Morning came quietly.
Vaughn woke from sleep to the clatter of pots and pans downstairs. Winky was already busy in the kitchen. Ever since the day before yesterday, the house-elf had been bursting with an almost frightening level of enthusiasm.
"Mr Weasley cured the young master! Madam can finally rest in peace! Winky must repay Mr Weasley properly, on Madam's behalf!"
This was the sentence she had repeated most often over the past two days.
After washing up in the second-floor bathroom, daylight had only just begun to brighten the sky.
Vaughn stepped out of the small house and breathed in the fresh morning air, heavy with dew and the scent of damp earth. He wandered briefly through the surrounding Muggle neighbourhood.
To conceal his son's existence, Crouch had naturally chosen a place that prioritised isolation and quiet.
A park lay beside the neighbourhood. Vaughn followed a winding path over its gentle hills—and on the far side, he even spotted a well-screened private golf course.
Facilities built for the wealthy were always lavishly maintained. Vaughn looked at the wide, glistening lawn beyond the wall, bathed in the rising eastern sunlight, and the lush greenery carefully planted to block outside views.
He nodded in satisfaction.
A very good location.
After scouting the area, Vaughn returned to the Crouch house. Winky had already prepared breakfast and greeted him eagerly.
"Honoured Mr Weasley, Winky made your favourite pie—beef gravy with peas!"
"No potatoes, right?" Vaughn asked warily.
As an Englishman's favourite food, potatoes were one thing Vaughn deeply despised.
"Of course not!" Winky replied proudly. "Winky gave all the potatoes to Master!"
At the dining table, Crouch—tucking his napkin in—stared at his plate.
A small portion of pie.
And an enormous serving of chips.
He fell into deep contemplation.
Vaughn, meanwhile, enjoyed the meal quite a bit. Fair was fair—Winky's cooking was excellent, far better than Molly's, and leagues above Hogwarts' house-elves.
It even made Vaughn briefly consider that owning a house-elf might not be such a bad idea after all…
After breakfast and a cup of English tea, Crouch went to work, and Vaughn began his own "tasks."
Winky led him down to the basement.
Inside, Barty Crouch Jr. sat quietly in the iron cage, completely motionless.
Winky sniffled as she looked at him.
"Mr Weasley… when can the young master come out? Winky has already prepared a room for him. He hasn't slept in a warm bed for so long…"
"He still needs observation, Winky," Vaughn replied.
He drew his wand and casually Transfigured a chair into a soft wool cushion, then sat down opposite the cage.
Knowing that the "honoured Mr Weasley" was treating the young master, Winky didn't dare disturb him further. She Apparated away quietly.
Vaughn adjusted his breathing and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again—
He was standing in Hogwarts.
Hogwarts as it existed in Barty Crouch Jr.'s memories.
A hazy white glow enveloped the ancient castle. Vaughn found himself on the covered bridge behind the castle, leading toward the Forbidden Forest.
There was nothing else around—only a thin, withdrawn-looking boy sitting on the edge of the bridge, legs dangling as he gazed down at the cliff and the lake below.
Vaughn walked over.
"Barty, admiring the view again?"
The boy looked up briefly, then lowered his head.
"Yes, Headmaster Dumbledore."
In this memory, Vaughn appeared as Dumbledore—exactly the form he had taken the previous day.
The boy before him was Barty Crouch Jr.'s personality construct—a memory-form without independent intellect, incapable of true dialogue.
Using the construct, Vaughn had suppressed and misled Barty's real personality, imprisoning it within his own memories.
He was experimenting—trying to see whether this method could open Barty's heart.
At present, Vaughn had no clear solution for reversing a soul already corrupted by dark magic. For now, he could only attempt to influence the personality indirectly through memories, tracing backward toward the source of Barty's darkness.
This line of thinking came from Vaughn's own experience learning the Patronus Charm.
Dumbledore believed in the "power of love"—and that wasn't an empty phrase. In the wizarding world, spells like the Patronus drew upon love, hope, and a person's brighter side.
Vaughn believed no one was born evil.
Everyone had a patch of inner "clean land."
That land was difficult to transform—but Vaughn believed it was the opposite of darkness. If it could be found and activated, it might resist the corruption of dark magic.
The problem was that in some people, that inner purity had been suppressed to the point of near invisibility—by upbringing, trauma, or dark magic itself.
Barty was not like Harry, whose life experience was limited.
Barty was a grown man. Over thirty years of memories filled his mind like an ocean—most of it warped by dark magic.
Those memories were dangerous, unstable, and treacherous.
His time at Hogwarts was one of the few relatively stable memory clusters Vaughn could locate.
Vaughn sat beside the boy and spoke gently.
"When people are troubled or in pain, they often seek out quiet places to think alone… Barty, what's troubling you?"
The boy didn't answer. His legs swung slowly over the edge.
After a long while, he asked softly,
"Headmaster… are we inside my dream?"
"Oh?" Vaughn asked mildly. "Why do you think that?"
"Because… I remember that you've never spoken to me privately. Yet these past two days, no matter where I go, you always appear…"
Vaughn remained calm. He had deliberately shaped this memory into something dreamlike.
People were least rational in dreams—and most likely to lower their guard.
He smiled gently.
"Of course, Barty. You can think of this as a dream. A fantasy. Here, you can tell me anything—your thoughts, your worries."
The boy raised his head, hesitated, then spoke in a subdued voice.
"I failed an exam. Father was very angry… He demanded I earn twelve O's in my O.W.L.s—but I couldn't."
O.W.L.s—Ordinary Wizarding Levels.
Passing with an A was sufficient. E meant "Exceeds Expectations." O, Outstanding, was the highest grade.
"But you passed twelve subjects," Vaughn said kindly. "That's already remarkable."
Imitating Dumbledore's tone, Vaughn added carefully, testing him,
"In my years of teaching, only Tom Riddle ever performed better."
The moment the name was spoken, the boy clutched his head.
Vaughn asked gently,
"Barty? What's wrong?"
"Headmaster… my head hurts…"
Dark clouds suddenly gathered overhead.
Vaughn looked up as black clouds rolled in from the horizon, lightning flickering within. Thunder soon rumbled above Hogwarts.
This reaction was intentional.
Barty's personality was obscured, not erased. Mentioning someone emotionally significant was bound to stir buried memories.
And without question, Voldemort held an extraordinary place in Barty's heart.
Vaughn's eyes glimmered faintly as his voice softened further, warm and reassuring.
"Barty… do you remember Tom Riddle?"
The boy's eyes went unfocused.
"…Yes…"
"How do you feel about him?"
"He… felt more like my father than my real one."
"Then would you open your heart to him?" Vaughn pressed gently.
"Tell your master—your most revered Dark Lord—where your happiness and joy are hidden?"
"I…"
The boy clutched his head again, groaning in pain.
Vaughn grasped his chin, forcing him to look up. The light in Vaughn's eyes intensified.
"Barty. Look at me. Who am I?"
The boy froze.
Then his young face lit up with manic joy.
He suddenly threw his arms around Vaughn's leg.
"Headmaster? Master? Is that you, Master?"
"Yes," Vaughn replied calmly. "Now answer me. Where are your happiness and joy hidden?"
"Yes, Master… I—I think… I'll remember…"
The storm clouds dispersed.
The dream-Hogwarts faded back into its hazy glow.
Vaughn stepped back.
The scene shifted.
He now stood before the Crouch ancestral house.
The old building remained worn and weathered, but the door stood open, filled with the same hazy light.
Inside, an adult Barty Crouch Jr. stood motionless, eyes shut tight.
His eyeballs twitched violently beneath closed lids, as though trapped in an intense dream.
A humanoid mist clung to him like a parasite, tendrils burrowing deep into his body.
As Barty's eyes moved faster, a single tendril was pulled free—
Dragging with it a memory wrapped in black fog.
Within that memory, Barty and several others stood over a bound couple, wands raised.
A distorted curse rang out through the haze.
"Cruciatus!"
The couple screamed in agony.
Barty, however, was exhilarated—angry, ecstatic, reveling in their suffering.
"Longbottom!" he shouted. "Tell me where you've hidden my Master!"
They never answered.
He didn't care.
He only wanted to hear them scream again.
"Cruciatus!"
Vaughn watched the entire scene without expression.
Then he calmly pushed the memory back into Barty's mind.
"Another failure," he thought.
"This attempt was more successful than yesterday's Dumbledore façade—it drew out memories quickly… but not the ones I needed."
"His mind has been twisted so thoroughly that even his understanding of joy is distorted. What he calls happiness is bound to torture and slaughter—there's no trace of 'clean land' left…"
Still, Vaughn wasn't discouraged.
As he had told Crouch, this was a long-term project. These were experiments—trial and error, gathering data.
He glanced once more at the personality construct clinging to Barty's real self.
In just two days, it had already turned grey.
Calculating silently, Vaughn withdrew from Barty's mind and returned to the basement.
Barty's body still sat unmoving in the cage.
Vaughn pulled out his notebook and recorded his findings:
Fourth experiment failed. Dark magic corruption is comprehensive—emotions themselves are distorted. Next experiment may involve Mr Crouch… or Mrs Crouch.
He paused.
Using the dead—is that appropriate?
The flicker of conscience lasted barely a second.
Mrs Crouch may represent a stronger positive anchor in Barty's life. Next step: locate memories connected to Mrs Crouch…
Personality construct requires further refinement—especially anti-corruption filtering. Current degradation within three days is unacceptable for treatment or personal use.
He filled five or six pages with observations and thoughts.
After resting briefly, he resumed work.
Only stopping at dusk.
When Crouch returned from work, Vaughn had just emerged from the basement. Digging through Barty's heavily corrupted memories was exhausting—but not without reward.
For example—
Magic.
After dinner, as Crouch was about to ask to see his son, Vaughn spoke first.
"Barty, I need your help tonight."
"With what?"
"I want to learn Apparition. I found memories of your son practising it, and it reminded me—I somehow never learned it."
Vaughn had genuinely forgotten. Hogwarts and the surrounding region were covered by anti-Apparition wards, making practice impossible.
Crouch hesitated.
"Shouldn't this wait? This is a Muggle area…"
"There's a golf course nearby," Vaughn interrupted. "I checked it this morning. Private, empty at night—perfect."
Then he added casually,
"I'll also practise Fiendfyre and a few lesser curses. Your son's mind is a treasure vault of Dark Magic… Oh—by the way, you know Finite Incantatem, right?"
Crouch desperately wanted to say no.
Learning Apparition was one thing. Practising dark magic was another entirely.
But—
He couldn't refuse Vaughn anymore.
That night, Crouch returned with several small dropper bottles.
"Essence of Dittany," he explained. "A very powerful healing agent…"
"I know what it is," Vaughn cut in. "I'm a potioneer."
"…Right. I keep forgetting," Crouch muttered apologetically.
Vaughn held a bottle up to the light and scoffed.
"Poor craftsmanship. How much did you pay?"
"…Ten Galleons."
Vaughn clicked his tongue.
He understood why Crouch had prepared it. Splinching was the greatest danger in Apparition.
Throughout history, countless witches and wizards had paid with blood and life for their mistakes—so many, in fact, that their cases filled an entire book.
Essence of Dittany was the best known treatment.
Provided you could find—and reattach—your missing body parts.
Late at night, Vaughn and Crouch arrived at the golf course.
Near midnight, it was completely deserted.
They selected a secluded, flat stretch of grass and cast multiple protective spells to ward off Muggles.
Afterward, Crouch sighed bitterly.
"By Ministry regulations, Apparition requires adulthood and a licensed instructor. Tonight alone, I've broken at least twenty laws."
Vaughn shrugged.
"The day you broke your son out of Azkaban, you shattered all of them."
Crouch fell silent.
"Anything else to prepare?" he asked at last. "Shall we begin?"
"Nothing else. Let's start."
With his Shield Charm and Disarming Charm already at maximum proficiency, Vaughn had discovered subtle benefits beyond the spells themselves—greater control of magic and emotional output.
It made him far less likely to miscast.
Which made learning new spells far easier.
Crouch nodded and drew a circle in the grass about three meters away.
"The key to Apparition is the Three Ds. First—Destination."
Vaughn listened intently.
Confidence was not arrogance. Even believing himself ready, he paid careful attention.
Soon, he cleared his mind and locked the circle's image firmly in place.
"Second—Determination. Summon your desire to be there. Let that resolve flood your entire body…"
Vaughn complied easily.
Desire. Resolve.
His heart pounded, blood rushing through him. His body grew warm, his mind sharp yet dizzy.
"Third—Deliberation," Crouch said. "Maintain control. Not too tense. Not too loose. On my count—three. One!"
Vaughn released his magic and spun.
As he turned, he felt it.
Ripples spread—not through air or magic—but something conceptual.
"Space…?"
The thought flashed by.
"Two!"
He spun faster. The ripples intensified.
"Three!"
At that instant—
Something shattered.
Crack!
Space broke apart.
Vaughn felt himself slam into a narrow tunnel as reality twisted, stretched, and spiraled—
As if the world itself had become a giant washing machine.
And he was spinning violently at its center.
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