The Tenth Weasley - CH - 150

The first curse came fast—a streak of violet, sizzling through the air with enough heat to scorch stone.

Harry twisted aside.

The second spell followed instantly, a blast that ripped open the ground where he stood moments ago.

Harry slid back lightly, robes brushing the dirt, expression barely changing.

He hadn’t raised his wand.

Moody froze mid-step, thrown off by how casually Harry evaded him.

“What—” the Auror snarled. “Why aren’t you defending yourself?”

Harry tilted his head. “Because you’re slow.”

A growl tore through Moody’s teeth. He fired again—two curses, one spiraling toward Harry’s chest, the other erupting beneath his feet.

Harry disappeared in a blur.

A dip of his shoulder, a pivot of his heel, a graceful bend backward—

Both spells sliced through empty air.

Moody’s magical eye whirled frantically, struggling to track him.

Harry straightened calmly.

“Now,” he said softly, “let’s talk.”

Moody snapped, “You’ve got nothing to talk about, boy!”

“Oh, I think I do,” Harry replied, raising one eyebrow. “For example… what did you do with Highmaster Karkaroff?”

Moody’s wand twitched. His good eye narrowed dangerously.

“Why do you think I did something to that traitor?”

Harry smiled faintly. “Because you just called him a traitor.”

Moody’s stance shifted.

Harry stepped closer, wand finally lifting.

“Karkaroff told me something was wrong with you. That you weren’t behaving like the man he once knew. But the real Mad-Eye wouldn’t call him a traitor.”

Moody’s jaw clenched.

Harry continued, voice sharp:

“He’d call him a Death Eater. A scum. A runaway. A monster. But a traitor?” Harry’s eyes hardened. “Only a Death Eater uses that word.”

Silence cracked through the chamber.

Then Moody laughed.

A slow, cold, joyless laugh that grated against the maze walls.

“So the boy does have a brain,” he said. “Congratulations. Now it’s time for you to die.”

Harry’s wand rose.

“Oh, you really don’t know who you’re facing,” Harry said quietly, eyes sharpening.

Moody snorted. “You think you’re some prodigy—?”

Harry moved.

The air trembled.

A silent wave of raw force exploded from Harry’s wand, rippling across the chamber. The blast hit Moody squarely, sending him staggering backward as the ground shook beneath them.

Moody barely regained balance before another silent spell sliced toward him—sharp, invisible, precise.

He threw a shield.

The shield cracked instantly.

“What—what kind of magic—?!”

Harry didn’t answer.

Another force slammed into Moody’s wand arm, twisting his wrist painfully. A razor-thin arc of shimmering pressure tore across the ground, cutting a deep groove into the stone as Moody jumped aside just in time.

Moody fired back—nonverbal as well—curses that bent the air, split the earth, and rattled the hedges.

Harry slipped through them like smoke.

Every attack missed by inches.

Every counterstrike hit harder than the last.

Moody’s disbelief grew with each exchange.

“This—this isn’t possible!” he barked.

Harry flicked his wand sharply, sending a concussive blast that shattered one of the maze walls, vines whipping wildly.

“Then stop treating me like a normal wizard,” Harry said coldly.

Moody threw a curse aimed at Harry’s heart—silent, deadly, cruel.

Harry stepped forward through it.

The spell fizzled inches from his chest, collapsing like it struck a wall of pure will.

Moody’s eyes widened.

Harry raised his wand, a thin ring of shimmering pale-blue fire spiraling around the tip.

“You came here thinking you were hunting a child,” Harry said softly. “But I’ve studied magic older than your master.”

Moody spat, “Liar!”

Harry’s next silent spell detonated the ground beneath Moody’s feet, sending him airborne. While Moody spun helplessly, Harry unleashed a whip of luminous force that wrapped around Moody’s torso and slammed him into the far hedge.

Moody coughed, blood on his lips.

“You—how—who taught you—?!”

Harry approached slowly, wand steady, eyes cold.

“You wanted me to quit. You wanted Charlie to win.”

Moody’s expression twisted into something vicious.

“You have no idea what’s at stake, boy.”

Harry stopped five feet away.

“Then enlighten me.”

Moody wiped blood from his mouth and smiled—an expression too sharp, too cruel to belong to Mad-Eye Moody.

“I’ll show you,” he whispered.

And with a sudden roar of magic, he blasted the last of his strength toward Harry in a violent, reckless curse that shook the entire maze.

Harry didn’t flinch.

He raised his wand—

The two spells collided.

Light erupted, swallowing the chamber.

The maze trembled, vines thrashing wildly, as if the very structure was screaming.

The explosion of light faded.

The dust settled.

And Moody—the man pretending to be Moody—fell to one knee, panting hard, one arm limp at his side from Harry’s last spell.

Harry approached slowly, wand steady, breath calm despite the intensity of the duel.

The fake Auror glared up at him with hatred… and a flicker of fear.

Harry’s voice was low, almost conversational.

“Tell me something,” he said. “How good is your Occlumency?”

Moody’s magical eye froze mid-spin.

“…What?”

He didn’t have time to react.

Harry met his gaze—his real eye, the one that could be invaded.

The moment eye contact locked, Harry whispered:

“Legilimens.”

Moody’s scream never left his throat.

His body stiffened, and Harry’s consciousness tore into his mind like ripping through wet paper.

Harry fell into darkness.

Not emptiness—

Memories.

Cold.

Rotting.

Putrid.

Alive.

He stood in a stone chamber lit by flickering torches, surrounded by cloaked figures chanting. A younger Barty Crouch Jr. stood beside Bellatrix Lestrange, laughing as a bound man writhed on the floor under the Cruciatus Curse.

The scene blurred—shifted.

A prison cell.

Iron bars.

A gaunt man.

Despair.

Harry felt the mind break, splinter, reform under another’s will.

Then the Dark Lord’s voice—silky, cold:

“You will serve me again, Barty.”

Another shift.

He saw Crouch Jr. slipping Polyjuice Potion down Moody’s throat. Moody collapsing. Bound. Stripped of his wand. Locked in a trunk like an object.

Again the scene twisted—

The Triwizard Cup in the courtyard.

Crouch Jr. whispering a spell.

A blue glow.

The Cup flickering, warping—

A Portkey.

Harry’s breath caught as he watched the memory unfold.

And Harry understood.

The Cup was rigged.

Whoever touched it first would be dragged straight to Voldemort’s resurrection.

Crouch Jr.’s laughter echoed.

“It will be Potter!”

“The Dark Lord will rise!”

The memory shattered—

Harry fell deeper—

A forest.

The Forbidden Forest.

Moonlight glowing.

Crouch Jr. stood over a limp body—

Karkaroff.

Dirty, bruised, wand broken at his side.

“Traitor,” Crouch spat.

A flash of green.

Karkaroff’s body hit the ground with a dull thud.

Crouch dragged the corpse deeper into the woods and buried him beneath roots and soil, wiping his memory-traces away.

Harry felt a sickening twist in his gut.

He forced himself upward, out of the churning darkness—

Harry gasped as he snapped back into his body.

Moody—no, Barty Crouch Jr.—collapsed fully, clutching his skull and screaming into the dirt.

“GET OUT—GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”

Harry stood over him, breathing hard, wand glowing faintly with residual magic.

“You killed Karkaroff,” Harry said, voice ice-cold. “You turned the Cup into a Portkey. You planned to resurrect Voldemort.”

Crouch writhed, froth forming at the corner of his mouth.

“You—should—be—dead,” he hissed.

Harry took one step closer.

“That’s where we disagree.”

He pointed his wand downward—

and crushed Crouch’s wand beneath his boot with a sharp snap.

Barty screamed.

Harry didn’t flinch.

But then—

A sound echoed through the chamber.

Click-click-click-click-click…

Harry stiffened.

Shadows moved across the far wall.

Multiple shadows.

Large shadows.

He turned his head slowly—

Acromantulas.

Dozens, summoned by the vibrations of battle.

Their mandibles clicked with hungry anticipation, venom dripping from their fangs.

Crouch Jr. looked up just in time to see them closing in.

“No—NO—KEEP THEM AWAY—!”

Harry did not move to help.

“You wanted someone to die in this maze,” Harry said quietly. “Congratulations. It won’t be me.”

The spiders lunged.

Harry stepped backward, raising his wand, and fired a cutting arc that split open the hedge behind him, creating an escape passage.

Crouch’s screams rose sharply—

then were swallowed by the deafening hiss of spider mandibles and tearing flesh.

Harry didn’t look back.

He sprinted into the new corridor, leaving the chamber of blood, bodies, and lies behind him.

But one thought hammered inside his mind with every heartbeat:

Charlie must not touch the Cup.

And Harry ran harder than ever before.

Branches whipped against his arms as the maze twisted violently around him, narrowing, expanding, narrowing again. He didn’t care. He didn’t slow. His lungs burned, but terror burned hotter.

Charlie must not touch the Cup.

He replayed Crouch Jr.’s memories again and again in his mind: the graveyard, the cauldron, the pale, snake-like creature waiting to be reborn. Harry’s heart pounded sickly.

Someone had forfeited earlier—either Cedric or Fleur—which meant only Charlie still remained ahead of him.

Harry sprinted harder.

Every creature the maze threw at him—hissing vines, snapping roots, a pair of bowtruckle swarms—fell before him. Harry didn’t waste time fighting them. A single cutting sweep of his wand, silent and precise, cleared his path.

The maze didn’t resist.

It felt as if it were pushing him forward.

The air suddenly changed—opened—widened.

Harry burst into a large chamber.

And froze.

Charlie stood on the opposite side, wand raised, sweat beading on his forehead. Blocking his path was a massive Sphinx, its lion body towering above them both, wings half-spread in warning. Its golden eyes were fixed on Charlie with sharp, calculating intelligence.

A Sphinx meant one thing:

A riddle.

A single chance.

Charlie looked terrified.

“I—I don’t know the answer,” he admitted, voice strained. “It keeps repeating the question, I don’t—Harry—”

But at Harry’s arrival, the Sphinx pivoted, turning its majestic, dangerous gaze toward him. It stepped sideways, cutting off Harry’s path with its wing.

“You as well,” it said in a deep, velvety voice. “You must answer before you may pass.”

Harry didn’t argue. “Ask.”

The Sphinx inclined its head elegantly and repeated the riddle—the same one it had given Charlie.

Harry listened. Thought for only a moment.

And answered.

The Sphinx blinked, almost disappointed. “Correct.”

Charlie gaped. “How did you—?!”

“Later,” Harry cut him off. “Move.”

The Sphinx stepped aside gracefully, allowing Harry alone to pass between its wings. The moment its paw left the ground, a new opening appeared in the hedge—a straight path leading directly to a circular chamber glowing faintly blue.

Harry could see it now.

The Triwizard Cup.

It shone like moonlight trapped in glass, sitting upon a raised stone pedestal, humming with unnatural power.

With Portkey power.

He turned back to Charlie, voice urgent and raw.

“Charlie—listen to me carefully. The Cup is a trap.”

Charlie froze. “A—what?”

“Someone turned it into a Portkey,” Harry said, stepping backward toward the chamber. “And I know exactly where it leads. Don't worry about me.”

Charlie’s eyes widened, horror flashing across his face. “Harry, wait—don’t touch it! Please—don’t—”

But before Charlie could take a step toward him—

The Sphinx lunged.

With a powerful sweep of its paw, it struck Charlie across the chest—not to harm him, but to stop him. Charlie was lifted off his feet and thrown backward, crashing onto the maze floor with a cry of shock.

“NO!” he yelled, scrambling helplessly. “HARRY—DON’T TOUCH IT!”

Harry didn’t hesitate.

He stepped into the Cup chamber, wand raised, intending to sever the Portkey link before anyone else could reach it. He drew a deep breath, grounding his magic—

“Charlie!” Harry shouted back, “Trust me—”

His fingers brushed the Cup.

Blue light exploded beneath him.

Charlie’s scream echoed across the maze.

“HAAAARRYYY!”

The world twisted sharply—

The ground vanished—

The sky folded—

The maze dissolved into streaks of color—

A hook jerked behind Harry’s navel—

Harry Weasley was yanked out of Hogwarts.

And into the heart of Voldemort’s resurrection.