Chapter 13: Bartemius Crouch Jr
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER. IT BELONGS TO JK ROWLING.
A/N: Read, enjoy, and remember not to take either life or my writing too seriously.
It was late at night inside Hogwarts when Bartemius Crouch Jr. sat alone behind the desk in his office. The fake Defense Against the Dark Arts professor stared into the dim light of the room while considering the most recent command from his master.
Potter WILL arrive in my graveyard on the appointed date and time… or I will be very displeased.
Crouch let out a long sigh.
The Dark Lord's carefully crafted plan had unraveled in the most irritating way imaginable. One careless mistake by Harry Potter had ruined everything.
If that disaster alone had happened, perhaps the plan could still have been salvaged. But the boy had gone and broken his arm as well, removing himself from the tournament entirely.
Another weary sigh escaped him.
His pocket watch chimed quietly.
Crouch pulled the hip flask from his pocket and swallowed another mouthful of Polyjuice Potion. The bitter taste lingered unpleasantly on his tongue, so he poured himself a generous glass of Firewhisky.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, trying to find a solution to the mess.
"How exactly do I get Harry Potter into that graveyard now?" he muttered to himself.
"He's no longer competing."
Potter would simply sit among the spectators while the champions completed the tasks. That meant the Dark Lord's plan was now impossible.
Unless…
Crouch paused.
"…his friend."
A thin smile appeared on his face.
Harry Potter had a particular flaw. Crouch had noticed it repeatedly.
The boy possessed what could only be described as a dangerous condition.
Saving People Syndrome.
"If I could place that carrot-headed idiot friend of his inside the maze…"
Crouch's smile widened.
"…then Potter would come running."
He pictured it perfectly.
Harry Potter leaping from the stands in panic, racing into the maze to rescue his friend.
"Then a time-delayed Portkey…"
Crouch raised his glass of Firewhisky in a silent toast.
"…and Potter lands right in my master's graveyard."
He laughed quietly.
"All I have to do now is make sure Ron Weasley survives long enough to reach the third task."
Crouch took another drink.
"That shouldn't be difficult."
He had absolutely no idea what chaos awaited him.
Meanwhile…
Far below in the dungeons, Daphne Greengrass was having an absolutely terrible morning.
"I can't take this anymore!" she exclaimed, glaring at her reflection in the mirror.
"How am I supposed to maintain my reputation as the Ice Princess of Hogwarts when I'm constantly crying because of that smell?"
Her usually perfect hair was frizzed beyond repair.
Her robes smelled horrible.
She sniffed cautiously.
"Actually… hippogriff manure might smell better."
Her sister Astoria Greengrass had it even worse. Astoria's room was closer to the common room, meaning she hadn't slept properly in days.
Although Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape had tried to identify the source of the mysterious odor, Daphne was absolutely convinced she knew exactly who was responsible.
"Something must be done," she declared firmly.
"If Slytherin House — and more importantly my hair — is going to survive the year, sacrifices will be necessary."
She already knew exactly who that sacrifice would be.
The next morning Daphne and her friend Tracey Davis began preparing a plan.
They drafted a document outlining their strategy and then spent hours speaking with every Slytherin student.
Through persuasion, negotiation, and a few threats involving open flames in the common room fireplace (which had been sealed for safety reasons), they managed to gain the support of nearly every member of their house.
Everyone agreed.
Everyone except the one person destined to be sacrificed.
Saturday Morning
Four days remained before the first task.
Ron Weasley knew he needed to prepare for the tournament.
Harry and Hermione had invited him to join them for a trip to Hogsmeade, but Ron declined.
Preparation was important.
And preparation meant energy.
Which meant food.
Ron devoured five full plates at breakfast before returning to his bed to conserve his strength.
Hogsmeade Weekend
"I have to admit," Harry said while walking beside Hermione Granger, "I'm glad Ron decided not to come."
It was Harry's first authorized trip to Hogsmeade, and he intended to enjoy every moment.
The late-November weather was crisp but pleasant — cold enough to justify staying close together, but not cold enough to force them indoors.
They spent the morning exploring the shops.
Harry wasn't particularly fond of shopping, but watching Hermione's face light up whenever she found something she liked made the experience worthwhile.
Eventually Hermione dragged him into a clothing store.
"We are buying you proper clothes," she insisted.
"The things you currently wear are dreadful."
"But the Dursley family can't know I have money," Harry protested.
Hermione waved this concern away easily.
"I'll keep the clothes in my trunk and take them home with me."
Harry reluctantly agreed.
It turned out to be less painful than expected.
Especially because Hermione kept giving him appreciative looks when he tried on clothes that fit properly.
Lunch at the Three Broomsticks
Later that afternoon they entered the crowded pub Three Broomsticks.
The world seemed to fade away as they sat together.
Their lunch passed in quiet conversation, playful teasing, and occasional food theft.
Hermione stole one of Harry's chips.
Harry retaliated by stealing an olive from her salad.
Eventually their hands met.
Their eyes locked.
The kiss that followed made several nearby diners stare.
Then—
POP
A camera flash exploded.
Harry blinked.
Standing nearby was Rita Skeeter with her photographer.
"My, my," Rita said sweetly. "Young love."
Harry immediately frowned.
"Miss Skeeter."
She smiled smugly.
"Why so hostile, Harry? My article about you two was very positive."
"I would prefer some privacy," Harry replied.
"It happened in the middle of the Great Hall," Rita pointed out. "Hardly private."
She leaned forward eagerly.
"How about an interview?"
Harry crossed his arms.
"After what you did to Ron? Absolutely not."
"Ron?" Rita blinked.
"Ron who?"
Harry stared at her.
"The champion who replaced me."
"Oh!" Rita said. "Tom, you mean?"
Harry groaned.
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