Beuwulf
patreon
The Starlord - Chapter - 55
🕑 Added 2025-10-22 16:16:17 +0000 UTCDragging two full-grown wizards through a narrow tunnel was no easy task, even for men used to danger. The air in the secret passage was damp and heavy, filled with the musty smell of earth and age. Their wands illuminated the darkness with a faint blue glow as Sirius, Remus, and Harry hauled both Barty Crouch Sr. and Barty Crouch Jr. through the cramped path toward the Shrieking Shack.
Crouch Sr. was half-conscious, his breathing ragged, eyes darting wildly. His mind was clearing as the Imperius Curse that had bound him began to weaken. Crouch Jr. remained limp, stunned into stillness, his face twitching occasionally as if even in unconsciousness he was haunted by madness.
By the time they emerged from the tunnel, everyone was covered in dirt and sweat. The broken floorboards of the Shack creaked under their boots as they dumped the two Crouches onto the ground.
Sirius wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “Bloody hell, that’s the most physical work I’ve done since escaping Azkaban.”
Remus crouched near Crouch Sr., checking his pulse and eyes. “He’s waking up,” he said. “Looks like the control’s worn off.”
Crouch Sr. stirred weakly, his lips trembling. “W-where… where am I?”
Harry stood off to the side, his arms crossed, eyes cold. “Back where you belong — far away from whatever madness you started.”
Sirius’s expression hardened. “Don’t waste your breath on him, Harry. This man sent me to Azkaban without a trial.” His voice was low, bitter, every word sharp as glass. “And he had the gall to help his Death Eater son escape when it suited him.”
Remus shot him a warning look. “Sirius—”
But Sirius was already moving. He knelt in front of Crouch Sr., his expression a mask of fury and restraint. “You made a career out of righteousness, didn’t you, Crouch? All that talk about law and justice.” His fist clenched, and before anyone could stop him, he drove it hard into the man’s face.
The blow echoed through the Shack like a gunshot. Crouch collapsed sideways, blood trickling from his lip.
“That,” Sirius said coldly, standing again, “was for twelve years in hell.”
Remus’s voice was quiet but firm. “Enough. We can deal with him later.” He raised his wand, murmured a Stunning Spell, and Crouch Sr. fell limp once more. With a flick of his wand, Remus bound him tightly with thick ropes. “He’ll keep until we’re finished.”
Harry didn’t flinch. “Fine. Let’s get to the real one.”
They turned toward Barty Crouch Jr., who had begun to stir. His eyes fluttered open, revealing the crazed gleam of someone long lost to sanity. He laughed faintly, dry and cracked. “The great Sirius Black. The werewolf. And the Boy Who Lived. How poetic.”
“Shut it,” Sirius growled, shoving him against a wall. “You’ll talk when we say you talk.”
Remus produced the vial of Veritaserum, uncorking it carefully. “Hold him steady.”
Sirius pinned Crouch Jr.’s head back against the rotting boards while Remus forced three drops of the shimmering silver liquid onto his tongue. The Death Eater’s sneer faltered, his body relaxing as his pupils dilated under the potion’s spell.
Remus stepped back. “He’s ready.”
Harry stepped forward, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “Who put my name in the Goblet of Fire?”
Crouch Jr.’s voice came flat, emotionless under the potion’s influence. “I did.”
Sirius’s jaw tightened. “Why?”
“The plan was to bring the Dark Lord back to life,” Crouch said tonelessly. “The ritual required the blood of his greatest enemy. At first, it was to be you, Potter. But when your name came out, You didn't participated in the tournament like I expected. So we changed it. We decided to use Alastor Moody — the Dark Lord’s oldest hunter. His blood, his suffering, his defeat — the perfect offering.”
Remus exchanged a dark look with Sirius. “So that’s why they had him locked up.”
Harry’s voice remained calm, almost eerily so. “When was this ritual supposed to happen?”
“Tonight,” Crouch replied, his tone distant. “When the world’s eyes are on the Tournament, when no one is watching the shadows.”
Harry’s expression didn’t change. “And the attack on me in the castle… was that you?”
Crouch Jr. blinked slowly. “Yes. You interfered too much. The curse should have killed you.”
For a moment, silence filled the Shack. Sirius and Remus waited for Harry to respond — but he didn’t speak. He simply raised his hand.
The air in the room shifted.
Without a word, Barty Crouch Jr. began to choke. His eyes bulged, hands clawing at his throat as an invisible force lifted him off the ground. His legs kicked uselessly in the air, boots scraping against the wall as he gasped for breath.
Sirius’s eyes widened. “Harry! Stop!”
Remus’s voice cut through the chaos. “Harry, let him go!”
But Harry didn’t move. His expression was carved from stone, his eyes glowing faintly with a dark, unnatural light. The Force rippled around him — cold, suffocating, lethal.
Crouch Jr. gurgled, veins standing out against his neck as he struggled against the invisible grip. The floorboards creaked under the pressure radiating from Harry’s outstretched hand.
Sirius moved first, grabbing Harry’s arm. “Enough!”
Harry’s head turned slightly, his gaze like burning ice. “He tried to kill me, Sirius. He would have if I hadn’t been wearing armor.”
Remus stepped between them, his voice firm but calm. “And now he’s helpless. You’re not like him, Harry. Don’t become like them.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the ragged choking of Crouch Jr. and the dull hum of raw power in the air.
Then Harry exhaled, his hand trembling once before he finally let go. The Death Eater dropped to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut, gasping and coughing violently.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Sirius released a slow breath, eyes still wide. “Bloody hell, Harry…”
Remus’s voice was quiet but edged with steel. “You have to control it, whatever that was.”
Harry didn’t respond at first. His hand lowered, fingers twitching faintly as if still remembering the feeling of the choke. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady.
“I am in control.”
Then, more softly, almost to himself —
“But he deserved worse.”
Crouch Jr. lay crumpled on the floor, coughing weakly, the Veritaserum still dulling his senses.
Remus glanced at Sirius, then at Harry. “We’ve got what we came for,” he said quietly. “Let’s end this before the night gets darker.”
But Harry’s gaze stayed fixed on the Death Eater. His voice came out like a whisper of thunder.
“Oh, it’s already dark, Remus. It’s been dark for a long time.”
Moody’s voice was suddenly behind them, thin and rusty from months in a trunk. “So what is the plan tonight?”
For a heartbeat the question hung in the broken air of the Shrieking Shack. Everyone had been so busy that they’d almost forgotten the battered Auror huddled against the boards, the man they’d just dragged out of a locked box.
Remus answered first, gentle but direct. “You’re staying here, Alastor. You need rest. You were in custody for nearly a year. You can’t walk that far, you can’t play the bait. You need to keep watch here.”
Moody blinked, tried to sit up straighter, and the effort cost him. He sagged back down with a grunt. “Aye. Can’t do much more than breathe right now.” He gave a crooked, tired smile. “Never thought I’d be told to rest.”
Harry stepped forward, cold and businesslike. “You stay,” he said. “You keep the Shack and make sure Senior doesn't make any trouble. If he wake and try anything — you hold him. Notify Dobby if you can.” He cast a quick look at the bound Crouches where they lay groaning on the floor. “We’ll be the ones to go.”
Sirius let out a slow laugh that had something like danger under it. “So what’s the great plan, then? How do we stop a ritual— and make sure the Dark Lord doesn’t get a body tonight?” His grin widened. “You plotting something fancy, kid?”
Harry folded his hands behind his back and outlined it plainly, each sentence like a blade.
“We learned two things from him,” Harry said, voice flat. “One — the ritual needs a sacrifice who counts as the enemy’s blood: someone with a history of fighting the Dark Lord. Two — they were going to take Moody because he fits that role and is well known. They prepared to use his blood tonight during the Final Task distractions.”
He let that settle, then went on: “So we will make them take the wrong man. We will put the victim they expect into their hands — Junior have been using Moody’s appearance and his authority for a long time; people expect Moody. We will present Barty Crouch Jr. as Moody, in stead of any enimy blood, we use one of his loyal follower's blood— and we’ll wreck the ritual.”
Remus’s brow knit. “You mean — we’ll walk into their site as if everything is proceeding normally and then sabotage them from inside?”
“Exactly.” Harry’s eyes were steady. “We take the ritual expectations, flip them. And destroy whatever they planned to use. We use their confidence against them.”
Sirius clapped once, delighted. “Loud and messy. I like it. Classic Marauder-slap-in-the-face.”
Moody, listening, let out a raspy chuckle. “You lot and your theatrics. Fine. I’ll keep the shack. Keep your prisoner quiet. Don’t bring this mess back here unless you absolutely must.” He coughed. “If it comes to it, burn the trunk, kill the evidence.”
The room inside the Shrieking Shack was cold and quiet except for the faint creak of old wood underfoot. Dust hung heavy in the air, swirling around the faint blue light from Remus’s wand. The trunk sat ready between them — sealed, warded, and holding its unwilling passenger: Barty Crouch Jr., Polyjuiced into Alastor Moody.
Harry adjusted the cuffs of his robe, the illusion of Barty Crouch Jr. fully settled over him. His reflection in a broken shard of glass showed hollow cheeks, cold eyes, and the faint smirk of a fanatic. Beside him, Sirius, now Barty Crouch Sr., moved stiffly, his new face gaunt and aged. The transformation was so perfect that even Remus had to glance twice to remind himself who was who.
“Remember,” Harry said evenly, his tone carrying the quiet authority of command. “You’re under Imperius. You say nothing unless spoken to, and when you do, keep it short. The less you talk, the less chance we’re found out.”
Sirius gave a slow, mechanical nod — perfectly in character — then smirked out of the corner of his mouth. “Aye, Imperius. That’s easy enough for me.”
Remus folded his arms, studying the two of them. “I’ll stay back. If something goes wrong, I’ll step in, but I won’t interfere unless I have to. The fewer of us there, the better.”
Harry gave a brief nod. “Good. Keep watch from the treeline.”
Remus’s eyes flicked toward the trunk. “And if the real Crouch Jr. wake?”
“He won’t,” Harry said coldly. “I stunned them twice. Our job is to make sure this ritual fails before it begins.”
Remus hesitated for a moment, then gave a curt nod. “Then go. Before they notice the delay.”
Harry turned to Sirius. “Ready?”
Sirius straightened his shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.”
Harry reached out his hand. “On three.”
They clasped wrists — Harry with the trunk in his other hand — and with a loud CRACK, the Shrieking Shack vanished around them.
The world slammed back into existence in the middle of a grassy slope overlooking a small, ancient graveyard. The wind that swept through Little Hangleton carried the scent of damp earth and stone. The crooked tombstones leaned at odd angles like teeth breaking through the ground, and the air itself felt tainted — heavy with old magic.
The sudden silence was deafening.
Harry’s wand came up instantly, scanning their surroundings. The night was pitch-black, save for the faint orange glow of a fire flickering somewhere ahead. Sirius steadied himself, the trunk handle creaking under his grip.
They moved forward in silence, the grass whispering beneath their boots. A thin shimmer rippled through the air as they crossed a faint magical barrier — light pressure against their skin, gone as quickly as it came.
“Muggle-repelling ward,” Harry muttered. “Weak. They didn’t expect anyone but their own.”
Sirius gave a stiff nod, his Imperius act flawless — eyes glassy, face blank.
They crested the rise, and then they saw it.
At the center of the graveyard, a massive cauldron bubbled and hissed, green vapor curling into the night. The heat from it shimmered the air, casting distorted shadows across the gravestones.
And standing beside it — hunched, twitching, pale in the firelight — was Peter Pettigrew.
For a heartbeat, Sirius froze. The hand gripping the trunk trembled. His jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening with the effort to stay still. The rat-faced traitor’s name seemed to burn itself into the night air between them.
Harry saw it immediately — that sharp intake of breath, that twitch of rage. “Don’t,” he whispered, just loud enough for Sirius to hear. “Not now.”
Sirius’s teeth ground together, but he said nothing. He forced his face back into the obedient slackness of a man under control.
Harry stepped forward, his cold voice carrying across the clearing.
“We’re here.”
Pettigrew turned, his watery eyes wide with excitement and fear. “M-Master Crouch… you came! The preparations are almost complete.” He scurried forward, bowing low, his thin hands twisting nervously. “Is that—” He glanced at the trunk, licking his lips. “Is that the Auror?”
Harry nodded once. “As ordered.”
Pettigrew’s trembling hands reached out to touch the trunk’s metal edge. “Perfect,” he whispered. “The master will rise tonight…”
Sirius’s eye twitched. His voice, soft and dull, came out through gritted teeth: “He won’t rise for long.”
Harry shot him a warning glance, then faced forward again. “Let’s get this over with.”
The graveyard crackled faintly with unseen wards, and the cauldron’s steam thickened. Their trap was set, their parts in motion.
And as the shadows of Little Hangleton deepened, Harry Potter and Sirius Black, disguised as the two Crouches, walked toward the dark heart of Voldemort’s resurrection.
