The room above the Hog's Head Inn smelled faintly of wood polish and old parchment. A single enchanted lamp flickered on the table, casting a soft golden glow. The air was warm, almost cozy — a sharp contrast to the chill outside.
Harry hesitated at the threshold. His eyes flicked once more toward the door that led back into the street. Barty Crouch… what was he doing here? What if he vanishes? The thought gnawed at him.
But when he turned back, he saw Neville's parents, smiling warmly and ushering them in, and all his suspicion momentarily faded.
"Come, sit," Alice Longbottom said with a bright smile, her voice gentle but firm — the kind that instantly reminded Harry of his mother.
Neville practically ran to sit beside his parents. Hermione followed politely, brushing snow from her cloak. Harry was the last to enter, closing the door behind him with a faint sigh.
The table was already laid with food — roasted chicken, loaves of bread, a steaming cauldron of soup, and pumpkin juice that shimmered faintly under the light.
Frank grinned as he saw Harry eyeing the table. "The innkeeper insisted on bringing us the best. Says it's not every day he has two war heroes and the Boy Who Lived sharing a meal under his roof."
Harry smiled faintly and sat down across from them. "I'm not much of a hero, sir."
Frank chuckled. "Neither were we, at your age. But sometimes you don't choose the title; the world gives it to you whether you like it or not."
Alice reached across the table and rested her hand over Harry's. "And you've earned it more than most."
As they began eating, conversation flowed naturally. Hermione listened with eager curiosity as Frank and Alice reminisced about Hogwarts.
"Your father," Frank began, leaning back with a fond smile, "had a knack for breaking rules that made mine look tame. James and Sirius once transfigured my desk into a Hippogriff for a laugh. It almost bit Professor McGonagall."
Harry blinked, then laughed softly. "That sounds… exactly like something they'd do."
Alice chuckled. "And Lily — she was always the voice of reason. Brilliant girl. Always lecturing James about responsibility."
At that, Hermione's lips curved in amusement. "I can relate to that."
But then Alice turned serious, her eyes glinting with nostalgia. "Lily wasn't just a friend, Harry. She was… family. In fact—" she hesitated, smiling gently— "Lily was your godmother, Neville."
Neville froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth. "M-my godmother?"
Alice nodded. "Yes, dear. We made a promise to each other. If anything happened to us, she would look after you, and if anything happened to her, we'd look after Harry. But fate… had other plans."
Hermione's eyes softened, and even Harry felt his chest tighten. The connection between their families was deeper than he'd ever known.
After the laughter and memories faded, Alice leaned forward, her tone changing — calm but earnest.
"Harry," she began, "we've read everything. The newspapers. The stories. How you healed us. And how you've… refused to heal others."
Harry's fork paused halfway to his mouth.
Hermione shifted uncomfortably. Neville looked between them, unsure.
Alice continued gently, "I'm not blaming you, dear. You've given us back our lives, and that's more than anyone could ever repay. But you must understand — there are people out there still suffering. People who've lost their minds, their hope, their families. If you can help them… shouldn't you?"
Harry stared down at his plate. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but firm.
"I know what the Prophet writes. But it's not that simple. The Ministry doesn't trust me. Half of them want me arrested for what I did at St. Mungo's. They call it dangerous magic. And they're right — it is. One mistake, one wrong thought, and I could destroy someone's mind instead of healing it."
Frank folded his arms, thoughtful. "You want to help, but you're afraid of what they'll make of it."
Harry met his gaze. "I'm afraid they'll twist it. Like they always do."
Alice's tone softened further. "Then do it properly. Let them come to you for permission. But don't let fear stop you from saving others."
Hermione nodded in support of Alice. "She's right, Harry. If you set rules — strict limits — and make the Ministry agree to them, they won't have a reason to accuse you. You can still help, safely."
Harry rubbed his temple, thinking hard. "If I do this, it'll have to be on my terms. I'll need Ministry approval first, written permission to use mind arts outside of the school. And I won't treat more than three or four people a week. Any more, and it'll… drain me."
Alice smiled softly but shook her head. "Three or four is too few, Harry. There are hundreds waiting. You're stronger than you think."
Frank placed a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder. "How about a compromise? One day a week, you set aside time in Hogsmeade — a room here, perhaps — and treat as many as you can in that day."
Harry frowned. "That's— that's a lot of people."
Alice's eyes glowed with the same quiet determination Harry had seen in Neville. "One day, Harry. You gave us back our lives. You could give others the same chance. Do it for them, if not for the Prophet."
Harry sighed, pushing back his chair. "All right. One day a week. But only if the Ministry signs off. I won't risk imprisonment just to make them happy."
Alice's smile widened. "That's all I ask."
Neville, sitting beside his parents with tears in his eyes, said softly, "Thank you, Harry. For everything. You gave me my family. And now you're going to help so many more."
Harry forced a small smile, though his mind was still in turmoil. "Let's just hope the Ministry doesn't turn this into another circus."
As they finished the meal, laughter returned, light and easy this time. Alice insisted on sending them off with a box of enchanted toffees "for strength."
When they stepped out of the Hog's Head, the sun was high, the snow glittering underfoot. Neville waved one last time at his parents before they vanished inside the inn.
But Harry's mind was far away — replaying the image of Barty Crouch, pale and muttering, disappearing into the winding alleys of Hogsmeade.
He didn't say a word as they walked back toward Honeydukes, but Hermione could feel the tension radiating off him.
"Harry," she said softly, "you're thinking about him, aren't you? Crouch?"
Harry's jaw tightened. "Yes. And I'm going to find out what's going on."
The sun was already sinking behind the snow-capped roofs of Hogsmeade when Harry, Hermione, and Neville stepped out of the Hog's Head. Their meeting with Frank and Alice had been long and emotional, but now all three wore faint smiles — the warmth of reunion still lingering in their hearts.
Just behind them, green flames flickered from the fireplace inside the inn — the Floo Network — and they caught a last glimpse of Neville's parents vanishing into the emerald fire, bound for Longbottom Manor.
Neville stood there a moment longer, staring at the spot. "They're really gone," he whispered, a trace of emotion still trembling in his voice. "Back home… and whole."
Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "You alright Neville?."
Hermione added softly, "They're proud of you. You could see it in their faces."
Harry nodded toward the main road. "Come on. Let's head back before anyone notices we're gone."
The three began walking down the narrow lane that led toward the Honeydukes' cellar. Hogsmeade was still quiet, with only a handful of villagers out and about — shopkeepers closing their shutters, a few patrons hurrying to the Three Broomsticks for supper.
Then, just as they passed the quill shop, Harry stopped dead in his tracks.
Hermione almost bumped into him. "Harry, what—?"
But he didn't answer. His eyes had locked on a figure walking casually along the far side of the street.
It was Barty Crouch.
But not the broken man they had seen earlier — not the trembling, rambling shell of a wizard who had stumbled from the Hog's Head. This man was composed, calm, even smiling faintly as he nodded to a shopkeeper, tipped his hat to an elderly witch, and carried on as if nothing were amiss.
Neville blinked in disbelief. "That… that can't be him! He looked half dead an hour ago!"
Hermione's brow furrowed. "It is him. The same robes, the same face. But—"
Harry interrupted, his tone low and dangerous. "Look at his eyes."
They all stared.
Crouch's eyes — once intelligent, sharp, alive — were empty. Not glassy, not tired, but void of emotion, like two pale marbles in a puppet's face. And though his mouth smiled and his posture moved naturally, there was something deeply wrong.
Hermione whispered, "He's… being controlled."
Harry nodded grimly. "Imperius Curse. Someone's pulling his strings."
They kept their distance, following Crouch as he walked down the street. His movements were smooth, mechanical, as if he were acting in a play where he didn't understand the lines. Every smile, every polite nod, seemed rehearsed.
Neville whispered nervously, "Do you think it's the same person who attacked you, Harry?"
Harry's voice was tight. "Could be. Or someone close to him. If Crouch's been sick all this time, then who's been giving orders through Percy? Who's been running things in his name?"
Hermione's mind raced. "It explains so much — the letters Percy said he got, all signed by Crouch. If this isn't the real Barty Crouch, someone's been using him like a mask."
Harry's jaw tightened. "And whoever's controlling him… they're inside Hogwarts. They have to be."
Crouch turned down an alley toward the path to the Forbidden Forest, walking calmly, purposefully — and when he passed through a patch of evening mist, his form shimmered faintly, as if the light itself didn't want to touch him.
Harry instinctively stepped forward, but Hermione grabbed his wrist. "No! It could be a trap."
He hesitated, torn between logic and instinct. "If he disappears again, we might not get another chance."
Hermione looked at him firmly. "We'll tell Dumbledore. Or McGonagall. You can't take on whoever's behind this alone."
Harry stared down the foggy alley, where Crouch's silhouette was already fading into the shadows. His heart pounded in his chest, his Force senses prickling with something dark and powerful — an echo of control, domination, and buried madness.
At last, he exhaled slowly. "All right. But I'm not letting this go. Whoever's playing this game… they just made their first mistake."
The walk back to Hogwarts was tense. The sun had already dipped behind the hills, leaving Hogsmeade glowing faintly in amber and smoke from the chimneys curling into the cold air.
Harry walked ahead in silence, his expression dark and unreadable. Hermione and Neville exchanged nervous glances behind him.
They reached the path behind the Greenhouses. Harry stopped, staring back at the glowing windows of the castle in the distance.
Neville spoke again, hesitating. "We have to tell someone."
Harry turned sharply. "We can't. We went to Hogsmeade without permission. The moment we tell anyone, McGonagall will throw us into detention for a month, and Dumbledore will want to know how we got out."
Hermione nodded reluctantly. "He's right. We can't tell the professors directly."
Neville clenched his fists. "Then who? We can't just pretend it didn't happen!"
Hermione bit her lip, then looked up suddenly. "Professor Moody," she said.
Harry looked at her, frowning.
"He was an Auror," Hermione continued quickly. "If there's anyone who'd take this seriously, it's him. And he's not like the others — he doesn't ask unnecessary questions. He'd rather act first."
Neville nodded in agreement. "And if what we saw was really Barty Crouch, then it's dangerous. Moody will know what to do."
Harry thought for a moment, then gave a small nod. "All right. We tell Moody. But we tell him exactly what we saw — nothing about how we got there."
They made their way through the quiet corridors of Hogwarts. The torches flickered as they passed, and every sound of their footsteps echoed faintly against the stone. When they reached Moody's office, the door was slightly ajar, the faint scent of burnt wood and metal filling the air.
Harry knocked.
"Come in!" came Moody's gravelly voice.
The office was dimly lit, cluttered with strange, twitching instruments. The Foe Glass reflected their shapes faintly, distorted. Moody was at his desk, cleaning his mechanical leg with a rag. His magical eye spun toward them instantly.
"Well, well. Potter, Granger, Longbottom. You three look like you've seen a Dementor. What's the matter?"
Harry closed the door behind them. "We saw something in Hogsmeade today, sir."
Moody raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Students aren't allowed there today, last I checked."
Hermione stepped forward quickly. "We— we were just walking near the boundary, sir. We didn't go far."
Moody's normal eye narrowed slightly, but he didn't push. "Fine. Continue."
Harry took a step closer. "We saw Mr. Barty Crouch."
The room went silent. Even the little clicking devices on Moody's shelves seemed to pause for a moment.
Moody's magical eye swiveled sharply toward Harry. "Crouch?"
"Yes," Harry said. "He was walking through Hogsmeade. Talking to people. Smiling. But— his eyes. They were blank. Empty. Like… someone else was inside him."
Moody slowly leaned back in his chair, his wooden leg creaking. "Describe it again."
Harry repeated everything — Crouch's sudden reappearance, his earlier panic, and how he later seemed perfectly calm yet vacant.
Moody's mouth twisted into something like a frown. "Blank eyes. Controlled movements. That sounds like the Imperius Curse."
Neville's eyes widened. "You mean someone's controlling him?"
Moody nodded grimly. "It's possible. The old man had plenty of enemies — and not all of them were Death Eaters. But if what you're saying is true…" He stood abruptly, grabbing his wand. "Then this is no small matter."
Hermione stepped back. "Sir, should we tell Professor Dumbledore?"
Moody shook his head. "No. Leave that to me. You three did the right thing coming here. But you keep your mouths shut about this, you understand? Don't talk about it in class, don't whisper about it in the corridors. If someone is pulling Crouch's strings, they'll be watching."
Harry nodded. "Understood."
Moody studied Harry for a long moment, his magical eye whirring. "You've got good instincts, Potter. Dangerous ones, but good. Keep your head down."
Harry nodded again, and the three of them turned to leave. But as Harry reached for the doorknob, Moody's gravelly voice stopped him.
"Potter."
Harry looked back.
Moody's mismatched eyes glinted. "If Crouch really is under Imperius… then whoever's controlling him is nearer than you think."
The words hung in the air, heavy and cold.