[Castling] Chapter 60

As I climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower with the others, my mind was still racing—could Moody really be Crouch? But standing under the shower a few minutes later, I shoved the thought aside and called myself an idiot.

Barty had copied Moody’s mannerisms perfectly, so of course, the real one would act just like he did in the book. And honestly, what would Crouch even be doing here if Wormtail hadn’t dragged the Dark Lord back to England yet? Last I checked, he was still holed up in Albania, twiddling his thumbs.

So, no need to panic—yet. I’d keep an eye on things. Might even try to get a look at the Map from Snape, just to be sure. He wouldn’t give it to me, obviously, but maybe I could sneak a peek. That thought settled me enough to drop it—for now.

Our dorm was just as I’d left it, except for a few new Quidditch posters covering the walls. The usual buzz of voices filled the room. Seamus, as expected, had smuggled in another barrel of ale—this time, a three-litre one. The lads had already knocked back their first round and were demanding I take a penalty drink. By now, drinking on the first night back had become a bit of a tradition.

With a nice bit of warmth in my chest, we laughed and interrupted each other, rambling on about dreams of Triwizard glory and the admiring looks of witches. Eventually, we all collapsed into bed.

Morning was grim. I hadn’t got enough sleep, my head was buzzing slightly from the ale, and the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall showed nothing but a heavy, grey sky with non-stop drizzle. None of that would’ve been too bad, if we didn’t have Herbology first thing.

The path to Greenhouse Three had turned into a swampy mess, and half of us slipped and skidded the whole way. By the time we arrived, we looked like we’d crawled through a pigsty—thankfully, the charms kept us dry, but the same couldn’t be said for the Hufflepuffs. We huddled under the overhang, trying to make ourselves presentable before heading inside.

And then things got worse.

We spent the lesson squeezing pus out of Bubotubers. I had never seen anything more disgusting in my life. These tall, slimy, black growths stuck out of the ground, swaying slightly, each one covered in bulging, pulsing boils. Sprout handed us gloves and told us to pop them. The things burst with a squelch, spraying thick, greenish-yellow goo everywhere.

Within forty minutes, the greenhouse reeked of something horribly sweet, like rotten fruit left to stew in a hospital bin. By the end of it, everyone practically bolted for the door the second we were dismissed.

But the day wasn’t done throwing horrors at us yet.

Hagrid, beaming like a polished cauldron, presented us with four massive crates full of his latest batch of experimental monstrosities—two for us, two for the Slytherins. These things looked like overgrown, semi-transparent prawns with stingers and suckers, reeking of rotting fish. They were the size of dinner plates. But Hagrid? He was gazing at them like a proud dad.

Thankfully, today we only had to feed them, though even that was a stomach-turner. Their diet? Rat spleens, frogspawn, liver, ant eggs, maggots, mealworms—you get the idea. The girls looked repulsed, the lads muttered curses under their breath, and we all fled back to the castle as soon as we were allowed, desperate to wash off the double-layered stink.

After lunch, we had Muggle Studies.

Maybe it was just the foul mood I was in, but by the time we’d gone through the syllabus, I was done with this subject. This was the second year in a row it was completely useless, and it all came back to the Statute. Even Hermione was starting to consider dropping it.

I’d always assumed these lessons would actually teach wizards how Muggles lived. But if that were the case, why did none of them understand pounds and pence? Why did they dress like lunatics when trying to blend in? Turned out, Muggle Studies was basically Wizarding World Survival Training. And it finally made sense why wizards were so clueless about the Muggle world—they apparated everywhere and never actually experienced it.

Take this, for example:

If a magical kid ever accidentally splinched themselves into a Muggle area, there were emergency beacons in their robes—a button on their cloak or shirt. Press it, and someone from the Ministry would track them down and bring them home. It worked kind of like a distress signal registered with the Aurors. And if you had a house-elf? Well, you could just summon them.

For kids like me, who lived in mixed areas, they could track you through your wand if you got lost. The official advice? Walk somewhere quiet, send up gold sparks with your wand, and wait. The Aurors had an enchanted map that would show your location, and someone would apparate in to get you within minutes.

As for Muggle-borns, like Hermione? If they ever got lost, their best bet was to go straight to a police officer.

But the biggest rule drilled into us?

Never intervene.

If you saw a fight, someone getting mugged, or some poor old lady getting her purse snatched? Do. Not. Step in. Keep your wand out of sight, let Muggle authorities handle it, and above all—protect the Statute of Secrecy.

The whole thing was a load of rubbish.

The Statute had been passed after the witch hunts had already stopped. Queen Elizabeth had outlawed accusations of witchcraft, and she’d even signed a peace treaty with the magical community. Wizards took over enforcing secrecy themselves, and in exchange, the Muggles and the church left them alone.

But back in the old days? Wizards hadn’t exactly been saints.

Before the Statute, witches and wizards lived however they pleased. A hedge-witch could get offended and curse an entire village’s livestock, and no one would do anything about it. Dark wizards would spread plagues just for fun. And who suffered most? Not them. It was the poor Muggle-born witches and healers, the ones who lived on the edges of villages and actually helped people.

The Muggles, of course, weren’t much better. They’d accept magical healing one day, then grab their torches and pitchforks the next, blaming their own misfortunes on the same healer they’d been thanking a week ago. When the last great plague swept through, that’s when the real witch hunts started. Innocent women, magic or not, were burned by the thousands.

And then there was the church.

The church had power. Real power. They weren’t just some religious order; they had soldiers, courts, and executions at their command. And some Muggle-borns, terrified of being burned, worked with them, turning over secrets about the magical world to save their own necks. They knew the hidden paths through the forests, the entrances to wizarding settlements, the places where the magical creatures lived.

And that’s when the real slaughter started.

It wasn’t just witches. The Muggles hunted magical creatures. Entire races and species were wiped out. Our local reserve only had two species of dragons left. Another had practically nothing worth preserving anymore.

And here’s something I didn’t know—wizards could get sick. They could die from Muggle diseases. And the church? They weren’t above experimenting to find out which poisons and plagues worked best against magic folk.

No wonder they’d decided to hide away forever.

And we were supposed to just sit through this lesson, listening to our professor praise the Statute and act like it was the greatest thing that ever happened?

Yeah. I was done with Muggle Studies.

Back then, wizards finally realised that while Muggles might be mortal, pathetic, and mostly useless, they could still be dangerous—especially in a crowd. There were far more of them than there were of us. Sure, a witch could dance through ordinary fire without a scratch, but magical fire? That could burn anyone. And enchanted ropes? Good luck breaking free or apparating out of those.

By the time Muggles had done a proper job of thinning the wizarding population, the magical community signed a treaty with the ruling queen. Now, if any wizard living on magical land caused harm to Muggles—whether by war, meddling in their politics, or conjuring up another plague—the treaty would activate, and wizards would be done for. It would give the church free rein, and after centuries of stockpiling knowledge, they had plenty of ways to fight back. That’s why vampire hunters and monster slayers still exist, even if most people think they’re just fairy tales.

This is also why certain subjects were banned at Hogwarts—Demonology, Ritual Magic, Chimera Studies, and anything that could accidentally summon something too powerful to control. The last thing the wizarding world needed was an excuse for bounty hunters and inquisitors to come knocking.

So, the treaty was signed, and suddenly, wizards had a new problem: How do you control a population that’s spent centuries doing whatever they want?

That’s where the first Wizard’s Covenant came in, eventually leading to the Statute of Secrecy. They built a Ministry, set up regulatory departments, wrote out proper laws, and even threw together Azkaban. They sealed off all magical areas from Muggles, completely cutting off from the outside world, forming a state within a state. That’s how things have run ever since.

The less wizards interact with Muggle society, the better. And in Britain, that approach stuck. Other countries went their own way. Some didn’t bother hiding magic at all. In others, it became an officially recognised religion. Some nations let magic coexist in plain sight—fortune tellers, psychics, healers—most Muggles believe what they want, and those who do witness something real just brush it off as another parlour trick.

And then there’s Voldemort.

Now he was an interesting case.

His position in the wizarding world was… complicated. Sure, he was a wizard, but he didn’t officially belong to any magical family. The House of Gaunt never claimed him—if they had, he’d have had his own vault in Gringotts. His legal surname was Riddle, after his Muggle father. That made him a Muggle-born wizard in the eyes of the law.

Which meant the treaty didn’t apply to him.

And when he started marking his followers, branding them with the Dark Mark, he legally absolved all those pure-blood supremacists from responsibility. Maybe that’s why they chose him as their leader—he was a loophole. If they acted against Muggles, the Ministry would come down on them. But he? He was technically an outsider. Besides, that would explain why the pure-bloods never went to the same lengths without him leading the charge.

Then there was the goblin treaty—another thing that didn’t apply to the Dark Lord. His ancestors never signed the peace agreement, so killing goblins wouldn’t land him in trouble with their clans.

The more I thought about it, the clearer it became: Voldemort wasn’t just some terrifying dark wizard—he was the perfect figurehead for a war.

We were buzzing for our first lesson with Moody. Everyone who’d already had him described the experience as some weird mix of excitement, horror, and sheer dread. And finally, the day arrived.

“Books away,” Moody rasped as he clanked his way to the front of the room. “Won’t be needing ‘em. You lot have read enough. What good are bloody Red Caps and hinkypunks when you don’t even know how to handle a real threat?”

We all glanced at each other in confusion but shut our textbooks without question.

“You’re years behind where you ought to be,” he suddenly barked, making half the class jump. “I’m here to fix that.”

He dropped into his chair, pulled out the class register, and spent ten minutes going through the list, his magical eye scanning each of us like he was expecting to find someone up to no good.

“Today, we begin studying curses. There are three types…”

What can I say? The Unforgivables were covered with demonstrations—though thankfully, not on humans. Moody showed us the Killing Curse and the Cruciatus on a garden gnome, and Imperius on a Hogwarts house-elf—to really drive the lesson home, since elves had higher intelligence and a wider range of emotions. It was grim.

Hermione went pale and nearly broke down when the elf started skipping around the room, slamming its head into our desks. And when it climbed onto a pile of stools, grinning as it tied a noose and slipped it over its neck, the girls screamed. Moody finally ended the spell, launching into a lecture about how a caster could make their victim do anything—and they’d do it willingly.

After class, it took ages to calm Hermione down—she was all but drafting a petition to the Ministry. Neville looked like he’d gone into shock. Moody hadn’t even tried to console him. And poor Lavender was sobbing into Parvati’s shoulder.

Honestly? I hated Moody’s lesson. Everyone did, no matter how much he tried to sell it as “education” or “preparation.” Sure, he was a professional, but this wasn’t a training camp—it was a classroom. And his constant shouting of CONSTANT VIGILANCE! was only good for giving half the students anxiety.

We checked the official curriculum for Defence Against the Dark Arts. Turns out Moody was technically operating within Ministry guidelines—except he was following the sixth-year syllabus. The list clearly stated what creatures and beings Unforgivables could be demonstrated on. House-elves, gnomes, toads, and a few others were considered “acceptable subjects.”

He wasn’t allowed to kill the house-elf or cause permanent harm, but mental coercion? Complete subjugation? That was fine.

Yeah.

We were definitely signing Hermione’s complaint letter.

And another thing—why did Crouch, in the book, bother casting Imperius on everyone? The notes on the spell were very clear. There was no real way to resist it. Some people had a natural immunity, but it was rare. Otherwise, the only way to break free was when the spell wore off or wasn’t reinforced properly.

It needed constant magical upkeep—like a battery draining over time.

The only ones with a real advantage were those trained in mental defences—people with structured minds, strong enough to push back. But even then, resistance only worked if the target had more power than the caster. And casting Imperius in the first place? That wasn’t something just anyone could do—it took strength and a very specific mindset.

All in all, the more I thought about it, the more I realised how bloody strange the whole thing was.

Looks like Harry managed to resist Imperius because of the Horcrux—one soul bound by the curse, but the other still on guard. That made sense.

Either way, I decided I needed to check the Map, just to make sure. It probably wasn’t Barty, but Moody still wasn’t exactly the picture of sanity.

Snape, meanwhile, had broken his own personal record for being a miserable git. Moody’s presence was winding him up something rotten. I’d never seen anyone spit venom like that—not even a full-blooded snake. I spent two weeks trying to figure out how to get near him without being hexed into next week. In the end, I accidentally botched a potion and landed myself a detention.

"Mister Weasley, if you had something to discuss, you should have come to my office rather than putting on a show in my class," Snape drawled when I arrived. "I already have Longbottom for that kind of disruption."

"Sorry, sir, I’ll remember that next time," I said with my most polite nod.

"So? What was so important that it cost Gryffindor ten points and a melted cauldron?" he asked, smirking as he settled into his chair.

"I have reason to believe someone’s planning to enter Harry into the Triwizard Tournament as a fourth champion," I said, watching his expression. He didn’t even pretend to believe me.

"And who, exactly, would benefit from such idiocy?" he asked mockingly. "Not to mention, if you’d paid attention to the Headmaster’s speech, Weasley, you’d know that there will be an age restriction. Even your brainless Potter won’t be able to blunder into this one."

"The Goblet is making the choice. Someone’s going to Confund it, make it think there’s a fourth school, and slip in Harry’s name. Whoever does it will be over the age line, so it’ll work."

Snape gave me a long, unimpressed look. "And who is this mysterious benefactor?" he drawled. "More importantly, why bother? Potter couldn’t win the Tournament. If the goal is to get rid of him, there are far easier ways."

"I have visions of the future, sir," I admitted. "Not dreams. Not predictions. Just… flashes of what’s coming. But only about me and the people close to me."

Snape let out a tired sigh. "Merlin’s beard, not another Trelawney…"

"Laugh all you like," I snapped, meeting his gaze. "But none of my visions have been wrong. I’ve just changed things before they could happen. And I’d really rather be cautious than wait for disaster."

Snape moved fast. One second he was across the desk, the next he had me by the collar, yanking me so close I could see every pore on his nose. His black eyes bore into mine, searching for a lie. I held my ground, refusing to look away, and after a moment, he let go, falling back into his chair. The lazy contempt was gone—he was actually listening now.

"Why must I always drag the truth out of you piece by piece, Weasley?" he said irritably. "If you truly want my help, you might start by explaining properly."

"Because it’s too insane for you to believe me outright, sir," I said flatly. "And I know you don’t fully trust me. But I promised to keep you informed about what’s happening in the castle and what I plan to do."

Snape scowled, then sighed. "Fine. Enough with the dramatics. Explain."

"Barty Crouch Jr. didn’t die in Azkaban. His father smuggled him out, and he’s been locked up under Imperius at the family estate ever since. But he’s not completely controlled—he could shake it off at any time. His goal is to capture Harry, because Voldemort needs his blood to return to full power. That would break his mother’s protection, and the Dark Lord would be able to kill him.

Crouch will impersonate Moody, rig the Goblet, make sure Harry wins, and then deliver him to Voldemort. Now, I know Pettigrew’s dead and never made it to Albania, but Trelawney’s prophecy still stands—‘The servant will return to the master, and the Dark Lord shall rise at the end of the year.’(1) Just to be safe, I want to check the Map. If you won’t lend it to me, at least look at it."

Snape snorted. "That is without question the most absurd theory I have ever heard, Weasley."

But despite his words, he reached into his desk, pulled out the Map, and spread it across the table.

"I am not giving this to you," he said, beckoning me over. "But you can see for yourself how ridiculous you’re being. And for future reference—perhaps don’t believe every vision you have. Unless, of course, you want to end up a drunken lunatic."

I scanned the Map and quickly found the Defence Against the Dark Arts office. Alastor Moody, it read. I let out a quiet breath, feeling the tension ease.

Snape watched me with a smirk. "I think I’ll mention your little ‘Cup Confundus’ theory to the Headmaster," he said at last. "It would be a shame if someone else had the same idea."

I didn’t care about his sarcasm. I just needed to keep Harry out of the Tournament—and away from Voldemort.

"I’d appreciate that, sir," I said sincerely. "And if you could check the Map now and then, just to keep an eye on Moody, I’d feel better."

"Fine," Snape said, suddenly in a good mood—probably because he’d just humiliated me. "I’ll do you that favour, Weasley. On one condition—you keep me informed and stay out of Potter’s disasters. Honestly, I should have asked for more when I agreed to this ridiculous arrangement. You are exhausting. Now get out. I’ve wasted enough time on you."

"I hope none of what I’ve told you comes true, sir," I said, pausing in the doorway. "But if it does—I want you to take me seriously next time. Just so you know—Krum, Delacour, and Diggory will be the champions. Goodnight, sir."

Lessons carried on as usual. We had classes, went to Hogsmeade on weekends, and for the first time since everything, I felt a little calmer. Snape might be a bastard, but he always kept his word. And if he said he’d keep watch, then nothing—not even a rat—was getting past him unnoticed.

(1) The real prophecy goes like this: “It will happen tonight. The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless, abandoned by his followers. His servant has been chained these twelve years. Tonight, before midnight... the servant will break free and set out to rejoin his master. The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant's aid, greater and more terrible than ever he was. Tonight... before midnight... the servant... will set out... to rejoin... his master..”

As you can see the circumstances have changed and the prohephecy in its original form is no longer applicable so I directly translated the ‘new prophecy’ as it was in the original.