Snape approached, holding a potion bottle.
"Veritaserum," Crouch glanced at it, immediately recognizing it. "You're going to use this on me?"
"The greatest white wizard,"
"And the heir of Gryffindor,"
"Don't even trust their own magic enough to keep me locked up?"
Harry answered casually:
"This is a special potion, Mr. Crouch. I think you're going to love it."
Snape crouched down, grabbed Crouch's jaw, locked eyes with him, and prepared to pour the potion into his mouth.
"Wait," Harry stopped him.
Snape paused.
Harry flicked his wand, and the cork popped off with a pop. He sniffed it lightly:
"Continue, Professor."
"Potter, it seems your brain really was damaged by a troll," Snape squinted, tone sharp and sarcastic. "Do you really suspect I can't brew proper Veritaserum just because I'm the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor now?"
Harry didn't respond, only smirking contemptuously.
Snape sneered and proceeded to force-feed the potion to Crouch.
In an instant, Crouch fell into unconsciousness, pain twisting across his face as he drifted into nightmares.
Snape turned away with a huff, and Harry left too.
Late into the night, Crouch jerked awake.
The classroom was cold without a fireplace, the magic wards sealed tight, but the chill still seeped into his bones.
In that eerie silence, his forehead was slick with cold, clammy sweat.
"Not enjoying your nightmares?"
A dark shadow oozed out of Crouch's body, forming into a vague human shape.
Snape's voice came from it.
"A curious potion," Crouch muttered dreamily, uncertain whether he was praising the nightmare-inducing Veritaserum—or this dark shadow clone.
"No time for nonsense," Snape snapped.
"To fool Potter, I slipped into the Veritaserum. I've only got ten minutes."
"What do you want me to do?"
Crouch glanced at the blackboard and asked,
"Was my contract with Hogwarts really dissolved?"
Snape answered curtly:
"I don't know.
But it's Potter. If he said so, it's probably true."
Crouch sighed:
"Get me out of here.
If I can just leave this place, I can—"
"Crouch, did Potter knock the sense out of you?"
Snape interrupted sharply.
"Or have I overestimated your willpower?
Maybe I fed you too much potion?"
"Can't be done, Severus," Crouch said softly.
Snape confirmed:
"Of course not.
Look at the magic around this room. Without Potter dragging me in, I couldn't even get close."
"And don't even think about breaking these spells. Dumbledore and Potter set them up together.
Even if I had half an hour or an hour, maybe I could break them—but how long do you think it would take Potter to catch me?"
He paused slightly.
"Even if I somehow slipped out, the seventh and eighth floors, Gryffindor Tower, Ravenclaw Tower—all sealed by Potter's magic."
"House-elves forbidden, Disillusionment Charms forbidden, Invisibility Cloaks useless."
"You can't escape."
Crouch sighed:
"Potter really is sharp."
"His godfather was Sirius Black—a bloodhound by nature.
He inherited the nose," Snape sneered.
Crouch fell silent.
Snape pressed:
"So what do you want me to do?"
Crouch still said nothing.
Snape's voice grew colder:
"You still don't trust me, Crouch."
Crouch grinned:
"How could I trust you, Severus?"
He tried to shrug but his arms were magically bound, so he only tilted his head slightly.
"You're different from us."
"You were Hogwarts' Potions Master. Now you're the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
"Dumbledore vouched for you.
You carry the Mark, and the Ministry knows it.
Wizengamot knows it.
Yet they tolerate you."
"They respect you as a Potions Master."
He looked at the black shadow.
"I have intelligence equal to yours—perhaps even greater."
"We're both Slytherins."
Slytherins weren't Hufflepuffs or Gryffindors—
they didn't blindly charge into danger.
Self-preservation was their first principle.
Nothing mattered more than personal gain—unless loyalty promised an even greater reward.
Crouch was loyal to Voldemort, yes—but he wasn't stupid.
He knew better than to expose himself—or his father—to betrayal by "loyal" Death Eaters.
Voldemort had been strong.
Now, facing Potter and Dumbledore, he was weak.
And the weak were not worth following—especially for Slytherins.
Snape was the prime example.
As a half-blood, Snape thrived in a pure-blood Slytherin House, forged alliances with Lucius Malfoy, joined the Death Eaters immediately after graduation, and quickly rose through the ranks.
After Voldemort's fall, he seamlessly won Dumbledore's trust and earned a teaching position—something even Crouch's own father never achieved.
To Crouch, Snape was...
Two-faced.
Opportunistic.
Cunning.
The perfect survivor.
How could he trust him now, when all their pieces were gone, and the enemy still had queens on the board?
"You're still loyal to the Dark Lord, aren't you?" Snape pressed.
Crouch puffed out his chest:
"He's my father."
"And you weren't exactly loyal to your real father," Snape taunted.
"You mean Barty Crouch Sr.?
He was no father to me."
Snape responded softly:
"Our Lord once said:
'Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.'
The Mark doesn't fade."
"Maybe Dumbledore believes me."
"But Potter never will."
Crouch suddenly asked:
"Do you want Potter dead?"
"Of course," Snape answered without hesitation.
"I'd carve him into pieces if I could."
"Just no opportunity yet."
Crouch stared at the shadow, saying nothing.
"You have no choice but to trust me," Snape continued softly.
"Your little friend hidden around the seventh or eighth floor—do you really think he can help you like I can?"
"Karkaroff?"
"Or—someone else?"
Crouch shook his head:
"Severus, you shouldn't ask what you don't need to know."
"You should try trusting me instead," Snape sneered,
"your only ally."
Crouch interrupted:
"If you're loyal to my father, you should tolerate my suspicion."
"The situation is dire."
"Better safe than sorry."
Snape said nothing more.
Crouch took a deep breath, lowered his voice:
"Write a letter. Deliver it to an address in Austria."
He whispered a series of strange syllables, protected by a Fidelius Charm.
Snape memorized them carefully.
"Tell them," Crouch said,
"they can act now."
Snape frowned:
"Who's 'they'?"
"You just write it," Crouch said.
No further explanation.
Snape wanted to push for more.
But the ten-minute time limit was up—the shadow dissolved into liquid and soaked into the floor.
Crouch shifted slightly to make it look like a mere accident.
—
In the Headmaster's office.
Snape let out a long breath and opened his eyes.
"Crouch is still cautious," he reported.
"He doubts my loyalty to the Dark Lord."
"And for good reason," Harry nodded.
Snape glanced at him:
"He gave me an address—told me to send a letter saying 'they can act now.'"
"'They'?"
Dumbledore echoed.
"Goblins, giants, dark creatures—maybe even the Wild Hunt," Harry guessed.
"That's probably who."
"And the address?" Dumbledore asked.
Snape shook his head:
"I can't say.
It's under Fidelius Charm.
Crouch is the Secret Keeper."
Harry said, looking at Dumbledore:
"Looks like we'll have to track Snape."
"Harry, you need to focus on your studies," Dumbledore said sternly.
"Slytherin is still leading the House Cup rankings.
If you don't work harder, they might win."
Snape scowled:
"Albus, I'm still the Slytherin Head of House.
You're blatantly biased."
"Potter."
Snape sneered,
"Minus twenty points for Gryffindor for disrespecting a professor."
Dumbledore retorted firmly:
"Plus thirty points for Gryffindor for helping save the Forbidden Forest."
Snape countered coldly:
"Minus another twenty points—
because Potter, I simply dislike you."
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Powerstones?
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