"I've specially prepared an execution ground just for a demon like you. Get ready, little Crouch."
The last words to reach Barty Crouch Jr.'s ears were these, and then he blacked out completely.
The damage done by Crouch himself paled in comparison to the fel inferno he had unleashed. Dumbledore countered fel fire with Fiendfyre, and the result was that more than half the arena was reduced to scorched earth—nothing left, not even ash. The two flames devoured everything in their path.
Yet Dumbledore's wondrous blue Fiendfyre, though outmatched by the fel blaze, stubbornly consumed and burned away the rampant fel energy bit by bit, preventing that highly corrupting force from inflicting further harm on the land.
In the end, the Aurors and professors worked alongside Dumbledore, master of the flames, to extinguish the last flickers. It was clear that suppressing a Fiendfyre that had swallowed both physical matter and fel energy had pushed even Dumbledore to his limits; when the fire finally died, the white-haired old man let out a sigh of relief. Harry could see sweat beading on his forehead.
"Well, that's that," Harry couldn't resist joking. "All that talk about you not knowing much about dark magic? Officially debunked."
"Indeed," Dumbledore sighed softly, then suddenly smiled. "Thank goodness I did it to protect more people, or a spell like that would land me in Azkaban."
"The greatest Dark Lord in the world," Harry laughed louder. "Impressive Fiendfyre."
"You understand," Dumbledore said. "I'm not its original inventor." He winked.
"Gellert Grindelwald?" Harry nodded in realization. "Then he must—"
"Thank heavens! You didn't let him escape!" Wiping sweat from his brow, Rufus Scrimgeour strode over with heavy steps. "Ha! Little Crouch! I remember that face—he looks just like Barty… when he was younger."
"Sorry, Rufus, I can't let you take him," Harry said, cutting off Scrimgeour's intent before it was voiced.
"Why not?!" Scrimgeour's expression turned grave. "I promise you, little Crouch will get a fair trial. He'll spend the rest of his life in Azkaban. This time, no one can save him."
"That's not the issue," Harry shook his head. "You might not have seen clearly earlier. This human form of Crouch's is just a glamour. He's become a demon—the same kind you've seen before."
"A d-demon?!" Scrimgeour's eyes widened.
The earlier battle had been too chaotic, the fel fire burning too fiercely for him to get a good look at Crouch.
Instead of explaining with words, Harry kicked the unconscious Crouch with a foot crackling with electricity. The demon, which had automatically reverted to its human glamour upon fainting, immediately revealed its true form.
Skin interwoven with green and brown, covered from head to toe in knobby growths, faintly shimmering with fel glow—this grotesque demonic visage instantly sobered Scrimgeour. Azkaban really couldn't hold a demon.
"I remember you saying demons are immortal," Scrimgeour said, frowning deeply.
"Not immortal—just that unless killed the right way, they'll respawn in their home realm," Harry explained. "But don't worry. I've prepared a method to kill a demon for good. Leave him to me."
"Fine, it's settled then," Scrimgeour said decisively. "I trust you, Harry. You won't let a demon escape. What about the Triwizard Tournament, do you think it's still—"
"Good heavens! What happened?!"
Madame Maxime's voice rang out from afar, accompanied by Karkaroff. The commotion in the arena had been so massive that it drew them over.
Maxime and Karkaroff stared in stunned silence at the arena—or rather, the remnants of what had once been the arena. Yesterday they had been scoring champions from its stands; today, more than half the structure was simply gone, not even ruins left, just burned-out empty ground.
"Something happened," Harry explained briefly. "You might know the term, but now you're about to see it with your own eyes—a demon."
He kicked the demon at his feet and continued, "Maybe you recognize him, Karkaroff—won't you come say hello to little Crouch?"
"Voldemort is hiding in the shadows."
Karkaroff, hurrying toward them from a distance, abruptly halted. Under the sunlight, his face turned ashen, his lips trembling as if he might bolt at any moment—desperately wanting to flee right then and there.
Fel energy falls under Chaos, one of the six cosmic fundamental forces, directly opposed by Arcane under Order.
For demons, beings rooted in Chaos, Order is the attribute that can utterly destroy them. From that perspective, the Light—Holy Light, even—feels a bit meddlesome, since Chaos and Order are the true direct opposites.
What about the elements?
In the cosmic hierarchy, elements… are a bit beneath notice, just one step above the physical world, born as third- or even fourth-tier phenomena from the clash and fusion of the six fundamental forces.
Most elements are chaotic by nature—Wind and Fire, for instance—yet some maintain strict internal order and hierarchy: Earth and Water.
The six fundamental forces manifest in the elements, meaning Harry could indeed find the portion of Order within them and use it to kill a demon.
After all, the demon he needed to kill wasn't Sargeras—just a minor imp.
Deep beneath Hogwarts—precisely in what had once been the Chamber of Secrets—Harry set up a ritual site in a hidden chamber behind the Slytherin statue.
The demon's body granted Crouch immense regenerative power; he had already regained consciousness but was bound by elemental restraints, unable to do anything but curse Harry verbally.
Harry naturally didn't grasp the six fundamental forces in such detail, but as a shaman, he had deep mastery over the orderly aspects of the elements—especially with the added power of… soul energy.
The ritual Harry meticulously designed used the purifying flow of water and soul energy to erode Crouch's demonic soul. Once the energy reached a critical threshold, even a demon couldn't return to the Twisting Nether to respawn.
It would be an excruciating process, like grinding away a person's flesh, nerves, and bones bit by bit with sandpaper—made worse by the clear, terrifying awareness of one's essence vanishing piece by piece.
Crouch's screams never ceased from the start. A battle-hardened veteran like Harry wouldn't waver or feel tormented by an enemy's wails. If anyone was to blame, it was Crouch for being too resilient—forcing Harry to use a method originally reserved for Voldemort.
If anyone else entered this hidden chamber, they might question who the true dark wizard was. By the end, Crouch had stopped cursing and was desperately begging for mercy.
Harry, of course, wouldn't grant it. A fanatic follower of Voldemort like Crouch—once human—had innocent Muggle blood on his hands. Those Muggles had begged too, but the Death Eaters never showed mercy. When they once reveled in Muggle screams, they should have known retribution would come.
Honestly? It felt pretty good.
After fighting demons for over a decade, hearing one scream now filled Harry with nostalgia… He really missed Azeroth…
He shook his head, banishing the thought to a corner of his mind. Everything was different now. He had responsibilities in this world—to protect it from demons, as always.
All that remained of Crouch in this world was a handful of white, crystalline ash—strangely beautiful, even for a demon's soul residue.
Harry collected the ashes into a jar, planning to show Voldemort later: the fate of his subordinate—or rather, his godson.
After all, Crouch had seen Voldemort as a true father, and Voldemort never denied it, did he?
Compared to that minor matter, what truly troubled Harry was the arena, more than half destroyed. The Ministry had spent months with staff working overtime to build it, only for it to be ruined after one task.
When Scrimgeour realized he'd have to oversee repairs, he went numb. Rebuilding a structure was simple for wizards, but the real challenge lay in the reinforcing charms, Undetectable Extension Charms, and countless others—making them function while preserving their effects was no easy feat.
Fortunately, there was over a month until the second task. The Ministry staff had time to fix it.
Before that, December arrived. With several heavy snowfalls, Christmas crept up on Hogwarts unawares.
Unlike previous years, the Triwizard Tournament meant tradition demanded a Christmas Ball—open only to fourth-years and above. Champions were exempt, of course, and younger students could attend if invited by an older one.
"So, whether as a champion or as headmaster, you need to find a partner, Harry."
In the Great Hall-turned-headmaster's office, Professor McGonagall said with barely concealed amusement.
"A partner…" Harry rubbed his temples. "Do I have to?"
"Of course," McGonagall affirmed. "And with your status, you'll lead the champions' dance—in dress robes. Absolutely no beast pelts or wolf-head boar-head decorations!"
Her expression suddenly turned stern, as if imagining something horrific.
"The ball will be held in the Great Hall at eight o'clock on Christmas night, ending at midnight. I'll handle decorations with the other professors. Your job is to practice your steps—at least don't break your partner's foot. You won't embarrass Hogwarts, will you?"
Harry: "…"
He… did know how to dance.
Tauren war dance!!
Every proper tauren learned to shake their hips around the bonfire with the tribe!
But that war dance clearly wasn't suitable for a Christmas ball?!
"I… will try my best," Harry said dryly under McGonagall's stern gaze, unable to refuse.
"Excellent. Don't forget your partner." With that, McGonagall left, satisfied.
As deputy headmistress, it was her duty to cover for the headmaster's oversights.
Harry found himself in a bizarre predicament. Ever since news of the ball spread, girls waited outside the Great Hall from dawn to dusk, watching for him to emerge—low-years and high-years alike.
The moment he appeared, some gazed at him expectantly; others boldly asked to be his partner.
Very forward. Very enthusiastic.
Inside the castle, it was even more exaggerated. Harry had lost count of how many times a simple glance sent girls scurrying away giggling with hands over flushed faces, or standing their ground, red-cheeked, meeting his eyes.
Harry: "…"
It was getting hard to move. He'd never dealt with anything like this—or spent so much time around so many teenagers.
"So, will you be my partner, Hermione?" After dinner, Harry asked her straight out, no beating around the bush.
"Wha?!"
A strangled, desperately suppressed squeak—pitched so high it cracked. Hermione, who had spent the whole day pretending nothing was amiss, turned beet red, unable to keep up the act.
"Too sudden!! Why would you ask me that now?!" She clenched her fists and shrieked, her whole body flushed. "And we're both champions, aren't we?! I need to find a—a—"
"No rule says champions can't pair up, right?" Harry shrugged. "Or do you not want to? Got someone you want to ask?"