Step over the threshold

August proved to be an unusually sultry month, and the heat was not the only thing on everyone's mind. At Hogwarts, preparations for the upcoming academic year were underway with great activity. Lesson plans were being hastily reviewed and revised, and professors engaged in heated discussions regarding the scheduling of duties for September. Moreover, there was a canonical obstacle course awaiting the protagonist of magical Britain.

Grimm was incensed. The chamber designed to conceal the Philosopher's Stone comprised seven chambers, each presenting a unique obstacle intended to safeguard the stone against theft. Who would dare attempt to steal it? The Dark Lord himself? This is not a formidable defense but, rather, a farce that serves only to vex. And if the intention was to challenge Harry Potter's companions, sending a troll after the children was unnecessarily risky. While Quirrell had prematurely revealed his objective in the book, allowing him to steal the stone ahead of time, the young wizards still managed to overcome the challenge, and Grimm was reluctant to see a repeat of this scenario. What if this time, the heroes were not given the opportunity to assist the maiden in time? What if their efforts proved futile, resulting in their demise?

"Quirinus, my dear boy, do you comprehend that the protagonist and his companions require trials to fortify their mettle? A troll is precisely the task they need. You mentioned once that you are capable of conversing with them."

Dumbledore cast a penetrating glance at Professor Zotis.

"Certainly, Mr. Headmaster," Quirinus replied with a broad smile, nodding vigorously. "For the great Harry Potter, a troll would be no loss.

"But why such a small creature? For the Boy-Who-Lived — a troll, really? Let us go for an acromantula, instead! Perhaps even several! There are plenty of them in the Forbidden Forest, we need not go far. A dragon would be too costly, and the five-headed dungeons would not stand it. We can save money, too," Grimm argued in his mind.

Quirrell began to stammer with excitement when he started to debate with Grimm. Voldemort rolled his eyes, though his faithful follower had a talent for interacting with trolls. He was half-way through turning on his servant's provocations.

"Oh, come now, there will only be a handful of them. A couple of them might even die. England won't be impoverished by that. It's no big deal. We have a reserve!"

"Do you really wish to see them dead?"

Robert raised an inquisitive eyebrow, looking at Quirinus's long face.

"Well, yes. I have no pity for them at all. They're such a nuisance! What's your point?"

Quirinus spat on the ground and, leaving the halls of reason, began to negotiate the matter with the headmaster on the merits of the case. Grimmauld shifted his gaze towards the Dark Lord.

"Your bet, my Lord: Ben Nevis or Snowdon?"

"Definitely Ben Nevis. Do you seriously intend to let him go on a troll hunt?"

"Why not? Even if he follows Dumbledore's orders, it's still a useful exercise. Let the lad feel a sense of accomplishment, for there is little else to be done on our front."

Grimm was partially correct in his assessment: there were no assignments forthcoming in the immediate future. Due to the emergency at the school, there was no time whatsoever to engage in nefarious schemes, and if a moment of respite presented itself, it was utterly impossible to evade the omniscient gaze of the headmaster.

Robert did not consider this revered magus to be a benign grandfatherly figure. Perhaps he appeared so to young readers and pupils, but Grimm, as an adult, was well aware that Dumbledore was a master of deception. Were it otherwise, the multitude of titles bestowed upon him — Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Knight of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of Merlin, Grand Master, Supreme Mugwump, and President of the International Confederation of Wizards — would not have been so closely aligned. This web-weaver and master strategist was adept at manipulating the pieces on the chessboard of life.

Is Voldemort a chess player? He certainly could be. With his formidable intellect and deep understanding of magic, he was a formidable opponent. The Dark Lord was also a shrewd and calculating strategist, capable of planning intricate schemes over the course of years.

In the books, during Harry Potter's fourth and fifth year at Hogwarts, Voldemort orchestrated meticulous plans for his return and subsequent invasion of the Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries. However, his strategic acumen was not without its flaws. His attempts at manipulation and intimidation of his allies, particularly those who initially welcomed his return, did not go unnoticed.

It appears that in his pursuit of power, Voldemort relied heavily on the use of force, employing the Cruciatus curse with great frequency, while neglecting the importance of diplomacy and persuasion.

Voldemort's quest for power was a relentless pursuit, fueled by his desire for immortality. He envisioned two paths to attain this goal: through the sword, spilling rivers of blood, or through the pen, employing subtler tactics such as bribery, blackmail, manipulation, and political maneuvering.

The Lord, however, chose to pursue the latter route, aiming for a more covert approach. This decision ultimately led him away from the path of violence and bloodshed, which he had initially embraced. With Grimm by his side, returning to that path was no longer an option. Instead, he focused on eliminating any magicians who stood in his way, ensuring his continued existence without drawing unnecessary attention.

When individuals embark on theatrical or cinematic experiences, they often overlook the fact that these spectacles would not exist without the collaborative efforts of numerous individuals. While the spotlight may be directed towards the leading actors who grace the stage, the true magic happens behind the scenes.

The puppeteer deftly pulls the strings, the conductor wields their baton with enchanting precision, and the producers and directors meticulously coordinate every aspect. There is a multitude of crucial figures working tirelessly behind the scenes, whose contributions are indispensable to the overall success of the production.

In the case of Quirrell, the director granted him two weeks off to explore the depths of a mountain troll. However, with the intervention of the Dark Lord, this time was condensed to just three days. Given the generous timeframe initially allocated, it would be a waste not to make use of it fully. Thus, Crouch's predicament required immediate attention.

Barty started at the sound of the voice, but remained seated, staring into the fire.

"Technically, you have been declared dead, but in reality... Your life is not what one would call life. It is difficult to even describe it as existence."

The speaker's tone was neither derisive nor mocking; he was simply stating the facts. "There is no way to reform you. The Almighty could use you as He sees fit, but it would only be more difficult for you as a sinner, and you cannot live forever as a werewolf. You are still a human, not a tool, and you do not deserve to be treated so. You have the right to choose. So I ask you: Do you wish for Bartemius Crouch Jr. to vanish, and for a magician to appear in his place, whose past is obscure and future uncertain, but who will forge his own destiny? Such a person would be truly free. Take time to consider your answer."

A log in the fireplace cracked loudly, sending up a plume of flame.

"What do you mean by 'free,' Mr. Grimm?"

"I suppose you are referring to the fact that your father will believe you to be dead, either in Azkaban or, if he does not consider you worthy of such a fate, he will simply forget about your existence altogether. It is as if you never existed. A lonely widower, with no conclusion, no trial, no nothing. How could there be a criminal record for someone who never existed in the first place?"

Barty leaned forward, eager to understand. Grimm remained silent, his expression unchanged.

"Quite so. Everyone will forget. You will cease to exist. The records will vanish. The memories will fade into oblivion. And the blanks in people's minds will fill themselves in with time. Moreover, a decade has passed. The mind cannot tolerate voids."

Barty let out a derisive snort. "You don't believe me? In vain. Magic can do incredible things, sometimes. But the price of such magic... what? Is the ritual so complex?"

Robert shook his head mournfully. "Not at all. It's quite simple," he said. "But it's irreversible." The horror of the curse lies in the fact that not only do your enemies forget you, but so do all your loved ones. There are no friends or family who remember you. You are left utterly alone, with only your memories for company. If you should die, there will be no one to claim your body from the mortuary.

Crouch considered the situation. To cast this spell would mean burning not just the bridges behind him, but the entire city as well. On the other hand, what did he have to lose? His beloved mother was gone. He had no friends. His only companion, Regulus, had joined the Death Eaters and vanished. The Dark Lord was all he needed.

A sharp needle pricked Crouch's mind — the thought of his father. He pushed it away. "If only he would speak to me once," he thought, clenching his fists. "Just once."

"And what does it matter to Merlin, anyway? This" — Barty gestured around the room — "is not life. I am sick of this prison!"

"Then get ready. If there is anything here that you value, take it with you. Once the spell is cast, everything that has to do with you will vanish. And you will never be able to return here. By the way, I nearly forgot. Is this not yours?"

Robert reached into the wide sleeve of his robes and pulled out a wand. Crouch inhaled sharply. He carefully took the wand, running his fingers over its smooth, light wood, feeling a warm tingle. Barty nodded. Then he walked up to his room on the second floor. It took him a short time to pack his belongings with his own wand. He levitated his clothes into a suitcase with a flick of his wrist and thought for a moment. Then he moved to his desk, opened a drawer, removed a stack of magical photographs tied with a Muggles' elastic band, and tossed them into the bag with the rest of his things without looking.

Grimm was awaiting his arrival, as he had been before, in the drawing room, leafing through a family photograph, one of the few that captured the entire Crouch clan. Where did he obtain it? My father had hidden them all.

"Grasp the edge," said Grimm, and when Barty complied, he touched the magical photograph with the tip of his wand. Then, with care, he began to extract a silvery thread from it, akin to a strand of memory, and wound it around his wand. As a dense tangle of formidable size formed around the wand, the thread ceased, and the image of the younger Crouch vanished from the photograph. Withdrawing the skein from the wand, Grimm handed it to Crouch. For a moment, Crouch stood frozen, then, without hesitation, he flung it into the hearth. The flames leapt up and instantly subsided, as if nothing had transpired.

"Let us depart," Grimm said. The two men exited the room and vanished into the vortex of the device.

When the house was deserted, the fire in the hearth turned green, and an aged man stepped into the drawing room. The gentleman rubbed his eyes wearily, removed his bowler hat, and was about to drape it on a peg when something crunched beneath his feet. The conjurer looked at the floor with surprise and picked up a framed photograph. Two silhouettes were visible beneath the cracked glass.

Bartemius waved his wand, and the glass reassembled itself. My chest tightened. In the photograph, he was standing with his late wife. The koldofoto had been taken nearly twenty years ago, and his beloved had passed away almost eleven years prior to that, succumbing to fever. The anguish of loss had been so profound that he had removed all magical prints. He had thought that time might dull the pain, but now, gazing at this image, he could not understand why it felt as though another piece of his soul had been torn away.

"Winky," an elf-like creature appeared before him, "put it away!"

The housekeeper vanished along with the photograph, and Bartemius retired to his study. He was in dire need of a drink.