan’s wrist, gasping out, “How… do you… know I’m here?”
His nails dug deep into the boy’s skin. Ryan winced, a pained sound escaping him—but he didn’t pull away.
“It’s Wade Gray,” Ryan whispered, voice trembling. “I overheard him boasting to his friends that he’d helped capture a Death Eater. I followed him, eavesdropped… and found out.”
“Then I reported to the Dark Lord. He said… no matter the cost, we must rescue you.”
The unspoken truth hung in the air: Afterward, you’ll be rewarded beyond imagination.
Ryan didn’t say it, but the Dark Lord knew exactly what this Ilvermorny student desired.
“No matter the cost”—those words thrilled Little Barty Crouch, sealing his choice of Ryan Smith.
With Ryan’s help, he escaped the room at top speed, slipping into the nearest secret passage. But just before they left, Little Barty suddenly turned back.
“No… I can’t just leave!” His eyes were wild, voice hoarse. “No matter what… I must… must complete the Dark Lord’s mission.”
“You’re mad!” Ryan hissed. “Dumbledore will find out you’re gone soon! If you don’t leave now, you’re finished!”
Little Barty snapped his head up, veins bulging in his eyes. “No! The mission must be fulfilled! This time… I cannot fail again! I must bring Potter back to the Master! You’ll help me—otherwise, if I’m exposed, you’ll die too!”
Ryan clenched his fists, fingers twitching—hesitant, torn. His expression flickered between resolve and fear. In the end, ambition overruled reason.
He gritted his teeth. “Fine. I’ll help you. But if things go wrong, you leave first.”
“No problem,” Little Barty said without hesitation. Whether he’d keep his promise—well, that was another matter.
The flow of memory began to accelerate again.
With Ryan’s assistance, he hid among the dormitories of Ilvermorny students. Hogwarts would soon discover his escape and launch a search—but they’d never find him among Ilvermorny’s ranks.
Over time, Little Barty watched from hidden vantage points as Dumbledore and the others passed by with grim expressions. He saw Aurors moving through the school, but they found nothing.
Then came the Triwizard Tournament.
Little Barty gripped Ryan’s arm. “There’s only one way to succeed. We must transform the Trophy into a Portkey leading straight to the Master—and ensure Harry Potter touches it first.”
“That’s impossible,” Ryan said, pale. “With Wade Gray around, how can Potter even get near the Trophy? Even you failed to stop him.”
“Then make Gray the target,” Little Barty said, his voice cold. “I’ll make sure every competitor clashes with him—create chaos. Clear every obstacle from Potter’s path. And on the Cup itself… I’ll plant my own tricks.”
“That’s… not bad,” Ryan said, hesitant. “What do you need from me?”
“Of course,” Little Barty said, staring deeply into Ryan’s eyes. “I need eyes.”
“Eyes?” Ryan frowned.
“Yes,” Little Barty whispered. “Eyes… that can see every competitor’s movement—no matter if they’re on live broadcast or not. Eyes that remain unnoticed… and never betray us.”
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
Report
