Chapter 220
After the completion of the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament, Barty Crouch Sr. stood speaking to Albert, who was still dripping water from the Black Lake.
Crouch's voice was steady, yet softer than usual as he said,
"You have shown great courage today, Albert. Not only did you save your friend Hermione, but you also risked your life to rescue the girl from Beauxbatons. Such a deed is rare—it speaks of a noble spirit."
But before he could continue, Professor Alastor Moody emerged from the shadows, walking with his familiar limp. He stopped and fixed Crouch with a sharp, piercing gaze before saying in his rough, deep voice:
"Trying to recruit the boy to your cause, Crouch? Leave him be—he's still young and hasn't even graduated yet."
Then, in his unsettling habit, he ran his tongue over his lips.
Crouch Sr. froze. He stared at Moody in disbelief.
That gesture…
He knew it too well.
It belonged to his son—Barty Crouch Jr.—who used to do the exact same thing.
A flicker of tension crossed Moody's face as he noticed Crouch approaching him slowly, eyes widening as if piecing together a dangerous truth. Crouch was about to speak, but instead he stepped back and said coldly:
"I must inform Dumbledore of this."
The air between the three of them tightened instantly. Moody attempted to maintain his composure, turning to Albert and saying firmly:
"Head inside, boy. The cold will get to you, and you're still soaked. We can't have you falling ill."
Albert agreed, beginning to walk back toward the castle.
But something felt wrong.
He turned his head just in time to see Moody walking swiftly toward Crouch—far too smoothly for a man with a limp.
Suspicion flared.
Albert slowed his pace, following them silently, careful not to alert Moody.
He had a feeling that the moment marking the end of Barty Crouch Sr. had already begun.
As he crept closer, he heard Moody speaking in a hushed voice—a mixture of tension and anger.
It was clear Moody had realized Crouch Sr. had uncovered his identity through that habit. And now, he intended to silence him.
Crouch Sr. was walking briskly, his face grim, determination flashing in his eyes. But he stopped suddenly as that familiar harsh voice echoed behind him.
"What exactly do you plan to tell Dumbledore, Crouch?"
Crouch turned slowly, meeting the spinning magical eye with calm resignation.
"You're following me, aren't you?"
Moody stood rigidly, muttering under his breath,
"Is the Imperius Curse wearing off already? This is… unfortunate."
But Crouch Sr. cut him off.
His voice was quiet—yet sharp as a blade.
"No need to hide it anymore. I'm going to tell Dumbledore the truth.
You're not Alastor Moody…
You are my son, aren't you?"
Moody—Barty Crouch Jr.—stopped breathing.
Shock filled his eyes.
It was over.
His father had discovered everything.
And if Dumbledore learned the truth, the entire plan—tampering with the Goblet, the Portkey, Voldemort's resurrection—would collapse.
Without hesitation, Crouch Jr. raised his wand.
But Crouch Sr. was faster than he expected; he had already drawn his wand and pointed it at his son.
For a moment, father and son stood locked in a silent, tragic standoff.
But Crouch Jr.'s reflexes were sharper.
"Expelliarmus!"
The disarming spell shot forward, knocking his father's wand from his hand and sending it clattering across the ground.
Crouch Jr.'s face twisted with anger and despair.
He raised his wand high.
"Avada—"
But before the Killing Curse could strike, a beam of red light collided with it, disrupting it mid-air.
Crouch Jr. spun around in disbelief—only to find Albert standing there, wand raised, eyes full of defiance.
Albert stepped forward, his wand glowing with a crimson aura.
"Did you forget, Professor?" he said steadily. "You once told us in Defense Against the Dark Arts that there are two ways to counter the Killing Curse. One: disarm your opponent before they cast it. And two: possess a shield as powerful as Dumbledore's."
Albert's words shook Crouch Jr.
For a moment—just a moment—his hand trembled.
But he was not one to surrender easily.
A twisted smile appeared on his face.
"You're smart, Albert… but intelligence alone doesn't save lives."
Before the last word left his lips, the duel erupted.
Crouch Jr. hurled a Killing Curse straight at Albert—but Albert vanished in a blink.
A split-second of silence—
Then he reappeared behind Crouch Jr.
"Expelliarmus!"
A red flash lit the forest.
Not far away, Crouch Sr. was watching from behind a tree, trembling violently as he watched his son and Albert exchange spells.
Albert glanced back and barked:
"Leave now! Go! Your presence will only distract me—and he will use you against me!"
Crouch Sr. hesitated, torn between fear and duty.
But he knew Albert was right.
Stumbling, he began running toward the castle—toward Dumbledore.
The battle between Albert and Crouch Jr. raged fiercely.
Every offensive spell was countered.
Every defensive charm met with equal force.
They were evenly matched.
But Albert, with his sharp intellect, noticed a brief lapse in Crouch Jr.'s focus when he saw his father escaping into the distance.
Fear twisted Crouch Jr.'s features.
If his father reached the castle, everything would be exposed.
Albert seized the moment.
"Rictusempra!"
The spell struck Crouch Jr., hurling him backward and slamming him into the ground.
He rose again, pain burning through him, eyes glowing with unhinged fury. His attacks grew more frantic—desperate.
His focus kept wavering toward the castle.
He saw his father nearing the entrance.
"No!"
Realizing Albert would delay him until it was too late, Crouch Jr. snapped.
He lifted his wand and aimed it at his fleeing father.
He was going to kill him.
Albert didn't hesitate.
Another "Expelliarmus!" shot from his wand—
A perfect strike.
Crouch Jr.'s wand flew from his hand, clattering helplessly across the dirt.
Crouch Jr. froze, staring at his empty hand… then at the fallen wand.
He had nothing left.
He stumbled toward Albert, face twisted with fury and heartbreak.
In a shaking voice, both broken and accusatory, he cried:
"What have you done?! Why are you attacking me?! Weren't I your favorite professor?! Didn't I teach you how to defend yourself?! Didn't I give you power?!"
Albert was unmoved.
Before Crouch Jr. could say another word or make another desperate move—
"Stupefy!"
A scarlet blast struck him square in the chest, throwing him to the ground.
Unconscious.
Albert lowered his wand, breathing steadily as he looked at the fallen impostor.
Then he glanced toward the distant castle.
Barty Crouch Sr. had made it.
He had probably reached Dumbledore by now.
The fight was over , But Albert knew the greater storm had only just begun.
To be continued…