Wizards are often driven by emotion.
Their deep regard for feelings, their willingness to invest in them, makes them remarkably sensitive—and at times, even irrational.
This trait also leads them to cherish emotional connections more than ordinary people.
Throughout history, this has been reflected in countless individuals:
Lily's sacrifice, Snape's enduring love, Sirius Black's willingness to rot in Azkaban to atone for past mistakes—even Bellatrix and Barty Jr.'s near-mad devotion…
All of it speaks to one truth: wizards are creatures of intense sentiment.
And such passion inevitably manifests in their actions.
Unlike other Death Eaters—some of whom are cowardly yet cunning, while others are brave but unhinged—Barty Crouch Jr. possessed the rare combination of both qualities.
Fiendfyre, known as one of the most uncontrollable and dangerous forms of dark magic, is not something easily wielded. Its backlash is every caster's worst nightmare—it does not distinguish between friend and foe. Once it grows beyond control, it often turns on the very one who summoned it.
As of now, there is only one known wizard who can command Fiendfyre with skill.
So when he saw that vast sea of cursed flames, Barty immediately understood how formidable Swinburne truly was—and also, how much his Master must have suffered. Controlling such a mass of Fiendfyre wasn't just difficult; it bordered on self-destruction.
The incident should've ended there.
But over the past two days, the public mockery and derision from the Daily Prophet and wizarding projections had ignited a slow-burning fury inside Barty Jr.
Every article, every image, every smug editorial felt like venomous snakes burrowing into his mind, gnawing at his loyalty and pride.
To see the Dark Lord—his revered master—publicly insulted was intolerable.
And when he learned that Swinburne had been hospitalized due to his injuries—so badly hurt that he couldn't even meet with Fudge during his visit—Barty began plotting his revenge.
Vincent Crabbe, with his perpetually vacant expression, was still something of a known figure within Slytherin.
Especially now, as Draco's new student-run newsletter gained popularity, his two sidekicks—Crabbe and Goyle—were also enjoying a rise in status.
"Where are you sneaking off to this time? Not taking me with you?" Goyle asked curiously, lounging in their dormitory.
His question drew the attention of the other boys too. Lately, Crabbe had been darting in and out in secret, sometimes disappearing for entire weekends.
"I'm just heading out to buy some sweets," Crabbe replied with a sheepish grin. "It's not fair, you always get the Christmas treats from Mr. Swinburne."
His voice carried a faint trace of jealousy, like a sulky kid running away from home.
Goyle rubbed his head awkwardly. "Want me to share? I'll give you half—no, a third!"
"You keep it," Crabbe chuckled softly. "But thanks, really."
He meant it. While he'd always been Draco's muscle, Goyle was the only one who ever treated him with genuine warmth.
To anyone else, a third of some cheap candy might be nothing. But to Crabbe, it was friendship.
"You're the one who said no," Goyle mumbled, shaking his large head. "So don't blame me—I offered, didn't I?"
Crabbe's eyes softened at the familiar sight.
But when his gaze returned to the scattered sweets, that sentimentality hardened into resolve.
To him, Swinburne's disdain was obvious—even in the smallest things. The candies, the errands, the favoritism—it all excluded him.
Ever since their first Christmas at Hogwarts, he hadn't received a single gift from Swinburne. He was never asked to help, never included. All the petty tasks fell to Goyle. But he didn't resent Goyle. His friend was simply too dim-witted to envy.
Still, the root of it all—the subtle alienation, the quiet humiliation—came from one man: Swinburne.
And because of that subtle shift in favor, even Draco had stopped turning to him, seeking Goyle's help instead.
Crabbe stepped out of the Slytherin dormitory, Barty's words still echoing in his mind.
He remembered that night in Hogsmeade two months ago, and the truth Barty had drilled into him: All contempt stems from weakness.
With real power, he wouldn't be anyone's errand boy. He wouldn't have to eat someone's leftover sweets or play dumb to be accepted.
He knew the spell he was preparing was one of the Unforgivable Curses. But after two months of clandestine training under Barty, he had tasted true power.
If he wanted to, none of the boys in that dormitory would've walked out alive.
And that was only from what Barty had taught him so far.
But today, he had received one final instruction from Barty: complete this task, and he would not only meet the Dark Lord in person—but be taught dark magic by him directly.
Crabbe fingered the teacup in his pocket, the one Barty had enchanted into a Portkey.
Success or failure—it didn't matter. The Portkey would ensure his escape from Hogwarts.
That was his ultimate insurance.
Second Floor of the Castle.
Madam Pomfrey barely had time to speak before Crabbe cast the Imperius Curse on her.
It wasn't out of mercy. He simply needed her voice to deceive Swinburne—and serve as a shield if things went wrong.
"Walk to the door. Knock. Then open it."
The spell took hold instantly. Crabbe issued the command, never noticing the stunned expression in the portrait beside him.
At that same moment, Madam Pomfrey stumbled to the hospital ward and knocked softly on the door.
Knock. Knock-knock.
A gentle rapping echoed. Then the door creaked open.
Inside the room, the moment Hermione heard the knock, she jumped away from the bedside and stood primly to one side.
She didn't know who was coming, but it felt improper to be sitting so close to Ino—especially in the infirmary.
The door swung open.
Madam Pomfrey appeared in the doorway, dressed in her usual crisp white robes.
"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," Ino turned politely to greet her from the hospital bed.
But this time, she didn't respond.
Instead, she stepped aside—just enough for someone else to enter.
Behind her, with a cold, determined face, Crabbe raised his wand.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A surge of hateful magic burst forth, the unmistakable green flash of death racing toward the hospital bed.
At that instant, a phoenix's cry echoed through the room.
Fawkes, ever vigilant, dove in front of Ino, taking the full brunt of the curse.
It all seemed narrowly avoided.
But everyone—Fawkes included—overlooked one crucial detail.
Hermione, standing by the bedside, had seen Crabbe raise his wand first.
Without hesitation, she leapt forward—relying on the moonstone necklace around her neck, enchanted with a Shield Charm—and hurled herself between the spell and its target.