Chapter 60: Chapter 60: Revelations

Arthur materialized outside the burning maze, the unconscious impostor slung over his shoulder like a macabre trophy. The crowd erupted in confused murmurs at the sight of one champion carrying the supposedly trusted Defense professor.

Professor McGonagall reached them first, her face tight with concern. “Mr. Hayes! What—” Her eyes fell on Moody’s unconscious form, and her voice sharpened. “Explain immediately!”

“Before anything else,” Arthur interrupted, carefully lowering his burden to the ground, “are Delacour and Krum safe? With the maze burning, their lives might be in danger.”

“They’ve been recovered safely,” McGonagall assured him, eyes never leaving the prone figure. “Miss Delacour mentioned something disturbing about Mr. Krum being Imperiused and using an Unforgivable on her. What happened in there?”

“This man happened.” Arthur gestured to the unconscious form. “This isn’t Moody but an impostor—a Death Eater using Polyjuice Potion. He put Krum under the Imperius Curse, forced him to torture Fleur, then tried to kill me.”

Snape glided forward, his dark eyes narrowing. “Why target the champions?”

“He wanted to eliminate the competition so Harry would reach the cup first.” Arthur glanced around the growing crowd. “Speaking of which—where is Harry? He grabbed the cup and vanished.”

McGonagall’s face went ashen. “The cup was only supposed to bring the victor to the judges’ platform. If he’s not here…”

“The impostor must have tampered with the portkey,” Arthur said, watching her reaction carefully.

“Albus!” McGonagall’s voice cut through the chaos. “We must find Potter immediately!”

Dumbledore knelt beside the unconscious impostor, examining him with penetrating intensity. His normally gentle demeanor had vanished, replaced by something ancient and terrible.

The acting was worthy of an oscar. If Arthur did not already know Dumbledore was expecting this to happen, he would have been fooled too.

“Severus, fetch your strongest Truth Serum,” he commanded, his voice deadly quiet. “Minerva, secure this man in my office at once.”

“The maze is still burning, Headmaster,” McGonagall reminded him.

Dumbledore glanced at the inferno that had once been the Triwizard maze. Fiery serpents and chimeras writhed among the burning hedges, consuming everything in their path.

Arthur shrugged. “Fiendfyre. Cast by our impostor here.”

“Madam Bones,” Dumbledore called to the stern-looking witch nearby. “If you would coordinate containment efforts?”

Bones nodded sharply, dispatching six Aurors toward the blaze.

The crowd swarmed closer, hungry for information. Parents clutched their children protectively while reporters shoved through the masses, Quick-Quotes Quills hovering at the ready.

“Moody attacked the champions?”

“Where’s Harry Potter?”

“What happened inside the maze?”

Ministry officials formed a protective circle around Dumbledore and the unconscious impostor. Arthur found himself pushed to the periphery, which suited him perfectly.

Snape returned at a run, something almost like concern flickering across his usually impassive features. He clutched a tiny crystal vial filled with clear liquid.

“Veritaserum,” Snape announced, handing it to Dumbledore. “The strongest batch I possess.”

“Revive him,” Dumbledore ordered, stepping back slightly.

Snape pointed his wand. “Rennervate.”

The impostor’s natural eye fluttered open. The magical eye had been confiscated by McGonagall, who held it with obvious distaste.

A gasp rippled through the crowd as the man’s face began to bubble and shift. The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off.

The transformation was grotesque. Skin rippled like boiling liquid, features melting and reforming. The battle-scarred visage of Alastor Moody dissolved, replaced by a much younger face—pale, freckled, with straw-colored hair.

“Barty Crouch Junior,” Dumbledore stated. His quiet voice carried more menace than a shout. “Reportedly dead in Azkaban over a decade ago.”

Crouch’s tongue darted out, lizard-like. His eyes found Arthur, hatred blazing in their depths.

Snape administered three drops of the truth serum. Crouch’s expression immediately went slack, his eyes glazing over.

“For the record,” Dumbledore said clearly, “state your name.”

“Barty Crouch Junior,” came the flat, emotionless response.

“You were sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban for torturing Frank and Alice Longbottom. How are you here now?”

“My mother was dying,” Crouch replied tonelessly. “Her last wish was to save me. She convinced my father to help her. They visited me in Azkaban. She took Polyjuice Potion with my hair. I took Polyjuice Potion with her hair.”

His voice remained mechanical, devoid of emotion. “The dementors are blind. They sensed one healthy person, one dying person entering. They sensed one healthy person, one dying person leaving. My father smuggled me out, disguised as my mother.”

Arthur watched Dumbledore’s face, noting the lack of urgency. With every passing minute, Harry remained in mortal danger, yet the Headmaster seemed determined to extract Crouch’s entire story rather than focusing immediately on Harry’s location.

Perhaps Dumbledore’s confidence in the prophecy was absolute—that neither Harry nor Voldemort could die before their final confrontation.

“How did you remain hidden all these years?” Dumbledore continued.

“My father kept me imprisoned in our house, hidden under an Invisibility Cloak, controlled by the Imperius Curse. My nurse, Winky, cared for me.” Crouch’s vacant eyes stared at nothing. “I began to fight the curse. At the Quidditch World Cup, in the Top Box, I stole a wand. I cast the Dark Mark.”

Fudge made a strangled noise but didn’t interrupt.

“My father tracked me down, took me home, and kept me more controlled,” Crouch continued. “But then my master came for me. He had learned I was still alive. Peter Pettigrew was with him. They overpowered my father. My master placed my father under the Imperius Curse instead. I was liberated. I was rewarded.”

Madam Bones stepped forward sharply. “Pettigrew? Peter Pettigrew is alive?”

“Yes.” Crouch’s face remained expressionless.

“That’s impossible!” Fudge sputtered. “Black killed Pettigrew years ago!”

Dumbledore silenced him with a look. “For what purpose were you freed, Barty?”

A hint of the real Barty broke through the serum’s influence, a smile twisting his features. “For my master’s rebirth. He needs Potter’s blood—blood of the enemy, forcibly taken. By now, it is done.”

“And where exactly is—”

A sudden cry of pain from Crouch interrupted Dumbledore’s question. The bound man’s left sleeve had fallen back, revealing the Dark Mark—black as pitch, writhing as if alive.

“He has risen!” Crouch cackled, momentarily breaking through the Veritaserum’s control. His eyes shone with fanatical devotion. “The Dark Lord returns! Potter is dead, and my master lives!”

A ripple of horrified murmurs spread through the gathered crowd.

“Impossible!” Cornelius Fudge pushed his way forward, his face flushed and bowler hat askew. “This is a deception—a conspiracy! You-Know-Who cannot possibly have returned! And Pettigrew is dead—has been for years!”

“Cornelius,” Dumbledore began, “now is not the time for—”

“I’ll not have this panic-mongering!” Fudge shot back. “This man is clearly delusional—perhaps suffering long-term effects of the Imperius Curse. He should be remanded immediately to Ministry custody!”

Dumbledore turned back to Crouch. “Where has Harry Potter been taken?”

Before Crouch could answer, Fudge inserted himself between them. “That’s quite enough, Dumbledore! This questioning is over. As Minister for Magic, I’m taking control of this situation.”

“Minister, we must know where—”

“You have overstepped your authority,” Fudge snapped. “Aurors! Take the prisoner into custody immediately!”

Two Aurors stepped forward, looking uncomfortable but unwilling to disobey a direct order from the Minister.

Dumbledore’s gaze hardened. “Minerva, Severus—secure the prisoner in my office while I resolve this matter with the Minister.”

As McGonagall and Snape moved to take Crouch, a tense standoff developed with the Aurors. Taking advantage of the distraction, Arthur edged closer to hear Dumbledore’s quiet words to his staff.

“Discover where Harry has been taken. By any means necessary.”

McGonagall nodded grimly, and she and Snape quickly led Crouch away while Dumbledore engaged Fudge in heated discussion.

Arthur watched them go, assuming the role of a spectator. He had no role to play in the coming events.

The crowd remained in confused disarray. Parents demanded explanations while students whispered theories to each other. Ministry officials scrambled to control the situation while reporters scribbled furiously on notepads.

“I’ve never seen the Headmaster so angry,” a Hufflepuff whispered nearby.

Her friend nodded solemnly. “Not even when the Weasley twins charmed all the suits of armor to sing bawdy tavern songs during the Ministry inspection.”

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Arthur kept his eyes fixed on the castle entrance, waiting for McGonagall and Snape to return with news of Harry’s whereabouts.

Finally, they reappeared—but their expressions sent a chill through the gathering. McGonagall looked shaken, while Snape’s normally impassive face was tight with barely contained fury.

They rushed to Dumbledore, who was still engaged in heated debate with Fudge. McGonagall whispered urgently in the Headmaster’s ear.

The transformation in Dumbledore was instantaneous and terrifying. His eyes lost their twinkle, replaced by cold fire that made even the most skeptical onlookers take an involuntary step back.

“What do you mean, a Dementor?” His voice cut through the ambient noise like a blade.

McGonagall’s reply carried clearly across the suddenly silent crowd. “It was waiting outside your office, Albus. It performed the Kiss before we could intervene. Crouch’s soul is gone.”

Dumbledore rounded on Fudge. “Who authorized a Dementor on school grounds?”

The Minister’s cheeks drained of color. “I—well—standard procedure for high-security prisoners—”

“You fool!” Dumbledore thundered, suddenly seeming to tower over Fudge despite their similar heights. “You’ve destroyed our only lead to Harry Potter’s location!”

“Now see here—” Fudge attempted to rally.

“No, you see here, Cornelius.” Dumbledore’s voice dropped dangerously. “A student has been abducted. Harry Potter’s life is in danger. If he does not return safely, I assure you, your tenure as Minister will be measured in hours, not years.”

Fudge swallowed hard, then turned to the stern-looking witch nearby. “Amelia, coordinate with Dumbledore. Find the Potter boy.”

Madam Bones nodded briskly. “Headmaster, how should we proceed?”

Dumbledore exchanged a meaningful glance with Snape. Arthur knew Snape’s Dark Mark would be burning, calling him to his master’s side. Would Dumbledore risk his spy to save Harry?

The decision became moot as screams erupted from the edge of the field.

Blue light flashed again—the same distinctive glow of a portkey activation. A figure had appeared, sprawled on the ground, one hand still clutching the Triwizard Cup.

Harry Potter lay motionless for a heartbeat, then stirred. His robes were torn and bloodied, his face streaked with dirt and tears.

“He’s back!” Harry’s anguished cry pierced the night air. “Voldemort’s back!”

The crowd recoiled as if physically struck by the name. Parents grabbed their children. Students clutched each other. Ministry officials stood frozen in shock.

Arthur watched the color drain from Fudge’s face as the Minister’s carefully constructed reality collapsed around him. Denial and fear warred in his features.

“He’s lying,” Fudge whispered, though no one seemed to hear him. “He must be confused…”

As professors surrounded Harry, guiding him toward the hospital wing, Arthur slipped away quietly. His role in this particular drama had concluded.

His time at Hogwarts was coming to an end. A few final preparations remained before he could say goodbye, perhaps forever. He would only return if the wizarding conflict threatened to spill over into the Muggle world, potentially triggering a catastrophic collision between the two societies.

But that would require his magic to be fully restored. For now, he would wait and watch from a distance, hoping that events would unfold according to the canon.

Behind him, the last of the Fiendfyre was finally contained, leaving the maze a scorched ruin—a fitting symbol for the darkness that now encroached upon the wizarding world.

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