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The Starlord - Chapter - 51
🕑 Added 2025-10-11 15:35:36 +0000 UTCDays slipped by like smoke through Harry’s fingers, vanishing before he could grasp them. June crept closer, and with it, the day of the final task — June twenty-fourth. It should have been just another tournament spectacle, but for Harry, it marked something else entirely: a deadline.
He wasn’t a champion, not this time. Yet he was the one fighting a battle the others couldn’t even see. Somewhere inside these walls, a shadow was moving — the one who had cursed him, the one who had enslaved Barty Crouch’s mind, the one who wanted him dead.
And Harry had every intention of finding that man before the year ended.
The weather reflected his mood — gray and uncertain. Clouds rolled over the castle in lazy swirls, letting the sunlight through only in fragments. When the wind shifted, it brought with it the scent of wet grass and the faint tang of metal from the lake’s surface. Rain came and went without warning, drumming against windows before vanishing into silence.
Sometimes, Harry would stand by the high towers and watch the Ministry officials laboring below, setting up the enormous maze on the Quidditch pitch. Massive hedges, conjured by teams of specialists, snaked across the field like living walls. Runes glowed faintly where traps and creatures were being planted.
But not everyone was thrilled.
The Quidditch fanatics of Hogwarts — especially Fred and George Weasley — had taken the matter personally.
From where Harry stood, he could see a group of students holding signs in protest near the stands. “Bring Back Quidditch!” one banner read, another said, “You Can’t Replace a Pitch with a Hedge!”
Fred’s voice carried across the pitch even through the rain.
“This is blasphemy! You don’t mess with the holy ground of Quidditch!”
George, standing beside him, added dramatically, “We’ve flown, fallen, and broken bones on this pitch for generations! You can’t just turn it into a Ministry gardening project!”
Laughter rippled through the watching students. Even some of the Ministry workers smiled despite themselves. One of them, a squat wizard in a rain cloak, raised his wand and said dryly, “You’ll have your pitch back next year, boys. Now kindly stop hexing the shrubbery.”
A charmed paper plane sailed from Fred’s wand, bonking the man on the head before flying off. The crowd burst into laughter.
Harry allowed himself a faint smile — the smallest in weeks. For a moment, he felt the old Hogwarts warmth. But it faded quickly. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze drifted back to the maze, watching as one Ministry witch tested a ward, her wand flashing with blue sparks.
It wasn’t just a maze. It was a trap.
A stage.
A perfect place for an ambush.
And if the man who’d been manipulating everything wanted one last move before the term ended, that was where he’d make it.
Inside the castle, the atmosphere was tense. Exams were approaching, and Hermione and Neville were practically living in the library.
“Honestly, Harry, I don’t know how you can be so calm!” Hermione scolded, flipping through her Arithmancy notes as they sat near the common room fire. “The exams are next week!”
“I don’t need exams,” Harry said simply, his tone flat, detached. “I need answers.”
Neville looked up from his Herbology book, looking awkward. “You’re still looking into… that attack? And the Imperius thing?”
Harry nodded once. “Whoever tried to kill me is still here. And the same person’s controlling Crouch. It’s all connected.”
Hermione frowned. “But if Professor Moody said—”
Harry’s eyes hardened. “Moody’s lying. And I’m done pretending otherwise.”
Hermione sighed, clearly torn. “I just don’t want you to get expelled.”
“Expelled?” Harry’s voice turned low, dangerous. “After everything that’s happened, after what I’ve learned, you think I care about grades or rules?”
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant. “You two can focus on exams. I’m not staying in this school forever. I’m not planning to work for the Ministry, or play Quidditch, or live by their little rules. I’m done being what they expect me to be.”
Winky, who had appeared silently beside him, spoke in a soft but chilling tone. “Master Harry studies only what is needed. The rest is weakness.”
Hermione jumped at the voice. “Merlin, Winky! Don’t sneak up like that!”
But the elf only smirked, her sharp eyes glinting. Dobby appeared next, arms folded across his chest. “Winky is right. Weak knowledge breeds weak power. Master Harry learns what will destroy his enemies.”
“Destroy?” Neville repeated uneasily.
Harry didn’t answer. His eyes had drifted to the fire. In the flames, he could almost see it — the face of the unseen enemy, smirking in the shadows, thinking Harry Potter was still a pawn on the board.
Not anymore.
That night, rain lashed the castle again. Thunder rumbled over the towers, but Harry didn’t sleep. He stood by the window, staring out at the half-finished maze gleaming faintly under moonlight.
Each hedge was a wall, each shadow a possibility. Somewhere beyond those green corridors, the truth waited — the final test of this cursed year.
Dobby appeared beside him, silent. “The maze will be finished tomorrow,” the elf said quietly.
“I know,” Harry murmured. “And when it is, so will this game.”
The wind howled against the glass, carrying with it the scent of rain and magic and blood waiting to be spilled.
The final task was coming.
And Harry Potter — the boy once destined to be a hero — was preparing to strike like a Sith.
The Gryffindor common room was alive with the anxious buzz of students preparing for exams. Books lay open across tables, ink bottles cluttered desks, and parchment was scattered like fallen leaves. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over faces furrowed in concentration.
Hermione sat cross-legged on the carpet near the fire, quills and scrolls around her like a general’s battle plans.
“No, Lavender, the correct formula for human transfiguration isn’t switching incantations, it’s systemic morphic adjustment.”
Lavender blinked. “Hermione, that’s not even in the textbook.”
“That’s why you’re failing Transfiguration,” Hermione said without looking up.
A few feet away, Neville was going over a list of magical plants with Ron and Seamus, both of whom looked as though they’d rather face a dragon than a test.
“So, remember — Venomous Tentacula reacts to movement, not sound,” Neville explained patiently.
Ron groaned. “I’m not going near anything with tentacles ever again.”
“Then fail,” Seamus muttered, flipping his notes upside-down.
But Harry wasn’t studying.
He sat alone near the window, the Marauder’s Map spread across his lap. His quill tapped lightly against the armrest, eyes scanning every corner of the parchment. He’d checked the map nearly every night since the Barty Crouch incident, looking for signs — movements, names where they shouldn’t be, patterns that others couldn’t see.
“Still at it, eh?”
Harry looked up. Fred and George were walking toward him, identical grins plastered on their faces, carrying Butterbeer bottles like trophies.
“What are you looking at all the time?” Fred asked, peering over Harry’s shoulder. “You guarding Hogwarts or running it?”
“Nothing,” Harry said shortly, folding part of the map to hide the names he was tracking.
“Oh come on,” George said, dropping into the chair beside him. “You can’t just say nothing and expect us to walk away. We’re professionals at noticing things people shouldn’t be doing.”
Fred leaned in. “You know, brother, he’s been twitchier than usual since Easter. I bet he’s mapping out his enemies.”
“Or his future conquests,” George added, smirking.
Harry didn’t rise to the bait. He simply unfolded the map again, eyes flickering across the parchment. The twins followed his gaze — and Fred’s grin suddenly faltered.
“Uh… mate,” Fred said slowly, pointing. “Tell me that says what I think it says.”
Harry frowned, following Fred’s finger.
There, near the lower left corner of the map — Barty Crouch.
The name was moving slowly through the dungeon corridors, near Snape’s old storage rooms.
“He’s here again,” Harry muttered, voice dark.
“Yeah,” Fred said. “But…” He squinted. “No, hang on — that can’t be right.”
“What?” George leaned over, eyes narrowing. “He’s not in the dungeons, Fred. Look—there!”
Sure enough, another Barty Crouch name glowed faintly near the Forbidden Forest, drifting slowly toward the edge of the castle grounds.
All three of them stared in stunned silence.
Fred blinked. “Either this map’s broken…”
“Or Barty Crouch has learned to split himself in half,” George finished, his grin vanishing completely.
Harry didn’t speak. His eyes were locked on the map, cold and sharp. Two identical names — two presences moving at once. He could almost feel the unease through the Force, a faint vibration in the air around him.
Fred’s voice broke the silence. “So… what exactly does that mean?”
Harry folded the map slowly, his jaw tightening. “It means,” he said in a low voice, “someone’s lying again.”
George whistled softly. “Merlin’s beard. Two Crouches? What do we do about that?”
Harry’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “I’ll deal with it.”
Fred frowned. “You sure, mate? Maybe tell Dumbledore—”
“I don't trust Dumbledore,” Harry said flatly. “He’ll ignore it. I’ll find out the truth myself.”
The twins exchanged an uneasy glance.
They’d seen Harry angry before — but this wasn’t anger. This was control. Cold, deliberate, lethal control. The kind that made both of them instinctively take a step back.
Fred coughed. “Right, well, uh… we’ll just, er… go make sure Peeves doesn’t blow up another toilet.”
George nodded quickly. “Good plan. You do your spooky map thing. We’ll… not be here.”
When they were gone, Harry unfolded the map once more. The two names still moved independently — one slow and sluggish near the Forest, the other pacing in sharp, erratic lines in the dungeons.
He reached out with the Force, closing his eyes. He could feel them both — faintly. One was fading, like a dying ember. The other burned too sharply, too precise, too wrong.
Behind him, Dobby and Winky appeared silently.
“Master Harry found something,” Dobby said, eyes burning faintly.
Harry nodded. “Two Barty Crouches. One in the castle. One outside it.”
Winky’s voice was a hiss. “Impossible. Unless… unless one is pretending to be the other.”
Harry’s gaze darkened. “Exactly. And I think I know which one’s the fake.”
He folded the map with deliberate care and slipped it into his robes.
Outside, thunder rolled across the mountains again, echoing through the windows like a warning.
The castle was silent that night, the kind of deep silence that only came after curfew — when even the portraits slept and the ghosts drifted quietly through the walls. Harry moved quickly through the stone corridors, the Marauder’s Map open in his hand, its ink lines glowing faintly in the dim torchlight.
He was almost at the dungeons. The narrow stairway wound down like the throat of a great beast, damp and cold, with the faint smell of potions and mildew. The map showed one of the Barty Crouch names still hovering there, just near the corner.
Harry’s eyes narrowed. So, the other Crouch near the Forest was a decoy… but this one—
A sound broke the stillness — footsteps. Heavy, measured, echoing down the corridor.
Harry’s instincts flared instantly. Without hesitation, he shoved the map into his pocket and pulled the Invisibility Cloak over himself, vanishing into the shadows just as a beam of light flashed around the corner.
“Who's there?”
The voice was rough, gravel dragged through steel. Professor Moody.
Harry froze where he stood, every muscle still. He could see the glint of Moody’s magical eye sweeping through the corridor, scanning walls, ceilings, even the ceiling arches as if he expected Death Eaters to crawl out of them.
Then the spinning blue eye stopped — right on him.
“Potter,” Moody growled, stepping closer, his wand raised. “You can drop the cloak, boy. That trick might fool Filch, but it won’t fool me.”
Harry hesitated, then slowly pulled the cloak off his shoulders. The cold draft of the dungeon hit his face as he met the ex-Auror’s mismatched gaze.
“Professor,” he said evenly.
Moody’s wand didn’t lower. “What are you doing near the dungeons this late?”
Harry’s mind raced. He couldn’t mention the map — not even a word of it. If Moody knew, he’d take it. He’d never give it back.
“I was just taking a walk,” Harry said finally, his tone calm but guarded. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Moody’s scarred face twitched. “Taking a stroll near the dungeons? Not the smartest choice, Potter.”
“I wasn’t aware corridors had a curfew,” Harry replied quietly, a faint edge to his tone.
Moody’s magical eye whirled faster, scanning Harry’s face, his robes, his hands. “You’ve got guts, boy. I’ll give you that. But guts get you killed faster than anything else.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry said, his voice as steady as his stare.
For a moment, they stood in silence, the only sound the faint dripping of water from the ceiling. Then Moody lowered his wand, just slightly.
“Since it’s nearly the end of term,” he said gruffly, “I’ll let this go. No points lost. No detentions either. But don’t let me catch you wandering again, understood?”
“Yes, Professor.”
“Good,” Moody said, turning on his wooden leg with a dull clunk. “Back to your dormitory, Potter. Before I change my mind.”
Harry waited until Moody’s footsteps faded into the upper corridor before moving again. His heart was pounding, not from fear, but from fury. The Force inside him coiled like a serpent.
He clenched his fist. He could feel Dobby and Winky’s distant awareness through the Force — both of them watching, waiting, ready. But not tonight. Not yet.
He slipped the cloak back on and turned toward the stairs that led to Gryffindor Tower. The castle was quiet again, the rain whispering faintly outside.
By the time he reached the portrait hole, the anger had cooled into something sharper — focus.
This time, Moody had sent him back. Next time, Harry promised himself, he would be the one doing the watching.
He disappeared through the portrait hole without another word.
And in the dungeons below, where the air hung heavy with secrets, the faintest echo of two names flickered across the forgotten map in his pocket —
Barty Crouch.
Barty Crouch.
And then… one of them vanished.
