This was a finger—but also a wand.
A gift from his true father.
Crouch had never felt better.
He wasn't unarmed, and the "wand" in his hand, though unorthodox in shape, brimmed with power.
Far stronger than any wand he'd ever used—be it the one he got as a student, the one from his biological father, or even Moody's.
Now, his real father fought by his side.
His gaze lingered on the finger, then shifted to the person across from him.
Once a chubby little boy, now a towering Gryffindor—Neville Longbottom stood over six feet tall, a full head taller than Barty Crouch Jr.
"Crouch." Neville took a deep breath, trying to stay calm.
He gripped his wand in one hand, and a steel sword in the other. He spoke the name through clenched teeth.
This was his lifelong nightmare.
Even back in first and second year, when he needed a Remembrall just to keep himself organized—
The names Bellatrix Lestrange and Barty Crouch were ones he could never forget.
"I've already killed Lestrange," he said calmly, like stating a fact. "You'll be next."
"Longbottom," Crouch sneered. "You really do take after your father."
He raised the finger—it felt like a natural extension of his body.
"Will you scream like he did?"
"Crucio!"
The curse launched toward Neville.
He dodged, wand flicking. A few seeds spilled from his hand, landing softly on the ground.
He surged forward—
Toward the man he hated most.
Crouch cast another spell. "Your father charged at me just like that."
"He wanted to protect his family—but he didn't have the strength."
"How's he doing now?"
Crouch's spell surprised even himself. He hadn't chanted—only meant to stir up some snow to blur Neville's vision.
But—
A massive wave of snow rose and crashed toward Longbottom.
The power was overwhelming.
In the storm—
Crouch aimed and cast the Cruciatus Curse, but it missed.
A swoosh—
"Protego!" he shouted.
Just in time.
As the invisible armor formed, a sword slashed down from behind. Sparks flew.
"Depulso!"
Neville's voice was low. His wand pressed against the shield. A blast of raw magic sent Crouch flying backward.
"Herbivicus!"
He flicked his wand again.
The seeds he'd dropped earlier sprouted mid-air and wrapped around Crouch.
Dragonvine.
The most dangerous magical plant Neville could use.
Its thick, fern-like tendrils coiled and twisted, locking tightly around Crouch like dragon claws.
Thick sap oozed, hissing as it corroded Crouch's robes.
Crouch was stunned.
This strategy, this experience—this wasn't what a student should be capable of.
Neville stared at him coldly, never pausing, already casting his next spell.
He was no stranger to combat in poor visibility.
Of all Hogwarts students, Neville's fighting style most resembled Harry's. He was a formidable opponent.
His duels with Hermione were often evenly matched.
If Hermione gained the upper hand early, she'd win. But if Neville got within five steps, the fight was his.
Ron was more typical Gryffindor—well-rounded, experienced, above average even among Aurors, but against Neville or Hermione, he fell short.
So Ron found another way—level the playing field.
With fog charms, Weasley prank items, chaos-inducing tactics—he created mayhem, then used his experience to win.
It worked at first—but now, they'd adapted.
Back in the storm—
Crouch was bound by Dragonvine, yet showed no fear. He tilted his head. "I remember Potter's little girlfriend got twelve O's on her OWLs."
Neville didn't answer.
"But did you know?" The vines tightened, but Crouch's tone remained light. "Before her, two others also got twelve O's at Hogwarts."
"My father was one."
"And I—who am nearly his double—was the other."
He paused.
"Do you know what that means?"
"These little tricks you learned at Hogwarts won't work on me."
Snap—
A sharp finger snap.
The Dragonvine froze mid-motion. Like most magical vines, it feared fire. But unlike Devil's Snare, it resisted weaker flames—only powerful fire could tame it.
Black fire surged.
The vines shrank back, dropping their prey.
Crouch landed lightly, eyes gleaming with wonder.
Even freshly freed, his body stiff from confinement—
He'd never felt more alive.
He looked down at the finger in his hand.
His strength came from it.
This feeling—was bliss. A true son inheriting his true father's legacy.
He raised his hand, sensing the magic flowing beyond his body—something his father had often described. The will to command the world.
"Longbottom," he said, raising his wand in an elegant arc like Voldemort. "Are you ready to feel what your parents once felt?"
He waved—
A blizzard erupted.
The Quidditch pitch vanished beneath a violent snowstorm.
Back at the Black Lake—
Sprout and McGonagall stared at the space where the flames had just vanished, then turned toward the Quidditch pitch.
Neville!
If Harry was the student they were proudest of—Neville was the one they loved most.
Harry had matured beyond his years; they treated him as an equal.
But Neville—he was still a student.
In first year, he was timid and small, child of Phoenix Order veterans tortured into St. Mungo's. He had grown—become brave and determined.
Smart, gentle, courageous.
McGonagall often wondered why he wasn't in Hufflepuff. He certainly fit.
Now, he was gone—with Crouch.
They were deeply worried.
Without hesitation, McGonagall turned into a tabby; Sprout dashed after her.
"No—Minerva, Pomona," Dumbledore called, wary of Voldemort. "I need your help."
Sprout turned. "Albus, what are you saying?"
"Neville—"
Dumbledore said softly, "Trust Neville."
"That's my view—and Harry's."
They paused.
Voldemort scoffed. "This will be the dumbest decision you and Potter have ever made."
Dumbledore shook his head. "Is it?"
"Harry said Neville's trained for this day—and he's already taken down Lestrange."
That didn't shake Voldemort—
But it eased McGonagall and Sprout's nerves.
Dumbledore continued, "Minerva, take Pomona. Reinforce the castle wards."
"Especially the Anti-Apparition charms."
They nodded and returned to the castle.
Voldemort's expression didn't change, but his brow furrowed.
He looked toward the pitch—he wasn't a Quidditch player, but he knew the area. Snow was churning there.
He raised his wand and flew toward it.
Dumbledore chanted.
Ice surged, forming a towering wall in his path.
"Tom, that's between Neville and Crouch," Dumbledore said sternly. "You stay with me."
Their duel resumed.
Geralt occasionally loosed a sniper round, but it barely scratched Voldemort's defenses.
Guns weren't effective against such powerful wizards, especially when they were prepared.
But the distraction forced Voldemort to divide his focus.
Not enough to tip the scales for Dumbledore—
But enough to slow Voldemort from reaching the Quidditch pitch.
He tried to blast through the wards, Apparate—but McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout had reinforced them. With Dumbledore pressing him, it was impossible.
Who did that Patronus contact?
Even if Harry was in another world—
Voldemort couldn't be sure Dumbledore didn't find a way to reach him.
First—he had to stabilize himself.
Get used to this body, find replacements for missing tools—like a proper wand.
Then he'd crush them.
Voldemort turned, flying from the castle.
Dumbledore followed.
With no more interruptions, and the professors working together, Hogwarts slowly regained stability.
At the pitch—
The blizzard howled. Crouch stood tall, laughing wildly, waving the finger.
One Cruciatus after another launched forth.
"Longbottom! Weren't you just bragging? Where are you now? Hiding like a rat?!"
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Powerstones?
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