Not in this room?
Harry narrowed his eyes and stared at the werewolf, saying nothing.
"He's really not here," the werewolf stammered in panic.
The others chimed in to support his claim.
With a wave of his wand, Harry levitated the werewolf, dragging him along amid the startled gasps of the others, and stepped out of the room.
Next door, the atmosphere was quite different. Whereas the other room had been quiet and tense, this one was bustling. There were only about a dozen Aurors, but over a hundred werewolves—questioning them one by one was a painstakingly slow task.
Harry entered.
"You already finished over there?" Scrimgeour looked surprised.
Harry didn't respond. Instead, he tilted his head toward the floating werewolf beside him and asked, "Is he here?"
The werewolf looked around until his gaze locked onto one person. He quickly nodded. "Yes!"
With difficulty, he raised his hand and pointed. "It's him."
The werewolf in question, still waiting to be interrogated, trembled and buried his head deeper into the ground.
Harry set down the werewolf who had identified him, then flicked his wrist. The accused flew toward him with a whoosh.
"Do we have his file?" Harry asked Scrimgeour.
Scrimgeour flicked his wand, summoning a thick stack of documents. One flew out and landed in Harry's hand.
It was a basic profile.
This man had registered as a werewolf with the Ministry. Name: Leon Morris. Born in 1952, making him over forty, yet he looked far older than Slughorn, McGonagall, or Professor Sprout.
"Morris," Harry said as he bound the man in magical ropes and set him before him, "What did Crouch tell you?"
Morris flinched and buried his face in the grass.
Harry raised his wand.
Invisible magic forced Morris's head upward, locking his gaze with Harry's.
"Legilimens," Harry whispered, diving into his memories.
Scrimgeour turned away, pretending not to see. The Ministry had strict regulations against invading someone's mind or thoughts. Unapproved Legilimency or Veritaserum-induced confessions were considered invalid, and their use punishable.
But this was Harry.
Not even Dumbledore.
It was safer not to watch.
Inside Morris's memories, Harry saw Barty Crouch Jr. again, his face even more haggard and pale.
In the dim, grim setting, the werewolves—still in human form—curled up like wild animals in what might've been called a house, but looked more like a den.
Morris greeted him obsequiously, "Mr. Crouch, you're back so soon?"
Crouch nodded and pulled out a potion. "This was developed by my father. It can cure lycanthropy."
Morris took it eagerly, about to uncork it.
Other werewolves perked up, peeking over with longing in their eyes.
Crouch pressed down on Morris's hand. "Not yet."
Morris looked up, confused.
Crouch continued, "This potion must be used on the full moon. Before you transform, ignite it. The flames, combined with the purifying power of the moonlight, will burn the curse from your body."
Morris nodded fervently. "I understand, Mr. Crouch."
"How's the gathering going?" Crouch asked.
Morris lowered his head, looking uneasy. "I'm sorry, sir. Even the great Dark Lord can't gather too many…"
He clutched the potion tightly, bracing for the Cruciatus Curse.
But Crouch's tone was gentle, even kind. "That's fine. I understand."
Morris looked up in shock.
Was this truly Crouch?
The same man who'd cast the Cruciatus Curse at the slightest provocation?
"Gather as many as you can," Crouch said, as if oblivious to Morris's reaction. "Use any means necessary. When is the next full moon—this month or next?"
"The twenty-fifth, this month," Morris replied.
Crouch nodded. "Then do it by the twenty-fifth. Bring them here."
"This bottle is enough to cure thousands," he added.
"Even those who don't side with our master?" Morris asked, amazed.
"Of course," Crouch said smoothly. "A token of goodwill from my father."
"He needs loyal, reliable friends now."
Morris, deeply moved, vowed with solemn reverence, "His greatness and mercy will be known."
Crouch lifted his eyes, seemingly peering past Morris, beyond the others. Searching.
Harry knew—he was looking for him.
Crouch's gaze returned to Morris. "I hope you enjoy the gift."
Morris beamed, childlike in his delight. "Of course I do, Mr. Crouch. I love it."
Harry watched in silence as Crouch walked out, then waved his wand to continue reading Morris's memories.
From that day on, Crouch vanished from his life.
Sometimes other werewolves would mention him, but the moment his name came up, fear of the Cruciatus Curse shut down all talk.
"You were fools," Harry said flatly, emerging from the memory.
Morris looked devastated and said nothing.
He hadn't been as naive as the others—he'd realized right away that this was a trap, and past conversations now revealed their hidden clues.
Yes…
How could a man so cruel, so ruthless, suddenly act kind?
How could a Death Eater, always self-serving, give away something so powerful?
"Do you have any way to contact Crouch?" Harry asked, glancing at the man's bare left forearm.
Morris shook his head. "Never. We only waited for him to contact us."
His voice was empty. "We're just werewolves. Wretched werewolves."
Shunned by righteous wizards.
And even among the wicked, they were only kept as hounds.
Harry nodded and gestured to Scrimgeour. "Do what you must. I'm going back to school."
He felt no pity.
They were adults. They knew exactly what they were doing—and had to face the consequences.
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Powerstones?
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