I, Hogwarts Second Time Around.

Chapter 324 The Discovered Conspiracy

"Father, I didn't," the boy, who had been tied to the chair, regained his composure, immediately displaying acting skills worthy of an Oscar.

He screamed, "I didn't! I swear, Father, I'm innocent! I just happened to be there! Don't send me back to the Dementors!"

"The charges also state," Mr. Crouch roared, his expression cold, "that when Frank Longbottom refused to provide information, you used the Cruciatus Curse on his wife. You plotted to restore the Mystic to power, to resume the violent lifestyle you led during his prime. Now I ask the jury to indict these four."

"Mother!" the boy cried. The small witch next to Crouch began to sob, swaying back and forth. "Mother, stop him! Mother, I didn't do those things! It wasn't me!!!"

His mother cried even harder, wiping her tears with a handkerchief, but she didn't say anything.

"Now I ask the jury to vote," Mr. Crouch said loudly. "Those who, like me, believe these crimes should be punished with life imprisonment in Azkaban, please raise your hands."

The wizards on the right side of the dungeon raised their hands in unison, their faces bearing cruel expressions of victory.

These glances naturally fell on the trio.

Suddenly Harry felt a chill in the air.

He tightened his clothes around himself. The cruel, excited, or gloating looks in those eyes filled him with disgust, or rather, fear.

The gazes of the crowd were like noisy words, constantly hurting him.

For no apparent reason, a flame suddenly ignited in Harry's heart.

He wanted a spell to kill all the guys around him.

"No—" Harry felt a pang of fear, but he quickly regained his senses.

Wait a minute—what's wrong with him?

This is just Dumbledore's memory, his memory!

Harry reminded himself of this, then turned to look at Dumbledore in the past.

The old headmaster did not raise his hand. He was one of the very few wizards who did not raise his hand.

He simply observed calmly from beginning to end, without saying a word.

"No, Mother, no, it wasn't me, it wasn't me, I don't know, don't send me there, stop him!" Barty Crouch Jr. began to scream, his cries echoing in the courtroom.

The Dementor slowly walked in again, and the boy's three companions silently stood up from their chairs.

Bellatrix looked up at Crouch and shouted, "Ha! One day the dark magic will return, and then it will know our loyalty, and you will all die!"

Barty Crouch Jr., however, was desperately trying to get rid of the Dementors, even though their cold, sucking force had begun to take effect on him.

The audience laughed, and some people stood up.

"I am your son!" he shouted at Crouch. "Your son!"

"You are not my son!" Crouch roared, his eyes suddenly bulging outwards, his expression ferocious.

For the first time, he focused his attention on Barty Crouch Jr. and shouted, "I have no son."

The thin witch gasped and collapsed onto the stool.

She fainted, and Crouch seemed not to notice.

"Take them away!" he roared at the Dementors, spitting everywhere. "Take them away and let them rot there."

Little Barty is still struggling.

But it was no use; he was mercilessly dragged away by the Dementors.

The moment he was led out of the courtroom, the surrounding scenery became blurry.

Then the trio's gaze suddenly rose, and a feeling of pressure, like being squeezed by water, filled their cheeks.

Then, the three of them somersaulted out of the water.

When I came to my senses, I was already in the principal's office.

Everything became familiar.

The Pensieve, the cabinet, the Gryffindor sword, and more.

"Um?"

"Professor!" The trio immediately stood up.

They just fell down.

"We didn't mean to," Hermione explained first. As a well-known model student at Hogwarts, she didn't want to ruin her perfect image in the professor's eyes, even though—that image was already shattered.

"Oh! It's alright." Dumbledore had already returned by then.

He leaned against the cabinet next to the Pensieve, his gaze fixed on the water in the basin that emitted a hazy glow.

"Curiosity is the driving force behind a wizard's progress. That's nothing special."

There was not a trace of reproach in Dumbledore's voice.

"I think you all know about this Pensieve!" Dumbledore said, sitting down again. "Sometimes I feel like my head is crammed with too many thoughts and memories, and I need this to help sort them out. Pour the memories into the Pensieve, and look at them carefully when you have time. You know, it's easier to see their form and the connections between them in this state."

Under the watchful eyes of the three men, he pulled a glass bottle from his pocket.

Then pour the silvery liquid inside into the meditation basin.

The old man's wand stirred, and gradually the water reflected the attack that had just taken place.

That was clearly Percy's memory.

Of course, that's not important. What's important is that, for some reason, two Umbridges appeared in his memory.

Or rather, two Barty Crouchs.

"What happened?" Ron's eyes widened. "Percy's passed out?"

"I think not," Dumbledore said calmly.

"How can there be two Ministers of Magic?" Hermione asked, equally puzzled. She hadn't seen anyone in the woods.

"Yes, why?" Dumbledore chimed in. "That's the crux of the matter. It's clearly a conspiracy."

"Someone impersonating the Minister of Magic?" Harry realized as well. "Is that even possible?"

He looked at Hermione beside him.

I immediately came to a conclusion.

may!

Disguising oneself in the Wizarding World is not difficult; Owen even uses a female alternate account to fool people all day long.

The Disillusion Spell can do that.

Hermione's compound decoction can do even better.

In addition, he had heard of something called the Disguise Magus, which could easily disguise itself as other people.

"Good heavens!" Ron exclaimed. "If the current Barty Crouch is a fake, then where is the real one? What are they planning?"

"Well—what we can be sure of is that the one we are seeing now is real," Dumbledore said calmly, his semi-circular eyes gleaming with an all-seeing gaze.

"If someone is going to impersonate Crouch, it must be someone very close to him. For such a long-term disguise, that person must know Crouch very well. I think we can start by investigating his subordinates or his friends," Miss Granger said. After all, she had experience in impersonation; drinking Polyjuice Potion wouldn't solve everything.

A disguise without acting skills will be exposed in no time, especially by Aurors.

It's normal for a young wizard not to know about Polyjuice Potion, but an Auror would know a lot about it.

After all, during wartime, some people came up with this trick: to disguise themselves as others and do shady things, so that even if they were discovered, they could shift the blame onto someone else.

The Ministry of Magic has a whole set of methods for dealing with these kinds of problems.

Moreover, the compound decoction can only maintain the deformation for one hour. With a little patience, anyone can easily tell the difference.

Unless someone provides a continuous supply.

"This is a possible approach to solving the problem."

"Do you suspect it's Barty Crouch Jr.?" Hermione pressed. "But isn't he dead?"

She looked at Ron.

Ron immediately spoke up, "That's right, many people saw his body. And magic has professional coroners; he couldn't have faked his death with any drugs and gotten away with it."

"That's right, yes, that's right."

Dumbledore frowned slightly and poked at the thoughts in the basin with the tip of his cane.

A human figure immediately rose from the basin. It was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen years old, with pale skin and covered with freckles.

He was a younger version of Barty Crouch, with his legs still standing in a basin.

When he spoke, his voice echoed like Snape's, as if it came from the depths of the stone basin.

"Yes, Professor, I must obtain all twelve Common Wizarding Level exam certificates. My father requires me to do so, so I would like to apply for a Time-Turner..." His face was filled with pride, and his tone immediately reminded the three of Malfoy.

"He got twelve OWLs?" Hermione, who was very sensitive to academic performance, immediately exclaimed. Her eyes were fixed on the figure in the Pensieve in disbelief.

"That's right." Dumbledore nodded. "He's a very bright and polite boy, with perfect grades in all his courses. He's the best Hogwarts graduate since Tom. I originally thought he would go to work for the Ministry of Magic, following in his father's footsteps..."

"Wow! Another Owen!" Harry exclaimed.

His grades were decent, but twelve OWL courses were still too difficult. First of all, Snape would never give him an excellent grade in Potions.

"Hmm—there are some differences." Dumbledore blinked. "Barty Crouch Jr. was able to get twelve OWL exams because he was capable enough to get twelve, while Owen—is because there are only twelve OWL exams."

Harry shut his mouth!

Well—it seems the world of top students is just like theirs, divided into different levels!

Upon hearing this, Hermione felt a surge of pride, but that pride quickly turned into desolation.

"That professor," Harry suddenly hesitated, "I just saw the memory of the trial. He was different from the other three Death Eaters. Could it be that he really just happened to be there... (Lombard House, referring to the Death Eaters torturing Neville's parents)."

"What do you think?" Dumbledore asked, looking at them.

"Me?" Harry was still hesitant, unsure if he had been impressed by Barty Crouch Jr.'s acting skills.

"And you?" He then looked at Hermione.

"I don't know if he's innocent." Hermione shook her head, feeling inexplicably that if Owen were here, he would definitely know the truth.

“I don’t think so,” Ron said loudly. “Even if he didn’t torture Neville’s parents, he must have done other bad things. Death Eaters are all like that, so his punishment is perfectly reasonable.”

Dumbledore did not comment on the three men's different answers.

The silver light from the Pensieve illuminated Dumbledore's face, making him look incredibly old.

"Sometimes I think there's a big problem with our educational philosophy," Dumbledore said slowly. "Teaching students magic without teaching them how to be good people is what leads to so many dark wizards. Especially for Slytherin students, they are all very talented, but that also means they are exposed to more temptations and must be carefully guided..."

Dumbledore was different from other professors; he cared a lot about what his students were thinking, and always had been.

He especially wanted to guide talented wizards onto the right path, believing it to be his responsibility.

But in reality, that's very difficult.

Even in the Muggle world, there are many examples of students going astray, let alone in the magical world.

Black magic can indeed subtly change a person's personality.

That is to say, Owen can release dark magic as casually as eating or drinking, without being affected by it at all.

Perhaps it's because he was originally the Dark Lord's son, or perhaps it's because this is the 'exemption' of the heir?

It seems Dean Bridged was right; ancient magic is indeed innate.

A silence fell over the office, and silver memories rippled like ribbons in the dark water.

"Have you eaten? Would you like a sandwich?" Dumbledore asked suddenly after a long pause. "It's still an hour until noon."

"Professor—" Harry looked up and stared directly at Dumbledore.

His expression was hesitant, as if he had some unspeakable secret.

"What's wrong, Harry? Is there something you want to tell me?"

“Yes, Professor,” Harry said, “my scar is aching again, and I’m dreaming about Voldemort again. He seems to be in a tower with his servants.”

"He gave someone an order to arrest someone."

Harry spoke slowly, and Dumbledore's face remained largely unchanged as he listened quietly.

"I think the Death Eaters will definitely come to Hogwarts again," he said.

"Oh?" Dumbledore said calmly, "Did you see or hear anything?"

"No, no." Harry shook his head. "I am—"

"I just have a feeling they'll come back, I don't know why." His green eyes were filled with confusion, as if a thin layer of mist was obscuring his vision. "Professor, I... why can I see these things?"

"Sometimes I feel like I've become a different person, and strange thoughts always pop into my head for no reason."

Hearing this, Dumbledore looked closely at Harry.

After a long pause, he slowly spoke, "I only have one guess, just a guess. I can't be completely sure. I think that when Voldemort gets close to you, or when he has a particularly strong desire for revenge, your scar will hurt because that unsuccessful spell has linked you to him."

"This scar links me to Voldemort?" Harry was startled.

"You should know that this is not an ordinary scar," Dumbledore said.

In the third year, Dumbledore confirmed that Voldemort's soul resided in Harry's scar.

As they destroyed more and more Horcruxes.

Ravenclaw's tiara, Slytherin's locket, and that notebook.

And then he received news of a Horcrux.

It's fair to say that Dumbledore no longer puts all his attention on Voldemort.

The most pressing issue right now is the Outer Gods hidden in the dark side of the world.

Now his concern is how to tell Harry the truth.

Tell him that you must be killed by Voldemort.

This caused Dumbledore to hesitate several times. He could not afford to let another student lose his life in order to undo one mistake from the past. He kept thinking about whether there was a way to have the best of both worlds, a way to protect Harry's soul while allowing Voldemort to kill the part of his own soul.

So far, he hasn't come up with any good solutions. Maybe Owen has some ideas, but—

"Professor, do you think that dream was real?" Harry continued to ask.

"It's possible," Dumbledore said. "Very likely, Harry, perhaps he's carrying out his evil plan somewhere."

"What do you think he's itching to get?" Harry asked, frowning. "Last year, Owen told me that Voldemort had received help from that evil Outer God, and he'd already regained his body. What more could he want? What else could he possibly fear?"

Suddenly, Harry's eyes lit up. "Professor, Voldemort isn't planning to waste time with you, is he?"

He suddenly remembered something Irving had said many years ago.

What?! I'm going to be a glorious waiter!

The gist of it is that Voldemort has achieved immortality, while Dumbledore is over a hundred years old.

Wizards only live for two or three hundred years at most. If Voldemort finds another opportunity to poison Dumbledore or something...

He could have waited until his biggest rival was dead before stirring up trouble.

"Oh!" Dumbledore suddenly looked at him curiously, his light blue eyes sparkling.

"Are you going to keep wasting your time with me?"

"Ahem—you're much older than Voldemort." Harry rubbed his head, somewhat embarrassed, and said tactfully.

"No—" Dumbledore smiled slightly, "You don't understand him. Tom isn't the kind of patient man. If he wants something, he wants it immediately. Otherwise, he wouldn't have failed so quickly in the First Wizarding War, would he?"

“But—but what else does he want?” Ron interjected. “He’s already so powerful. The Daily Prophet said he’s the most powerful dark wizard in history. He’s already killed death, hasn’t he?”

"That's right." Dumbledore turned to look at Ron, a hint of doubt flashing behind his semi-circular spectacles. "What else does he want?"

The old headmaster's gaze fell on Harry's face, or more precisely, on his forehead, on the scar.

Suddenly, it was like a shooting star streaking across the night.

He immediately understood something.

Yes—what else could Tom possibly care about?

There are probably only two things in this world that he desires most right now: the love magic that Harry possesses, and ancient magic.

Suddenly Dumbledore looked at Hermione again.

A smile involuntarily crept onto his lips; he finally understood why the Goblet of Fire had mentioned Miss Granger's name.

(End of this chapter)