Thunderous applause erupted.
A man with an upright bearing and immaculately arranged dark robes rose from the High Table and walked slowly into the center of the arena.
Percy Weasley.
No, he was Barty Crouch now.
He stood as straight as a ruler, his back so rigid that even the strictest officer could have found no fault with it, his face utterly expressionless.
Moody's Magical Eye fixed on Crouch like a searchlight locked onto its target.
He drove the Magical Eye harder, trying to see through that skin, through that skeleton, to see just what sort of person this was.
It was the same as ever.
An enormous sense of bewilderment rose in Barty Crouch Jr.'s heart.
The attack had failed, his father was alive and well, and even the Ministry of Magic had shown no reaction whatsoever.
It was as though the events of that night had never happened.
Nor had any news come from Albania of Aurors searching for him.
The corners of Douglas's mouth curved almost imperceptibly.
He watched the Crouch standing in the arena, then glanced at the Moody in the corner, whose obsessive paranoia radiated an air that warned everyone to keep away.
How interesting.
One was playing the enemy he hated most.
One was playing the leader he admired most.
A grand role-playing game with their lives at stake.
Who should I give the S card to? Oh, it's so hard to guess, Douglas thought.
Crouch cleared his throat, and his flat voice, cold and hard as metal, began to echo over the arena.
"Article forty-seven of the Ministry of Magic's 'International Magical Competition Regulations' explicitly states: the continued existence of the Triwizard Tournament rests upon three cornerstones-fairness, discipline, and honor."
"At this moment, I stand here not in a personal capacity, but with