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Chapter 341: The Changes Brought by Time
🕑 Added 2025-04-06 18:47:17 +0000 UTCTime flows like water.
And the changes it brings often happen so subtly, we barely notice them.
Like reflections in a rippling pond, memories grow hazy with the passage of time—familiar scenes and emotions slowly fading into a distant blur.
It had been three full days since the first task of the Triwizard Tournament.
In that short span, Hogwarts Castle had experienced several bewildering developments.
The most surprising among them: a monthly magazine titled Hogwarts Chronicles had suddenly emerged.
Its headquarters? An abandoned greenhouse once used for Herbology classes, just outside the castle.
Its publisher? None other than Draco Malfoy of Slytherin House.
But these details were merely trivia. The true measure of any magazine was never in its location or publisher, but in its content.
And in that regard, Hogwarts Chronicles delivered an almost perfect debut.
It covered all sorts of gossip and daily drama around the castle—confessions gone wrong, awkwardly interrupted dates, even who was spotted secretly holding hands. Everything was laid out with vivid detail.
The writing was witty, the tone biting, and the perspectives refreshingly sharp.
Even students who had witnessed these events firsthand found themselves chuckling, while those unaware of them eagerly devoured every word.
Beyond school gossip, the magazine also tackled hot topics: the Triwizard Tournament, the champions, and of course, the Boy Who Lived—Harry Potter.
But among all the stories, one particular article caused the biggest stir.
It was titled The Mask of Hypocrisy.
Its focus? Bartemius Crouch Sr.—one of the seven department heads in the Ministry of Magic—and his imprisoned son, Barty Crouch Jr., a known Death Eater.
Most magazines wouldn’t dare provoke someone of Crouch Sr.’s stature.
But when students reached the final page and saw the names Swinburne and Malfoy in the editorial credits, they understood immediately: this wasn’t your average student paper.
"Crouch is outrageous!"
In the Gryffindor common room, Ron Weasley tossed the magazine onto the table, fuming with frustration.
"He's got it out for Harry! And for what? Some twisted sense of justice? The man's a hypocrite—he should take a good look in the mirror!"
Ron’s indignation quickly found support among the crowd of students gathered around.
At Hogwarts, students could be surprisingly thick-skinned about danger.
Despite the fact that Harry had used the Killing Curse on a dragon during the first task, no one had been hurt—and the initial fear surrounding the Unforgivable Curse was slowly wearing off.
"Yes, Harry made a mistake," said Neville quietly, "but that doesn’t give someone like him the right to judge."
It was rare for Neville to speak up, and whenever he did, people tended to listen.
Once Neville finished, Seamus and Ron resumed their commentary, their voices blending into the rising chatter.
And it wasn’t just Gryffindor. Similar discussions echoed through the other three houses.
To ensure a wide impact, Draco had printed and distributed 400 copies of the first issue of Hogwarts Chronicles, delivering them—for free—to each common room.
The backlash was swift.
For Bartemius Crouch Sr., walking through the castle became a daily ordeal.
Every hallway seemed to whisper with sarcasm. Rumor had it even Hagrid’s boarhound had barked at him in passing.
And now, the man himself sat alone in the headmaster’s office.
“Albus,” he said, slumped on the couch, clutching what little hair remained on his head, “I feel like I’ve lost entire chunks of memory. Someone’s used a Memory Charm on me.”
Dumbledore didn’t answer right away.
He glanced at the deluxe edition of Hogwarts Chronicles sitting on his desk, eyes lingering on its cover. After a long pause, he finally spoke.
"I'm curious… is what this article says true? Did you really swap your son out in secret years ago?"
“I don’t know!” Crouch answered honestly, with no attempt to hide the confusion in his voice. “I don’t even remember having a son.”
And that, for him, was the clearest proof something was wrong.
Somewhere deep inside, a faint recollection still existed—a bright, gifted boy, once the pride of a father.
“Albus… please help me,” Crouch said, his voice low and pained. “If what the article says is true… then I’m finished. But I don’t care what happens to me. Just promise me you’ll catch him. Dead or alive.”
There was no hesitation in his words.
Though he couldn’t recall his son, he still remembered the chaos of the last war—the madness of the Death Eaters.
Dumbledore stared silently at the man before him.
Once, Bartemius Crouch had been a commanding figure, leading Aurors from the frontlines, a pillar of strength for the wizarding world during Voldemort’s darkest days.
As Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he had been unyielding, a symbol of law and order.
Had his son not been exposed as a Death Eater, it might have been Crouch—not Cornelius Fudge—sitting as Minister for Magic today.
Time flows like water, and life is a song sung by the years.
The once-indomitable Crouch was now just a tired, broken man.
Dumbledore understood the pain that came when convictions clashed with personal attachments.
The difference between them was that Crouch, in the end, had chosen love over principle.
“Bartemius,” Dumbledore finally said, his tone gentler, “I cannot interfere in Ministry affairs. Everyone must be held accountable for their own actions. But rest assured—I will investigate the matter with your son seriously.”
“That’s all I ask,” Crouch breathed out, relief flooding his face.
“I don’t have much time,” he added. “The Ministry could come for me at any moment. So if there’s anything else you need to know—ask now. Oh, and one more thing… I’ll take full responsibility for what happened with Harry.”
It was a surprising offer—but a calculated one.
Crouch wasn’t a fool. The moment he realized his memory had been altered, he smelled a larger conspiracy at work.
In the context of recent events, it was clear that someone had set this all in motion, and Harry might have been a piece in their game.
So, Crouch had made his decision—to take the blame himself, not to protect Harry, but to deny the conspirators their endgame.
Silence settled in the office.
Dumbledore offered no reply. His gaze drifted toward the cupboard that held his collection of enchanted sweets.
He opened the door.
From within, a shallow stone basin floated gently into the air.
Its rim was engraved with ancient runes, and it shimmered with silver material—neither liquid nor gas, but something in between, like swirling clouds.
“The Pensieve,” Dumbledore said softly, his tone shifting.
“My old friend, don’t rush to bear the burden of guilt. Like I said—each of us must answer for our own choices.”
His words carried a quiet weight.
“Memory Charms aren’t permanent. Unless cast by an expert, most can be undone—temporarily, at least—through a Pensieve.”
As he walked toward the basin, his expression grew more solemn.
“But as for those experts…” he added, “if I’m not mistaken, the most skilled of them is still locked away in Azkaban.”
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The Pensieve
A Pensieve is a magical object used to examine memories. One is located in the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts. It is a shallow stone basin, engraved with ancient runes and filled with a silver, cloud-like substance that hovers between liquid and vapor.
Pensieves are incredibly rare, usually only used by the most powerful of wizards. Most witches and wizards never dare attempt it.
