Only A Mother Would Love

March 9, 1982

Trista collected the dishes off the table, china tinkling in her trembling hands. Winky stepped forward, taking the plates and cups from Ms. Crouch.

"I shall take them, mistress," she said humbly. "Do not worry. Winky shall take care of this. Mistress does not look well, she should rest."

Trista smiled sadly at the house elf. "Thank you."

As usual, Winky brushed off the thanks. "Winky is always happy to serve mistress."

Still smiling at the efficient, if highly strung, helper, Trista walked out of the kitchen. Heading for the living room, she stopped at the foot of the stairs. She looked into the living room, decorated in warm reds and yellows with mahogany furniture. Trista turned to the white-carpeted stairs. At the top was a door. She could just see the white frame of the top.

The door was closed.

The door had been closed for about three months now, ever since the trial. Bartemius had closed and locked the door one day and not mentioned it again. Not that Bartemius talked much anymore, about anything.

Slowly, Trista began to climb the stair, clinging tightly to the rail. As she came closer to the door, she pulled out her wand. She did not use it much anymore- she had little need for it- but still carried it with her out of habit. Reaching the door, she tapped the lock lightly. She twisted the knob, but it was still locked.

Frowning slightly, she mustered the energy to try silent magic again, but it didn't work. Trista sighed.

"Alohomora," she said, finding the spoken spell only slightly easier. But it worked. The latch clicked, and Trista opened the door.

The walls were painted bright yellows, blues, and reds. Sunlight poured into the room from the open window. A bed was in a corner. The sheets were those of a child- they had a pattern of Golden Snitches racing across the material. A bookshelf was full of picture books and stuffed animals. A wardrobe stood in an opposite corner, holding play clothes and child-sized robes for nice occasions and parties. A model broomstick was propped against the wardrobe. Sitting on a dresser were toys and figurines. A bag of Gobstones, some chess pieces (who knew where the board and other pieces were), a miniature dragon. And in the center of the room, a little boy of about four sat on the floor, drawing happily with crayons and paper.

Trista walked toward the boy, a smile caressing her waxen face. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her and knelt down. For a few minutes, she watched the boy play quietly. His hair was getting a bit long, Trista thought. He needed a trim- his messy blond locks fell onto his forehead. His milky complexion was presently rosy and healthy looking, as he had just come in from playing in the bright sunlight. A smile sat on his chubby cheeks; he was completely absorbed in his artwork. The child was looked so innocent and happy, Trista nearly cried at the angelic picture.

"Mistress Crouch, what are you doing?" a squeaky voice cried.

Trista turned back to the door. Winky was standing there, looking aghast. Trista turned back to her son, but he was gone. She looked around the room, no longer smiling.

Thick dust covered everything. Long drapes hung on the window, blocking any light. The walls were painted a neutral tan. Dark green sheets lay folded on the unmade bed. A Shooting Star 180 was stashed under the bed. The shelf held only textbooks, their thick spines bound in leather. The wardrobe was stuffed with old Hogwarts uniforms. The dresser was clean of any objects, but in a drawer was a stack of papers, including school essays, exam papers, and O.W.L and N.E.W.T grade reports.

Trista stood up slowly, her expression tight with suppressed tears. Winky, under orders not to enter the room, stood in the hall and gestured frantically for her mistress to come out.

"Master Crouch will not like this," she fretted. "He does not want anyone to enter Master Barty's old room, oh, please do not get Winky into trouble, Mistress-"

Trista walked slowly out of the room, not daring to look back. But as her foot crossed the threshold, she couldn't help but chance one glance.

The room was the same. But little Barty giggled and shrieked as his mother caught him up in her arms, swinging him in circles. Trista turned away quickly from the memory, letting Winky lock the door behind her.

Trista walked down the stairs to lie down in the living room. Upstairs, she heard the laughter of a young child, running away from his mother's playful clutches.