Descent

"Yeah," said Harry, "we haven't seen him since the first task. The Daily Prophet's saying he's ill."

~ The Madness of Mr. Crouch, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

"And do remember to obtain the figures from the different foreign agencies. It is vital that we coordinate with them in this. And when can I expect your report?"

The young man before him drew himself up. "I'll have this ready by Tuesday, sir."

He nodded. "Very well, and that's sooner than I hoped. And Weatherby, do find Ludo Bagman and tell him I want to see him."

As a flustered Weatherby went out, he sat back to think. Ludo's inefficiency wore him down, not to mention that added problem of Bertha Jorkin's disappearance. It's been over a month now, and his unease grew with each passing day. Who knew where that foolish witch had gone to now, and considering the effects of his memory charm, who knew what happened to her. He suppressed all feelings of guilt and reminded himself that he merely did what should have been done.

He closed his eyes, and felt a floating sensation wash over him. He settled into this darkness, relishing this moment of relaxation, and felt all concerns disappear. No World Cup, no Tri-Wizard Tournament, no Bertha Jorkins....

But the World Cup's over now. And the Tri-Wizard Tournament has started already, said a distant voice, seemingly from inside his mind.

A wave of panic came over him as the pleasant feeling disappeared. Not only did he feel cold and hungry, but he ached all over. There was also a sticky feeling to him, as though he had not bathed in a while.

Dumbledore. The tournament. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Harry Potter.

His son.

He must warn Dumbledore.

He stumbled forward through the dark, feeling rather than seeing the trees that surrounded him. Every now and then he'd crash into one, and he'd force himself back up again, ignoring his complaining limbs. He didn't know if he was even going in the right direction, or if he was merely going around in circles. Focusing on his feet, he forced them to move, one after the other, step after step.

Suddenly a warm feeling came over him, enveloping him.

No, you must fight this. Just go. Go to Dumbledore, you will be safe there.

Doesn't this feel nice, though? murmured a different and strangely reassuring voice. Go on now, just give in. Even for just a while...

Unable to take the pain and hunger anymore, he felt himself slipping, succumbing into that warm embrace of nothingness.

"This just came in, sir. Confirmation letter from the dragon handlers," said Weatherby.

He took the thick parchment and quickly ran his eyes over it. "Ah yes, a Hungarian Horntail, Welsh Green, and a Chinese Fireball. And how are the preparations for the Yule Ball going?"

"The Weird Sisters are yet to confirm, though I expect them to within the week. Other than that, everything's going according to schedule."

He nodded. "Good work. Now send this missive to the Merchieftainess, and when you've done that, Weatherby, send an owl to Dumbledore confirming the number of Durmstrang students who will be attending the tournament, Karkaroff has just sent word there will be twelve."

Something was bothering him, like there was something he forgot to do. It seemed to be at the corner of his mind, this thought, yet he couldn't fully grasp it.

"And then send another owl to Madame Maxime, because she might want to up the number of students she's bringing, now Karkaroff's made it a round dozen... do that, Weatherby, will you? Will you? Will..."

He saw it now. A memory. His memory. The Great Hall teeming with students, and the Goblet of Fire set in front of the teachers' table. The Goblet turned red for the fourth time yet he was strangely unsurprised. He saw himself, standing in the shadows, saying "We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament..."

He felt cold again. And desperately hungry. He became vaguely aware of voices mumbling around him. All strength left his body, and he stumbled to the side before falling down on his knees.

The tournament. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's plan. Harry Potter. Dumbledore.

"Dumbledore!" he gasped. He could still hear a voice, and he reached out towards it, desperately pulling the person towards him. "I need... see... Dumbledore..."

"Okay, if you get up, Mr. Crouch, we can go up to the -"

"I've done... stupid... thing," he struggled to say. It pained him to talk, with every word tearing at his parched throat, yet he must make him understand. Make anyone understand. His head swam, and he fought to stay conscious. "Must... tell... Dumbledore..."

"Get up, Mr. Crouch. Get up, I'll take you to Dumbledore!"

He forced himself to focus, to look at the other person. His insides suddenly felt cold, with bile rising up his throat. He couldn't be here, could he? His servants were everywhere, it seemed.

"Who... you?"

"I'm a student at the school."

School? Was he at Hogwarts?

"You're not... his?"

"No."

"Dumbledore's?"

"That's right."

Relief washed over him. He pulled the boy closer to him. He must tell the boy before it was too late, before they found out he was here.

"Warn... Dumbledore..."

Stop it, ordered the voice in his head.

He stood before a stone fireplace. Confused, he looked around and noticed Weatherby by the door, holding the latest communiqué for the Wizengamot.

"Thank you, Weatherby, and when you have done that, I would like a cup of tea. My wife and son will be arriving shortly, we are attending a concert tonight with Mr. and Mrs. Fudge."

"Very well, sir." His assistant stopped by the door. "Oh, and I believe congratulations are in order, sir. I've heard about young Mr. Crouch's impressive O.W.L.s."

"Yes, my son has recently gained twelve O.W.L.s, most satisfactory, yes, thank you."

"You must be very proud, sir, along with Mrs. Crouch."

"Yes, very proud indeed. Now, if you could bring me that memo from the Andorran Minister of Magic, I think I will have time to draft a response."

"Yes, sir."

He looked around his desk for that cup of tea he just sent for, for he really was quite thirsty. Where did that Weatherby place the cup?

"Here's the memo you wanted, sir."

"Thank you, Weatherby."

The young man cleared his throat. "My name's not Weatherby, sir. I'm Percy Weasley."

He looked up, feeling confused. He knew that he spoke to Weatherby mere moments ago, Weatherby who congratulated him on his son's scores...

Focus. You must focus. You must warn Dumbledore.

He cleared his head, forcing his eyes to see what was right in front of him. He managed to hold on to the departing boy.

"Don't... leave... me! I ... escaped... must warn... must tell... see Dumbledore... my fault... all my fault... Bertha... dead... all my fault... my son... my fault... tell Dumbledore... Harry Potter... the Dark Lord... stronger... Harry Potter..."

"I'll get Dumbledore if you let me go, Mr. Crouch!"

He felt the boy move away and another take his place. He reached toward the other boy, pulling him down next to him.

"He... he's here... danger... tournament..."

"Vo's here?"

"Stupefy."

A heavy weight fell onto his chest. He tried to backed away, wanting to hide from that voice, yet he couldn't move. The boy was too heavy, and he cannot find the strength to move.

"I've been expecting you," a voice growled from somewhere above. "What took you so long? Got lost?" he asked snidely.

"Who... help me... Dumbledore... warn..."

The voice laughed, an ugly, guttural laugh that lacked mirth.

"And why would I warn that old fool, pray tell?"

His head finally cleared. No, this wasn't Alastor Moody... this was...

"My son... please... help..."

"You are no father of mine. I have no father."

He saw it coming before he even heard the words. A wand was aimed at his face, its tip glowing a faint green.

"Avada Kedavra."