As humanity expanded its territory, it also abandoned its lands.
Most people yearned for the bustling streets of big cities—every Briton had a London dream. The villages nestled in desolate regions gradually returned to nature, left behind by all but nostalgic old souls or the odd wealthy eccentric who chose to live in these remote, nearly forgotten places.
Nature was always intertwined with magic.
Barty Crouch Jr. approached one such abandoned house and gave a subtle wave of his wand.
The air before him rippled.
Aside from the faint disturbance of magic, nothing else changed. He placed a hand on the door and gently pushed it open.
The stench of alcohol and raw meat filled the room.
A few mutilated corpses lay scattered—some cows, some sheep... and some human.
"Mr. Crouch." A man, taller than Crouch by a full head, stood up and greeted him respectfully. "You're here."
Crouch said nothing, covering his nose.
The room held fewer than ten people. Some sprawled on chairs, others on the floor.
"You've been killing again?" Crouch's gaze swept to the bodies.
The man lowered his head. "We were quiet. We checked—these were loners, no family, no friends."
"And you didn't save any for me?" Crouch conjured a clean chair with a flick of his wand and sat down.
The man paused, speechless.
"How's the contact with the other werewolves going?" Crouch scoffed, waving a hand. He already knew—these dimwitted, uneducated fools were completely unreliable.
The man lowered his voice. "We... haven't been able to reach many more werewolves."
"That cursed Lupin's been spreading rumors—telling everyone Potter's working on a cure for lycanthropy."
"That's a dangerous rumor."
He hesitated, gauging Crouch's expression, then muttered, "We loyal servants still believe the Dark Lord will rise again."
"But those foolish werewolves... not so much."
"They believe Lupin. They believe Potter might actually find a cure."
Crouch interrupted, voice sharp, "And why would they believe Potter? He's no Potions Master. Or... has Lupin been telling you lot he's receiving help from one?"
The man shook his head. "No, but... Potter—just Potter—is enough."
He looked at Crouch, the de facto leader of the remaining Death Eaters, possibly the only one left openly.
Potter—he was Potter.
The one who'd defeated and killed the Dark Lord.
Gryffindor's heir.
To most wizards, Potter was practically the next Dumbledore—just waiting for the headmaster to retire so he could take over, or perhaps challenge him. Rumors said Potter had fought every professor in Hogwarts—except Dumbledore.
He defeated the Dark Lord. If he said he could cure lycanthropy... well, it didn't sound impossible.
At the very least, the werewolves wanted to believe him.
Compared to the Death Eaters' vague promises of "a werewolf homeland once the Dark Lord returns," Potter's claim was far more credible.
"No mention of a Potions Master?" Crouch mused aloud.
The man trembled. "We'd never side with Potter! We are loyal to the Dark Lord!"
He watched the wand in Crouch's hand with fear.
Truthfully, many were tempted. Who wouldn't want to be cured? Who wants to live as a cursed creature?
But they dared not act on it.
Several who tried to flee after hearing of the Dark Lord's death were killed. Crouch made an example of them—tortured to death with the Cruciatus Curse, in full view of the others.
Crouch smirked. "And why shouldn't they believe Potter?"
The man flinched.
Crouch waved a hand dismissively. "Still, it disrupts Father's plans. Any ideas how to fix it?"
The man lowered his head.
Fix it? How? Potter was behind it. What could they possibly do? They didn't even dare think of touching him.
Crouch thought for a moment, voice lowering. "Gather the werewolves."
The man gasped in surprise.
"Crouch, sir, they won't—"
"I know," Crouch interrupted. "Tell them... the Dark Lord has developed a cure for lycanthropy."
"Truly?!" the man exclaimed, face lighting up.
Crouch's smile was sweet. "Of course. The Dark Lord is omnipotent."
"This was meant as a reward for you loyal followers. But now, perhaps it can sway those who hesitate."
Excitement swept the room.
The other werewolves, previously silent, perked up, ears twitching, eyes gleaming.
"But time is short," Crouch said gently. "I'll inform you of the exact date later. For now, your task is to gather as many as possible. Here. Understood?"
The man bowed deeply. "As you command, Mr. Crouch."
Crouch nodded, said nothing more, and left.
As soon as he stepped outside, his expression went cold.
The great Dark Lord, his true father, researching cures for werewolves? Laughable. One so noble wouldn't care for such lowly creatures.
Of course it was a lie.
"I alone remain truly loyal to Father," Crouch whispered, Apparating away.
His face twisted with disgust.
These werewolves were no longer trustworthy.
Their so-called loyalty wavered at the mere suggestion that Potter had a cure. How pathetic.
And they were worthless.
The goblins might not be fully loyal either, but at least they could forge weapons and field an army.
These werewolves?
Barely a dozen—and they might soon be cured of the very thing that made them useful.
Let them serve their final purpose at his hands.
Crouch returned to his base, pulled out a two-way mirror, and with a flick of his wand, obscured his surroundings before channeling magic into it.
"Severus," he whispered.
The mirror shimmered.
Snape's face appeared. "Barty? What kind of fool contacts me at this hour?"
"Lucky for you I'm not in class."
Crouch smiled. "Severus, my dear, I have a question."
Snape nodded silently.
"Are you aware Potter is working on a cure for lycanthropy?"
Snape sneered. "You're just now asking about that? He's been at it over a year."
"How's the research going?" Crouch asked offhandedly.
Snape sneered harder. "Do you think I'm his personal house-elf? Ask Slughorn. He'd know more."
"I heard you used to give Potter detentions—last year, the year before?" Crouch said, grinning.
Snape replied coldly, "Do you believe I'd ever help him become a Potions Master?"
"So you weren't giving him tutoring?"
"What do you think?"
No lie was detected—neither in expression nor magic.
Crouch relaxed. "Severus, how long would it take you to find a cure for lycanthropy?"
Snape answered immediately. "Right now."
Crouch raised a brow.
"Just cast the Killing Curse on them all. Problem solved."
"Brilliant idea." Crouch clapped. "Severus, I need you to pass along a message to Potter."
Snape narrowed his eyes.
Crouch picked up something offscreen—its details hidden in a magical shroud.
"On the 26th, this month, in Yorkshire, in an abandoned village, the werewolves will gather."
"Most from Britain, maybe even abroad."
"A grand gathering."
"A werewolf gathering?" Snape echoed.
Crouch nodded.
Snape frowned. "What are you planning?"
Crouch whistled. "Who knows? Thanks for your help, Severus—I have other matters."
And without waiting for a reply, he cut the connection.
Snape's face darkened. He exhaled deeply.
After a long pause, he raised his wand.
Words appeared on a slip of parchment. Once finished, it twisted into an origami crane and took flight toward Gryffindor Tower.
Whether it was Crouch's request...
Or his duty in his current role...
He had to deliver the message.
----------
Powerstones?
For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates