Chapter 259: "The Forbidden Forest Encounter"

The Forbidden Forest loomed dark and intimidating as Charles Potter and Viktor Krum made their way deeper into its shadows. The air seemed thick with tension, and the usual nighttime sounds of the forest were muted, as if nature itself was holding its breath.

"Why are we going this way?" Charles asked, his voice a mix of curiosity and nervousness as they passed Hagrid's cabin and the brightly lit Beauxbatons carriage.

Krum's response was short, his accent thicker than usual, showing his own unease. "Don't vant to be overheard." His eyes scanned the darkness around them, as if expecting someone to jump out of the shadows.

They continued in silence, the soft crunch of leaves and twigs under their feet the only sound breaking the eerie quiet. The forest seemed to close in on them, branches reaching out like twisted fingers in the dim light of their wands. Eventually, they reached a quiet clearing just beyond the paddock where the massive Beauxbatons horses grazed. The huge animals were barely visible in the darkness, moving like shadows as they munched on the grass.

Krum stopped suddenly in the shade of the trees, turning to face Charles with an intensity that made Charles take an involuntary step back. The Bulgarian's face was serious, his dark eyes staring into Charles's with an almost physical force.

"I vant to know," Krum said, his brow furrowed, casting shadows across his face in the wandlight, "vot is between you and Hermy-own-ninny."

Charles blinked, stunned by the unexpected question. He had thought this would be something far more serious given Krum's secretive behavior—maybe something about the tournament or a dark plot he had discovered. The reality was so ordinary in comparison that Charles struggled to adjust.

"Nothing," he said, his voice bewildered. "We're just friends. Ginny's my girlfriend. Hermione's not my girlfriend, and she never has been. It's just that Skeeter woman making things up."

Krum's scowl deepened, the shadows making him look even more intimidating. "Hermy-own-ninny talks about you a lot," he said, eyeing Charles suspiciously, trying to catch any hint of a lie.

"Yeah," Charles replied, trying to stay calm under Krum's intense stare. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he had picked up from his father. "Because we're friends. Ron and I are her closest friends. We've been through a lot together, you know?"

As the conversation continued, Charles found himself in the strange position of reassuring Viktor Krum, an international Quidditch star, about his platonic relationship with Hermione. It was a bizarre turn of events, and Charles felt both flattered and overwhelmed. Here he was, standing in the Forbidden Forest, explaining his friendships to a world-famous athlete worried about romantic rivalry.

Krum listened closely, his expression slowly softening as Charles spoke. The tension in his shoulders eased, and a look of relief crossed his face. It was clear that Krum had been genuinely worried about Charles and Hermione, and Charles's honest words were helping calm his fears.

As the awkwardness started to fade, Krum's attitude shifted. He began to compliment Charles on his flying skills, particularly praising his performance in the first task. Charles, eager to move away from the uncomfortable topic of Hermione, enthusiastically brought up Krum's famous Wronski Feint, asking the older champion questions about the challenging move.

Just as their conversation was becoming more relaxed, with both boys bonding over their shared love of Quidditch, a sudden movement in the trees behind Krum caught Charles's attention. Years of adventures at Hogwarts had sharpened Charles's instincts, making him alert to any potential danger.

Without hesitation, Charles grabbed Krum's arm and pulled him around, positioning himself slightly in front of the older boy. His eyes scanned the darkness, searching for the source of the movement.

"Vot is it?" Krum asked, his hand moving to his wand.

Charles shook his head, his eyes fixed on where he had seen the movement. His hand slipped inside his robes, fingers wrapping around his own wand.

Suddenly, a figure stumbled out from behind a tall oak tree. For a moment, Charles didn't recognize him—the dim light and the man's disheveled appearance made it hard to tell who it was. Then, with a jolt of surprise, he realized it was Mr. Crouch.

The man before them was far from the well-groomed Ministry official they had last seen judging the Triwizard Tournament. Crouch looked terrible—his once neat robes were torn and bloody, hanging off him in tatters. His face was covered in scratches and cuts, and stubble darkened his usually clean-shaven chin. But his behavior was the most alarming. He was muttering and gesturing wildly, as if talking to someone only he could see, his eyes unfocused and darting around.

If Harry had been there, he would have immediately recognized this as the real Barty Crouch Senior, not the impostor who had been pretending to be him since the start of the tournament. Somehow, against all odds, Crouch had escaped from wherever his son had kept him. He had broken free from Voldemort and Wormtail, driven by a desperate need that gave him the strength to escape the powerful magic holding him.

"Vosn't he a judge?" Krum whispered, his eyes wide. "Isn't he vith your Ministry?"

Charles nodded, his mind racing to understand what was happening. Slowly, he approached Crouch, who was still mumbling to himself, unaware of the boys' presence.

"Mr. Crouch?" Charles called, his voice a little shaky. "Are you okay?"

Crouch's unfocused eyes snapped to Charles, a spark of recognition appearing in them. For a moment, he seemed aware, but then the desperation and fear quickly took over.

"Dumbledore!" he gasped, lurching forward and grabbing Charles's robes with surprising strength. His fingers dug into the fabric, clinging to Charles like a lifeline. "I need... see... Dumbledore..."

What followed was a terrifying exchange, with Crouch shifting between moments of clarity and complete confusion. His ramblings were a mix of Ministry secrets, personal guilt, and dark warnings. Names and events spilled from his mouth in a chaotic stream, each more alarming than the last.

"I've done... stupid... thing..." Crouch panted, his grip on Charles almost painful. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his eyes darted around, as if expecting danger at any moment. "Must... tell... Dumbledore..."

As Charles tried to make sense of Crouch's disjointed words, he realized just how serious this situation was. Crouch mentioned Bertha Jorkins, a Ministry witch who had gone missing months ago, which sent a chill down his spine. His talk about his son, who was supposed to be dead, raised even more questions. But it was his repeated mentions of the Dark Lord that truly terrified Charles. He had overheard his father discussing similar things in hushed tones with his mother—conversations that stopped abruptly whenever he walked into the room. It was clear that something big was happening.

"I'll get Dumbledore if you let me go, Mr. Crouch!" Charles insisted, trying to pull free from the man's grip. The situation was spiraling out of control, and they needed help—someone who could understand Crouch's ramblings and provide the help he clearly needed.

Charles looked at Krum for help, but the older boy stood back, clearly unnerved by what was happening. The usually confident and composed Quidditch star looked lost and uncertain.

Finally breaking free from Crouch's grasp, Charles made a quick decision. The seriousness of the situation called for immediate action, and he knew he had to take it. "You stay here with him!" he told Krum, his voice taking on a commanding tone that surprised even himself. "I'll get Dumbledore. I'll be faster, I know where his office is—"

Without waiting for an answer, Charles turned and ran away from the forest, his feet pounding against the dark grounds of Hogwarts. His mind was racing with thoughts and fears. He knew he had to find help fast—Dumbledore was his first choice, but Moody or even his brother Harry would do. Someone who could understand Crouch's warnings and stop whatever dark plan was in motion.

---

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, in an old, run-down house far from Hogwarts, another scene was playing out.

Peter Pettigrew, his watery eyes darting nervously, approached the high-backed chair where his master sat. The room was dim, shadows flickering on the walls as if they were trying to escape the evil presence filling the space.

"My Lord," Pettigrew squeaked, his voice shaking as he approached the chair. He fell to his knees, bowing his head. "I have bad news. Barty Crouch Senior has escaped."

The reaction was immediate and terrifying. A cold, high-pitched voice hissed in anger, the sound sending chills through Pettigrew. "What! Crucio!"

The spell hit Pettigrew like a physical blow. He collapsed to the floor, his body twisting in agony as if white-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin. His screams echoed through the empty house, a sound that would have terrified anyone who heard it.

As Pettigrew's screams faded, leaving him twitching and whimpering on the floor, the voice spoke again. Each word was filled with anger, promising more pain if the answers weren't satisfactory. "How?"

Pettigrew, still shaking from the Cruciatus Curse, struggled to his knees. His face was pale with fear, sweat dripping from his forehead as he tried to speak through the pain. "I don't know, my Lord," he managed to say. "I checked his cell, as I do every hour, and he was gone. I don't know how he broke free from Barty's Imperius. It was like he just... vanished."

Another wave of anger came from the chair, and with it, another Cruciatus Curse. Pettigrew's screams filled the room again, his body thrashing as if trying to escape the invisible pain. It seemed to last forever, though it was only a few seconds before it stopped.

When silence fell again, broken only by Pettigrew's ragged breathing and quiet sobs, the voice of Lord Voldemort spoke once more. The raw anger had been replaced by cold calculation, each word measured and deliberate. "This complicates things, Wormtail. Our plans are hanging by a thread, and now that thread is fraying." There was a pause, filled with dark contemplation. "We must act fast. Warn Barty immediately. Use the emergency signal—he will understand."

Pettigrew nodded quickly, grateful for the clear instructions and the break from pain. But Voldemort wasn't done. "Get ready to travel, Wormtail. We're leaving for Hogsmeade immediately. If we're lucky, we may catch Crouch before he reaches Hogwarts."

Pettigrew, still shaking from the curse, dared to ask a question that had been bothering him since learning about Crouch's escape. "Is it safe, my Lord?" he whispered. "Dumbledore is there, and... and Hadrian Potter. I can't match them, even with your help. We risk being caught..."

The answer was chilling in its determination, a reminder of why Lord Voldemort was the most feared dark wizard in a century. "Barty is essential to my plans for resurrection, Wormtail. Without him and his position at Hogwarts, I will be stuck in this pitiful form far longer than I intend—a fate I refuse to accept." There was a rustle of movement from the chair, as if its occupant leaned forward. "We will be careful. We will watch from a distance. We will only show ourselves if it's safe. At worst, we may have to abandon this plan and retreat. I can wait longer if I must, though I won't be pleased."

As Pettigrew hurried to follow orders, Voldemort's red eyes gleamed in the firelight. The carefully laid plans were falling apart, but in this chaos, he saw an opportunity. The game was changing, the pieces were moving in unexpected ways, but he was determined to win.