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"A mature Seeker catching the Snitch when they're already down 160 points? That was a terrible decision!"
"He fought Lynch for the entire match! If he hadn't ended it then, the gap would've only gotten worse!"
"The World Cup final ended almost two weeks ago and you're still arguing about Krum? Talk about something new…"
"Did any of you go to that haunted house in Dartmoor? I went last week. The second I stepped inside I got goosebumps. It reminded me of my time in Azkaban. Still gives me the creeps thinking about it."
Aberforth shook his head and set down the beer glass he had wiped several times. The past few weeks had probably been the busiest travel season Britain's wizarding world had seen in decades. Hogsmeade was packed with visitors. Every shop on the street—even the Shrieking Shack—had welcomed hundreds of tourists.
One World Cup final and one newly opened haunted house had injected a lot of life into Britain's magical community.
Aberforth had no interest in any of it. While the International Confederation of Wizards and the Quidditch World Cup dominated the news, he and Albus had slipped away to Godric's Hollow. In front of their parents' graves, Ariana had said goodbye.
She had asked them to live well, to promise they would return to Godric's Hollow every Christmas, and to bring sweets and ice cream to visit her on Boxing Day. But she didn't want them using the Resurrection Stone to call her back.
Aberforth felt the same hollow feeling you get after a party ends. He had lost the warmth of family when he was very young, and after a century he had touched that warmth again. He still wasn't ready to forgive Albus.
But at least now he could sit down and listen to him talk—and find the right moment to insult him.
The pub owner put down the greasy, sticky rag and eyed the glass he still couldn't get clean. Maybe after spending months in that spotless office, his own rundown, dirty bar counter, sawdust-covered tables, and creaky wooden stairs had started to look worse.
Maybe the whole place needed a proper deep clean?
The noise in the main room continued. Customers shouted for another round.
"I'll have an ice-cold beer—in my own glass." Someone stepped up to the bar and placed a sparkling, crystal-clear beer mug on the counter.
Aberforth looked up calmly. Patrons at the Hog's Head liked to hide their faces—hoods pulled low, strange masks, or dirty gray bandages. Customers who sat openly at the bar without any disguise were rare.
It was that young professor from Hogwarts—Melvin Levent.
"For Ariana and Hagrid's sake…" Aberforth sighed, took the glass, and poured a beer. He didn't add any extras—no dregs, no dust.
Melvin was studying the pub owner's face too.
They were brothers with almost identical bone structure, yet almost no one connected this barkeep with the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
Aberforth had a harder edge than Dumbledore. His hair and beard were metallic gray. He also wore glasses, but they didn't make him look kindly. The lenses couldn't hide those sharp, bright blue eyes.
Aberforth hadn't planned to speak, but the obvious scrutiny made him frown. "Professor Levent, term starts in two days. Shouldn't you be at the school helping with preparations?"
"The Headmaster gave me a more important job."
"?"
Melvin repeated the Crouch father and son's clever prisoner-swap escape plan. He explained how Voldemort had returned to loyal Britain with the help of his servant and was actively preparing his resurrection—but there was no need to worry. Everything was under control.
"…Dumbledore needs to leave for a while to carry out an undercover mission. But the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin. To keep the enemy from getting suspicious, Hogwarts needs a Headmaster who appears regularly."
Aberforth took a long time to process the information. He thought the man was joking. He had spent several miserable months in that Headmaster's office last term and had nearly gone stir-crazy. Now they wanted him back in that prison-like office for even longer—and this time alone?
He was silent for a moment. Then the grimy lenses of his glasses suddenly turned opaque white.
"You already know the bastard's plan. Can't you just stop him beforehand? Kill him while he's still weak, before he regains a body?"
"Things in this world aren't always that simple. Voldemort used dark magic to turn himself into a monster. He has to be allowed to resurrect before he can be truly killed. That's the plan your brother Dumbledore and I agreed on."
"My brother Albus always wants so many things…"
Aberforth's expression was complicated. He spoke softly, "Whenever he carries out his grand plans, people get hurt. How many more will die because of this scheme to manipulate someone as dangerous as Voldemort?"
"We're striking first precisely to reduce the number of sacrifices."
"Ha… for the greater good."
...
Evening. Wiltshire.
The mixed wizard-Muggle village lay on the outskirts of a small town. Leaving the town center and heading into the far suburbs, near the woods and stream, a crooked sign hung on a wooden post. The asphalt road—long unused by cars—was overgrown with bushes and weeds. Few people knew that at the end of this deserted country lane stood the manor of a pure-blood wizarding family.
"The Crouch residence?" the witch in the pink dress muttered.
The manor was a typical wizarding home. Even from a distance you could feel the layers of defensive spells. Any Muggle who approached would instinctively turn away. Snakes and rats wouldn't bother the residents, though goblins and hinkypunks were unaffected by the usual repelling charms.
Umbridge was a pragmatic witch who liked shortcuts. After more than a decade at the Ministry she had visited many male superiors' homes. The Crouch manor had once been one of her targets, but Mr. Crouch had always kept it tightly sealed. None of her colleagues had ever been invited.
She had assumed he was just an old-fashioned, devoted pure-blood. She hadn't realized he was a cold-hearted criminal.
"Cough, cough…"
Umbridge hummed happily. Behind her stood several visitors who had come along: Wormtail with his shifty eyes scanning the surroundings, Bertha Jorkins with her vacant stare, the grotesque infant in the pram, and Nagini slithering through the bushes.
Bertha Jorkins had once helped her. Umbridge considered herself a good witch—she could conjure a corporeal Patronus, after all. When Voldemort had tortured the poor woman with the Cruciatus Curse and was about to kill her, Umbridge had stepped forward and begged for her life, saving Bertha.
Compared to the hypocritical Crouch, she really was too kind.
Umbridge straightened her collar, cleared her throat, and rang the brass bell on the gate.
Steady footsteps approached from inside—dragon-hide soles clicking on flagstones. Just from the sound you could picture the wizard's meticulous appearance.
The door opened. A faint gray-white mist bloomed silently.
Imperio.
Mr. Crouch stood in the doorway in his immaculate suit, signature short gray hair combed perfectly. He held the door open, his face still showing a trace of surprise and confusion, but his dark eyes had already gone blank.
If you looked closely at his pupils, you would see the cloudy gray-white haze that marked someone under the Imperius Curse.
"This… was too easy?" Umbridge's lips curved into a sneer, a hint of disdain on her face.
She was an office worker. Magic and dueling had never been her strong suits. The man before her had come from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. During the wizarding war he had built a fearsome reputation with his ruthless methods. Everyone at the Ministry used to say Mr. Crouch was not to be underestimated.
Yet here he was, controlled by a single Imperius Curse—an important Ministry official, completely helpless.
"No time to waste at the door. My faithful servant has been waiting long enough." The cold, raspy voice came from the pram.
Umbridge quickly bowed and nodded, motioning for Mr. Crouch to step aside so they could enter. She tossed aside her moment of smugness and, after everyone was inside the courtyard, closed the gate herself. She even poked her head out to check the surroundings.
According to the information Bertha and Wormtail had brought back, Barty Crouch Jr. had escaped Azkaban ten years earlier and had been kept prisoner at home under the Imperius Curse ever since.
Wormtail glanced at Mr. Crouch and Miss Jorkins walking beside him. Both now had dull, vacant eyes—they too were under the Imperius Curse.
As the pram carrying the snake-faced infant moved into the Crouch manor, Wormtail and Umbridge couldn't help looking around.
The building wasn't as grand as some famous estates, but it was far better than the ramshackle Burrow in Ottery St. Catchpole. The front courtyard had crimson cobblestones, surrounded by neat green lawns.
Nagini immediately fell in love with the place and began slithering around freely once they entered the grounds.
The main house behind was a small castle, cloaked in twilight like a crumbling ruin.
Candles and torches had already been lit inside. The black-gray stone corridor was bathed in soft, warm light. For a father and son, the manor felt far too empty. Their footsteps echoed through the silent halls.
At that moment the old house smelled sweetly of fresh bread. The kitchen was at the back. Someone poked their head out from the passageway. A small, thin figure wearing a tea-towel as an apron was bustling around the stove.
"Such a lovely home…" Umbridge sighed sincerely. After so long in Albania and Little Hangleton, she had almost forgotten what a normal house looked like.
"Will we have guests tonight?"
The high, thin voice suddenly rang out, startling Wormtail. He quickly drew his wand and moved protectively in front of Voldemort.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Master didn't tell me… we would have guests tonight."
The house-elf's cheerful tone gradually turned hesitant. No guests had visited the house in years. Normally that would have been a happy occasion, but Master's expression was wrong. He stood there blankly, and Winky felt a wave of panic.
"Oh, loyal house-elf, what is your name?" Umbridge approached slowly, using her sweetest, most coaxing voice.
"I am Winky. Tonight I only prepared dinner for two…" Winky swallowed hard. She had a bad feeling.
"Then you'll need to make a few more portions. Before that, take us to see your young master." Umbridge smiled kindly—anyone watching would have thought she was a gentle, pleasant witch.
Winky didn't dare look the witch in the eye. She glanced sideways at her true Master, hoping for his orders.
Umbridge clicked her tongue. "Your Master listens to me now."
"Winky, take them to the young master." As if answering Umbridge, Mr. Crouch spoke in a flat, mechanical voice.
Winky's breathing grew heavy. She had seen this reaction before. After Master had cast the spell on the young master, the controlled boy had looked exactly like this—eyes blank, voice monotone, like a puppet without a will.
"Oh, Winky, disobeying Master's orders… do you want clothes?"
"No, no, not that!"
Winky trembled all over and began slapping herself hard. The rough skin of her palm made dull thuds against her cheeks. Her thin voice squeezed out between sobs:
"Bad elf! Bad, bad, bad… Even if it isn't Master's true wish, it is still Master's order. Disobeying means clothes."
After a visibly painful internal struggle, Winky still obeyed. Crying, she led the guests toward the room beside the kitchen. "Young Master is in the kitchen. Master doesn't allow him to leave. He is kept inside with magic and ropes."
Winky reached the door and, as she pushed open the heavy wooden door, suddenly remembered something. Young Master hadn't been locked in the room the whole time. A while ago he seemed to have gone to watch some match, but after the match ended he hadn't come home on time…
She couldn't remember clearly. Her mind felt foggy, so she assumed she was just being forgetful and stopped thinking about it. She brought the guests to the young master.
Barty Crouch Jr. sat in a chair, wearing reasonably neat clothes. His beard and hair had been tidied. His face was unusually pale, and his eyes were equally blank and vacant.
The wizards stepped forward one by one. When the pram passed by, Winky's heart clenched violently. For a moment it almost stopped beating.
Inside the pram, soft cotton had been arranged like swaddling. An ugly, evil creature lay within—a snake-faced infant. Its skin was raw red, its face not covered in soft baby down but in slick snake scales. Its scarlet slit-pupils gleamed. Just one light glance from those eyes made Winky shiver with terror.
Umbridge ordered Mr. Crouch to lift the Imperius Curse. The wizard in the prisoner's chair slowly regained focus as his lost soul seemed to return bit by bit.
Wormtail lifted Voldemort out of the swaddling. The snake-faced infant's cold voice echoed through the room:
"Oh, my most loyal servant, little Barty… it has been a long time!"
Barty still seemed dazed. He looked uncertainly at the wizards, then at the snake-faced creature in the pram. After a moment he whispered in disbelief:
"No… how… this is impossible…"
"Little Barty, I have returned."
Voldemort couldn't help but smile.