The Quidditch pitch was a mess.
The stands hung in midair, broken and weightless, hovering in strange positions. All around, magical plants—either grotesquely aggressive or eerily lifeless—covered the field.
Crouch laughed louder and more maniacally with every passing moment, his excitement fueling his spells, which grew stronger and more dangerous by the second.
His jeering came in waves.
Neville said nothing. He ran through the shattered pitch, scattering seeds as he went, counterattacking where he could.
But against the Crouch of this moment—it was useless.
He moved like he was swimming in Felix Felicis.
Each spell was perfect, his control of his magic flawless, his aim devastating. He left Neville no room to get close.
Not since that first time.
But Neville was in no rush. A good hunter is patient—especially when the prey is this powerful.
Patience.
He'd always had patience.
After narrowly dodging another Cruciatus Curse, Neville stopped casting. He pulled a potion from his pocket and drank it in one gulp.
No visible change occurred.
Across the field, Crouch paused, clutching his head with one hand.
The world blurred.
A phantom of Voldemort appeared—floating above him, trampling Crouch Sr. and Mrs. Crouch underfoot.
His mother stared at him with tearful love, his father with bitter disappointment.
Two gazes pierced his soul.
No.
Something was wrong.
Crouch pinched himself hard. This wasn't the time to be distracted. He looked away, scanning the magical plants nearby.
There—beneath the roots of a Venomous Tentacula—he spotted a small green plant, no longer than a pinky finger and as thick as a quill. Its bell-shaped, dark red flowers drooped downward, and small, round, deep-purple berries glistened in fleshy petals.
A thin mist rose from the berries, mixing seamlessly with the frosty fog rolling through the field.
"Henbane!" Crouch spat the name.
As a double "O" student in Herbology and Potions, he recognized it instantly.
It was dangerous—but not like Devil's Snare or Snargaluff. It wasn't aggressive. Instead, it released hallucinogenic magic. Those who inhaled it fell into intense, sometimes maddening illusions. But they weren't lethal.
Many wizards enjoyed it.
Some of the more eccentric old wizards were likely just long-time henbane users.
The Ministry had tried to ban it once—but too many essential healing potions required it.
Neville stood firm, calmly watching him. "I don't know when you learned about it at Hogwarts."
"But it's covered in fourth year."
"Professor Sprout always made sure—worked with Madam Pomfrey to run after-class checks, making sure no one picked up bad habits."
"Maybe you need a little review?"
There was some satisfaction in his voice.
Ten minutes of struggle—just to lead the prey into a trap.
Crouch snarled.
He heard every word.
Was he being mocked?
"That little Hogwarts magic won't work on me." His own words echoed mockingly through the pitch.
Neville charged.
Crouch stared ahead—but hallucinations filled his vision. He couldn't see.
He relied on willpower alone. Snape's potions during his imprisonment were far more vivid than any plant-induced vision.
He clung to a shred of self.
Tried to discern Neville's footsteps.
Neville didn't even give him that chance. With a flick of his wand, dried plants around them twisted into crude animal forms, stomping noisily in place.
Crouch raised his finger.
"Longbottom!"
He unleashed his magic, creating a violent storm centered on himself.
It howled through the pitch, ripping apart magical plants in its path.
Neville didn't flinch.
He cast Protego, shielding himself, pouring his magic into maintaining it.
Step by step, he entered the storm.
The wind slammed into his shield like blades. Each step was agony, the resistance immense.
The deeper he got, the stronger the winds.
Within a few steps, his shield was in tatters.
But his will held.
Through blurred vision, he finally saw Crouch.
His shield shattered.
The wind tore into him, slicing robes, skin, drawing blood.
Crouch kept his eyes shut, focused entirely on sustaining the storm. If he could endure the hallucinations just a little longer, he could win.
Neville didn't give him that chance.
He reached out.
Wind ripped at his arms, tore gashes into his flesh.
With a final blast, the shield failed completely.
Neville's body bore the full brunt of the spell, every blink bringing new wounds.
He cast—
"Expelliarmus!"
Boom.
Crouch flew backward—he hadn't had time to raise a shield.
The storm died instantly.
The fog hung quietly.
The severed finger tumbled to Neville's feet.
He stomped on it.
Breathing heavily, he downed a healing potion, then approached Crouch.
His eyes were still shut.
Hallucinations didn't vanish just because you closed your eyes.
In the blackness—
His true father floated above him, radiant in white robes.
Below—
Mr. and Mrs. Crouch looked on with the same gaze from before.
"Longbottom," he muttered, almost to himself, "I should've taken my father's name."
"Not Crouch—not Barty."
Neville didn't answer.
"I don't get it," Crouch continued. "Why do you care so much about avenging your father?"
"Did he love you?"
"You were only one when we tortured them."
"How old are you now?"
He paused. "Sixteen—same as Potter."
"For fifteen years, he didn't love you."
"He never celebrated your birthday. Never praised your grades."
"Why?"
"Why?"
He tried opening his eyes—but the visions remained. Even Voldemort vanished now, only his parents stood there.
Dressed neatly.
Like the dream he had as a child, being sent off to Hogwarts by his proud parents.
Neville gave no reply.
He stood over Crouch, raised his wand with a trembling hand.
Cherry wood. Unicorn hair core.
Only those with strong control and pure hearts could wield it.
But now, it was ready.
Even if—
Even if its next task was—
Neville's hand shook. His lips trembled.
The syllable "Cruc—" formed—
But he couldn't say it.
He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth—
And cast a different spell.
Dead, shredded plants twisted upward, forming a wooden post. Vines lashed out, binding Crouch and hoisting him into the air.
Neville dropped his wand—and his sword.
Then he punched Crouch in the stomach.
Screaming, "Cruciatus!"
Again—
"Cruciatus!"
His angry, tear-choked screams echoed across the pitch.
Crouch's belly ruptured.
Neville's fists broke, bones piercing skin—but he didn't stop.
"Cruciatus!"
"Cruciatus!"
He shouldn't remember.
He was only one year old.
But the memories surged like a flood—
Scene after scene returned.
Crouch screamed at first. Neville's blows broke ribs, tore guts, shattered organs.
Eventually, there was only silence.
Wizards don't fear physical damage—but without magic, they are only mortal men.
Crouch's breathing weakened. His magic barely kept him alive.
Just enough to prolong the pain.
"Cruciatus!"
One last punch.
Neville didn't know how many it had been. His fists were raw, bone exposed.
Crack—
Crouch's spine snapped.
Half his body collapsed.