Little Barty Crouch wasn't having a good time.
He knew he wouldn't die any time soon, and for now, he didn't want to die. But each day passed in a state worse than death.
Every time he awoke, groggy and disoriented, he was force-fed some tasteless gruel until he was stuffed, then made to swallow a potion—a modified, enhanced version of the Draught of Living Death.
For twenty-three and a half hours a day, he was submerged in a false dreamworld.
If it were just ordinary dreams, perhaps it wouldn't be so painful.
In those dreams, Voldemort was his father—not mad, and without Harry. He fulfilled his own ambitions, exacted revenge, killed Dumbledore, and became Headmaster of Hogwarts.
He, Barty, rose to the post of Minister for Magic, tirelessly serving his "father."
Hogwarts was their home.
Only three Houses existed: Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff.
No Dumbledore. No Potter. No Snape.
But within the dream, Barty was painfully aware that it was all fake. That awareness, that understanding that what he desired most was mere illusion, was the source of the deepest agony.
Even then, it wouldn't have been unbearable—if he could simply enjoy the dream.
But when he made peace with it...
Strange things began happening within the dreams.
He washed up, looked in the mirror—and saw Harry's face reflected back.
He visited his father's office. A letter arrived, addressed not to the "Great Dark Lord," but "Dear Albus Dumbledore." When he blinked, the name reverted.
Nagini would sometimes transform into Fawkes.
Every second, the dream whispered: This is not real. You are in Dumbledore and Potter's hands. You are theirs.
Crouch awoke with a tortured gasp.
Groggy.
Was it time again?
His fleeting "free hour," perhaps?
He looked toward the window—a mercy Dumbledore and Potter had allowed. It was magically shielded but left open to the outside view. He could still see the sky.
Black as ink. A gibbous moon hung high overhead.
It wasn't time yet.
Crouch's stomach twisted. He looked down. Black, viscous liquid seeped from beneath his robes, forming a humanoid shape.
"Barty, I delivered the message," said the shape, speaking in Snape's cold, flat voice.
"Did you see them?" Crouch gasped, then laughed. He wouldn't have to endure the dream again tonight.
Snape's voice was irritated. "You might've told me it was them, not him."
"Them?" Crouch echoed.
"A swarm of snakes. Their leader was a black serpent," Snape said, voice rising with annoyance. "Are you suggesting I didn't deliver the message?"
Crouch grinned. "And the others? Did you—"
He paused, then cautiously asked, "Did you see Father?"
"Crouch," Snape's voice turned sharp, dangerous. "You'd better be careful. I could add something else to your next potion."
"You know full well," he snapped, "that snake didn't let me meet anyone. It took the letter and had the other snakes block my path. After it handed it off to its master—or whoever—it came back and drove me off."
Crouch nodded with satisfaction.
Snape's response, his tone—all were exactly what he hoped for.
"Is Dumbledore or Potter tracking you?" he asked.
Snape gave a cutting laugh. "Have you finally gone senile? If Dumbledore or Potter were tailing me, you think I'd know?"
Crouch said nothing.
Snape's tone lowered: "I had the Slytherin students watch. Potter's been in the castle this entire time."
"But they haven't seen Dumbledore."
"You know students don't get easy access to the Headmaster."
"I can't say I wasn't followed."
Crouch nodded again. "Thank you, Severus."
"What do you want next?" Snape snapped. "Just wait for their move?"
But Crouch ignored the question. Instead, he asked, "When is Potter going to kill me?"
Snape shook his head. "He hasn't said. But he's been training that Longbottom boy."
Crouch chuckled. "Just like he did with Bellatrix?"
"But I'm not Bellatrix."
"Crouch," Snape growled, "you still don't trust me."
"Severus, I've never trusted you more than now," Crouch replied gently. "But everything's in place. If you can—kill Dumbledore. Or Potter."
"A foolish request," Snape spat. "Dumbledore doesn't even let me brew his potions anymore. Potter or Slughorn handles it now."
"Crouch, I really wish you'd be honest with me."
"I'm being honest," Crouch said softly. "I'll even tell you this—"
"There are only two Horcruxes left."
The black, miniature projection remained expressionless.
In the headmaster's office, Snape's face turned grim.
"There are two Horcruxes remaining," Crouch said, smiling broadly. "One is a snake—in that forest. Her name is Nagini. Very smart. In Algeria, she helped the Dark Lord find Quirrell. And me."
Snape nodded.
"The second is Ravenclaw's diadem," Crouch continued. "The one said to bestow infinite wisdom to its wearer. It's currently in—"
He paused.
"The hands of the Wild Hunt."
Snape repeated the last phrase. "The Wild Hunt?"
Crouch nodded seriously. "Yes, the Wild Hunt."
"They wanted a show of sincerity. Knowledge of the Elder Blood wasn't enough. My father is great—he offered himself up as a hostage, a token of our alliance."
He laughed.
"Did you know, Severus?"
"Before going to them, my father was hiding in Hogwarts all along."
"Potter and Dumbledore think they're clever. They've even got that map that shows everything in Hogwarts. But they never found him."
"Do you want to know where he was?"
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Powerstones?
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