[Castling] Chapter 65

The Second Task took place on Saturday, right after breakfast. By half-past eight, the castle was buzzing as students, full and content, streamed toward the lake in eager anticipation of the next spectacle. The day was perfect—crisp, cold, but not windy—ideal for standing outside without freezing into a solid block of ice.

And honestly? Thank Merlin for McGonagall. She pulled us aside before breakfast to warn us about Hermione. Otherwise, Harry was this close to tearing up the entire castle looking for her. Never thought I’d say this, but I hadn’t expected that level of consideration from McGonagall.

Afterwards, I caught up with Luna at the gates, and Hagrid decided to tag along, so we all blended into the crowd heading to the shore.

It didn’t take long to realise that, even if I hadn’t read the books, today’s event wasn’t going to be much of a spectacle. They’d dragged the stands over from the First Task, and now they sat awkwardly on the otherwise bare beach, looking like something a storm had dumped there by accident. No enchanted screens for a live feed like in the Quidditch World Cup—just us, staring at a perfectly still lake, hoping something interesting would happen. Might as well just announce the winner over dinner and save everyone the trouble.

At exactly nine, the champions emerged from the tent, were given their instructions, and—boom—they were off.

Krum, predictably, didn’t waste a second. The whistle barely echoed before he ripped off his cloak and dove straight in. When he resurfaced, he was… well, half a shark.

It was a weird sight. His entire head was a massive shark’s snout, but the rest of him was still fully human—like he’d slapped on an oversized mask that stretched down to his shoulders.

Didn’t seem to bother him, though. His dorsal fin sliced through the surface before vanishing into the depths like he’d never been there at all.

Fleur hesitated, shivering, taking two small steps toward the water, clearly rethinking this whole plan. That was enough to have every bloke in the stands immediately glued to her.

No one even cared what Diggory was up to anymore.

But he didn’t let himself be ignored for long. He walked up beside Fleur, took her hand, smiled, and murmured something to her. She smiled back, warm and soft.

On the judges’ platform, Dumbledore was practically beaming, drumming his fingers on the railing with a pleased, dreamy expression—as if this was exactly the kind of inter-school unity he’d been hoping for.

Madame Maxime, however, looked less than thrilled. She clearly wasn’t a fan of her star pupil getting chummy with the competition.

Our pair quickly cast Bubble-Head Charms, and with one last look at each other, disappeared beneath the surface.

And then… time dragged.

At first, everyone kept their eyes glued to the lake, but then the sun slipped out from behind the clouds, and the glare off the water was blinding. Trying to watch was physically painful, so most gave up and turned to chatting instead.

Some of the girls cooed over how adorable the Fleur-Diggory moment had been. Others huffed about how shameless she was. Meanwhile, the lads loudly debated Krum’s halfway transformation, but mostly? They were discussing the obvious—every visible detail of Fleur’s swimsuit.

I, however, was listening to Luna.

She and Hagrid were listing all the creatures that lived in the Black Lake, having a proper discussion about how the giant squid and the local ecosystem might be affected by today’s events.

Krum was the first to resurface, about twenty-five to thirty minutes later, dragging Hermione up with him. She looked like a proper drowned corpse, still knocked out under the sleeping enchantment.

The stands erupted into deafening cheers—less for Krum’s victory and more because finally, something was happening.

Fifteen minutes later, Diggory followed, hauling some bloke—his best mate, I think.

That got another wave of applause, especially from our side of the stands, which, to be fair, made up most of the crowd. The noise was deafening.

Fleur, however, was taking forever. Over an hour had passed, and people were freezing, even with Warming Charms. The judges were exchanging increasingly concerned looks.

And then, finally, she burst out of the water, clutching a small girl to her chest.

The kid—about seven—had pale blonde hair stuck to her face in messy, greyish strands, streaks of red running down her cheeks. Her skin was so deathly pale she looked dead.

Fleur, of course, made the whole thing ten times worse by sobbing and clinging to the little body, smearing even more blood across her skin.

The crowd, initially cheering, quickly fell silent, save for Fleur’s frantic cries in French and the occasional muffled sob.

Dumbledore and Madame Maxime were already moving toward them, while Madam Pomfrey and a very anxious Diggory rushed from the medical tent.

The victims were whisked away, leaving the crowd in a tense, uneasy silence.

To make things worse, the merpeople had drifted closer to shore—pale greenish-grey things, looking more like bloated drowned corpses than anything else. Their eerie faces staring up at us didn’t help the atmosphere.

For the first time since the Tournament started, it really hit people—this wasn’t just a fun little competition.

People died in these things.

Five minutes later, Dumbledore returned to calm everyone down. The little girl—Fleur’s sister—was perfectly fine, just asleep. Fleur, though, hadn’t been so lucky. Grindylows attacked her, leaving her pretty banged up, including a nasty scratch and a broken ankle. The blood on her sister had actually come from her.

Eventually, the judges reached their verdict.

Krum lost a few points for not fully transforming but gained some for finishing on time. Diggory came in second. Fleur placed third—she might’ve botched the timing, but she had saved her hostage.

With that, the champions were congratulated, and we were all dismissed—until the end of June.

And that was that.

On the way back to the castle, Seamus was still raging about the Grindylows.

“Bloody monsters! Breaking a girl’s ankle! I’d rip off every single one of their gross little fingers myself!”

“But it was their territory,” Luna piped up, giving him a steady, unblinking stare. “They were only defending themselves the way they knew how. If you barge into someone’s home without an invitation, you should expect a hostile welcome.”

“Err…” Seamus looked completely thrown and turned to Dean, who seemed just as lost.

I just buried my grin in my scarf—Luna was brilliant.

But the real irritation started after the Task.

Alongside the usual gossip, the Daily Prophet decided to stir the pot by dedicating their next issue to the champions—particularly their love lives.

Skeeter went to town.

The whole Fleur-Diggory thing? She gushed about it. But when it came to Hermione?

She torched her.

The article practically screamed about how Krum had been whispering sweet nothings in her ear, heavily implying that she’d dosed him with a Love Potion.

Hermione, to her credit, handled it well—stony-faced, unimpressed, throwing out sarcastic little glances when people expected a reaction.

But Harry and I knew her.

We knew how much she hated being the centre of attention.

And being dragged into some ridiculous love scandal?

That had to be killing her inside.

It never turned into full-on bullying—Harry and I made sure of that—but not a single day went by without some Slytherin bringing it up. Even Krum’s fangirls weren’t letting it drop, finally finding the perfect excuse for why their idol had taken an interest in an ‘ordinary, plain’ girl like Hermione.

Skeeter, of course, had tried sniffing around Harry for a follow-up article, but it looked like Dumbledore had shut her down. She could write whatever rubbish she wanted about him, but on Hogwarts grounds, he was the law. If she pushed too far, he could just ban her entirely and demand the Prophet send someone else. So, while there were still occasional bits about Harry in the paper, they were small, petty, and filled with such blatant nonsense that even housewives with nothing better to do wouldn’t believe them. Harry, for his part, never even bothered to read them.

When Skeeter’s articles started making our lives miserable, I didn’t bother trying to catch her myself. And I didn’t drag Hermione into it either—she had enough on her plate. Instead, I just handed her dirty little secret straight to Snape.

A week later? The articles stopped.

Whatever he had demanded from her in exchange for his silence, I didn’t know—and, frankly, I didn’t want to. But I hoped it would keep her quiet for a long time.

My gut started screaming at me halfway through March, during Potions.

It was near the end of the lesson when the classroom door slammed open, and in barged Karkaroff.

The man didn’t even look at us—he just marched straight up to Snape, who looked both annoyed and unimpressed.

Karkaroff was acting weird. Really weird. Like he was high on something. His voice was too loud, his eyes were wild, and he was practically vibrating with nerves.

He insisted on talking to Snape immediately, shoving him towards the ingredients storeroom, completely ignoring the fact that there was still a class in session.

Snape, of course, was having none of it, snapping at him to wait until after the lesson. But Karkaroff wouldn’t back down—he trailed behind Snape the entire time, step for step, muttering urgently under his breath.

The rest of us kept shooting each other puzzled glances as we hurriedly bottled up our potions, but no one dared say anything.

Snape ended up kicking us out before the bell even rang.

My friends, naturally, loved a good mystery, but after a few minutes of discussion, they decided that Karkaroff had probably just been pranked. Poisoned sweets or a tampered drink—stuff like that happened all the time at Hogwarts.

I, however, knew better.

There was no way someone had slipped the headmaster of Durmstrang a joke potion.

I knew from the books that Karkaroff’s Dark Mark must’ve darkened—which meant the Dark Lord was close to returning. His spirit might not have fully regained a body yet, but he’d already taken on some kind of form.

Looked like Crouch had actually managed to shake off the curse and find Voldemort. And as for Bertha—judging by the articles in The Prophet, she still hadn’t turned up and had now been officially listed as missing.

But then—how the hell had Crouch known where to find Voldemort’s spirit?

Wormtail had spied on us, and then the rats must've pointed him in the right direction.

But Crouch?

How had he figured it out?

That question would not leave my head.

And then, one night, it hit me.

Everything clicked into place so fast that I jerked upright in bed, groaning.

Merlin’s beard, I am a bloody idiot.

A complete and utter idiot.

And a gullible one at that.

I had warned Snape about Crouch at the start of the year. But Snape didn’t talk to me about Harry being in danger until December.

Why the delay?

Whether I was right or wrong, the threat to Harry hadn’t changed.

Which meant something had happened in December—something big enough that it forced them to take action.

Snape wasn’t the type to drag his feet. And neither was Dumbledore.

So what changed?

Crouch—or someone else—had finally infiltrated Hogwarts.

Snape must’ve seen them on the map.

And now?

Now Karkaroff had proof that the Dark Lord’s return was imminent.

Which meant Crouch had succeeded. Voldemort was back.

And if Voldemort was back, then Crouch’s next move would be to get to Moody—to set the next part of the plan in motion.

To take Harry.

Snape had warned me for a reason.

Moody, as a teacher, had access to every single student in the school. He could take the form of anyone close to Harry.

Harry was safe inside Hogwarts.

But outside…

That was why Snape had warned me. I was closer to Harry. I knew who he spent time with.

Bloody hell, Snape was a right bastard.

The clock read 4 AM when I sprinted to the dungeons under Harry’s cloak, shoved it into my pocket, and started pounding on Snape’s door.

Despite the ridiculous hour, the door flew open almost immediately, and I was yanked inside.

Snape was already fully dressed in his teaching robes, like he hadn’t even slept. He didn’t look remotely surprised to see me.

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Weasley,” he sneered, shoving me into a chair. “For appalling nerve. I don’t recall giving you permission to show up whenever you please.”

“What can I say, sir?” I shot back, grinning just to piss him off. “I had a sudden urge, and I couldn’t wait till morning.”

“Talk,” he ordered, flicking his cloak behind him as he sat across from me. “Then leave.”

“What, not even offering me tea?” I drawled. “You’ve picked up so much from Dumbledore. Bit of tea, some biscuits—get the naive fool to spill his secrets over a friendly chat—”

“Weasley,” Snape warned, eyes narrowing.

“So Crouch got in after all,” I cut him off. “When were you planning on telling me? Sir?” I added mockingly.

I expected him to snap.

Instead, he… relaxed.

Not much. Just enough.

“It’s not my fault it took you this long to figure it out,” he said smoothly, rubbing his temple like I was giving him a headache. “As you know, there are certain things I cannot say outright. But rest assured, Dumbledore has it under control.”

“So why is he dragging his feet?” I asked, my own temper cooling. “Why not arrest Crouch on the spot and throw him in Azkaban?”

“Because the Headmaster believes it is imperative to understand why Crouch is here. And to catch him in the act,” Snape said, locking eyes with me.

"I already told you why," I muttered, irritation creeping into my voice. "The Dark Lord needs Potter’s blood for the ritual. He’s planning to resurrect himself using a potion—bone of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy. If he gets Harry’s blood, he’ll finally be able to kill him. And Dumbledore’s letting him do it, because he wants Voldemort to come back. You can’t kill a spirit, but a body? That’s another story. It’s in Dumbledore’s best interest for the Dark Lord to regain a physical form—so he’s stalling for time."

"What absolute nonsense," Snape scoffed, though his expression quickly turned serious. "And where exactly did you learn about Dark potions of that level?.."

"I already told you that too," I snapped. "Listen to me—Dark Lord’s spirit can take control of anyone. And this time, he won’t be so reckless and overconfident, like he was with Quirrell. He could be anyone—and no one would even know. He could take over some Ministry official and pull off a quiet coup before anyone even realises what’s happened. Dumbledore needs Dark Lord to have his own body—not to possess someone else. Because if he does, then what? Who’s going to believe that some high-ranking Ministry worker is actually Dark Lord in disguise? As far as the world is concerned, he’s already dead. And I hate knowing that one of his followers is right here, walking the halls with my friends and family."

"You never cease to amaze me, Weasley," Snape said after a long pause, his voice unusually serious. "The world ought to count itself lucky that the Dark Lord was not born in your image. I fear even the best defences would be useless against a mind like yours." He exhaled slowly. "I will… consider how best to relay your concerns to the Headmaster. In the meantime, I promise that I will personally ensure the safety of you and your loved ones. That is the most I can do."

"That’s enough, sir," I said, standing as he led me to the door, his expression unreadable. And, for the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe. Moody was being watched. Now, all I had to do was stay away from him.

The storm hit in April, right over the Easter holidays.

For months, we’d been buried under schoolwork, cramming for exams. Flitwick had me swamped with individual lessons, and every professor seemed to think we had nothing better to do than churn out essays like our lives depended on it. My weekends were just as packed—sometimes I walked Luna to Hogsmeade, other times I tagged along with Harry and Hermione for a sweets run.

Everything else? Took a back seat.

And then—I ran into Percy.

We hadn’t really spoken in ages. Between his workload and his obsession with his career, I didn’t want to force conversation. We had our routine—I’d drop off some sweets once a week, and in return, he’d pass me a few of Mum’s pies. Dumbledore had the Floo open for an hour on Saturdays so teachers could contact their families, and Percy used it to check in with Mum. I’d even spoken to her a couple of times myself.

But sitting around chatting?

Didn’t happen.

He looked rough, though. He’d lost weight, was obviously stressed, and I was pretty sure he and Penelope had broken up. On top of that, his owl, Hermes, had disappeared—flown off with a letter and never come back. I’d overheard Hagrid mentioning that a rogue predator had been snatching up school owls until he finally shot it down. Looked like Hermes had been one of the unlucky ones.

So, yeah. Percy wasn’t in great shape.

I was on my way back from lunch when I spotted him, levitating a mountain of scrolls. Just as I was about to call out, a first-year zoomed past, making Percy lose concentration. The entire stack of parchment collapsed—scrolls flying everywhere.

"Hey, Percy. Need a hand?" I offered, crouching down before a swarm of chattering second-years could trample everything. "Probably quicker without magic."

"If you’re not in a hurry," Percy replied, eyeing me strangely for a moment before giving a tired smile. "Thanks. I’ve got to drop these off with Professor Moody."

I did not like the sound of that.

"Not in a rush," I said quickly, grabbing half the scrolls. No way in hell was I letting him go into that office alone. "By the way, Ginny’s miffed you don’t make time for her on Saturdays anymore."

"Hardly got a moment to breathe, let alone socialise," he sighed, adjusting his grip on the stack. His voice was slightly muffled behind the paper. "With all these foreign students, the teachers are pulling double shifts for security. Even I’ve been roped in—patrolling, grading, setting exam questions—"

"And how did they survive without you all these years?" I snorted, but then fumbled a scroll, forcing me to bend down and scramble for it before I lost the rest.

"Well, you can’t hold a ghost accountable for mistakes," Percy said dryly. Then, glancing up, he nudged a door open with his hip.

To my surprise, it swung open without resistance.

Most classrooms were warded to keep students from poking around unsupervised—but Moody? Mr. Constant Vigilance himself?

Hadn’t locked his door?

Something felt off.

"Just leave them on the desk," Percy sighed, relieved to finally dump the weight. I followed suit, then took a glance around.

No sign of Moody.

"Tea?" Percy asked, rubbing his arms.

"Yeah, sure," I grinned, ready to bolt from the creepy atmosphere. I turned towards the door—

"Imperio."

Everything stopped.

Like the world had gone still—like I had sunk into the softest, calmest silence I’d ever known.

Percy stepped in front of me, and when I met his eyes, a warm, almost euphoric feeling washed over me.

My idol. My mentor.

I would do anything for him.

Anything he asked.

I wanted to.

"Listen carefully, Ron," he said, his voice cold and precise. "You’re going to find Potter and suggest a trip to Hogsmeade. On the way, you’ll convince him to visit the Burrow—just for a few hours. Tell him our mother is worried sick and desperate to see him. Lie if you have to—say you begged me to Side-Along Apparate you both there.

"You must persuade him. Do you understand?"

The words rolled through my skull, sending waves of warmth through my body, suffocating any trace of resistance.

Yes. Of course. I understand.

"Yeah, Percy, I got it," I grinned. "Don't worry, I'll sort everything."

"I’ll be waiting for you in an hour by the stile, past the village. Walk down the High Street and turn right just after Dervish & Banges—don't discuss this with anyone."

"See you in an hour, Percy," I beamed, hurrying towards the door, feeling lighter than I had in ages—like every problem I’d ever had had just melted away.

But the second I stepped outside, I nearly crashed into Moody.

"Weasley?" He scowled. "What the hell were you doing in my office?"

"I asked him to help me, Professor," Percy cut in smoothly, stepping forward. "Flitwick asked me to deliver some paperwork to you. Ron, weren’t you in a hurry?" His tone was light, but the pressure in my mind tightened—a silent command to leave. But I couldn’t abandon my idol to a murderer.

"I’ll wait for you, Percy," I forced out, barely managing to stay upright. "I need to talk to you. It’s important."

It felt like my mind was splitting in two.

One half demanded I stay, to protect Percy from whatever danger Moody posed. The other screamed at me to obey, to run and complete my task. Euphoria turned to pain—a thick, suffocating fog clouded my thoughts, accompanied by an urgent, whispering pressure.

But I dug my heels in.

Protecting Percy came first—I still had time to carry out my orders.

As soon as my warring thoughts settled, the fog lifted just enough for me to act.

Slowly, carefully, I reached for my wand.

"Weasley, get out. Now." Moody’s real eye narrowed, while his magical one whirled wildly in its socket. But then—he shifted focus.

"Professor Weasley," Moody said, his voice rough but level. "I need to speak with you. About the schedule."

"Of course," Percy nodded, then turned his gaze on me, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "Ron, leave. I won’t be long. You’re being ridiculous."

He stepped closer and gripped my shoulder—hard—forcing me towards the door. But I shook my head, refusing to budge.

"Oh, sod this," Moody growled—and his wand snapped up.

A blue bolt of Stupefy shot towards Percy.

But I was watching that bastard.

I threw myself in front of Percy, shouting my spell—

—and just as my vision went black, I saw a dark figure in the doorway—

—and a red streak of light flying straight for Percy.