Sins of the Father

The trunk always creaked when he opened it. The first few times, he had worried that the sound would be heard, that someone would burst in the office and find him at work, and that would ruin everything. The Dark Lord was depending on him. Barty Crouch wouldn´t fail him again.

But he hadn´t reckoned with "Mad-Eye" Moody´s reputation. No one was going to suspect him, the man was beyond reproach. That´s what made him so perfect.

He lay there now, apparently asleep, the bruises slowly fading to a mottled yellow. He´d put up quite a fight, truth be told, but they had had the element of surprise and that, in the end, decided things in their favor. Pettigrew nearly ruined it (really, the man was useless, and a traitor besides), but Moody had hesitated when he realized he was fighting two dead men.

That moment of uncertainty was all that was needed. Poor man. He must have thought he had gone mad.

At least Pettigrew had the Polyjuice Potion right. No one suspected a thing, not even Dumbledore. And Barty planned to keep it that way. He reached into the trunk, his knife poised to cut another snip of hair...

Moody suddenly opened his eye, and reached up, his hand closing around Barty´s wrist, trying to drag him in. The aurorhad a surprising amount of strength, considering what condition he was in.

He dropped the knife, and pulled his wand from inside his waistcoat.

"Imperious!" he gasped, trying to keep his voice from carrying. "You will let loose your hold on me! And lie still!"

A spasm of pain came and went across Alastor Moody´s scar-ridden face. His hand relaxed its grip. His body relaxed.

Muttering angrily under his breath, he reached in, grabbed the knife he´d dropped, and whacked a good chunk of hair off of the now-still figure. He then slammed the trunk shut, at this point not caring who heard it.

The PolyjuicePotion was bubbling merrily as he added the required hair to the mixture. Give it a little while to cool, and then he could transfer it to his flask. It was too bad he couldn´t just make the stuff in bulk, but the potion only worked when fresh, so he had to repeat the process every two to three days. The potion was wretched-tasting, but it was a small sacrifice to make in order to serve the Dark Lord.

While he waited, he pulled out his class lists. He´d seen Potter from a distance, Dumbledore had been kind enough to point him out, but hadn´t gotten close enough to make any kind of judgment. The Dark Lord had not been very complimentary towards the boy, but that was to be expected. What year was the boy in? Ah, fourth year, Gryffindor, yes...not until Thursday would he see them. He´d had the seventh years today, and tomorrow would be the sixth years, Slytherin and Ravenclaw in the morning and Gryffindor and Hufflepuff in the afternoon in separate classes. Easier that way, less students to manage at one time.

Dumbledore hadn´t given him any sort of course outline, but Barty didn´t need one. The Dark Arts were something that he´d studied enthusiastically. When he´d been at school, he´d always felt the emphasis on defense was rather stupid. But with these children, he´d show them the best defense was a good offense. He laughed quietly to himself. Moody would probably approve.

It was a little strange to be back at Hogwarts again. He´d done well here, very well indeed, achieving twelve O.W.L.s,as well as being a prefect and a chaser on the Slytherin championship team for three years. Not that any of it did any good--his father still ignored him, as he always had. But he hadn´t realized how many years had passed. The time in Azkaban seemed to last forever, although it was no longer than a year at most. And afterwards, under his father´s strict control, his mind had been clouded, and the years had passed without him really noticing. It seemed like yesterday when he´d been at Hogwarts himself, yet it seemed like a hundred years had passed.

The potion had cooled. With a careful hand, he transferred it into his hip-flask. He´d have to watch his supplies. He was running a bit low on the boomslang skin. Snape would probably have what he needed, but there were problems with that. He was dangerous and no fool. And worse still, Snape knew him from before.

He was still pondering the problem the next morning as he headed towards his classroom. Sixth-year Slytherins this morning, he thought, it should be an interesting class. He´d have to lean on them a little: Moody had been a Ravenclaw, it turned out. It was amazing what one could find out from a person with just a few chosen spells.

Most of the class was already there. They whispered as he limped up to the door and let them in the classroom.

"Shut your books. You won´t need them." He advised. "This is Slytherin, sixth-year? Who are the prefects, then?"

A tall young man stood. "I am, sir. Richard Montague. And D´Arcy, over there, for the girls," he indicated an almond-eyed girl, with curly hair and a pert expression.

"Good, good. Very well. Please raise your hands as I call your name."

The names were familiar, almost all of them. Slytherintended to draw from the best wizarding families, and they were represented here. He noted the faces of these children, trying to see their fathers in them, wondering who their mothers were. He probably knew them, some of them very well. He hesitated on one particular name.

"Rosier, Edwina."

A girl sitting in the back row raised a set of knitting needles. Little Edwina? Small, noisy thing that screamed bloody murder anytime she was picked up. She liked to be on her own two feet, that one did. She´s grown. Has it really been that long? Evan´s features were stamped on her face, the cool grey eyes and lackluster light-brown hair, even the look of slight suspicion.

"Rosier. You´re Evan Rosier´s girl?"

She nodded, that look again in her eyes, something akin to hatred. Of course. Evan was killed when Moody tried to bring him in for questioning.

"Speak up, girl, I won´t bite."

She bit her lip. A faint whisper that might have been "Yes, sir," reached his ears.

"Louder."

The class was muttering. He´d obviously missed something here. Edwina glared at him.

"I´m waiting, Miss Rosier."

"Yes, sir," her voice was very soft and barely audible.

"Not good enough. Say it like you mean it."

The entire class turned to look at her. The girl went pure red.

"I´m waiting, Miss Rosier."

She clamped her lips shut.

"Ten points from Slytherinfor impertinence. Say it."

Her eyes flashed, but she kept silent.

"Twenty points, then. Do you want to try for fifty?"

"Rosier, just speak up," muttered a boy from the second row. Echoes of agreement rang through the room.

She began to take on the look of a caged animal. She shook her head.

"Very well. Fif..."

"Professor Moody!" D´Arcy, the prefect, raised her hand.

"Miss D´Arcy."

"Rosier has a speech impediment. She can´t talk very loudly. She never has been able to."

"Miss D´Arcy, another ten points from Slytherin for lying. Miss Rosier is perfectly capable of sound," he added a sneer, for effect, "I remember her screaming when I found her father. Over and over at the top of her lungs."

A ripple of shock ran across the faces of the students.

"Say it, girl. Say it where I can hear you."

Something flickered in her eyes. Her fist clenched in the threads of her knitting and she looked like she was struggling against something.

"Yes, sir," her voice cracked with effort and shook with anger.

"Don´t try that again, Miss Rosier. You´ve played on pity long enough," he continued down the list of names, his mind racing. Something was wrong here. Something had happened to that girl. He´d have to have a little talk with Moody when he got back to the office. In the meantime, a little abuse of the Slytherin youngsters would not be out of line. Potter was in Gryffindor, after all. He´d need to feel that Professor Moody was on his side.