"So, what exactly happened to Mr. Crouch?" Adrian cut directly to the chase, his voice taking on a sharper edge of concern. There was no point in dancing around the issue if Dumbledore had summoned him with such urgency.
Dumbledore lightly tapped the armrest of his chair with his fingers. His expression remained composed, but Adrian detected a subtle tension in his body language.
"Percy Weasley received a letter from Crouch yesterday morning," He said calmly, though his blue eyes held a glimmer of worry. "The letter stated that he was leaving immediately for Albania on important business—urgent Ministry matters apparently, and was temporarily entrusting all his departmental affairs completely to Percy.
Percy has been writing to me constantly since receiving it, sending owls every few hours, hoping I could offer him some practical advice. Having such a young, inexperienced man manage an entire Ministry department is hardly a sustainable long-term solution, even for someone as capable as young Mr. Weasley."
"Very strange indeed," Adrian said slowly, his mind already racing through the circumstances. He leaned forward slightly in his chair, his expression darkening with suspicion.
Going abroad at this particular time with the Triwizard Tournament ongoing, with tensions running high about Death Eater activity, with his responsibilities at their peak was undoubtedly extremely suspicious behavior.
It flew in the face of everything they knew about Barty Crouch Sr.'s obsessive dedication to duty and usual code of behavior.
"What is your view on this situation, Adrian?" Dumbledore asked, watching his face carefully.
Adrian shook his head grimly as he said the conclusion he'd already reached. "I'm more inclined to believe that Mr. Crouch has already been killed, possibly weeks ago. Those letters weren't sent by him at all. And..."
He paused; his eyes meeting Dumbledore's with certainty. "I suspect Percy hasn't actually seen Mr. Crouch in person, face to face, for over two months now. All communication has been through written letters, hasn't it?"
"A very accurate guess, Adrian." A trace of seriousness appeared on Dumbledore's old face, deepening the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth.
Adrian shrugged, already moving toward solutions. "The best course of action now would be to search Barty Crouch's home immediately and see if things are as I suspect."
"Hmm..." Dumbledore fell into contemplation, his fingers stilling on the armrest as he considered.
Then he said as a slight frown appeared on his brow, "I don't believe we should trespass into someone else's private residence without permission."
Two minutes later.
In a certain quiet, respectable neighborhood in London, far from the magical districts most wizards frequented.
Accompanied by Fawkes's melodious cry, the air twisted and compressed with the distinctive sensation of phoenix travel. Adrian and Dumbledore appeared before a gray-brown brick house that looked as though it had been standing unchanged for decades.
The house looked no different from the surrounding Muggle residences—unremarkable, designed to blend seamlessly into the neighborhood. Even the shrubs in the small front garden were trimmed with geometric precision, maintained to exactly the same height and shape as those of the neighbors.
Nothing about it showed that a high-ranking Ministry official lived inside, let alone that anything disturbing might have occurred here.
Occasionally a few pedestrians passed by on the pavement but they paid no attention at all to these two men dressed in particularly peculiar attire. Dumbledore's Notice-Me-Not charm worked flawlessly, rendering them invisible to Muggle perception.
"This is Barty Crouch's house?" Adrian asked, studying the house.
He looked at the thick layer of dust accumulated on the windowsill, undisturbed by any recent cleaning, and frowned with growing certainty that something was deeply wrong.
A man as picky as Crouch would never allow such neglect of his property.
"I believe so," Dumbledore confirmed. "He's lived here for nearly two decades, ever since his wife's death."
He stepped forward up the short path, and tried the brass doorknob—it was locked, unsurprisingly.
"Alohomora!" Dumbledore casually casted an effortless unlocking charm.
The door's lock clicked open with a sound.
Adrian silently glanced at Dumbledore with one raised eyebrow.
Who was it that had just said trespassing was morally wrong and required careful ethical consideration?
Inside the house was pitch black. The air was stale and undisturbed, carrying the musty scent of a space long closed to fresh air and sunlight. No lights were on, and the windows were covered with heavy curtains that blocked out the afternoon light completely.
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes, allowing them to adjust to the gloom, and the tip of the Elder Wand began to glow with soft, warm light. "Lumos."
The light spread out like dawn breaking, pushing back the shadows and revealing the interior in gradually increasing detail.
Passing through the narrow entrance hall, its walls filled with old photographs in dusty frames, showing a younger Barty Crouch with his late wife and son in happier times, they came to the main living room.
The living room was extraordinarily tidy, almost obsessively so, as if no one had actually lived there at all for months.
The dust covers on the sofa were as neat as new, pulled tight without a single wrinkle, not even a furrow to suggest someone had recently sat there.
Not a single water stain, ring, or mark of any kind remained on the coffee table's surface, which reflected Dumbledore's wandlight like a mirror. Even the wood ash in the fireplace was perfectly arranged in a small, contained pile, as though it had been deliberately placed there for aesthetic purposes rather than being the natural remnant of an actual fire.
On a small side table in the corner, partially hidden in shadow, sat an odd object that caught Adrian's attention: a tuft of gray-white hair, arranged in a small glass vial.
Probably someone's hair, saved for some purpose. Quite an alarming amount of hair to have lost!
'This might be the helplessness of middle-aged men facing aging,' Adrian thought with dark humor.
'Or, more likely given their suspicions, it was an ingredient for Polyjuice Potion.'
Just as Adrian was thinking these random thoughts...
"Who are you?" A cold, sharp voice came from behind them, cutting through the silence.
The two spun around sharply to see Barty Crouch standing in the deep shadows beneath the staircase. His face was stern and unwelcoming, every line radiating suspicion and authority. His wand was already raised and pointed at them.
"Oh, it's me, Albus Dumbledore," Dumbledore said smoothly.
He nodded with his typical gentle manner and quickly explained their presence in an apologetic tone.
"We heard that you hadn't appeared at the Ministry for quite some time nor did you attend the Triwizard Tournament Yule Ball. We were somewhat concerned about your wellbeing, Barty. Your absence has been noted."
Barty Crouch observed them for a moment, his expression was incomprehensible in the shadows, before slowly lowering his wand. His tense shoulders seemed to relax somewhat, though Adrian noticed his grip on the wand remained firm.
"Ah, it's you, Albus," Crouch said, his voice losing some of its sharp edge but remaining calmly formal. "I thought it was an intruder breaking in. We've had problems with burglaries in this neighborhood recently."
As he spoke, he walked to the wall beside the doorway and pressed the light switch. The sudden flood of electrical light made them all blink as the entire room lit at once, banishing the shadows to the corners.
Only then could Adrian clearly see Barty Crouch's face in clear detail.
Meticulously groomed gray-white short hair, not a strand out of place despite the supposed stress he'd been under. A short and neatly trimmed beard, maintained with care.
A stern expression that seemed permanently etched into his face, looking like someone who rarely smiled. Sharp eyes that darted between his visitors with analytical intensity, assessing, calculating. A weary face marked with prominent wrinkles.
In every respect, he appeared no different from the usual Barty Crouch—the same severe demeanor, the same rigid posture, the same air of barely controlled impatience with anything that disrupted his carefully well-organized life.
Dumbledore also observed Senior Barty discreetly.
"Strictly speaking, we are indeed intruders," He admitted mildly, inclining his head in acknowledgment of their offense. "If this uninvited intrusion displeases you, I sincerely apologize. It was not our intention to violate your privacy, but our concern overrode our respect for proper etiquette."
"No need to worry about it," Barty responded, shaking his head with a dismissive gesture.
His tone was cold, clipped, entirely in character. "So... you came to check on my condition, is that it? If so, you needn't be concerned. I'm simply tired—exhausted from work, nothing more. I've been handling matters from home rather than going into the office."
"We also heard through young Percy that you were planning to travel to Albania," Dumbledore continued, his expression remaining unchanged, perfectly pleasant and mildly curious. "Important business, he said. But it appears you haven't departed yet?"
Albania.
Albania, where Voldemort had hidden for years.
Albania, where Bertha Jorkins had disappeared.
Albania.
"The trip was canceled, Albus," Barty replied without missing a beat, his expression showing nothing but mild irritation at the wasted planning.
"Circumstances changed, and it became unnecessary. If there's nothing else you require of me, please leave. I need some rest—I've had very little sleep lately, and your unexpected visit hasn't helped."
"Oh, of course. I'm very sorry to have disturbed you at home," Dumbledore said with every appearance of genuine remorse.
He bowed slightly, then gave Adrian a meaningful look. The two turned together toward the door, moving in apparent acceptance of their dismissal.
Just as they reached the entrance hall, their backs to the living room, almost at the front door...
"Impedimenta!" Adrian's voice rang out.
"Stupefy!" Dumbledore's deeper tone followed immediately after.
The two simultaneously spun around, their wands already in motion.
Two dazzling jets of light, one red, one white flew toward Barty Crouch with deadly accuracy.
Barty Crouch had anticipated the attack. He swung his wand sharply in a complex defensive pattern, and a shimmering shield appeared just in time, deflecting both incoming curses. The spells reflected off at angles, one shattering a lamp, the other scorching the ceiling.
A flash of coldness passed through his eyes. His lips curved into a sinister smile that transformed his entire face into something cruel and mocking.
"How unfortunate, Dumbledore," his voice lost its original carefully controlled calm, sounding somewhat distorted and younger, tinged with mania barely held in check. "I had hoped you could keep up the act a bit longer. It was entertaining to watch you pretend to believe me."
Adrian chuckled softly.
In that instant, Barty Crouch sensed something and quickly looked up toward the ceiling, his false smile vanishing.
But it was already far too late to react.
Adrian's apparently deflected spell hadn't missed at all—it had hit precisely where he'd intended, the ceiling directly above Crouch's position.
From the point of impact, where the plaster now glowed with faint red light, several pitch-black iron chains materialized from nothing. They extended downward like striking serpents, dropping with supernatural speed!
Before Barty Crouch could react beyond a strangled shout of surprise, the chains wrapped around his limbs like living creatures possessed of their own hunting instinct. They coiled around his wrists, his ankles, his torso, and yanked him violently to the ground with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs.
His wand flew from his suddenly nerveless hand, spinning through the air, and was caught smoothly by Dumbledore with a casual beckoning gesture, as though he were merely catching a tossed apple.
"An impressive spell, Adrian," Dumbledore said with appreciation, examining the chains with interest as they tightened their grip. "Your own design? The animation is particularly elegant."
Adrian wondered if it was really appropriate for the headmaster to slack off so blatantly. He'd essentially let Adrian do all the actual work while providing verbal support.
What if Barty Crouch had managed to Disapparate away before the chains caught him?
Dumbledore walked slowly toward the struggling figure on the floor. "Barty" wriggled against the chains, which only tightened further with each movement, adapting to his struggles.
"Polyjuice Potion, if I'm not mistaken," Dumbledore said calmly, crouching beside his captive. "The hair on the table rather gave it away, I'm afraid. Who are you, truly? And what have you done with Bartemius Crouch?"
"Barty" remained defiantly silent, pressing his lips together, though his eyes burned with hatred.
Seeing this stubborn refusal to cooperate, Dumbledore shook his head with a sigh of disappointment. He waved the Elder Wand gently, almost tenderly.
A soft golden light flashed across "Barty's" face, and immediately, visible changes began to occur. His gray-white hair began to lose its color and texture, becoming lighter and more chaotic. His skin began wriggling like melting wax, the features shifting and reforming beneath the surface in a deeply unsettling transformation.
For someone of Dumbledore's vast experience and power, ordinary Polyjuice Potion was hardly an effective disguise. Breaking through its effects was child's play for the wielder of the Elder Wand.
Shortly, perhaps thirty seconds later, the potion's effects completely dissipated sun, revealing what had been hidden beneath the stolen face.
A young but twisted face emerged. Disheveled pale-yellow hair lay plastered against his forehead with sweat.
Blue veins showed faintly visible beneath unnaturally pale skin that hadn't seen proper sunlight in over a decade. His eyes burned with frenzied zeal barely held in check.
Barty Crouch Jr. The supposedly dead son.
The convicted Death Eater who should have perished in Azkaban years ago.
"It's been a while, Dumbledore," Barty Jr. grinned up at them, his voice hoarse and trembling with hysteria and triumph. "I never imagined we'd meet again under these circumstances.
Did you think I was dead? Did you think I was rotting in Azkaban?
Surprise."
His laugh was cracked, and broken.
Dumbledore's expression showed little fluctuation.
"Where is your father?" He asked directly, as the tip of the Elder Wand began to glow faintly.
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