Harry Potter and the Triwizard Gambit - Chapter - 20

The night air was sharp and cool when Harry left the Beauxbatons carriage, the faint scent of roses and enchanted candles still clinging to him after his hours with Fleur. He had not stepped foot inside their carriage—Madame Maxime guarded it as fiercely as a dragon her hoard—but Fleur loved to talk. She described the grand dining chamber with chandeliers glowing in liquid silver, the mirrored hallways enchanted to reflect only beauty, and the soft velvet couches lined in deep sapphire and gold. Harry, listening to her lilting voice, had almost felt as if he had walked those polished floors himself.

Tonight had been no different. Fleur had sought him out earlier, her silvery hair shimmering in the torchlight as she asked if he would spar with her, to sharpen her spellwork for the Third Task. Harry had agreed. He wasn’t in this Tournament to win, but he wasn’t about to see Fleur unprepared either. So they had spent hours in the small clearing behind the carriage, practicing shield charms, stunning spells, and—when Fleur insisted—curse-breaking counter-charms.

Now, walking back toward the castle with the taste of spellfire still sharp in his memory, Harry felt pleasantly exhausted. His wand arm ached, and there was a faint sting on his left shoulder where Fleur had slipped a stinging hex past his guard, smirking when he yelped.

“Worth it,” Harry muttered with a grin as he tightened his cloak against the night breeze.

The grounds were quiet. Most students were already inside, and even the carriages and towers seemed to slumber in the silver wash of moonlight. Harry took the familiar path toward the castle, cutting past the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The shadows between the trees stretched long, whispering with the rustle of unseen creatures.

That was when he saw him.

A figure stood half in the shadows, half in the moonlight. His hair was disheveled, his robes untidy. The lantern in his hand shook faintly, casting erratic beams across his face. It was Barty Crouch.

Harry froze.

“Mr. Crouch?” he whispered to himself.

The man looked… wrong. His skin was pallid, his lips trembling as though with fever. His eyes darted wildly, never settling on one place. He stumbled forward, muttering words that didn’t fit together, fragments of sentences tumbling out of his mouth like broken glass.

Harry stepped cautiously closer, heart thumping in his chest.

“Mr. Crouch? Are you—are you all right, sir?”

Crouch didn’t seem to hear him at first. His gaze fixed somewhere over Harry’s shoulder, on something that wasn’t there.

“Send him word—no, no, too dangerous… must reach Dumbledore, yes… tell Dumbledore, tell him… he must be warned…”

His hand jerked as he pointed weakly toward the castle.

Harry swallowed hard. This wasn’t the stern Ministry official who had judged Winky so harshly. This was a man unraveling before his eyes.

“Sir,” Harry tried again, moving closer. “It’s Harry—Harry Potter. You wanted Dumbledore? I can take you to him.”

At his name, something flickered in Crouch’s eyes, a flash of recognition quickly swallowed by madness. His lips moved furiously, forming words Harry had to strain to catch.

“Bertha—dead… my fault, my fault… Voldemort—he is rising, stronger every day… he commands, I obey… no, no, must resist—must—”

Harry’s blood turned cold. Voldemort.

Crouch clutched at his head with a groan, as though fighting some invisible hand crushing his skull. His body shook violently, and he dropped to his knees in the grass.

Harry rushed forward, grabbing his arm to steady him. “Hold on! I’ll take you to Dumbledore right now!”

Crouch’s grip shot out like a vice, clutching Harry’s sleeve with surprising strength. His face contorted in desperate anguish.

“Tell Dumbledore… he’s here… he’s near… he’s closer than anyone thinks. Watch the one who is acting as professor—no, no, that’s wrong, or is it right?” His voice cracked into a half-sob, half-laugh, chilling in its confusion. “They’re all watching… they all think they know… but the Dark Lord knows more.”

Harry’s breath quickened. Every word felt like a secret clawing its way into the open.

“I’ll get Dumbledore,” Harry insisted, glancing toward the castle. It was far, but he could make it if he ran. “Stay here, I’ll bring him—”

But Crouch’s grip only tightened, his wild eyes boring into Harry’s with startling clarity for just a heartbeat.

“Don’t… leave me… they’ll find me. They always find me.”

Harry’s heart pounded. He didn’t know whether to stay or go, but every instinct screamed that Crouch’s warning was vital.

“Please, sir,” Harry said desperately. “Let me get help.”

And then, suddenly, a sound split the night. A rustle in the trees. Heavy footsteps.


Harry’s mind raced. Percy had told Fred and George just last week that Mr. Crouch was sick at home, sending instructions by owl. But the man before him looked nothing like someone capable of holding a quill. His lips trembled; his eyes rolled in their sockets.

Something was deeply wrong.

Before Harry could decide what to do, another voice came from the shadows.

“Step away, Potter.”

Professor Moody limped forward, staff clunking against the ground, his magical eye whirling.

At the sight of him, Mr. Crouch recoiled in terror. “No… no… not you… stay away… please…” His voice cracked into a whimper, his body trembling.

Harry blinked. Moody, frightening as he could be in lessons, had never inspired this kind of fear.

Moody’s scarred face tightened. “What’s this, then? You shouldn’t be out here, Potter. Help me with him.”

Harry hesitated, but when Crouch nearly collapsed, he rushed to Moody’s side. Together, they half-carried, half-dragged the man back toward the castle. Mr. Crouch struggled the whole way, pulling against their grip, muttering nonsense—“Dumbledore… tell Dumbledore… must… must stop him…”

Moody gritted his teeth. “He’s not making sense. Potter, you go. Run to the Headmaster. Bring anyone you find. I’ll keep him from hurting himself.”

Harry nodded quickly, handing Mr. Crouch’s arm back to Moody. “Right—don’t let him run off.”

And then he sprinted.

The grass blurred beneath his feet as he dashed toward the castle. Ahead, two figures stood in the moonlight near the doors—Professor McGonagall and Snape, locked in some sharp exchange.

“Professor McGonagall!” Harry panted as he reached them. “It’s Mr. Crouch—he’s in the forest! Professor Moody’s with him, but he says—he says to fetch Dumbledore—”

McGonagall stiffened, her hand flying to her chest. “Barty Crouch?”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Impossible. He’s sick and unable to—”

“He’s there!” Harry cut in. “He looked… mad. Please, come quick!”

Without another word, McGonagall strode forward, robes swishing, Snape gliding at her side, his expression unreadable. Harry ran ahead to show the way.

But when they arrived at the spot, Harry’s breath caught.

Moody lay on the ground, unconscious. His staff had rolled a few feet away. Mr. Crouch was nowhere to be seen.

“Enervate,” Snape said sharply, flicking his wand.

Moody jerked upright with a gasp, one eye swiveling madly. “Crouch—stunned me—ran into the forest—quickly—”

Snape’s mouth twisted. “How convenient.”

McGonagall ignored him. “Come, Alastor. With me.” She turned back to Harry. “Potter, back to the castle. Now.”

“But—”

“That is an order.” Her voice was crisp as frost.

Harry groaned but obeyed, trudging back toward the castle. McGonagall fell back a step and called after him, “And ten points from Gryffindor for being out past curfew—”

Harry spun on his heel. “I’m a Triwizard champion! There is no curfew for me!”

For a moment McGonagall’s lips tightened, then, with an almost imperceptible sigh, she said, “Very well. The points are restored. Off with you, Potter.”

Harry smirked faintly and turned back toward the castle, though his mind was buzzing.

Mr. Crouch, raving in the forest. Moody, panicked at the sight of him. And now he had disappeared.

Something very strange was going on.



The first thing Barty Crouch Sr. felt was the cold stone pressing against his back. His arms and legs were bound tightly with thick, enchanted ropes, biting into his skin as if they had a will of their own. He blinked rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the dim, misty air of the graveyard. A pale moon hung above, its light washing over crooked tombstones and long-forgotten graves. His breath quickened, his chest tightening with dread.

Before him stood Professor Moody—or what appeared to be Moody. But something was wrong. The man’s posture, the way he shifted from foot to foot, seemed unnatural. His magical eye spun wildly in its socket, not calm and focused as he remembered. And then, beside Moody, stood another wizard Crouch recognized—a ministry official from years ago, once in charge of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

“What… what is this?” Crouch rasped, his voice hoarse, trembling. “Moody, release me at once! You have no authority to—”

The man tilted his head, and a cruel grin split his scarred face. Slowly, before Crouch’s horrified eyes, the features of “Moody” began to shift. His face melted and reshaped, the grizzled scars smoothing into youthful skin, the wild hair darkening, the magical eye disappearing altogether. The polyjuice disguise faded, and what stood before him was not Mad-Eye Moody.

It was his son.

“Hello, Father,” Barty Crouch Jr. said, his voice a sickly mixture of mockery and triumph. His eyes burned with a feverish madness. “Did you really think you could escape from me? That your precious rules and reputation would save you?”

Crouch Sr.’s mouth went dry. His heart thundered in his chest. “You… I—” His words caught in his throat. “I saved you. I saved you from Azkaban! I—”

“—condemned me to a living death!” Crouch Jr. snarled, stepping forward. “Do you have any idea what it was like? To rot in that house, guarded, hidden, nothing but shadows and whispers for company? All because you cared more about your Ministry career than your own son.”

The older man shook his head violently, desperation etched into every line of his face. “I did it to protect you! You were guilty, boy! Guilty of torturing the Longbottoms until they were broken! I had no choice—”

“You always had a choice,” Crouch Jr. hissed, leaning close. “And you chose your career, your spotless name. Now you’ll pay for it.”

A low, guttural sound rumbled from the cauldron nearby. Crouch Sr. finally noticed it—an enormous, black iron cauldron, steaming with a foul green vapor. Its contents bubbled thickly, hissing with sparks of dark magic. The ministry official—no, not a ministry official any longer, but clearly a servant of Voldemort—was adding strange, gleaming powders into it, whispering incantations under his breath.

Crouch’s eyes widened. “What are you doing? What is this ritual?”

Barty Crouch Jr. gave a laugh that sent shivers crawling across his father’s skin. “A rebirth, Father. You should be proud. You’ll witness the return of the greatest wizard who ever lived.” He raised his wand, tracing symbols in the air that glowed sickly red. “The Dark Lord has waited long enough.”

“No…” Crouch Sr. whispered, his voice cracking with horror. “No, you cannot—Voldemort will ruin the magical world!”

Crouch Jr.’s grin widened. “Ruin? Oh no, Father. He is a revolutionary. He has been waiting, feeding on scraps, surviving on the edge of death itself. And now…” He gestured to the bubbling cauldron. “Now he will rise again. And you—” He jabbed his wand toward his father, forcing the ropes tighter. “You will be his unwilling gift. His proof that loyalty to him outlasts even blood.”

The mist thickened around them, curling through the gravestones like living things. Crouch Sr. struggled against his bonds, his mind reeling. He wanted to scream for help, to call out for Dumbledore, for anyone—but he knew no one would come. The graveyard was silent, the only sounds the bubbling cauldron and his son’s twisted laughter.

“You’re mad,” Crouch Sr. gasped. “Completely mad.”

“Mad?” Crouch Jr.’s eyes glinted, fever-bright. “No, Father. Enlightened. You’ll see. When the Dark Lord stands before us again, when the world trembles, you’ll understand. You’ll understand everything.”

The cauldron flared suddenly, green fire erupting into the night sky. The ground trembled beneath their feet. And Barty Crouch Sr., bound and helpless, felt true terror consume him.

Because whatever was coming, he knew it was not meant for the world to survive.