Chapter Text
“Ah, it’s good to finally get some quality time alone together,” Sirius said, leaning back as he sipped from his glass of Firewhiskey. “Well, alone with you and Tom, but I’ve come to accept that the two of you are a package deal. Besides, it’ll make this conversation easier.”
Harry frowned at this and slid his hand around Tom’s, squeezing it slightly. Through their bond, Tom could feel his anxiety peak. “What conversation?” Harry asked nervously.
They were in the Three Broomsticks, taking a Hogsmeade trip on a slightly overcast day, the crisp air slowly starting to warm nevertheless as February became March. Tom and Harry were seated next to each other, a Butterbeer in front of each of them and a plate of chips to share between them and Sirius, who sat across the table. They were tucked into a far corner of the establishment, far from any other patrons, but had Muffling Charms up anyway as any conversation between the three of them ran the risk of revealing Tom’s true identity.
Sirius sighed. “I hadn’t wanted to involve you in this at first, but, well, we’re at a dead-end. I’ve been corresponding with Professor Dumbledore ever since your name came out of the Goblet of Fire, and things look, well, grim. We need to figure out who’s behind all this, and sooner rather than later.”
“Why’s that?” Harry gave him a questioning look.
“Because it’s all connected, isn’t it?” Sirius replied. “Voldemort’s coming back to power – Dumbledore knows about that, by the way – the former Death Eaters are rallying, and now your name comes sailing out of the Goblet, making you the fourth champion in a tournament intended for three. Someone is attempting to accomplish something, but we have frustratingly little information on what that might be.”
“Oh, right,” Harry said. “Well, Tom and I already figured out that it’s connected – he and Mad-Eye Moody both seem to think someone’s trying to kill me. Wouldn’t be the first time – obviously.”
Tom winced. He hated that fact, that regular reminder that he, technically, had been the one to paint a target on Harry’s back the night Voldemort had made the trip to Godric’s Hollow and murdered his family before turning the wand on Harry himself. Yes, he was a new person, somewhat, and yes, those memories were dim and faded, but it didn’t change the fact that Harry had been correct after Mad-Eye Moody’s first class with them: he had been there when it happened.
“Dumbledore seems to think there’s something greater at play,” Sirius said. “Simply getting you killed by a dragon or drowned in the lake seems a bit ludicrous, especially when whoever got you into the Tournament could achieve the same results with a carefully aimed Killing Curse. Dumbledore believes all of this is building to something, one final big show of power at the end of the Tournament. I want you to stay on your toes, Harry, if anything – and I do mean anything – seems out of the ordinary, I want you to let me know straight away.”
“So,” Tom demanded, “who does Dumbledore think put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire?”
“He has a few suspects,” Sirius replied. “Of course, anyone who used to be a Death Eater is high on my list, but there’s not many who’d have access to Hogwarts in order to do such a thing, unless they instructed one of their children to do so. Lucius Malfoy, for example –”
“No,” Harry interrupted. “No way. Draco is my friend, he’d never try to hurt me, even if his father’s turned out to be a right git. He wouldn’t have been able to get my name in anyway – Dumbledore put up an age line.”
“Well, he’s not the only possibility,” Sirius said. “Plenty of your housemates’ parents were Death Eaters, or at least supported Voldemort. Any number of them could have gotten you into the Tournament.”
“No,” Tom said sharply. “I am the heir, and my Slytherins know better than to threaten the life of the one person I cherish most deeply. We have seen to it that they respect Harry as greatly as they do me.”
“If you’re sure…” Tom nodded fiercely. “Well,” Sirius said, clearing his throat as he took another sip of his drink, “that leaves only a few suspects, Igor Karkaroff, for instance.”
Tom scoffed. “I’ve already been over that theory with Harry – Karkaroff is a coward. He barely made it into Voldemort’s ranks, and even then he was of little use. Whatever he did to escape Azkaban, I’m certain he would not risk his hard-won freedom just to kill Harry.”
“That makes sense,” Sirius sighed again. “It was a stupid theory – from what I know of my time in prison, he was fairly well hated, and for good reason. Karkaroff managed to avoid imprisonment by naming several of his fellow Death Eaters and putting them in Azkaban in his place. I can’t imagine Voldemort would welcome him back with open arms after pulling something like that.”
“He wouldn’t,” Tom simmered furiously at this new revelation. “Neither would I. The man’s as good as dead when Voldemort finds out what he’s done, and that’s if I don’t kill him first for his treachery.”
Sirius gave him a hard look. “Really, Tom?” he queried. “Would you rather those monsters still had their freedom, intent as they would be upon killing Harry?”
“There are still some former followers of Lord Voldemort who I believe would shift their allegiance to my side,” Tom replied defensively. “Perhaps not many, but a few – Lucius Malfoy, for example, though he may be lost to me now, given his recent behaviour. As well, Severus Snape –”
“Snape?!” Harry and Sirius yelped in unison.
“Tom, you never told me about Professor Snape,” Harry lamented. “He was a Death Eater? Really?”
“I’m sorry, darling,” Tom said. “I didn’t want you to think too poorly of him, he is our Head of House, after all.”
“Snivellus?” Sirius said shakily, running a hand through his hair. “A Death Eater? I knew he was obsessed with the Dark Arts when we were in school together, but I didn’t think… Why on earth would Dumbledore hire him on as a professor if he used to work for Voldemort?”
“He betrayed him,” Tom said uncomfortably, picking up a chip and studying it intensely. “He loved Harry’s mother. I didn’t understand it, then, not as I do now. We merely thought he desired her. Severus begged Voldemort to spare her life, and as he was one of his most useful supporters, he promised to do so. I suspect it was that vow that, upon her refusal, three times, to step away and let Voldemort kill her son, caused his magic to go awry, her death defeating him and creating me. I also suspect that Snape’s love for Lily Potter is what led him to betray Voldemort, turning to Dumbledore as he believed that we would not fulfil our promise not to harm her. He was obviously right to do so.” He looked up – Sirius was glaring at him, murder in his eyes. “What?”
“You killed them,” Sirius spat. “You sit here, across from me, the murderer of my best friend and his wife, holding my godson’s hand. What must Lily and James think of me now, failing to keep their son out of their killer’s clutches? I try my best to think of you as something other than Voldemort, but you clearly remember more of his life than you’ve let on.”
“Just the important things,” Tom snapped, staring down at his Butterbeer. “I’ve told you this, most of it is much like a dream, a very bad one at that.”
“Yet you clearly remember the night you murdered Lily and James, and tried to do the same to Harry!” Sirius shouted, slamming his now-empty glass on the table. Muffliato or no, people were beginning to stare, their eyes drawn in by what was obviously a fight.
“Stop this!” Tom demanded, glancing around. “Yes, I remember killing Harry’s parents. Yes, I remember trying to kill him. It’s the most horrible memory I carried over from my previous life, and I try not to think of it unless absolutely necessary, like now. I didn’t exist then, and even if I had, or if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t have been able to stop Voldemort. This entire conversation is completely unproductive.”
“Is it?” Sirius growled. “Answer me this, Tom, one question I haven’t been able to let go of – if Harry were no longer your Horcrux, what would you think of him?”
“I’ve already told Harry this!” Tom snarled, leaping to his feet and bringing his palm down heavily upon the table. “I would love him just the same!”
He froze – Harry’s lips had parted, and he was looking up at him in awe. Across from him, Sirius had drawn back, blinking hard at what Tom had just said.
“You just said that you love me,” Harry murmured. “You’ve never said that before.”
Tom flushed as he sat back down. “I did once,” he mumbled. “You were unconscious though. I do, though, you know – love you, I mean.”
“I know,” Harry said simply, kissing his cheek. “I've known you love me for years now, it's just nice to hear you say it. Sirius, I wish you wouldn’t antagonise Tom like that, though. He can’t help where he came from any more than you can.”
Sirius sighed, the anger bleeding away from his expression and leaving him looking suddenly very tired and older than his years. “You’re right, Harry,” he said. “I’m sorry Tom, I’ve been reading too much Rita Skeeter.”
Tom scowled. After the second task, the awful woman had released yet another article, claiming that he’d threatened to boil the merpeople alive at the bottom of the lake. How she had even heard that he’d threatened them at all he had no idea – he hadn’t seen her anywhere near the edge of the lake. And while the letter Ginny had sent to the Daily Prophet about her experience being possessed by a memory of Voldemort and opening the Chamber of Secrets had mitigated the impact from Skeeter’s first article, there was nothing this time to stop people believing Tom had actually made those threats, nothing to prevent them believing he was, in fact, a Dark Lord in the making. He’d had to start sorting his letters carefully, as each day the owls brought new hate mail, howlers, and actual threats. Those with the worst of it – the death threats and warnings – he’d begun to collect in order to identify those who might actually be of some concern to him.
“You know, I didn’t actually threaten to destroy an entire mermish village, women and children included,” Tom grumbled, glaring at Sirius. “I only told off a few of their warriors, and that was because they were going to hurt Harry. Besides, Skeeter shouldn’t even know that, she’s not allowed on the grounds.”
“Speaking of the Daily Prophet,” Sirius replied, clearly keen to shift the topic after his unseemly outburst, “have you seen some of these articles about old Barty Crouch? Sounds like he’s really going through it. I know he was supposed to be judging the Tournament, has he even shown up at Hogwarts?”
“He was there when my name came out of the Goblet, as well as at the first task,” Harry confirmed. “He hasn’t been back since, though. I think Ron’s brother Percy has basically taken over for him.”
“I can’t say I mind his absence,” Tom added casually. “The man seems to absolutely hate me.”
“He would,” Sirius replied. “He would’ve gone to school at roughly the same time you did in your first life. Gryffindor. Has always loathed the Dark Arts.”
“Well, that makes sense,” Tom said. “It was no secret among the student body that by the end of my first year, I knew more Dark curses than most of the seventh years, and they actually taught the Dark Arts in those days, not just how to defend against them. I suppose it doesn’t matter if he worked out the connection between the Tom Riddle I once was and the man who became Lord Voldemort – if he hates the Dark Arts as much as you say and recognised me as my own son, he would naturally be suspicious of me. And that’s not even mentioning the rumours that had been going around even before Skeeter published that first horrible article about me.”
“He does,” Sirius agreed. “Hates the Dark Arts with a passion, I mean. He’s the one who put me away in Azkaban without a trial.”
“What?” Harry gasped. “I knew that people were sent to Azkaban without being tried, but that was Crouch who did that?”
“It was,” Sirius replied. “Honestly, it’s a miracle the man even has a job right now, with the scandal that’s been raised since the public found out what happened to me. I suppose they think he’s been punished enough, having been shunted off to the Department of International Magical Co-operation years back. He was well on his way to becoming Minister for Magic, you know.”
“Yeah, Zabini told us,” Harry said. “One of our classmates. Said he became well-known for putting away suspected Death Eaters without proper trials – or, at least that's who i assume he talking about. Never said why he fell out of favour, though.”
“Well, that’d be what happened with his son, wouldn’t it?” Sirius said. “I’ve been doing some digging since I’ve been out of Azkaban, it looks like his image just never recovered.”
“His son?” Tom asked, feeling the tendrils of a memory beginning to form. “What happened to his son?”
“He was one of the cohort sent to Azkaban by his very own father,” Sirius answered. “Blimey, you don’t know this? What are they teaching you in History of Magic?”
“We’ve got Professor Binns,” Harry said glumly. “He’s fixated on Goblin rebellions, we don’t learn about much else.”
“Still?” Sirius asked, dumbfounded. “I can’t believe they let him keep teaching – why don’t they just hire a new History professor and move to another classroom? Let him keep doing what he’s doing, it’s not like he’d notice his classroom was empty.”
“I agree,” Tom said quickly, “but what about Crouch’s son? You say he sent him to Azkaban, was he a Death Eater or not?”
“I thought you'd might know that, Tom,” Sirius replied, though his tone was not filled with the same venom it had been earlier. “I’ve wondered the same thing for years – he was certainly found in the company of those who were Death Eaters for sure – my cousin, Bellatrix, that vile husband of hers, and her brother-in-law. But at the same time, he was just a kid, not much older than the two of you when they dragged him, screaming, into his cell in Azkaban.”
“The memories come slowly,” Tom said, frowning. “Tell me more about him.”
“There’s not much to tell,” Sirius said. “He was a few years younger than me, a Ravenclaw if I remember correctly. Named for his father. Very studious, never in trouble. Not the sort you’d imagine would become a Death Eater. But then, we never suspected Peter…”
Tom was thinking hard now, connecting the threads of memory that had sparked when he’d first heard Crouch’s name after Harry had been made the fourth Triwizard champion. “Barty Crouch Jr,” he murmured. “Bartemius Crouch? Seventeen, maybe eighteen when Harry first defeated Voldemort? Yellow hair, almost strawberry blond?”
“That sounds like him, yes,” Sirius replied. “So, Death Eater?”
“Definitely a Death Eater,” Tom said. “Not very high up the chain of command, though. You said he was captured alongside Bellatrix? That’s exceedingly unlikely, she was Voldemort’s right hand. What was Bartemius doing with her?”
“Apparently, they were trying to locate Voldemort and return him to power,” Sirius said darkly. “They were caught torturing a pair of Aurors – husband and wife – for information on their master. They should have just waited a few years for you to show up, then they wouldn’t –”
“Stop that,” Tom interrupted. “My personal goals don’t align with Voldemort’s, and I have no desire to associate with Bellatrix Lestrange or her ilk. The woman was obsessed with us, to the point of madness. If Bartemius remained loyal, on the other hand –”
“It’s no good, Tom,” Sirius interjected. “You can’t recruit a dead man.”
“Oh,” Tom said, his shoulders slumping. “That’s unfortunate. If my memory is correct he was very impressionable, and if he’d survived Azkaban, he might’ve remained the same. What happened to him?”
“The same as happens to a large percentage of Azkaban’s population,” Sirius replied. “They just waste away, driven mad by the Dementors. Crouch Jr passed about a year after he was brought in, mere days after his parents were allowed in for a deathbed visit. I watched them bury his body from my cell. Apparently, his mother died shortly after from grief, and the whole scandal destroyed his father’s reputation. He never made Minister for Magic, the job going to Cornelius Fudge instead. Mind – he’s not much better for the job. Crouch might’ve been ruthless, but Fudge can barely tell his elbow from his backside.”
“Hang on,” Tom said. “A deathbed visit? Really? For a man so eager to put his own son in Azkaban, that hardly seems like the kind of behaviour I would expect.”
“I believe it was for the sake of his wife,” Sirius shrugged. “As I said, she died from grief not long after her son did. She clearly still loved him dearly.”
“Yes,” Tom said, looking Sirius dead in the eye. “His wife. His dying wife. Crouch willingly took an ailing woman, someone he supposedly loved, into the most soul-sucking place – literally – known in Europe, to visit a child of his that he apparently hated enough to send to the Dementors. Does that not strike you as strange?”
Sirius pondered. “I suppose it does, when you put it like that,” he finally replied. “I was still young myself, barely into my twenties, when it happened. I never gave it much thought – not that I could, the Dementors’ assaults on the mind didn’t leave much room for rational contemplation. Still, it doesn’t matter much, does it? Both of them died, and Crouch was left alone.”
“No, I suppose not,” Tom answered, feeling unsatisfied. The story just didn’t make any sense as far as he was concerned. There was something more, he was certain, not a memory this time – though it damn sure felt like one, brushing at the periphery of his mind. But the Crouch family were pure bloods, members of the Sacred Twenty Eight – any secrets they held would no doubt be concealed deep.
“Look,” Sirius said sharply, “I don’t want either of you to go looking too deeply into any of this. Harry, you’re in enough danger as it is, and Tom… well, let’s just say I’d rather not see my godson’s boyfriend getting caught up in the madness of his previous life’s followers. Dumbledore didn’t want me telling you any of this anyway, he thinks you’re both too young to hear it. Obviously, as the both of you are anything but normal teenagers, even if I can’t tell him that, I thought that the both of you deserved to know what’s been going on. And Tom, if you remember anything else…”
“You’ll be the first to know,” Tom said sourly. “Well, second, after Harry.”
“None of this brings us any closer to knowing who put my name in the Goblet of Fire, does it?” Harry asked bitterly.
“No,” Sirius agreed. “No it doesn’t.”
For the first time in a long time, Barty was anxious. He’d not felt this way since he had originally taken the Dark Mark at only seventeen, having had to conceal it from his father. After that, his life had taken a sharp turn, with the attack on the Longbottoms, the months spent in Azkaban, and then finally the dreamy years held under his own father’s Imperius. There’d been no room for anxiety in all that time, but now it was back – he’d received a missive, just days prior, that his father had managed to fight off the Dark Lord’s control and escape their household, no doubt making a run for Hogwarts where he would find the one man who would not immediately censure him for his mistakes – Albus Dumbledore.
It was in this state of anxiety that he watched as his father burst through the doors, babbling wildly and demanding in stuttering, gasping tones to speak to the headmaster.
“Alastor,” Dumbledore said, as Barty’s father collapsed in front of them, his robes torn and his hair wild, “help me escort him to my office. Clearly something terrible has happened to your former colleague.”
“Of course, Albus,” Barty said gruffly, doing his best to stifle his fear. He limped around the table, swallowed a mouthful of Polyjuice Potion from the flask at his side, and scooped his own father to his feet with help from Dumbledore, dragging him step by bloody step from the Great Hall as the students from all three schools watched and whispered.
This was a nightmare.
“Albus…” Barty’s father rasped, glancing back and forth wildly. “I’ve made a mistake… I must tell you… the Dark Lord… my son…”
“Calm yourself, Barty,” Dumbledore replied soothingly, as he and Barty supported him up the stairs. “You can tell us all you need to when you’ve had a chance to rest and perhaps have a bite to eat. You’ve obviously been through quite an ordeal.”
“You don’t understand…. Albus… there isn’t time…”
“Inside my office, Barty.”
The two of them managed to wrestle Barty’s father into one of the chairs in front of Dumbledore’s desk, him fighting and kicking at them the entire time. Once he was ensconced within the plush red upholstery, however, Crouch Sr slumped into it, looking exhausted. Barty gave him an appraising look — the man must’ve been travelling this entire time, racing headlong towards Hogwarts. He wondered if he’d even thought to Apparate, or if he’d simply run headlong into the night without stopping for rest.
Dumbledore knelt on the floor in front of Barty’s father, leaving them at more or less the same height, and gazed deeply into his eyes. “I’m going to need you to stay very still, Barty,” Dumbledore intoned, his voice steady and even. “I need to ascertain what’s been done to you.”
To Barty’s surprise, his father complied, his eyes bulging but no longer flickering back and forth. He watched with bated breath as, for several minutes, Dumbledore probed into the man’s mind, and wondered just what he’d find there – was this it, the moment everything came crashing down? Dumbledore was a genius, yes, but would he piece together the truth of what Barty had done? After a long, tense silence, Dumbledore sighed.
“The Imperius Curse,” he stated. “A particularly strong one, at that, Alastor. There is only one wizard I know who is capable of this level of mind control. It’s a wonder Barty Crouch was able to break through it at all.”
Barty inhaled sharply. “Can it be removed?” he asked in trepidation.
“Of course,” Dumbledore replied. “With very little trouble at all… I should be able to… but the consequences may be – there,” he stated, as Barty’s father sank further into the armchair, his eyes fluttering closed. “Well, the curse has been removed, but…”
“Merlin’s beard, Albus,” Barty said gruffly. “He’s not – is he –?”
“Just unconscious,” Dumbledore replied, crossing the room and opening a cabinet. “The ordeal has done a number on his mind. I’m not sure that the man who awakens will be recognisable as the Barty Crouch we know. For now, I think a simple Strengthening Potion is in order.” He pulled a small vial from behind the wooden door, strode back to where Barty’s father sat, limp in his seat, and tipped the contents into his mouth, massaging his throat to make sure the entirety of the potion was swallowed.
“There,” Dumbledore said quietly, as he settled behind his desk. “Now, we wait.”
“Albus,” Barty said as he limped across the room to take a seat of his own, “what does this mean for us?”
“So far, very little that we did not already know,” Dumbledore replied. “It confirms what we’ve suspected – that Lord Voldemort is growing stronger and has somehow acquired a physical body once more. That he’s capable of performing tangible magic but has not yet revealed himself tells me that he is weak, as of yet – comparatively speaking of course. But I believe we can rest easy for now, knowing that Voldemort will not re-emerge into the public sphere until such time as he has fully restored himself.”
So Dumbledore already knew, then, or at least had had an idea of what was happening. The fact that he held this knowledge yet had done nothing, so far, to stop the inevitable was relieving to Barty, a reminder that the man was not the all-powerful being some perceived him to be. And yet, why exactly had he not made a move against Barty’s master? Surely he must seek to prevent the Dark Lord from full resurrection, but here he was, waiting it out, choosing instead to sit back patiently and observe.
“And you don’t wish to report this to the Minister?” Barty asked carefully. “Surely, with this new information come to light –”
There was no twinkle in Dumbledore’s eye, no humour in his expression. “As we have already discussed, Alastor,” he replied, “to do so would be of little use at this stage. We both know that Cornelius is almost certain to deny the facts presented him – he will not accept Lord Voldemort’s return unless he witnesses it with his own eyes. Now, depending on what Barty Crouch can tell us, we may need to amend that plan. However, I find it unlikely that we will learn anything of any great import.”
They fell into silence as the moments ticked by, as Barty’s father’s breath grew more and more steady. It happened painfully slowly – a twitch of the hand, a soft moan in his sleep, a gentle stirring as he shifted in his seat. At last, however, his father’s eyes cracked open and he glanced around, blinking in confusion.
“...What is this?” he asked, disoriented. “Where am I?”
“You are in my office,” Dumbledore replied. “Do you recognise me? Do you recall who you are?”
“...Albus?” Barty’s father asked, peering at him in confusion. “Is that you, Albus? Am I at Hogwarts? I’m afraid my memory seems to be failing me, I cannot recall how I got here – and who is this?”
“This is Alastor Moody,” Dumbledore said gently. “You arrived here this evening in considerable distress. I’m afraid that you’ve been subjected to a particularly powerful attack on your mind, Barty. Healing will be slow, and it may be some time before you’ve recovered your faculties entirely, if ever.”
“Alastor, yes,” Barty’s father said faintly. “I apologise, I should have recognised you. I don’t understand what’s happened.”
“Quite alright, Crouch” Barty replied, growling to conceal the quaver that he was sure had developed in his tone. “Inevitable, considering the circumstances.”
“Barty,” Dumbledore said gently, “when you arrived here, you told us you’d made a mistake. I quite understand if you don’t remember what it is you so desperately made the trip here to tell us, but if you do…”
A great shudder ran through Barty’s father, and his hands came up to his face to mask the despair that shone through his eyes. “It’s my son, Albus,” he croaked miserably. “I’ve failed him. I’ve failed his mother.”
Dumbledore frowned. “It is my understanding, Barty, that your son perished in Azkaban many years ago,” he replied. “Are you aware of what year it is?”
“You don’t realise…” Barty’s father moaned, curling into himself, his hands still pressed against his face. “You don’t know what I’ve done. I’ve ruined everything, Albus. I’ve let my own pride and folly get in the way of my principles, and I’ve doomed us all.”
“Barty!” Dumbledore said firmly. “It does none of us any good to dwell on our past mistakes, not if they can be rectified. Please, tell us what’s happened.”
“My son,” Barty’s father sobbed. “My wife. Both were dying. Allora’s last wish was that our child be freed from prison. It was killing her to see him locked away, tormented by the Dementors. Every day I watched her fade, until she was but a mere shadow of her former self. In the end, I could not deny her… I took my son from Azkaban, per her wishes, and she died in his stead.”
Dumbledore inhaled sharply, drawing himself up in his seat. “Please explain, Barty,” he commanded.
“Polyjuice Potion,” Barty’s father explained, tears dripping from his chin. “We visited Azkaban, very near the end. Allora and Barty swapped places, and I smuggled him out. Our house-elf nursed him back to health. I thought I could control him, Albus. Even when his mother died in Azkaban, even when I lost my bid for Minister for Magic, I had one thing keeping me going – my son was alive, perhaps not well, but alive. I kept him under the Imperius Curse. I never believed he might break free, but this past summer…” Barty’s father trailed off.
“What happened, Bartemius?” Dumbledore said severely. “It is imperative you tell us all you know. Lives may be at risk.”
“The… the Dark Lord came to our residence,” Barty’s father said faintly. “I haven’t a clue how he came to know that my son was still alive, there was only one who ever discovered our secret. I can no longer remember who, do not ask me. I only recall that I erased their memory, that my treachery would not be revealed. When… he arrived, he was weak, as small as an infant, helplessly carried by one of his followers, and yet… I found myself unable to resist his own Imperius. My son escaped. Albus, the Dark Lord has been living in my home.”
This admission was not enough to frighten Barty, as his master’s last missive to him had said that he was leaving, that Wormtail was taking him to Little Hangleton, wherever that was. What was concerning, however, was the possibility that his father had followed that cowardly rat to the Dark Lord’s new place of residence, or that he had discovered what Barty had been up to in the months since his escape. Still, he did not speak up, merely waiting with his hand on the wand he’d borrowed from Mad-Eye Moody, ready for a fight, even though it would certainly cost him his life.
“Oh, Barty,” Dumbledore sighed sadly. “You and I have had our differences, but it pains me to see you so wounded. Have you any idea where your son might be now?”
“No,” Barty’s father replied, his voice broken. “When he disappeared, I was still fully under the Dark Lord’s control. Furthermore, I expect that he has long since left my household… Weatherbee, what are you doing here?”
Barty’s father was looking at him now, his brows furrowed in confusion. “I must insist on privacy,” he continued, frowning at him. “This conversation was meant to be between Albus and myself. I didn’t ask you to sit in.”
“Barty, this is Alastor Moody,” Dumbledore reminded him gently. “I believe, old friend,” he sighed, turning his eyes to Barty, “that this is all we’re going to get out of him, and unfortunately it was less than useful. It does little to help us locate Barty’s son, and Voldemort will have fled the Crouch residence as soon as his prisoner escaped. If you would, please alert St Mungo’s – I’m afraid they may have to house another long-term resident.”
“Of course, Albus,” Barty replied. “Shall I escort him to the hospital wing on my way to the owlery?”
“Please do,” Dumbledore replied sadly. “He’s in need of much greater care than either you or I can offer him.”
“Alright, Crouch,” Barty said, pushing himself up from his seat awkwardly, settling himself on the dead weight of his wooden leg. “Come with me, we’re going to get you to bed.”
“Ah, well, thank you Weatherbee,” his father said as he hoisted him from his seat. “I do find myself in need of a lie-down. I’ve just gotten home from a trip to the beach with my wife and our son. I suppose I could use a little rest, that boy runs me ragged.”
“Yeah, well,” Barty grumbled as the door to Dumbledore’s office closed behind them, “you’re not much better yourself.”