The Prisoners of Hogwarts

Chapter 347 Mental Hospital (4.5K) (2/2)

Lynch suddenly sighed softly, almost imperceptibly.

The sigh broke the silence of the open space and made Crouch's tense nerves tremble slightly.

He noticed that Lin Qi's usual aloofness and calmness seemed to have softened slightly, and his dark eyes looked at him, revealing a rare sincerity.

"Mr. Crouch," Lynch's voice was lower than before, devoid of all its businesslike flatness, "I don't need you to pay any price or promise any conditions for this."

Crouch froze, his face filled with undisguised astonishment.

On this night filled with deals, secrets, and threats, at this moment when his greatest weakness was firmly in the hands of his opponent, the phrase "no reward needed" sounded like a fantasy.

He habitually suspected that there was a deeper scheme behind it all, but Lin Qi's sincere eyes made him waver.

Lynch seemed unconcerned by his surprise and continued, his tone calm yet sincere: "Mr. Barty Crouch, whether you believe it or not, I personally—have considerable respect for you."

Crouch was even more taken aback by these words, finding them somewhat absurd.

Respect?

From this mysterious and unpredictable "Mist Hanger"?

"Leaving aside the tragedy of your personal life," Lynch carefully chose his words, not directly mentioning Barty Jr.'s crimes, but the meaning was self-evident, "you truly dedicated the vast majority of your life to fulfilling your duties. During that darkest period more than a decade ago, it was precisely because of your tough stance in the Department of Law Enforcement, your relentless pursuit, and your uncompromising attitude towards the forces of darkness that the Ministry of Magic was able to curb Voldemort's momentum to some extent in direct confrontation, preventing panic from completely engulfing everything."

His gaze seemed to travel through time, returning to that era of bloodshed and turmoil: "It was your perseverance and dedication—regardless of the driving force behind it—that allowed many ordinary wizards to see a glimmer of order amidst despair, and to retain a faint sense of hope that the Ministry of Magic was still operating, preventing them from completely losing hope. This achievement and influence are undeniable."

Crouch stood frozen, listening to these affirmations of his public service career that he had almost never heard from anyone else.

These words stripped away the calculations of power struggles, pointing directly to the "responsibility" and "efficiency" that he once regarded as the highest principles of life. A complex and indescribable emotion welled up in his heart, mixed with a long-lost thrill of being understood, and a deeper stinging pain stemming from the contrast.

"However, it is precisely because you have dedicated almost everything to this responsibility," Lynch's tone shifted, a barely perceptible sigh in his voice, "that you have inevitably neglected your family, the guidance and companionship of your loved ones for a long time. The balance between public and private life has been completely overturned, ultimately—leading to an irreparable bitter consequence, and leaving you in this predicament, caught between a rock and a hard place." He did not accuse, but calmly pointed out the causal chain that many people overlook.

Crouch felt a tightness in his throat and was unable to refute.

Lynch's analysis made him feel more ashamed than any direct condemnation.

“So, Mr. Crouch,” Lynch’s gaze refocused, becoming clear and direct, “I am not standing here as a demander or a threat. On the contrary, I may be able to—offer you a possible option.”

He paused slightly to make sure Crouch was listening.

"Have you ever heard how Muggles deal with people suffering from serious, dangerous, and incurable mental illnesses who pose a threat to society or themselves?" Lynch's voice was calm as he posed a concept that sounded somewhat abrupt to wizards. "They have a special institution called a 'mental hospital' or 'psychiatric sanatorium.'"

After Lynch uttered the word "mental hospital" softly, Crouch's face only showed a hint of bewildered confusion.

He frowned, repeating unconsciously, "A mental hospital? A Muggle institution? I don't know what that is."

"That's a place specifically built by Muggles to house and supervise those who are completely mentally unstable, unable to control their behavior, and might even pose a danger to themselves or others," Lynch explained, his tone as calm as if describing the habits of a rare creature. "It's a centralized management facility based on isolation and surveillance, although—its methods and purposes are different from ours."

Crouch's brow furrowed even more, a sharp glint in his eyes: "What do you mean? What does this have to do with him?" He glanced at his son, who was floating and sleeping, a sense of foreboding rising within him.

“What I mean is,” Lynch said, meeting Crouch’s gaze directly, his words clear and calm, leaving no room for evasion, “Mr. Crouch, your son—is no longer fit to remain hidden in the magical world, at least not in the way you used to.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink into Crouch's heart, before continuing to dissect the cruel reality: "Judging from the fact that he was able to break free from the Imperius Curse tonight, and even do—that kind of thing—under provocation," Lynch again subtly pointed to the Dark Mark, "he has clearly developed resistance to the curse through long-term struggle. Your control methods are failing, and will become increasingly unreliable. The next provocation could come tomorrow, or it could be a month from now, and he might do something even more irreversible. At that time, will you still be as lucky as you were tonight?"

Crouch's face grew paler with each word Lynch spoke; he was unable to refute them.

"More importantly," Lynch's voice lowered, but became even sharper, "you won't find anyone you can absolutely trust and who has the ability to keep an eye on him long-term. Blink has already proven its limitations. Other wizards? Anyone who knows of his existence is a sword hanging over your head and the entire Crouch family. You can't rely on Imperius and fear to control those who know forever."

This was Crouch's deepest fear, which Lynch ruthlessly exposed.

"So, I suggest you consider sending him to the Muggle world," Lynch finally stated his core proposal. "Arrange for him to enter a strictly managed Muggle mental hospital. As far as I know, your son is the typical type of wizard who can barely cast spells without his wand, right?"

Crouch nodded stiffly. While Barty's magical talent was not weak, he was far from being able to cast spells without a wand and was extremely dependent on his wand.

"That's the key," Lynch said. "In a Muggle mental hospital, he'll be far removed from all magical stimulation, unable to access wands, and even the concept of magic will be considered the delusion of a madman. It's a purely non-magical, closed environment. As long as he doesn't have a wand, the danger he poses to Muggles is a manageable tendency towards violence," rather than an incomprehensible magical catastrophe.

"But—the secrecy law—" Crouch hissed, his first instinctive reaction.

"I can handle it for you," Lynch replied crisply. "I'll place a powerful curse on his tongue and the finger that controls writing. This curse will ensure that any specific information he tries to utter or write about the magical world, his true identity, Voldemort, or the Death Eaters will be twisted into illogical, incoherent ravings before it can be clearly articulated. It won't constitute a valid leak and therefore won't trigger the penalties under the International Wizarding Secrecy Act. To Muggles, it will just be the ramblings of a mentally ill patient having an episode."

This idea is bold and ruthless, yet it demonstrates a sophisticated use of the rules of magic.

"Let him live in the Muggle world as a severely mentally ill patient with amnesia and an unknown identity," Lynch concluded, his voice devoid of emotion. "There are no Dark Marks, no Death Eater slogans, nothing that could drive him mad. Only white walls, regular medication, tight security—and silence."

If you miss him, you can visit him as a "distant relative" or a "charitable visitor." This might be the only viable path—between utterly destroying him and watching him reignite and destroy everything—that simultaneously preserves his life and your family's secrets.

Under the moonlight, Lin Qi's figure seemed to blend into the moonlight.

He offered not warm advice, but a cold, realistic, and even somewhat cruel solution.

It transforms Barty Crouch Jr.'s existence from a deadly secret in the wizarding world into a trivial "medical record" in Muggle society, downgrading the infinite magical risks to a manageable "mental illness."

Lynch's words were like a pebble thrown into a deep pool, stirring up cold and lasting ripples in Crouch's lifeless heart.

Muggle Asylum — Stripped of Magic — As a mad Muggle, descend. —

The proposal itself was so unorthodox and absurd that it completely contradicted Crouch's entire understanding and pride as a pure-blood wizard and a former head of the Department of Law Enforcement.

To hand wizards—even corrupt and dangerous wizards—over to Muggles?

The thought itself carries an indescribable sense of blasphemy.

However, after the initial shock and instinctive repulsion, a cold, pragmatic mindset began to run wild in his head. The picture Lynch painted was brutal yet clear, like a cold pathology report, pointing out the lesion and the only possible isolation solution.

The Soul-Stealing Curse is losing its effect.

This is an undeniable fact, and tonight's outburst is proof of it.

There are no trustworthy guardians.

Shining has proven its limits; others are even more uncontrollable sources of risk.

The next outbreak could be even more deadly.

The Black Mark is just the beginning; who knows what Barty will do when he's completely out of control?

The magical environment itself is a source of stimulation.

The shadow of the Death Eaters and the legend of the Dark Lord—as long as he remains in the magical world, these things could constantly provoke his already broken nerves.

But the Muggle world—has none of these. It is only a wasteland for magic, a prison that undermines its dangerous abilities.

Crouch's heart pounded in the dead silence.

He found himself seriously considering this crazy suggestion.

This filled him with self-loathing, but deeper still, it was a desperate, grasping-at-a-lifeline-like throbbing. Yes, a throbbing. Because if Lynch's method truly worked—if the curse could ensure the secrecy laws remained intact, if the Muggle mental hospital could truly provide a physically secure, isolated environment—then this might be the only way to both save his son's life and prevent the secret from being exposed, thus avoiding a greater catastrophe—even if it was in a humiliating way he had never imagined.

But at the same time, deep-seated doubts clung to him like poisonous vines.

Why did Lynch do this? Was it merely out of what he called "respect" and to offer "choices"?

Crouch didn't believe it.

Having navigated the treacherous waters of politics for years, he knew all too well that there was no such thing as unsolicited help. This was more like a variation of blackmail, a more sophisticated form of control that was harder for him to refuse. Lynch knew everything, and now he had offered a solution—a solution only Lynch could help with—to deal with this hot potato. If Crouch accepted, he would not only have Lynch leverage over him, but he would also be handing over a crucial link in dealing with his son's biggest problem to Lynch. From then on, a more secretive and stronger chain would be bound between him and Lynch.

He tried to find traces of hypocrisy, scheming, or any hint of conspiracy in Lynch's face.

But under the moonlight, on that young face, besides the calmness of stating the facts, there was actually a trace of sincerity, which was rare before, tinged with emotion.

That sincerity wasn't a performance to gain people's trust; it was more like a slightly weary understanding—based on a shared understanding, perhaps born from witnessing darkness and disorder.

This complex expression was more deceptive than any clever words, and it made Crouch waver even more.

Ultimately, all the weighings, doubts, pride, and struggles crumble before a simple fact:

What else does he have to lose?

With his son on the verge of losing control, his secrets on the verge of being exposed, and his family's reputation, his own freedom, and even his life hanging by a thread.

The most fatal weakness—the living, breathing, and dangerous Barty Crouch—was now suspended there defenselessly, completely under the control of this mysterious young man. Instead of immediately handing him over to the Ministry of Magic for credit or blackmail, the man offered a seemingly considerate and extremely unusual solution.

I do have the right to refuse.

But...and then what?

Should we continue with the ineffective ban and wait for the inevitable next outbreak that could utterly destroy everything?

Or worse, Lynch changes his mind and smashes everything he has?

This is a gamble with no chips.

The only thing he could bet on was believing that Lynch's proposal at this moment was at least closer to a "controllable" prolongation of life than all other known outcomes.

Crouch closed his eyes, and that brief moment seemed to drain the last of his strength.

When he opened his eyes again, the turbulent emotions deep within them had been replaced by a heavy, almost numb calm. Exhaustion was etched into every wrinkle, but his straight spine and taut jawline stubbornly refused to collapse.

He stopped looking at his son and fixed his gaze on Lin Qi's face. His gaze was no longer full of doubt or calculation, but only a gloomy look of recognizing reality and preparing to bear the consequences.

He spoke, his voice hoarse and low, his pace slow, each word seemingly drawn with effort from a weary well, yet exceptionally concise, hitting the nail on the head, stripping away all unnecessary embellishment and emotion: "———— Do as you say."

These words represent both final surrender and a difficult authorization.

He paused briefly, took a deep breath as if this simple decision had consumed most of his energy, but he forced himself to continue. The questions were short and pragmatic, focusing on how to execute them—the only "control" he could grasp at the moment: "When to do it? —That curse, how can we ensure it's foolproof? —You decide the location..."

'

There was no questioning of motives, no bargaining, and not even any extra sentiments.

He accepted the most humiliating path, even relinquishing control along with it.

Under the moonlight, Crouch's figure appeared even more lonely and cold.

He revealed his greatest weakness and also relieved himself of a long-standing burden.

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