He withdrew his wand.
In the candlelight, that figure looked immensely tall and utterly alone.
Barty Crouch Jr. climbed up from the floor.
He had completely failed to understand the momentary struggle in his father's eyes.
To him, this was merely the ridiculous arrogance of a pure-blood aristocrat.
His father disdained killing his own flesh and blood with his own hands.
That made the flames of humiliation in his heart burn even fiercer.
Helping up Wormtail, who had been freed from his restraints, he deliberately roared at the silent house before fleeing:
"We're leaving! To the Albanian Forest!"
"I will welcome our master's full return! The Wizarding World will be under his rule once more!"
He tried to use this false lead to divert attention away from him and toward foreign lands.
With a loud crack, the two figures vanished into the night.
Old Crouch remained motionless in the doorway.
His tall figure cast a long shadow in the candlelight, looking utterly lonely and aged.
"Clack!"
A crisp sound, like a film clapperboard, abruptly rang out from a corner of the sitting room.
As that crisp sound died away.
Old Crouch's body, rigid with anger and grief as he stood in the doorway, began to change rapidly, like a melting wax figure.
His hunched back straightened again, and his sparse white hair thickened, returning to a dazzling silvery white.
The deep wrinkles on his face smoothed away, and those cold, clouded eyes were replaced once more by a familiar bright blue, sparkling with mischief.
In the blink of an eye, the tall, lonely Old Crouch had turned back into Albus Dumbledore.
He winked playfully at the empty corner.
"Douglas, my acting wasn't bad, was it?"
The shadows in the corner slowly receded like an ebbing tide.
Three figures came clearly