Dylan opened his eyes to find himself standing outside a classroom, peering through a half-open door.
The room was unusually spacious but chillingly cold, with no windows on the walls. Only a few copper lamps hanging from the ceiling beams provided dim light.
The students inside wore heavy black cloaks, their shoulders hunched, hands tucked into sleeves, their eyes fixed on the figure by the lectern with a mix of awe and fear.
It was Barty Crouch Jr.
To disguise his appearance, he'd conjured a thick, dark brown beard that sprawled across his cheeks and even crept up his nose, leaving only his strikingly sharp eyes visible.
Perhaps because he was back by Voldemort's side, he radiated energy. He stood tall, his voice booming as he spoke.
Dylan's gaze landed on the lectern, where a worn textbook lay open, its title clear: Practical and Potent Magic.
Clearly, Barty Jr. was teaching a class on Dark Magic.
He was pointing to a passage in the book, explaining an obscure spell. "This is the Bloodletting Curse, a high-level Dark Magic spell, and you will master it," Barty Jr.'s voice carried through the door, heavy with authority. "No slacking. Every syllable, every wand movement, must be precise."
Like Moody, Barty Jr. emphasized practice. Throughout the entire lesson, he didn't waste a single word, covering the spell's origins, principles, casting techniques, and potential consequences of mistakes with clear, methodical detail.
What shocked Dylan most was how Barty Jr. wove in theories about the soul, subtly suggesting it could be strengthened through external forces.
When discussing the spell's application, he was blunt. "First, use a Cutting Curse to wound your enemy. While they're reeling from blood loss, cast this spell to drain a third of their blood in ten seconds—a brutally effective way to dominate on the battlefield."
The students barely breathed, the only sounds being the scratch of quills on parchment mingling with Barty Jr.'s lecture, creating an eerie atmosphere.
As Barty Jr. spoke, Dylan, drawing on his own deep knowledge of Dark Magic, quickly realized the spell's blood loss was far more complex than it seemed.
In the second practical lesson, Barty Jr. confirmed this, emphasizing that the curse didn't just drain blood—it disrupted the target's soul through the magical pathways in their veins, causing soul fragments to leak out with the blood.
This was the spell's true power as high-level Dark Magic, though Barty Jr. described it subtly. Dylan, however, with his deeper understanding, easily grasped the implications.
"The key to practice is simple: strip your opponent of all vitality, leaving no chance for recovery," Barty Jr. concluded, his voice devoid of emotion.
Dylan noted that he taught advanced soul-disrupting techniques to older students while focusing on basic wand gestures for younger ones, tailoring his lessons by skill level. Even the practice dummies were calibrated with varying magical resistance.
What surprised Dylan more was Barty Jr.'s mention of the "Otherworld." "No need to obsess over the spell's origins. Wizards cast by connecting their magic to themselves. Master the technique, refine your skill, and you'll unleash its full potential."
He even extended the spell's principles to other fields—separating potion ingredients in brewing, extracting plant essences in Herbology, or even deboning fish in daily life by adjusting the magic's frequency.
It wasn't just blood that could be "drained."
Dylan lingered in the memory for a full day, from morning theory to evening practice, gaining a deeper understanding of the spell. In that short time, he even identified and refined some of its flaws.
At night, Durmstrang's dining hall glowed with candlelight.
Barty Jr., done with teaching, sat with a plate piled high with food—golden-brown meatballs slathered in thick gravy, neatly sliced smoked salmon drizzled with yogurt-lemon sauce and mustard.
Voldemort seemed absent from the castle. Barty Jr. ate quietly, occasionally glancing at the students with a distant look in his eyes.
After dinner, he headed straight to his office.
Dylan followed and saw him sit at his desk without pausing, grabbing a quill and writing furiously on parchment.
Despite teaching all day, he was still brimming with energy, his eyes gleaming with excitement, clearly thriving in his role.
Dylan peered at the parchment. It was a treatise on wizarding families, but unlike the usual "pureblood" rhetoric, Barty Jr. was crafting a new philosophy.
He rejected the pureblood-mixed-blood divide, focusing instead on a wizard's inherent magic and talent, not their lineage.
The draft wasn't going smoothly. He scribbled a few lines, then crossed them out, his quill jabbing ink spots onto the parchment. The floor was littered with crumpled drafts, and the coffee pot emptied and refilled. By his fifth cup of black coffee, another sheet was scratched beyond recognition.
Dylan stayed another half-hour, but with Barty Jr. endlessly revising the draft, he withdrew his consciousness.
A wave of weightlessness hit him.
In the next moment, he was back in the Headmaster's office, the silvery liquid in the Pensieve still rippling softly.
"Well? Wasn't that memory enlightening?" Dumbledore's voice broke the silence. He sat on a sofa, sipping hot cocoa.
"Pretty remarkable, from any angle," Dylan said, blinking and nodding. "Honestly, Barty Crouch Jr. would make a great professor. His lessons are clear, he breaks down complex spells in a way anyone can get, and he even ties them to other fields."
"Indeed, it's quite a shame," Dumbledore said, setting down his cup, a flicker of regret in his eyes. "The first time I saw this memory, I thought the same. He could've had a very different life."
"And Voldemort… he's not quite what I pictured," Dylan said, shifting gears. "Barty Jr. clearly loves what he's doing. There's no fear or resistance when he's writing those drafts—just conviction. It feels like everything he's doing is on Voldemort's orders, maybe even a shared vision."
"Exactly!" Dumbledore nodded firmly, tapping the armrest. "From what I've seen of Barty Jr., he's safer now by Voldemort's side than before, when he was recklessly wild."
He paused, his gaze drifting to the window, complex emotions in his eyes. "For Durmstrang's students, having a professor like Barty Jr. might not be a bad thing. His teaching is structured, tailored to skill levels, helping students understand Dark Magic systematically, not just misuse it."
"But where's Voldemort?" Dylan followed his gaze. "Professor Dumbledore, has he… already been resurrected? We destroyed one Horcrux last time, but does he have others?"
"As far as I know, not yet," Dumbledore shook his head, sipping his cocoa with certainty. "But he's definitely preparing for a resurrection ritual, treading very carefully."
"So he's not at Durmstrang because he's pouring everything into that?" Dylan asked. For Voldemort, nothing was more important than regaining a body.
Dylan had recently figured out why Dumbledore was suddenly so focused on Voldemort.
It wasn't just the converging worldlines. Voldemort's aggressive recruitment of dark wizards made his movements hard to hide.
In the past, a single call from Voldemort—"I'm coming back!"—would've had dark wizards flocking to him as Death Eaters.
But now, with Karthas, a dark wizard bringing hope to their circles, things were different. Karthas was like a ghost—no one could reach him, and he was said to be working on some grand magic.
That seemed far more appealing than Voldemort's obsession with pureblood supremacy.
So, many dark wizards ignored Voldemort, forcing him to shout louder, even resort to drastic measures.
But that only bred more resentment, drawing attention he couldn't avoid.
And Dumbledore had likely noticed this long ago.
"From what I know of him, yes," Dumbledore said, setting down his cup, his expression growing serious. "Voldemort will return. It's in his bones."
Then, a faint smile broke through, his eyes crinkling. "But these past few years, his luck's been rotten. Too many failures. That's why he's so cautious now."
Dylan nodded, his mind flashing to the Marauder's Map, empty of Death Eater names. "Makes sense. People like Barty Jr., who can actually help him, are rare. Most Death Eaters either betrayed him or lost their fire."
"Exactly. A return to his roots, perhaps?" Dumbledore mused, his eyes distant. "He was always cautious in his youth, always planning contingencies."
"But as he grew stronger, with more Death Eaters calling him 'Dark Lord,' the adulation went to his head, and that caution faded." His fingers tapped the desk, his voice lower. "Yet some things are ingrained—like his reliance on his magical talent and the raw power it brings."
"That's why he hates showing weakness," Dumbledore's gaze sharpened. "He'd never let his old followers, especially the traitors, see him at his lowest."
"You can think of a few names, right? He wants to wait until he's fully resurrected, at his peak, to summon those traitors and savor their panic."
Dumbledore's analysis of Voldemort was razor-sharp.
Dylan nodded silently.
As Dumbledore said, Voldemort would never face his old followers while weak. He'd had chances to regain power over the years—like through the Malfoys, whose wealth and connections could've helped—but his pride and paranoia kept him in hiding.
Even now, recruiting dark wizards, he didn't act directly, relying on his few remaining loyalists.
Dylan's thoughts raced. The Killing Curse failing on Harry, the protective magic in Harry's blood, soul-fragment blood magic, Barty Jr.'s Bloodletting Curse at Durmstrang, and this tournament with an extra champion…
All the clues pointed to one conclusion.
"Professor Dumbledore," Dylan said slowly, "is Voldemort planning to use blood magic—Harry's blood—to resurrect?"
He leaned closer. "He's tried to harm Harry before, even with the Killing Curse, and failed because of Harry's protection. If he uses blood magic, he might bypass it."
"Exactly," Dumbledore nodded, calm, clearly unsurprised Dylan had pieced it together. He clasped his hands, leaning forward. "Sirius told you about Harry's protection, didn't he?"
"He mentioned it's safe to share with trustworthy kids like you."
"Yeah, Sirius told me," Dylan confirmed. He'd gotten plenty of info about Harry from Sirius, so he wasn't fazed by Dumbledore's question.
"Sirius said the protection lasts until Harry's an adult, right?"
"Correct. It fades when he comes of age," Dumbledore's gaze deepened. "The shift from minor to adult is critical."
"Critical?" Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Professor, if Voldemort's after Harry's blood… is that something you're okay with?"
"Hmm…" Dumbledore blinked, a genuine spark of surprise in his eyes, clearly not expecting Dylan to hit the core so fast. "You've connected a lot of dots."
"I've studied magical contracts," Dylan explained. "They're far riskier than Transfiguration—one slip, and you're hit with backlash. Harry's protection is tied to a magical contract, like an egg protected by its shell. The contract's the egg, the protection's the shell—neither works without the other."
"Nice analogy. I like it," Dumbledore said, stroking his beard, his eyes glinting with approval.
"I thought it fit," Dylan grinned, then grew serious. "Voldemort can't touch Harry because of that 'shell.' But if he uses Harry's blood to gain the ability to harm him, he'd have to accept a consequence: becoming part of the contract himself."
He squinted at Dumbledore. "What I don't get is why Voldemort would willingly bind himself to a contract just to hurt Harry. That's not his style."
Dumbledore didn't answer directly. Instead, he waved his wand, sketching a pattern in the air that lingered briefly before fading.
"A blood curse? So, because he traded 'love' for a death curse?" Dylan said.
"He doesn't understand 'love,' so he overlooks the power of a contract built on it."
"Exactly. The curse's punishment is harsher than most imagine," Dumbledore said, his tone tinged with melancholy. "Anything tied to 'love' is beyond Voldemort's reach, no matter what he tries or sacrifices."
Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Really? No way at all?"
"Absolutely," Dumbledore said, his fingers interlocked, thumbs circling each other, his gaze on a phoenix-feather quill on his desk, lost in memory. "How much do you think Voldemort knows about this protection?"
He frowned slightly, slowing his words. "I'd guess he only knows it's ancient magic, an obstacle he didn't anticipate. With his limited knowledge, he's trying to crack it using his own understanding of magic."
"Blood magic," Dylan said, recalling Barty Jr.'s lesson. "By absorbing Harry's blood, he'd transfer the protection to himself, bypassing the barrier."
He shook his head. Blood curses were so rare that even Hogwarts' vast library had no records of them. Thankfully, Ravenclaw had shared some knowledge on the subject.
"I should probably bring out Slytherin soon," Dylan mused. "I was waiting for all four founders to show up before letting him out."
Each founder held unique knowledge, and Dylan wanted it all. But as portraits, their memories were incomplete.
Dylan knew blood curses were ancient magic traded for power, and he understood some applications, but the deeper principles eluded him.
Hearing Dumbledore now gave him a clearer sense of the cost. Voldemort had traded the ability to understand "love" for a powerful death curse, enabling his rapid rise and rivalry with Dumbledore, sparking a war that shook wizarding Britain.
But losing the ability to grasp "love" or anything tied to it? To Dylan, that was a devastating price.