Chapter Text
📍 Little Hangleton
The morning fog in Little Hangleton clung low and unmoving, the way it often did in places that remembered too much. Few ever walked beyond the village hedgerows anymore — fewer still with purpose. But Edric Bottrell was not most men.
A solitary wizard with a taste for obscure tinctures and privacy, Edric had come to the northern slope of the abandoned Riddle grounds for one reason only: blood-root. It bloomed late in the season here, nestled between crumbling stone walls and brambles that had grown fat on years of rot.
His boots whispered through the grass. He murmured small spells to part the thorns. The birds were silent.
That should have been the first sign.
Edric stooped to clip a stalk — and paused. Just ahead, caught between the crooked fingers of two dying trees, was a figure. Still. Not slumped, not crumpled, but almost… placed.
A young man, face pale, turned toward the sky as if caught in the act of listening. His eyes were closed. His red hair, matted and dulled by weeks of sun and soil. His robes bore the faded, cracked seal of the Ministry — half-obscured by mud and dried blood.
Edric’s breath caught. The air around him felt thinner, colder, heavier. As if the ground itself had exhaled something it should have kept.
There were no wounds visible. No signs of spell damage. Just a faint, waxy stiffness that told of a death not recent — and a wand still clutched in the young man’s right hand, fingers curled so tightly it had to have been his last act.
And though Edric was not a man of emotion, he could feel something wrong still lingering in the space around the corpse. A kind of unfinished magic. A residue of fear.
He did not speak. He did not move closer.
Instead, he raised his wand into the mist and sent a long, arcing trail of deep red sparks into the air — the kind meant only for lost things found too late.
When the Aurors came, they did not linger. They covered the boy’s face before levitating him away.
His name, they muttered later, was Percy Weasley.
The fog did not lift for three more days.
📍 Unknown Manor, Somewhere in Wiltshire
Night, the same day Percy is found
The fire in the hearth crackled with illusion — no heat, just the illusion of it. Lucius Malfoy preferred it that way. Fire brought sweat, and sweat was undignified.
"Explain," he said crisply, his voice as cold as the room around them. He did not look up from the goblet he swirled absently in one gloved hand.
Barty Crouch Jr. was sprawled in an old wingback chair, his legs thrown over one armrest, his expression boyish and smug. He twirled a wand — not his own — between two fingers like a baton.
"He squealed louder than I expected," Barty said, amused. "Not from the Cruciatus. From the Sectumsempra. Pretty little spell — cuts like a curse, but no flash. Just blood and screaming. Invented by that greasy half-blood Snape, if you can believe it."
Lucius's lips curled slightly in distaste. “And you left the body?”
"I placed it." Barty smiled wider, teeth flashing. "Propped him up like a little offering in the trees. Thought it was poetic. Riddle's grounds — fitting, don’t you think?”
Lucius stood, slow and deliberate. “And what of the wand?”
"Planted." Barty tossed the Ministry-issue wand in the air and caught it again. “I hexed his own into his hand before he died. His fingers curled around it, poor dear — like he didn’t even realize it wasn’t helping him anymore. Little bastard tried to curse me with a Severing Charm. Caught my cheek before I ended it.” He gestured toward a faint line under his jaw, almost proud.
Lucius narrowed his eyes. “The Aurors will ask questions.”
“They’ll find a dead Ministry boy with no visible spell damage, wand in hand, half a dozen signs of panic magic in the air, and not a trace of me. I scrubbed it clean — burned every step behind me. Even used a residual distortion hex to make it look like a memory trap exploded. Very messy. Very unhelpful.”
Lucius studied him for a long moment. “And the purpose of this… theatre?”
Barty finally sat up straight. His voice lost its flippancy. “Message.”
“To whom?”
“To the Ministry. To Dumbledore. To Potter. The game has started.”
Lucius sipped from the goblet. “We are not ready.”
“We are never ready, Lucius,” Barty whispered, eyes shining with a fanatic’s light. “But he is awake. He is watching. And Percy Weasley? Was the first piece off the board.”
Lucius’s eyes flicked to the wand in Barty’s hand.
“And tell me,” he said coolly, “did you use his wand for the Cruciatus?”
Barty grinned, tapping the wand’s handle against his chin. “What do you take me for, Lucius? An amateur?”
The older wizard didn’t return the smile. “Because if they check that wand and find an Unforgivable cast by a Weasley,” — he said the name like something distasteful on his tongue — “even Fudge’s incompetence won’t save us from scrutiny. No one will believe Percy Weasley of all people used the Cruciatus Curse.”
“Oh, I know,” Barty replied, his tone suddenly razor-sharp. “I used my wand for that. His wand only cast a few panicked spells before I mangled his fingers around it. A stunner, a cutting hex — maybe even a Protego or two. Defensive magic. Panic magic.”
“Traceable magic,” Lucius snapped.
“Magic befitting a dying Ministry pawn caught by something he couldn’t comprehend.” Barty leaned forward, his voice a slow hiss. “They’ll think he was attacked, lashed out blindly, died clutching his wand like some tragic little footnote. You know how many field agents die with no clear attacker? Aurors clean up bodies like broomsticks at a sale.”
Lucius studied him, face carved in marble. “You enjoy this too much.”
Barty tilted his head, grinning. “That’s the difference between us, Lucius. You play the courtier. I play the war.”
“And if they dig too deeply?”
“They won’t. Not yet.” His eyes gleamed. “Because what’s worse than finding a Ministry boy dead? Not knowing why he died. Not knowing who did it. That fear — it’ll keep them turning on each other.”
Lucius turned away, pacing toward the hearth. The false fire reflected in his eyes.
“I hope for your sake,” he murmured, “you’re right.”
“Oh,” Barty said, softly delighted, “I’m more than right. I’m necessary.”
******
📍Burrow
The wind had died by the time the knock came.
It was late — too late for anything but bad news — and Arthur, halfway through fixing the broken wireless, rose with a sinking heart. Molly looked up from the armchair, where a half-finished jumper lay limp in her lap.
He opened the door slowly.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stood in the porchlight, rain soaking into the shoulders of his cloak. His tall frame was shadowed, but his face… his face said everything.
Arthur didn’t speak. He just stepped back to let him in, and the door creaked closed behind them like a final breath.
“Arthur,” Kingsley began, voice low and steady. “I’m so sorry.”
Molly stood up before he could finish. “No—” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, not— Not Percy.”
Kingsley didn’t correct her.
He held out the letter. It was sealed in red wax, the Ministry’s insignia pressed into the surface. But he didn’t need to explain what was inside. His eyes said more than the parchment ever could.
Arthur took the letter but didn’t look at it. He just closed his fingers around it slowly, like it might vanish if he wasn’t careful.
“When?” he asked, barely above a breath.
“Two days ago,” Kingsley said. “Found in a field near Little Hangleton. Potion-gatherer came across him by accident. He still had his wand. That’s how we knew.”
Molly let out a quiet, cracked sob and folded onto the kitchen bench like the wind had been taken out of her.
“No signs of a fight?” Arthur asked, voice like worn stone.
Kingsley hesitated.
“There were… traces. Old. Mostly gone. I believe he tried to escape something. But whatever he was running from made sure there’d be nothing left behind.”
Molly’s voice rose suddenly — sharp and strangled.
“He was a boy! He— he just wanted to prove himself, and they used him— And now— now they won’t even give us answers—”
“I know,” Kingsley said, his voice low. “The Ministry isn’t pursuing an inquiry. Fudge is… closing ranks. They’re trying to distance themselves from anything that might make the public nervous.”
“Like the death of a second Weasley child?” Arthur said, not bitter — just hollow.
Kingsley looked away.
“I came myself because—because you deserved better than a letter,” he said. “You deserved the truth, what little of it we have. Percy didn’t run. He fought. That’s the only thing that felt untouched in that place—his wand hand. He died holding it.”
Molly cried quietly now, rocking in place.
Arthur reached for her hand but didn’t say anything else. He just held her.
Fred and George stood on the stairs, frozen. Charlie had come home that morning and leaned against the frame, pale and tight-lipped. Bill was on his way, summoned before the knock had even come — like part of him already knew.
Kingsley rested a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Strong. Silent.
“If you need anything,” he said, “anything at all… I’m here.”
Arthur nodded once.
As Kingsley turned to leave, the house seemed to groan beneath its grief.
Behind them, a single thread of Molly’s jumper unraveled, slipping from her lap to the floor — red wool pooling like spilled blood.
🗞️ Daily Prophet — June 5, 1994
“The Boy Who Cries War: Disgrace, Delusion, and the Death No One Mentions”
By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent
It was to be the crowning event of the century — the return of the prestigious Triwizard Tournament, this time featuring a fourth surprise champion from overseas. But instead of victory, the world was handed scandal, silence, and yet another body.
Harry Potter, 14-year-old student of Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, shocked everyone when his name emerged mysteriously from the Goblet of Fire — despite strict age and eligibility enchantments.
While tournament officials continue to claim “an anomaly,” some sources suggest that Potter may have found a loophole to force his name into the running — an act that endangered the international competition from the beginning.
The real scandal, however, came during the final task, when Potter allegedly disappeared from the maze, reappeared bloodied and raving, and then vanished entirely within days — spirited off to America under the care of his questionable guardian, former Hogwarts professor Remus Lupin.
What happened inside the maze has yet to be explained.
And now, the appearance of a corpse has only further muddied the waters.
The body of Percy Ignatius Weasley, a young Ministry employee who had been working closely with Bartemius Crouch Sr. prior to his death, was discovered in an abandoned field near the Muggle village of Little Hangleton — a location long whispered about in darker magical circles. The cause of death has not been disclosed.
Minister Fudge, in a carefully worded interview, discouraged “sensational speculation”:
“This is not the time for conspiracy theories,” he said. “Mr. Weasley was not acting under Ministry orders. His death, while unfortunate, bears no relevance to the matters Mr. Potter has fabricated. The Ministry is focused on real threats — not fever dreams.”
When pressed about a memorial, the Minister said simply:
“We do not award posthumous praise to those who failed to follow protocol.”
Meanwhile, Hogwarts — still under interim leadership following 1992’s administrative shakeup — remains closed to outside inquiry.
And as for Harry Potter, the so-called Boy Who Lived? His whereabouts are officially unknown, though reports suggest he remains tucked away safely across the Atlantic, far from the storm he left behind.
Some say he’s a hero.
Others say he’s a runaway.
But everyone’s asking the same thing:
What really happened in that maze — and why is no one telling us?