After learning that Adrian could sense the aura of the Imperius Curse, Barty Crouch, out of concern for his own safety, requested something of Adrian that he check on his physical condition at regular intervals to prevent being affected by the Imperius Curse again.
Adrian studied Crouch's haggard features with the calculating gaze of someone weighing costs against benefits. The request itself was reasonable—indeed, it was exactly the kind of ongoing relationship that could prove mutually advantageous in the complex political landscape of the wizarding world.
Adrian agreed.
This wasn't difficult for him at all; he just needed to have the Tree of Wisdom take a look.
And he could earn a favor in the process—why wouldn't he?
Of course, if Crouch wanted to completely rid himself of the Imperius Curse, that would require a small price.
His potions weren't cheap.
Barty Crouch soon left Hogwarts' headmaster's office.
"The Imperius Curse," Dumbledore sighed softly. He sat back into his high-backed chair, suddenly looking every one of his old age. "One of the most insidious and troublesome forms of dark magic."
There was truth in his words, and both of them understood the full implications of what they had just witnessed.
The Imperius Curse earned its place among the three Unforgivable Curses not just for its ability to control behavior, but for the complete violation of human autonomy it represented. A properly cast and maintained Imperius Curse could transform even the most principled individual into a willing puppet, capable of betraying everything they held dear while believing themselves to be acting of their own free will.
The psychological damage alone could last a lifetime, as victims struggled to distinguish between their own thoughts and actions and those imposed by their controllers. In the most severe cases, the magical damage to the brain could be irreversible.
Fortunately, the Imperius Curse that Barty Crouch had suffered from was only of the mildest form.
Then, Dumbledore asked curiously, "What was that potion you gave Mr. Crouch just now?"
"I call it the Purification Potion," Adrian shook his head. "Actually, it might not be as miraculous as you imagine. It can only treat the mildest form of the Imperius Curse. If it had been two days later, I'm afraid it wouldn't have worked on Mr. Crouch."
Dumbledore's fingers steepled as he leaned back in his chair, his expression taking on a thoughtful look.
"Even with such limitations, your creation is a remarkable achievement. If you were willing to publish the formula, you could undoubtedly earn an Order of Merlin—possibly first class, given the rarity of effective treatments for Unforgivable Curses. With proper marketing through the appropriate channels, you could also acquire enough wealth to last several lifetimes."
The suggestion was made casually, almost nonchalantly.
"Money holds little appeal for me," Adrian replied with a slight frown. "More importantly, I cannot reveal this potion's formula. The reasons are... somewhat complicated and difficult to explain without compromising certain confidential aspects of my research."
"Ah, of course," Dumbledore said with immediate understanding, his warm smile returning like sunshine after a fleeting cloud. "I was just speaking hypothetically. You don't need to explain your reasoning to me, Adrian. The potion is your creation. You have every right to determine how or if it should be shared with the wider world."
Adrian shrugged with apparent nonchalance.
The truth behind the Purification Potion's effectiveness lay in ingredients that existed nowhere else in the wizarding world—specifically, the magical apples produced by the Tree of Wisdom, whose purification properties were unique to him.
If the formula became public knowledge, it would inevitably lead to inquiries about the source of such ingredients. And such inquiries would eventually draw unwanted attention to both himself and the Tree of Wisdom.
After all, the potion's effects were almost miraculous by normal standards. The ability to counteract one of the Unforgivable Curses, even in its mildest form, represented the kind of breakthrough that wizards would kill to possess or control.
"Speaking of your talents," Dumbledore continued, leaning forward slightly, "there is another matter I would like to discuss with you, Professor Westeros. I would be honored if you would accept the position of Supervising Professor for our Hogwarts champion."
"Supervising Professor?" Adrian raised an eyebrow with genuine curiosity. The title was unfamiliar. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that particular role. Could you elaborate on the responsibilities involved?"
Dumbledore's smile took on a slightly mischievous quality.
"The position is quite straightforward in concept. Basically, you would be responsible for helping our young champions make adequate preparations for the remaining tasks of the Triwizard Tournament and ultimately win the Tournament. Given the remarkable results of your training methods I believe you can do it."
Adrian leaned back in the armchair, his fingers drumming thoughtfully against the leather armrests as he considered the proposal. The position would formalize an arrangement that already existed, while also providing him with additional authority and resources to prepare Harry and Cedric for the challenges that lay ahead.
"Very well," He said finally making his decision. "I accept the position. However, I do have one crucial question."
Dumbledore leaned forward eagerly. "Of course. What concerns you?"
"About my compensation..."
November 25th, 1994
The day after the first task of the Triwizard Tournament ended.
The Great Hall of Hogwarts castle had been transformed overnight from its usual atmosphere of routine academic dining into a victory celebration. Warm golden sunlight streamed through the tall windows, lighting floating candles that seemed to burn more brightly than usual.
Although Cedric was currently trailing behind in the overall standings by a few points, the fact remained that Harry Potter, as unexpected fourth champion, had achieved something truly extraordinary. His score of forty-six points was a decisive victory, a full five points ahead of second-placed Fleur Delacour.
For the students of Hogwarts, regardless of house association, this was undoubtedly exciting news.
Colin Creevey, as the founder and president of Hogwarts' Harry Potter fan club, had clearly been busy throughout the last day's events. His hands clutched a large collection of magical photographs that he was distributing among eager students like a dealer spreading precious cards.
Somehow and none of the students questioned the specifics too closely—Colin had managed to upgrade his photographic equipment significantly since the start of term.
The images he now produced were not the simple black-and-white snapshots of previous years, but full-color magical photographs that moved.
The photograph currently being passed from hand to hand showed Harry's final confrontation with the Welsh Green dragon in vivid detail.
"Absolutely brilliant, Harry!" called out a sixth-year Ravenclaw girl whose name Harry couldn't quite remember but whose enthusiasm was obvious.
"Could you sign something for me?" pleaded a young Hufflepuff boy, thrusting forward a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages with hope. "My mum will never believe I actually met you unless I have proof!"
As Harry made his way toward the Gryffindor table through the dense crowd of admirers and well-wishers, he found himself experiencing a mixture of pride and deep regret. The attention was heartwarming in many ways but the sheer intensity of the crowd's enthusiasm was almost overwhelming.
He should have anticipated this reaction and arrived later, perhaps after the initial rush of breakfast had subsided and students had dispersed to their morning classes.
Look at these fanatical students and fans!
They nearly devoured him alive.
What struck Harry as particularly absurd and somewhat irritating was the transformation in attitude shown by many of these same students.
Just days earlier, some of these very faces had been decked with those "Potter Stinks" badges that Malfoy had distributed. The same voices now cheering his name had been questioning his worthiness to participate in the tournament and telling he was nothing more than an attention-seeking fraud.
'Oh, right.'
As the crowd pressed closer, Harry's eyes automatically searched the Great Hall for one specific face—one person whose reaction to his success would provide more entertainment than all the genuine congratulations combined.
'Where was Malfoy?'
If there was one person in the entire castle who would find Harry's success genuinely painful to witness, it was undoubtedly that pale faced Slytherin.
Harry's gaze swept across the Slytherin table, searching for that familiar figure that would undoubtedly be burning with resentment and jealousy. Unfortunately, the dense crowd of students surrounding him made detailed observation difficult, and the constant movement of bodies blocked much of his view.
Perhaps Malfoy was simply buried somewhere among his fellow Slytherins, maintaining a sullen silence rather than risking public humiliation by trying to criticize a champion who had just defeated a dragon.
"Alright, everyone step back and return to your seats immediately!" The crisp voice of Professor McGonagall cut through the excited chatter. "We have distinguished guests visiting the school today, and I will not have them witness such undisciplined behavior from Hogwarts students!"
Instantly, students scattered from around Harry with the speed of small animals fleeing a predator.
Professor McGonagall approached Harry through the rapidly clearing space, her usually stern expression softened by what might have been pride. She gave him a brief encouraging look before turning on her back and returning to the staff table.
"You're certainly popular now," Ron observed from his seat at the Gryffindor table, his voice carrying a noticeably sour note that immediately caught Harry's attention.
"You sound jealous," Harry replied as he sat in his usual seat, reaching for a plate and beginning to fill it with a portion of breakfast. His tone was light, almost teasing.
"I am not jealous!" Ron reflexively protested, then sighed.
"Alright, maybe I am a little jealous. We started our school at the same time, we've been through the same classes, learned the same spells, and yet... I couldn't handle a dragon. Merlin, I can barely handle a boggart without falling over my own feet."
"You simply lack focused training and practice," Harry said gently, cutting a piece of steak and chewing thoughtfully. "If you were willing to dedicate some of your free time to serious spell practice, I can't guarantee you could handle a dragon, but I'm confident you could at least give Malfoy a proper fight."
"Malfoy's nothing to worry about!" Ron stated immediately, his voice regaining some of its usual confidence.
It wasn't like he hadn't fought with Malfoy before—he still remembered the taste of the Slug-Vomiting Charm.
"Malfoy knows plenty of dangerous hexes and curses," Harry warned in a low voice, glancing around to ensure their conversation remained private.
"His father was a Death Eater, even if the Ministry officially accepted his claims of being under the Imperius Curse. You can be certain that Lucius Malfoy has taught his son all sorts of dark magic that would never be covered in our regular classes."
The mention of Death Eaters and dark magic caused Ron to shiver, his imagination undoubtedly conjuring images of the terrible spells that Voldemort's followers had used during their reign of terror.
"So how should I train?" Ron asked eagerly, his earlier dejection replaced by determined curiosity. "What kind of practice schedule would actually make a difference?"
"You should speak with Professor Westeros," Harry suggested with a shrug, spearing another piece of steak. "He designed all of my training programs. I'm not qualified to create training plans for other people—what worked for me might be completely wrong for your magical style and abilities."
Ron nodded seriously, his expression taking on a focused look. "I think I should definitely try that. Professor Westeros seems to know what he's doing, and if it worked for you..."
At that moment, Hermione slid into the seat beside Ron, her bushy hair was slightly disheveled from what had undoubtedly been another early morning session in the library. Her arms were loaded with the usual collection of textbooks, notes, and borrowed books that accompanied her everywhere like loyal pets.
"What are you two discussing so seriously?" She asked with curiosity. Her eyes moved back and forth between Harry and Ron, clearly noticing the intense atmosphere of their discussion.
"We were—" Harry began, only to be immediately interrupted by Ron's hand clamping over his mouth with surprising speed.
"Nothing important," Ron said quickly, his voice pitched slightly higher than normal with nervousness. "We were just discussing that golden egg and wondering about the clues for the next task."
Harry looked at him with confusion, his eyes questioning over Ron's restraining hand. There was nothing particularly secretive about their conversation, discussing training methods and spell practice was hardly the kind of topic that required concealment from Hermione who was more knowledgeable about magical theory than either of them.
Ron caught Harry's puzzled expression and winked: "Let's not tell anyone else about this yet."
Although Harry couldn't understand what Ron was trying to hide or why he considered the conversation sensitive, he decided to respect his friend's wishes rather than press the issue.
Looking at the two boys making faces at each other and engaging in their obviously coded communication, Hermione appeared both puzzled and slightly exasperated by their behavior.
However, her natural academic instincts quickly shifted her attention to what she considered a more immediately important matter.
"Have you made any progress in discovering the golden egg's secret?" She asked eagerly, leaning forward with intense focus. "The next task is still months away, but starting early would give you a significant advantage in preparation."
"Unfortunately, no real progress yet," Harry admitted with a shake of his head.
"Yesterday evening, I tried opening the egg in our dormitory, but it produced the most absolutely horrible sound I've ever heard. It was like the screaming of banshees mixed with the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard, amplified to unbearable levels. I don't believe that noise was intended as a clue for the next task—it seemed more like a magical alarm or deterrent."
"An absolutely horrible sound?" Hermione's eyes lit up with a gleam, and she rested her chin thoughtfully on her hand. "That's actually quite intriguing. Could I hear this sound myself?"
"Excellent idea," Harry said, immediately rising from his seat. "Let's go to the common room right now. We still have sufficient time before our class begins."
"Hey! Wait for me!" Ron's voice had a tone of panic as he watched his two best friends preparing to leave without him.
He grabbed the largest piece of steak remaining on his plate, stuffed it into his mouth with complete disregard for proper dining etiquette, and hurried after them with his cheeks bulging comically as he tried to chew and swallow while maintaining their pace.
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