1975

Chapter Six - The Worst Christmas

At Platform 9 3/4, parents were waiting impatiently for the very late Hogwarts Express. It was cold. It was also raining.

Gilbert Wimple had just discovered that he hadn't arrived late enough. Entering the platform, he had counted on whisking his sons into his car. He groaned. Having forgotten his mackintosh at the Ministry, the next few minutes looked like pure misery.

"You look to be fair soaked, Gilbert." Wimple turned his head and was astonished to see his boss: Barty Crouch, standing nearby. As far as Wimple could remember, Crouch had never picked up his children before. "Alysoun's ill," added Crouch, answering the unspoken question.

"Any sign of the Express?" asked Wimple. His teeth were clenched.

"Crouch frowned. "It's seven minutes late already. Gilbert, we will need to meet immediately."

"Nothing serious, I hope," said Wimple, wondering why Crouch could never leave off Ministry business.

"You can hope that. I'll be hoping that as well, of course. Ah, here is the Hogwarts Express."

The train rolled into the station. Windows shot open and heads and arms popped from the windows.

"Hey Dad" twelve-year-old Geoffrey Wimple yelled. "Where's your mack?

"At the office! Get your brother out here immediately!" his father bellowed.

Geoffrey flashed his dad a quick grin and scampered off in search of his brother Tristan. He found Tristan lingering with his Slytherin friends in their compartment.

"Dad requests your presence outside, Slytherin," Geoffrey announced.

"Right." Tristan nodded and continuing to listen to his friend and fellow beater Ludo Bagman's anecdote.

"He means killing if you're any later," continued Geoffrey. "Narcissa, your brother's waiting for you as well."

"My brother?" asked Narcissa, obviously puzzled. She rose up very quickly. "Well, Happy Christmas, Ludo, Tristan, Lydia." She nodded to each friend in turn.

"I'll carry your trunk for you," the ever gallant Ludo volunteered.

Further along the platform, Edmund Avery Sr. was collecting the Avery and Black children. This duty was traditionally performed by Arcturus Black, but he was in Australia and his wife, the lovely Medea, had refused to soil herself by visiting a Muggle train station. So the duty had fallen to their oldest and most trusted friend.

"Is Kenneth about?" Avery asked Sirius. Sirius, who had paid very little attention to Kenneth from the moment they had boarded the train in September, shrugged his shoulders, continuing an animated discussion with Remus Lupin. Animated only on Sirius's side, to be sure. Lupin was clearly very agitated to be standing so close to Avery Sr.

Kenneth Jr. was still in conference with the members of the temporarily nameless Dark Arts society. At Melania's insistence, Alison and Florence had spent most of the journey playing "Truth" and other silly games with their other dorm mates. But they had been sure to come around reminding Severus not to forget anything.

"We went over this all last night, and I do have it written down," snapped Severus.

Florence sighed. "You take offence at everything, Severus. There's a reason everyone hates you."

"I don't suffer fools gladly?"

"You look rather foolish in Muggle clothing," offered Alison. It was true. If ever there was anyone unsuited for a Muggle shirt and pants, it was Severus Snape.

Severus looked ready to explode but he bit down on his lip then said, "I wish they could make this platform a little more convenient to us."

The building tension had been banished. Alison had made her little challenge and Severus had backed off. Severus wasn't stupid.

"I wish they could make this whole train more convenient," Kenneth complained genially. "We have to go all the way back up to the Border now."

Alison's bewitching smile suddenly lit up her pale face. "No, it's not convenient. It's tradition. And I love it. Come, Flo."

"Bloody romantics!" Evan shouted after them. "Well, goodbye everyone. Don't forget the boomslang skin, Severus"

"I've had enough reminders to forestall that possibility, thank you," said Severus sharply.

Kenneth met Julian Tierney in the corridor, and over her protests, took her trunk as well as his. "Looking forward to the holidays?" he asked as they edged their way through the crowd.

"Of course, I am," said Julian. "Kenneth, do you see Remus Lupin about? He's my only guarantee of getting home. Otherwise, with my luck, I'll end up wandering around Calcutta six months from now."

Kenneth could vouch for the truth of this statement. She was famous for the most spectacular mishaps. Just two weeks before, he had found Julian with her leg stuck in Hogwarts's most infamous staircase. There'd been a hysterical story from her, once he'd pulled her out of the fix.

"I was going to bed and then I realised I had forgotten to finish my Transfiguration essay. So, I decided to sneak down to the Library, but someone had locked the door and then, I went back to the common room and found I'd forgotten to get the new password. So, I decided I'd better find some out-of-the-way place to stay the night, but I got lost and ended up in these horrible storage rooms where Professor Viridian was keeping a few grindylows in tanks. And then, I finally got out, and I was so happy to find my way again that I forgot to skip this step, and I've been here for three hours, and the Bloody Baron has already been past twice. And I'm so glad you're here.

" At that point, she had broken down completely and not let off sobbing for the next hour.

"Why is your luck so rotten?" Kenneth asked her as they searched for Lupin in the station's crowds.

Julian shrugged. "My mother says it's not luck, but carelessness and forgetfulness. I like blaming it on fate, though. LUPIN!"

Lupin nodded briefly. "Hello, Julian. Time to be on our way?" He glanced down at his wristwatch.

"About time," agreed Julian. "Happy Christmas, Kenneth." She stuck out her hand for Kenneth to shake. After a moment's hesitation, Kenneth kissed it, getting laughter from them all.

"You're an idiot," Julian fondly informed him. "Well, let's go, Lupin."

Lupin nodded. "Happy Christmas, Sirius!"

"You too, Remus!" Sirius threw his arms about his friend, wrapping him in an extremely enthusiastic hug. Lupin looked a little uncomfortable. It struck Kenneth, not for the first time, how like an over-energetic puppy dog Sirius Black was.

"This place is damn inconvenient," growled Avery Sr, gazing after Julian and Lupin rushing off to get a cab to Diagon Alley so they could catch the six o'clock portkey to Dublin. "So, has it been a good term?" he asked, turning back to the children.

"Yes," answered Edmund as Catherine Black said, "No."

"Slytherin's doing well in Quidditch and Gryffindor isn't," explained Kenneth.

"That does it explains it!" exclaimed his father.

"Anyone seen Peter?" Sirius interrupted. "He left me with his trunk."

"Pettigrew?" asked Edmund. "Yes, I saw him leaving the platform with that red-haired girl."

Sirius scowled in the direction of the platform entrance. "Wonder what he thinks he's doing. If you tell me he was carrying her trunk, I'm kicking his onto the tracks."

Peter Pettigrew, oblivious of the danger to his possessions, was indeed carrying Lily Evans's trunk and helping her locate her family. Pettigrew trailing after Lily Evans was a familiar sight, never failing to produce sniggers and winks from other students. Like any ordinary girl, Lily Evans had fancied many a handsome fellow, but she and Peter were inseparable friends, even if she very publicly disapproved of his pals, Sirius Black and James Potter. Yet, those incurable gossips, Ludo Bagman and Narcissa Crouch, had once spied on a Pettigrew-Evans tête-à-tête and left empty-handed. Lily had talked about things and Peter had listened. Nothing romantic at all, Narcissa had reported disappointed.

"I don't know why they weren't there on the platform," Lily was saying when a sharp tap on the shoulder interrupted her. She and Peter turned around to face a young woman with blonde hair and a long face. "Mum and Dad couldn't pick you up," the woman said shortly. Her expression was unfriendly.

"Petunia," said Lily calmly, not taken aback by this icy reception. "This is Peter Pettigrew, a schoolmate of mine. Peter, my sister Petunia."

Peter bowed. Petunia stared at him for a few seconds. Then she tossed her hair and ordered Lily to follow her to the car. The atmosphere was hardly festive as Peter and Lily exchanged Christmas salutations and Lily trailed off after her sister.

Peter shook his head and went back to the platform "Families are a nuisance," he said by way of greeting to Sirius.

"Yeah," said Sirius quietly. "You know why my Dad's not here?"

Peter glanced in Avery's direction and drew closer to his friend. "Why?"

"He's Muggle-hunting in Australia."

Peter took a step back.

"They don't kill the Muggles. I think they'd like to but that's frowned on there nowadays. They just Obliviate them when they're finished."

"That's hardly better!"

"Agreed." Sirius glumly examined his watch. "They'll be taking me away soon. Thanks for agreeing to visit me in prison, old fellow."

Catherine's advance on them put an end to the depressing conversation. "Hello, Peter," she said warmly. "We're very glad you'll be down at the Averys after Christmas."

"One more Quidditch player," said Edmund, who had followed after her. Catherine giggled.

Further down the platform, Florence had found her father lecturing Rolly's stepfather, Roderick Ganelon, about communism. Walter Jorkins was a mild-mannered gentle man when he wasn't spreading the message of proletarian upheaval. When he was, his eyes glinted strangely behind his spectacles, his gestures were those of a volcano, and his voice took on a weird uncanny quality that spooked even his own daughters. Bertha and Florence stood by impatiently while Walter pitched the Manifesto to an unsympathetic Ganelon. In the midst of the impassioned speech, Rolly Wilkes came up and Ganelon dropped all pretence of listening. "The cab's waiting, Roland." He turned and left the platform.

"Happy Christmas!" Rolly wished Florence, then followed after his stepfather.

"Happy Christmas!" Florence shouted back.

Her father looked at her disapprovingly. "Christmas is a capitalist scheme for robbing the working classes, Florence."

"I know, but it cheers the poor boy up."

"Are you sure you should be so friendly with these reactionary families?" asked Walter seriously. Florence and Bertha exchanged commiserating glances.

While the coming revolution occupied much of his thought and energy, it bothered Walter that neither of his daughters had inherited the proper revolutionary spirit. They had been read Marx from the cradle, but Bertha had never got it, while Florence... Walter could not forget the pain of finding Florence's copy of Das Kapital covered with unseemly scribbles such as Non Sequitur and Argument from Emotion. He was beginning to suspect that his daughter was rejecting his life's principles and nothing could have hurt him more. As a man, his passion for social justice had lead him to live in the U.S.S.R., and then deciding that the U.S.S.R. had corrupted Marxism, in Albania, where he married his wife Marika. And then, strangely enough, Marika hadn't objected to leaving Albania, that model of human equality, for the greatly flawed and class-stratified British Isles, where she seemed quietly content with her reactionary surroundings: a trait she passed on to her older daughter Bertha. Florence in contrast had inherited her father's stridency, but seemed bound to employ it in other directions.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Barty Crouch Sr. did not engage in conversation until he had started up the car. "Who was your devoted trunk-carrier?" he then asked his sister.

"Ludo Bagman," his son piped up from the back seat. "He's Cissa's new beau."

"No, he isn't!" Narcissa protested.

"I saw you in the train today. Staring into his beautiful eyes, your hand in his."

"He's lying!" Narcissa reached back and slapped Barty Jr. Barty hit back. Tears followed from Narcissa.

Without a word, Crouch Sr. parked the car and ordered his son out.

Closing the door, he put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Look at me." Barty reluctantly raised his eyes from their intense study of the pavement. "Bartemius Crouch, you do not hit a woman. Do you understand that?" Quiet, but every word sharp as a knife.

"She started it."

"I don't care."

"Do you want me to be a punching bag for Narcissa the rest of my life?" Barty cried, mustering up his considerable dramatic talent for hysteria.

"You are making a scene of yourself," said his father calmly. "And of your family. Now, for the hundredth time, a gentleman does not hit a woman. Men who hit women are scum. Do you understand?"

"But Narcissa's so annoying," Barty whined. He could never convince his father that Narcissa deserved what she got, but on the other hand he could never admit defeat in that important mission.

"If I were to clobber everyone I found annoying, my dear Barty, I would be in Azkaban. Will you or will you not apologise to her?"

"Oh, all right, Dad."

Barty sulked the rest of the drive to the Ministry. Narcissa, on the other hand, regaled her brother with all the latest Hogwarts gossip. She was in the middle of a very long anecdote when he interrupted her. "Pardon me, Narcissa, but may I ask how you are doing in your classes?"

"Fine," she said, staring intently out the window.

"Does "fine" mean you stand a fair chance of passing this year?"

"Of course I'll pass." Her cheeks were flushed.

"I wrote to your teachers and they did not seem so optimistic. I think you will have much work to do over the holidays, isn't that correct?"

"Yes," said Narcissa.

"Thank you." And that was all. She knew that her brother would not say another word on the subject. He never reproached, never nagged. He would not breathe a single complaint as he spent his holiday teaching her the unmastered material. Yet, she could almost wish he had yelled at her. That would have been a little more human.

Two hours later found Narcissa and Barty in Quality Quidditch Supplies investigating the new broomsticks, under orders not to damage anything, shame the family, or otherwise draw attention to themselves. Crouch had some work to attend to at the Ministry, and their entertainment for the next several hours was their own affair. Naturally, the first thing they'd done was found a place to change out of the Muggle clothes. Narcissa had spent more time than Barty could stomach re-arranging her hair and robes. It had taken him some time to coax her away from the mirror and longer to drag her into a shop that interested him.

"Do you think Father would buy me a Nimbus 500?" asked Barty, idly running his hand along the polished wood of Magical Britain's most yearned-after broomstick..

"If you ask for one? No," said Narcissa. "Aren't these Quidditch robes lovely?"

Barty turned his gaze to a mannequin in a gold-embroidered red costume brandishing a beater's bat. "For a museum or if you're considering playing Quidditch? What is that? Silk?"

"Mud-repelling silk. Spun from specially charmed Asian silk worms. The enchantment never fades," she explained. Barty snorted and returned to the veneration of the Nimbus 500.

Even broomsticks lose their charm after a time, though. "I'm tired of this place," said Barty at last.

"We haven't been to Gladrags yet," said Narcissa.

"You're not dragging me in there, Cissa!"

"I thought I'd get a scarf for..."

"Cissa!"

"Where do you suggest going?" Narcissa asked in an exasperated tone.

Barty's voice turned slow and mysterious. "Somewhere we've never set foot before. Knockturn Alley."

"Are you mad, Barty?"

"Possibly. Coming along, Cissa?" A mad gleam of resolution shone in his eyes. Narcissa realised that he wasn't about to change his mind. He was so like his father in some ways.

"No, I'm not going. You aren't either," said Narcissa as firmly as she could. A few minutes later, they stood at the entrance of Knockturn Alley. Pausing at the edge of their known world, it seemed to them as though its darkness repelled light, even moonlight. If either had said a word, they would have instantly turned back to the warm and cheery world of Diagon Alley. Neither said that word. Pulling their dark cloaks over their fair hair, they ventured into Knockturn Alley.

Only a little distance in, Narcissa let out a squeal at a shop window full of shrunken heads.

"Why?" she spluttered. "Why would anyone want one of those?"

"As a talking point, I imagine," said Barty coolly. "Do you think Dad would let me have one? Oh look, skulls with holes for keeping one's quills."

"This should be illegal!"

"Only if they're killing people for their skulls or it can be proved they're using human remains in dark magic," Barty said lightly." Otherwise, the law considers them harmless curios. That's the catch of Knockturn Alley. One could be using that poison to murder or, as the shopkeeper will loudly protest to the Aurors, to repel flesh-eating slugs. Dad would have shut down this place long ago if he had his way." He kicked savagely at a stone in his way.

"How do you know all this?" asked Narcissa, her eyes nervously darting from shadow to shadow.

"He wrote an official report on Knockturn Alley in 1969. It's in our library, Cissa."

"I didn't think I heard that around the dinner table," said Narcissa. "Not that he's ever around the dinner table," she added bitterly.

Barty's voice trembled. "He's very busy, Narcissa. You know that. What do you think it's like to be the only person standing up against He Who Must Not Be Named?"

"I'd look to my family for support," Narcissa snapped. "Not treat them as a necessary ornament for a future Minister of Magic."

"Shut up!" cried Barty.

"Why? Because I'm right?"

"Shut up or I will make you," he hissed.

She took a step backward. "Go ahead. Hit me. Explain that one to your father." They stood there glaring at each other. Then, Narcissa shrieked. A hand had just been laid on her shoulder.

"Good evening, Miss Crouch, Mr. Crouch," drawled a voice from underneath a hood. "I beg your pardon for interrupting your discrete conversation, but it is warmer inside." He waved his hand toward a gloomy looking pub a little down the street.

"No, thank you, Mr. Malfoy," said Barty coldly.

"Oh, you know the voice," said Malfoy, sounding almost delighted. "I shall have to work much harder at disguising it. Miss Crouch? Your arm?" Without waiting for Narcissa's answer, he gently but firmly took hold of her, and they found themselves walking down Knockturn Alley with Lucius Malfoy.

Despite its outward dinginess, the pub turned out to be a pleasant and cheerful place. Narcissa immediately blurted out this observation.

Lucius Malfoy smiled. "I don't generally patronise run-down shacks for their sinister atmosphere, if that's what you were thinking," he said, lazily folding his heavy winter cloak. "Whatever your brother may insinuate." Narcissa giggled nervously. "Now let me see. I suppose it'll be butterbeer for Bartemius and Narcissa who is - I haven't forgotten - fifteen not fourteen now." Narcissa giggled again.

"We'll pay for the butterbeers," said Barty stiffly.

"No, no," said Malfoy laughing. "I must insist. You know, I wouldn't advise wandering alone at dark these days. Lucky I found you, isn't it?"

"Wonderfully lucky," said Barty.

"I'll get the drinks then, shall I?" Malfoy got up, and bowing, walked towards the counter.

"How are we going to get away?" Barty asked Narcissa desperately.

"Do we need to get away?"

"Yes, we do. That man is a Death Eater and..."

"How do you know?" asked Narcissa. "And we're in public."

"In Knockturn Alley. I do know, Narcissa. We're in danger here." His brow was furrowed. "Listen. You need to wash up. Go to the washroom, lock the door, and wait in there for me."

"Barty!"

"Do what I say!" It was a command and Narcissa reluctantly obeyed.

"Narcissa wanted to wash up," Barty explained as Malfoy returned to the table.

"And do her hair?" asked Malfoy genially. "She looked fine to me, but then I am only a man."

Barty said nothing.

"I take it your father is occupied with affairs of state and has left you to fend for yourselves?"

"For a little time."

"His work must be such a strain on your family."

"We are proud of his service to this country," said Barty dully.

"Oh, of course."

The minutes wore on. "I really should look after her," said Barty when enough time had lapsed. Excuse me." He bowed to Malfoy and headed towards the back of the pub. Within minutes, he had locked himself in the small washroom with Narcissa.

"No window, eh?" There was a desperate look on his face as he pulled out his wand.

"You can't use a wand," objected Narcissa.

"Emergency regulations. Reducto!" A hole appeared in the roof.

"Where did you learn that?"

"Oh, shut up! Get up on the sink and I'll help push you through."

"Why couldn't you liquidate the wall?" asked Narcissa, struggling up through the hole.

"Shush! Stone's harder than wood." He pulled himself up after her.

The room they'd entered was dark and dank. The weak yellow flicker of a street-lamp outside outlined the silhouette of a window across from them.

"Where are we?" breathed Narcissa.

"A storage room, I imagine. We can climb out the window and move along the ledge, I think."

"You're not serious."

"Come on."

* * * * * * * * *

Seated at his large and timeworn oak desk, Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was trying to make sense of a world gone mad.

In his hand, he held a scroll of parchment, which unrolled turned out to be the transcript of a conversation between an Auror and a witness of the latest atrocity.

"Did you see their faces?"

"No."

"Did they speak?"

"Well, they said Avada Kedavra, didn't they?"

"Could you recognise the voice?"

"No. It wasn't like anything human... It was creepy."

And that was a friendly and alert witness!

Then, he heard the shouting. "BARTY! BARTY CROUCH!" And the sound of rushing feet.

Throwing open the door to his office, he was alarmed to see people swarming into the larger room outside.

"It's another attack," Auror Robert McKinnon explained, pushing his way through the doorway. "Gilbert Wimple's wife. Dead. I was just there."

Crouch bit his lip. He followed McKinnon's eyes to the weeping Gilbert Wimple. His two sons, wide-eyed and pale-faced, were at his side.

"Weasley," said Crouch suddenly, motioning to a young Department clerk. "Would you go find my children? They should be at the Leaky Cauldron by now." Arthur Weasley nodded and pushed his way back out of the room.

"QUIET!" barked a voice that could only belong to Alastor Moody. Crouch heaved a sigh of relief to hear Moody laying down the law.

"Now, someone take the poor kids out of here," Moody ordered. "Yes, you, Mockridge. Do it now." Cuthbert Mockridge scuttled to remove Tristan and Geoffrey Wimple, who dazedly made no resistance. "Now Minister?" asked Moody, once they were gone.

The Minister for Magic, Millicent Bagnold, took a deep breath. "I... I... Crouch?"

"McKinnon, tell us what's happened." said Crouch quietly.

All eyes were on the Auror as he described what he'd seen at the Wimple house.

"They expected Gilbert Wimple to be there, no doubt," McKinnon finished off softly. "But he was, thank God, detained at the Ministry. He and his sons are safe."

Towards the end of the recitation, Arthur Weasley had reappeared at the door. The look on his face held no alleviation of Crouch's fears.

"They're not there," Weasley whispered. "And they've not been seen a while by anyone."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes sir."

Crouch let out a sharp breath.

Bagnold, not having heard this exchange, was again trying to foist crisis leadership on Crouch.

Crouch waved her off. "I'm sorry, Minister. It's just come to my attention... Weasley, Diggory, McKinnon, follow me. Alastor, would you come along too?"

"What's up?" asked Moody, slamming the door behind him in the faces of many curious onlookers.

"My son and younger sister are missing, Alastor. Weasley and Diggory, take Diagon Alley." They nodded and exited. "And my two Aurors will take Knockturn Alley," said Crouch to Moody and McKinnon. "I can't accompany you. I have a duty to stay here. So you will have to do me proud, as usual." His voice was calm, but something in his eyes told Moody that desperation lurked not far out of sight.

"Well, have a good meeting, Barty," Moody growled. "We'll be back soon as possible."

"Do you think anything's happened?" asked McKinnon as they hurriedly left the Ministry.

"No, Robert, I don't. It seems too bold for them even. Still... they're getting bolder. That's certain."

Their first stop in Knockturn Alley was Borgin's and Burke's. Moody knocked. No answer.

"Alohamora!"

The door swung open with a crash. A yell was heard upstairs and a few seconds later Mr. Borgin himself Apparated down into the front room, clothed in his red flannel nightshirt, candle in hand.

"WHO ARE..." The words died away as he recognised his visitors for Aurors.

"Good evening, Mr. Borgin," began Moody. "Didn't think to see us here, did you?"

"Do you have a warrant?" squealed Borgin.

"Unfortunately we have no time to take stock of your interesting merchandise..."

"You have no right to be here!"

"Unless you'd rather be dragged bound hand and foot back to the Ministry, you'll shut up and listen, Borgin. Have any known Death Eaters been around today?"

"Kn-known Death Eaters?"

"Lucius Malfoy, Horatio Nott..."

"Lucius Malfoy's a Death Eater?" Borgin was doing a good job of feigning righteous shock.

"He's been here?" asked Moody.

"I didn't know..."

"Yes or no?"

"Yes, but..." Borgin faltered.

"When was he here?"

"I don't quite recall," mumbled Borgin.

"Don't quite recall rubbish!" growled Moody. "This morning? This afternoon? Evening?"

"Evening, I think."

"Oh God!" said McKinnon.

"He's not hiding himself," Moody said as they left. "That's a good sign. Robert, where's that place he fancies?"

"The White Hippogriff."

They quietly made their way to the pub. Pausing in front of it, they heard the breathing.

Moody exchanged a quick glance with McKinnon. "Contra Apparatus." McKinnon mouthed the anti-Apparation jinx. "Drop your wands and stand up!" he barked, preparing to use the stunning spell.

The people behind the barrel did not stand up. Instead, a boy's voice said, "Aurors! Thank heaven!"

Moody strode over to the barrel and pulled a very timid looking Barty and Narcissa Crouch up by the scruffs of their necks. "Well, well, well... Let's go back to the Ministry, shall we?"

Moody marched them all the way back, hands firmly on their collars. Narcissa had tried to wriggle out of his highly undignified grip, but he was too strong for her. Her face had turned a bright red as Ministry workers hanging about the corridors stared at her and Barty.

The room had cleared since Moody had left. Crouch was there, along with Bagnold, the other Department Heads, and some of the departments' more important people.

Crouch's eyes seemed ready to pop on catching sight of his children.

"Knockturn Alley," announced Moody. "Now, go sit down, and don't make a nuisance of yourselves."

Narcissa began to cry. She was fifteen now, almost grown up, and being humiliated in front of the Ministry's top brass was more than she could handle. Everyone except Moody looked uncomfortable.

Crouch shook his head then turned back to the other officials. "As I was saying, there's no doubt it's time to change course."

"But, Barty," Sulpicius Winslow, Head of the Department of Magical Sports and Games began, "would Albus Dumbledore agree?"

Crouch narrowed his eyes. He couldn't understand why a Quidditch organiser was accorded equal status with the more serious Department Heads. "Yes, Sulpicius, Albus Dumbledore would agree it's time. He may have different ideas of action and you will be hearing those soon enough, I am sure. But no one in their right mind would continue as we are."

Bagnold uncomfortably fancied that Crouch's eyes had lingered on her a second..

Crouch turned to his top Auror. "Alastor, could you explain some of the problems the Aurors are facing?"

"Well, to take an example close to home, there's a little shop on Knockturn Alley known as Borgin's and Burkes'. I'd like to get a good look at its wares, but we'd need a warrant. We can't get a warrant because there's no evidence of wrongdoing. People whom we know to be Death Eaters wander in and out of it all the time, but we don't have any evidence of them being Death Eaters."

"So how do you know they are?" asked Winslow.

"We know," said Augustus Rookwood of the Department of Mysteries.

"We need a change," reiterated Crouch.

Bagnold nodded unenthusiastically. She had never expected it to be like this. When she had been appointed, she had been optimistic, carefully but firmly hopeful of a quick victory against this new Dark wizard. Now, she felt outclassed by both her antagonists and subordinates. She wasn't running the Ministry any more. Crouch was. An insane desire overcame her to just step down and hand things over to Barty Crouch. And yet, the stubbornness that had carried her through so much intervened, and she only nodded.

"I want to be transferred out of Magical Law Enforcement," Gilbert Wimple said tonelessly, after Bagnold and the other Department personnel had left. He was staring down at the floor.

Crouch opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. Then, with great effort, he said, "Yes. I'll have that done."

"I'm sorry," said Wimple, but he didn't sound as if he meant it or indeed meant anything at all. "I should be going. Tristan and Geoffrey..."

"Where are you going?" asked Crouch softly.

"No... I can't go home, can I?"

A loud knocking was heard on the door. Not surprisingly, they jumped. And as no one moved to open the door, the knocker lost patience and entering, revealed himself to be John Longbottom, the noted man of letters.

"I just heard..." Longbottom began breathlessly. "Is there anything I can do?" Without waiting for an answer, he went to Wimple's side. "You can stay at Haut-Desert, you know. I really think you should, Gilbert. You can't take care of Tristan and Geoffrey right now."

"Thank you," said Wimple, his voice still devoid of tone. "I'll do that. Could someone bring me to the boys? I have to talk to them."

"I'll come with you," said Longbottom.

"Thank you, John," said Crouch.

Longbottom nodded and, taking Wimple by the arm, exited.

"Anything else?" Crouch asked the others.

"Yes," began Theodoric Dunstan, who was an Auror. "I think I should notify you that I am resigning my post to move to America."

"What?" cried Moody.

"I'm sorry, but I have a family as well," said Dunstan bravely, considering the looks of loathing he was getting from Moody and Crouch. "My first duty's to my family, after all."

"A man's first duty is never to his family, in my opinion," said Crouch sharply.

"You may think that, sir, but I won't change my mind."

"No, of course not. Anyone else want to jump ship? Why go down fighting, when we could go down not having anyone left to fight?"

"I'm sorry, I can't take this," said Dunstan stiffly and moved to leave.

"I didn't think you could," said Crouch coldly after him. He was not in a kindly mood as the others made their exits and his son quailed at prospect of facing him.

"Knockturn Alley," he said at last, when they were alone in the room. "Why would you be in Knockturn Alley, Barty?"

His son squirmed.

"Will you answer my question?"

"Yes," said Barty, scrambling for a proper answer.

"And the answer is?"

"I didn't think it would be very dangerous. I wanted to see it."

"Given it's been pounded into your head since you were a babe in arms that the place is very dangerous, I would be greatly obliged if you'd present me with the reasoning for that assumption."

"I don't know."

"You'll have to do better than that. You have humiliated your father and shamed your family's name. And you don't know why you did it."

"I didn't mean..."

"No one will ever care what you mean. They'll care what you do." His eyes seemed ready to bore a hole through his son's face.

"I'm sorry," stammered Barty.

"You're forgiven then," said his father, going back into his office for his cloak.

Arriving home about one in the morning, Crouch sent Narcissa and Barty off to bed, and went upstairs to his own bedroom. His wife was lying awake with a book, pale and worn-out from a week's illness.

"I'm feeling a little better," she greeted him, smiling wanly. "But they say I'm not supposed to take sleeping draughts anymore. They interfere with all the salamander's blood they have me taking."

Barty Crouch banished from his head the thought that she was slowly dying. She had been continuously ill at Hogwarts. He could remember that. Yet, she had seemed to recover her health after her marriage. Then, six years ago, the illnesses had begun again. They had slowly become longer and more severe. The verdict at St. Mungo's was that she had been exposed to too much poisonous smoke as a child - her father had been an experimental potions maker - and that she proved the need for stricter control and regulation of hazardous potions development.

Alysoun laid her book down upon the bedside table. "What's wrong?"

He told her. The words spilled out as he related all that had happened that unhappy evening. Sometimes, over the past few years, it had felt as if they were drifting apart. They never seemed to be together. He was always at the Ministry, navigating the country from one tragedy to another. She was at home, struggling through ill health to keep up a thousand things he never was aware of.

Still, they clung to each other. Days might pass in which they had little contact. It hurt. It hurt Alysoun especially, unable to help in his fight against the mounting horror, able only to watch from the outside. But then, when the strain seemed unbearable, when the most dedicated marriage might have gone to pieces, he would come, usually late at night, up to their room, and she would still be awake. And she would ask what was wrong and listen to him. They would sit up the whole night sometimes, till having unburdened all his troubles, he would gulp down a cup of coffee, and go back to the Ministry for another long day.

"I'd lost them." His voice was choking up. "My brain said they'd turn up all right, but in my stomach, they were gone."

"They weren't gone," said Alysoun soothingly.

"I couldn't live with them gone. I knew that. I never knew that before." He was fighting a losing battle against oncoming tears. "I couldn't live without them." Alysoun pulled him towards her, laying his head on her breast, and quietly stroking his hair while he lay there sobbing.

Downstairs, their son lay in bed awake reflecting on how little his father had cared to see him safe.

* * * * * * * * * *

Rolly Wilkes's intolerable holidays livened up within four days. Arriving home, he had taken to his room, venturing out on occasion to procure food, books, and other supplies. No one would have guessed that a sixteen-year-old boy was living in the house. This pleased his stepfather, who thought Rolly had rather improved since the summer. "Roland's becoming a little more mature," Roderick Ganelon told the family house-elf, Letty, as he left with his wife for a party. Letty nodded obligingly and then hurried upstairs.

Rolly's room was a catastrophe. Letty had cleaned it only that afternoon, but it appeared that he had begun to catalogue his collection of Which Broomstick?, tired of doing so, practised banishing spells, and let his cat rampage about the place. He was hunched over his desk working on his great novel, which never went anywhere.

Letty gave no sign of disapproval but went straight to tidying the room. "You should be sitting straighter, Master Roland. Your shoulders is going to be humped sitting like that," she scolded him.

Rolly ignored this and stretched his arms. "Do you want to hear some of the chapter I'm writing?" Letty was the only one he read his works to, and she was always an appreciative audience. "Will they be out tonight?"

"They is going to a party, sir," said Letty.

"Good! Now when we last left our heroes, they were stranded in Vienna with no money, no wands, and Aurors on their trail, do you remember?"

"Yes sir. I is remembering it very well," answered Letty, restacking the Which Broomstick? collection.

"Good." He gave a short cough and began to read. The literary merit of the story was doubtful but the writing was not altogether unpromising. Rolly himself read with the passion of the young, completely confident in the value of their endeavours. His eyes were bright, his gestures large. At eleven, he had gained his nickname from Rodolphus Lestrange as short for "roly poly pudding." At sixteen, he had long since transformed into a tall youth, all arms and legs, with a nose too large for his face and hair that could be described in no more complimentary terms than mouse-brown.

He read steadily on until a crash from the direction of the downstairs interrupted him.

"Do you hear something?" asked Rolly, dropping his notebook. "That sounded like breaking glass."

"You is best staying here, Master Roland. Letty is going downstairs to see."

Rolly paid no attention but ran to the door ahead of her. Together, hey crept quietly down the back staircase. House-elves are masters at not being heard or seen, and Rolly had practised the art extensively himself over the last few years. Voices were coming from the kitchen. Rolly risked a quick peek around the corner. "Burglars," he said with relish. "My dear stepfather has, of course, been too cheap to pay someone to properly secure this house and too lazy to do it himself."

"I is taking care of this, Master Roland," said Letty angrily.

"Stopping them?" asked Rolly. "Where do your loyalties lie? With me or my stepfather."

"Letty has always served the Wilkes family," began the house-elf. Uncertainty grew in her big green eyes.

"Well then, let's go upstairs and finish the chapter. Rolly's smile almost approached a smirk.

"You is letting those men rob the house?" Letty whispered.

"Absolutely. Let's go upstairs."

Several hours later, Rolly was woken from his sleep by shrieks and screams from downstairs. He got out of bed and leisurely plodded down the main staircase to see the results of the evening. Roderick Ganelon was standing in the midst of shambles that had once constituted his dining room. Rolly's mother was sobbing. It looked as though the burglars had done the job thoroughly. Rolly was delighted.

His smile, however, faded within seconds. Ganelon was screaming at Letty for letting this happen and, in fact, had just hit her. Letty was taking it stoically, and of course, not implicating her young master.

His blood boiled. "Leave the elf alone, you brute," he called from halfway down the stairs, his eyes blazing. "She was only doing what I told her to." His mother shrieked.

The response was more violent that he could have imagined. "OUT OF MY HOUSE!" screamed Ganelon, leaping towards him. 'OUT OF MY HOUSE! YOU..." but he seemed unable to find an insult venomous enough for his fleeing stepson. Rolly made it to the bedroom without a second to spare, sealed the door, and climbed out his window onto the roof. He looked wildly about at the lights of London spreading around the house in all directions and then began to shinny down the drainpipe. On reaching the ground, he made a dash for the gate and was out into Muggle London.

Half an hour later, he was beginning to regret his break for freedom. He had never been in the Muggle world before but he had an idea that wandering about in a long flannel nightshift was generally frowned upon. He also had the vague feeling there was some sort of transportation for wizards in emergencies, but unfortunately he couldn't quite remember the details. And then he saw the solution.

"A fellytone!" he yelled happily, causing the few people on the street to quicken their pace.

Across the city, Alison Howard was woken much too early by a phone ringing. She burrowed her head back into her pillow till she heard her brother's voice from downstairs; "There's a weirdo on the phone. I think it's for you, Alison!" Pushing her hair off her face, she stumbled down the stairs. "Hullo," she mumbled into the receiver.

"Alison!" yelled the caller. "I thought I'd never find you."

"How did you get my number, Rolly?" asked Alison, recognising the voice.

"I've been calling all the Howards in the fellytone book," said Rolly triumphantly. "I knew I'd eventually get you. What's wrong?" Hysterical laughter seemed to have overcome Alison.

"How are you paying for all these calls?" she asked once she'd managed to regain some calm.

"I've been transfiguring pebbles into Muggle coins."

"But they'll turn back to pebbles in a while," objected Alison.

"I suppose so," said Rolly unconcerned. "Alison, could you come and rescue me?"

* * * * * * * * *

There are few places in Britain so uncongenial to an automobile as the Malfoys' Wiltshire home, Naddercombe Manor. Hearing the roar of an engine through his window, Lucius Malfoy first thought he had fallen asleep on his feet and begun to dream. Yet, the sound did not go away when he rubbed his eyes, and as he rushed out the front doors, he was greeted with the screech of brakes. Out of a red sportscar hopped his cousin, Roland Wilkes, wearing a nightshift, and a girl in jeans and a t-shirt, her long dark hair tucked under a bandanna.

"Roland," Malfoy greeted his cousin coolly, as though this was an ordinary sight. "Is there a story behind this?"

"A long one," said Rolly. He wasn't sure his cousin was glad to see him. Whatever Malfoy felt, one couldn't see it in his face.

"Come in, dress, and we'll hear the story," said Malfoy

"Right," said Rolly. "By the way, this is Alison Howard, a classmate...." his voice faltered off.

* * * * *

Inside the house, Alison watched appreciatively as the house-elf poured tea from a very old teapot. She had the feeling that Lucius Malfoy planned to send her chair out for cleaning once she had left, yet he had so far been quite cordial, in speech if not in his facial expression. But seriously, why had she been invited into the manor for tea? Having a good idea of what Malfoy would be like, she'd made her arrival as antagonistic as possible. She'd even searched through her younger sister's drawers for appropriately shocking clothes. In the normal course of things, Alison wouldn't have been caught dead in a bandanna. She had determined to stare down Malfoy, to refuse to be humiliated in their brief encounter. And then, he had quite politely asked her inside. It was mystifying.

Could the scones be poisoned? Somehow, she didn't think she meant that much to Lucius Malfoy. Rolly Wilkes would probably kick up a fuss over poisoning her as well, and Malfoy seemed to like his cousin. Good thing too. Someone needed to watch out for Rolly. He had changed out of the nightshirt and brushed his hair, but still looked a little lost and ill at ease. Malfoy had at once invited him to stay over for Christmas and seemed sure that Roderick Ganelon would have to put up with his decision on that account. After watching Malfoy for the last half hour, Alison was sure he was right.

"What are you planning to do out of Hogwarts, Roland?" asked Malfoy abruptly.

Rolly hurriedly swallowed down the bit of scone he'd just bit off. "I don't know," he said. "I'm not particularly good at anything."

"And you don't have any money," said Malfoy thoughtfully. "I don't fancy you'll be leaning on your stepfather."

"No!"

"You're not totally hopeless, Rolly," said Alison. "You can write pretty well."

"Oh, is he planning to be a novelist?" Malfoy asked, a condescending smile playing on his lips.

"No!" said Rolly, obviously annoyed. "I just scribble a little for fun."

"What's wrong with being a novelist?" asked Alison.

"Writing silly plots for the diversion of the general public seems to me a waste of one's time," said Lucius.

"Do you read novels?" asked Alison impudently.

"Yes. Since I don't have to write them. Someone whose time is already worthless writes the book, and I spend a little of my spare time reading it. That seems to me an admirable arrangement."

"And what do you do with your valuable time?"

"I work towards important goals." There was mockery in his face. He was daring her to press further.

"Like lobbying for the classification of Muggles as beasts?"

"I say!" cried Rolly.

"That sort of thing really holds no interest for me," said Malfoy coolly. "I do not understand why we should take any notice of the Muggles."

Rolly cleared his throat. "I think I'd better call my mother and tell her I'll be staying here," he said nervously. With that, he fled the field.

"What do you think of me?" asked Alison.

"I think you're very unfortunate," said Malfoy. "If you had stayed in the Muggle world, you could have been happy. As it is, I wouldn't give much for your chances in the days ahead."

"Really? asked Alison, her cheeks faintly flushed.

"You've no one to stand up for you. You can't be one of Dumbledore's pets. You're a Slytherin. A Muggleborn Slytherin. It's an inherently contradictory position, whatever they've been telling you."

Alison said nothing.

"You'll want to know now how to come through with your life. I can't assist you there. I'll be making sure you don't, if you particularly want to know." The words came out lazily, as if they didn't really matter.

"Yes, I did want to know," said Alison slowly. "I had thought there might be another way out."

"Really?"

His grey eyes were cold. A smirk played around his lips. With a great effort, she forced her eyes to meet his.

"The Dark Lord will rise," she said. "I know it."

"Ahhh," said Malfoy. "What's this?" He leant towards her, intrigued.

Only when Rolly Wilkes at last heard the sportscar's engine revving up, did he dare to re-enter the room.

"Really, Roland," said his cousin. "Your friends..." He shook his head.

"For a Muggleborn, she's not bad," said Rolly bravely, considering the circumstances.

"No, she isn't," agreed Malfoy. "Whatever that counts for. And she's beautiful, which counts for quite a lot. Still," he said, almost to himself, "I think I prefer fair hair."

Rolly decided it was best not to ask any questions, but he wondered what Alison had said to his cousin while he was gone.

* * * * * * * * *

As long as Kenneth Avery could remember, the Black children had come down from London for a week after Christmas. Very early on, he and Sirius Black had begun a tradition of playing chess after supper, a tradition that was now sheer torture. Over the years, Sirius had learnt how to play the game properly, while Kenneth had paid it no attention. Tonight, though, Sirius was very restrained in his victory celebration and even insincerely complimented Kenneth on his play.

"Who won?" asked Catherine Black, crossing the room as always to ascertain the end result of the game.

"Your brother, of course," said Kenneth.

"Not by much," Sirius replied graciously.

"Not by much? It's absolutely no use playing you!"

"Don't give him a big head, please," begged Peter, who was snuggled up in an armchair reading ghost stories. (The book at hand had been condemned by Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington as a sensationalist and highly inaccurate account of spirit activity in Britain. Peter took this as a recommendation.)

Kenneth glared at Peter. He was getting in the way of their usually frank Christmas discussions. No one dared talk about the family secrets before an outsider.

So when at last Peter yawned and announced his intention to turn in. Kenneth fancied a collective sigh of relief followed his exit.

"We've utterly terrified your friend, Sirius, haven't we?" said Andromeda Black, who was Sirius's cousin on her father's side, and Kenneth's on her mother's. She was very mature at eighteen, sprawled before the fire, her feet up on a footstool.

"Peter's brave," Sirius replied cheerfully. "He's a Gryffindor!"

"Why would Pettigrew be terrified, Andromeda?" pressed Regulus, who in the role of annoying youngest child, could never leave well alone.

Andromeda yawned. "Regulus, I don't know how to say this. Do you think our family's normal?"

"We're Blacks," said Regulus simply.

"Stop teasing him, Andromeda!" Catherine ordered her cousin.

Andromeda tried unsuccessfully to suppress another yawn. "Not teasing, Catherine. Just explaining. I mean, how many of your schoolmates are named after advocates for the slaughter of large numbers of Muggles to make room for dragon reserves?"

Catherine flushed. She generally preferred to forget her namesake, Catherine Crabbe.

"Is this what they teach you at Durmstrang, Andie?" asked Sirius, grinning.

"Our family is one of the oldest and most respected on these Islands," insisted Regulus.

"And I had a little sister once, Regulus," replied Andromeda.

Kenneth stiffened. How perverse could Andromeda be? Certainly they all knew that Bellatrix had met an untimely fate at the hands of the elder Black generation, but Squib-culling you didn't talk about, even among family.

It wasn't really your fault if you pressed for signs of magic and your child died as a result. A child without magic had no future. Death was much better than life as a Squib. One only had to look at Argus Filch to realise that.

Bellatrix hadn't responded to any of the tests. The baby hadn't demonstrated that will to survive. She had died rather than save herself, much to the regret of her family.

Of course, the official story was that she'd been kidnapped. Squib-culling was illegal now, after all.

There was a moment's silence then Regulus spoke up, his voice thin but determined. "Bella was stolen away by Muggles."

"Is that why my mother had my father killed?" Andromeda retorted.

"Your mother was an adulteress!" snapped Regulus.

"This is no time to argue about Aunt Eris," said Edmund quickly. "She's dead now."

Kenneth privately agreed. Given the amount of intermarriage between the old pureblood families, feuds were highly unpractical. Let the dead rest in peace. Aunt Eris should have forgotten about her dead child and focussed on new magical children.

Anyway, there'd never been any evidence that Eris had put Valerius Crouch up to killing her first husband, Mercutio Black, even if she had immediately married Crouch thereafter. And technically, it'd been a duel, with Mercutio given a fighting chance.

"My mother died happy," said Andromeda. " She escaped."

Regulus stamped his feet. "I'm sick of your... your treachery! I'm going to tell Mum when we get home!"

"Go to bed!" shouted Sirius. "Go to bed now or I'll hex you!"

Regulus bolted to the door, then turned around to get in a last shot. "You'll get taken off the tapestry!" he predicted, then ran.

"That boy is an idiot," said Sirius angrily.

Catherine shook her head. "He wants to believe the best of his family. That's normal for his age. I said you shouldn't tease him like that."

"Wasn't trying to," Andromeda declared again.

Well, Kenneth reflected, Andromeda did have a tough time of it. He was not about to ask his cousin what it was like to be a scandal-associated orphan in the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, but he guessed it wasn't very fun. After all, Arcturus and Medea Black had sent her off to Durmstrang, because they didn't care to have her associated with their own children. Meanwhile, Andromeda's younger sister Narcissa was the belle of Slytherin. No, it wasn't fair.

He crossed the room and sat down on the hearth beside her. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

"What for, Kenneth?" asked Andromeda, coming out of her thoughts.

"Ummm..."

"Oh, I see. It's a Kennethy remark." Andromeda laughed. "You're my favourite cousin, you know. Always make me laugh."

"Is Durmstrang all right these days?"

She nodded. "Lovely. In its own very odd and frightening way."

"Great."

"Kenneth, how's Narcissa?"

"She's... umm... very blonde. And pretty. You haven't seen her since when?"

"I've only seen Narcissa once in my life. At my mother's funeral."

"Oh. Well... Narcissa's nice."

"Always so communicative."

"Do you want me to give her a message?" offered Kenneth, pity welling up in his heart.

"No. Course not." She stared deeper into the fire. "I think I'll go to bed now."

"Good night."

* * * * * * *

Catherine and Edmund were Quidditch-crazy as usual. That morning, the others had complied with their fervour and played for a couple of hours, but most of them rebelled when Catherine strode into the sitting room after dinner and demanded volunteers for the cause.

"Cathy, do you ever think of anything but Quidditch?" complained Sirius.

Peter looked askance at his friend. "Don't be a wimp, Sirius. Of course, we'll play."

Kenneth sighed. He wasn't about to be outdone by Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew. He reluctantly dropped his book and went in search of a good thick scarf.

It was late in the afternoon and darkish as they ventured out of the cosy old farmhouse, brooms on their shoulders. There were only five of them, but Edmund and Catherine had more than enough ideas for practice.

"Is that a new Slytherin tactic, Avery?" asked Catherine when Edmund, trying to catch the Quaffle with both hands, rolled over on his broom, and dangled helplessly from it, his knees locked together.

"Help. I'm going to fall. Stop laughing, all of you," he said as they righted him and brought him safe to ground. Examining the broom, he swore. "Imps, very funny. Mangled the twigs." He swore again.

"Don't worry," said Catherine, surveying the damage. "I have a broomstick servicing kit in the house."

"We'll hunt imps in your honour while you're gone," Sirius called after them.

Catherine turned around to give her brother a very dirty look, but made no remark. She didn't approve of imp hunting, but had been unable dissuade her brother from it.

Kenneth, on the other hand, was an expert in the sport and didn't hesitate to follow Peter and Sirius down to the riverbank where the imps thrived in large colonies. Imp hunting was an art amongst the Avery and Black children. The surest but most demanding strategy was to stand on the slippery bank and wait for the impish love of slapstick to propel them from their holes and push the daring hunter into the river. One's partner then dealt with them. In winter, however, stealth and inventiveness were essential.

Crouching deep in the thicket, the three boys debated their options. Sirius insisted that a wand might prove tempting bait for the magic-attracted imps. "Of course, the moment they come out, you pick it up," Sirius explained and Peter or I bring my cloak down on them. Which should disorientate them and..."

"Why my wand?" asked Kenneth.

"Because we left ours in the house," said Sirius impatiently. "We're doing this by brute strength and superior reason alone."

"Oh all right," said Kenneth viewing the riverbank with distaste. He crouched down to edge his wand into view of the imp colony, then sat up. "Good enough?" he asked.

"You know, Avery," said Sirius, peering through the bushes at the wand. "I think you might be able to answer a question Peter and I have been asking ourselves lately."

"What's that?"

Sirius reached out for Kenneth's wand.

"What are you doing?" cried Kenneth, as it registered on him that Sirius Black was pocketing his wand and Peter Pettigrew had his own wand aimed at him. His voice sounded shocked, but deep inside he already knew what had happened. He had let his guard down. He had accepted the fallacy of Christmas good will, had believed that Gryffindor and Slytherin might not have reality outside of Hogwarts. Now, he would have to pay, he realised, as Black took out his own wand and pointed it at him as well. Because of his naïveté, he was alone, unarmed, far from where anyone could see or hear him. Alone with two Gryffindors.

Black's face wore a sneer. "Peter, will you do the honours?"

Kenneth began to scream. It didn't matter that no one could hear him. He had to call for help, even if he hadn't any idea what he was screaming. He couldn't sit there and let Pettigrew and Black proceed as they determined best.

Black hit him in the face. "Shut up, Avery!" he barked. As quickly as he had begun, Kenneth stopped screaming. He could taste blood, and putting his hand to his face, he discovered that his nose was bleeding.

Peter blanched at the sight of the blood. Still, his right hand stayed steady on his wand, as his left hand awkwardly searched his pocket. Eventually, he pulled out a handkerchief and silently, without meeting Kenneth's eyes, proffered it. Kenneth shook his head vigorously, biting back the tears.

"Avery," said Pettigrew, playing nervously with the handkerchief in his hand. "Who enchanted that quill I was slipped in Potions?"

Kenneth didn't answer.

"It doesn't much matter," said Black. "We know it was one of your gang."

"Then why are you bothering to ask me?"

"Because we would like an answer," said Black. "That's reason enough for you, Avery." He fingered his wand. "Who?"

No answer.

"Migraino," said Sirius, waving his wand furiously.

The pain was incredible. He almost fainted at the suddenness of it all, but, unfortunately, he didn't quite. Instead, he fell face down into the snow, his head splitting, his mind devoid of any thought but the pain. He didn't even feel the cold on his face until after the white-faced Pettigrew had pulled him up from the snow, and the curse began to lift. "Who?" Pettigrew was saying. "Who?"

"Snape... Lestrange," gasped Kenneth.

"Not very surprising," said Black. "Now Avery, be reasonable."

"Reasonable?" screamed Kenneth, grasping his head in his hands.

"Sirius, maybe we should leave it there," said Pettigrew.

"No," said Black harshly. "You're up to something, Avery. You and that Slytherin gang of yours, something seriously wrong."

"We're doing something wrong? And you sneaking out of Hogwarts all the time under Potter's invisibility cloak? That's not wrong?"

Pettigrew and Black were taken aback.

"How..." began Pettigrew.

"Severus Snape's tracked you before," said Kenneth spitefully. "He knows what you're up to."

There was dead silence from Pettigrew and Black. He seemed to have hit a nerve.

"Really?" said Black at last, raising his wand.

"STOP IT!" yelled Pettigrew. "STOP IT NOW!"

"PETER, GET OUT OF MY WAY!"

And then, Peter Pettigrew lunged forward and snatched the wand from Black's hands.

"Forget it, Sirius," he said.

Black glared at him a second, then glanced at Kenneth, crouched in the snow, still trying to staunch the flow of blood.

"Fine," he said. "May I have my wand back?"

Pettigrew returned the wand, and without saying anything, they turned to walk back to the house.

* * * * * * * *

In Lancashire, there is a castle known as Haut-Desert. The Muggles say that it does not exist. They say this because they have looked everywhere for it, tramping all over Lancashire and Yorkshire for a glimpse of anything that might resemble their imagination of it. The results of their expeditions can be found in weighty volumes available in any university library.

John Longbottom paused a second, then put a star beside the word university, meaning the word would have to be listed in the Glossary of Muggle Terms. That done he returned to his introduction.

One learned Muggle writes. "Haut-Desert is not a real castle. It is an idealisation of a castle.

It seemed real enough, thought Longbottom, looking about the library where he was working. Though he wouldn't deny it was an idealisation. An idealisation that happened to be real.

Haut-Desert has all the architectural elaborations of the late 14th century running together in wild combination. "It appeared like a prospect of paper-patterning," the Gawain-poet writes, emphasising the essential unreality of this magical world. Needless to say, there is no castle like Haut-Desert in all of England, or all of the world. Haut-Desert is only accessible through magic or reading."

The Muggle writer meant nothing but whimsy by the reference to magic, but he was right. Haut-Desert is unplottable, and appears only upon...

The window smashed.

"Sorry Dad!" shouted his older son, James, back from America for the holidays. He and Frank had been playing a sport across the library vaguely reminiscent of tennis, with beaters' bats and an apple charmed to bounce. Not surprisingly, the apple had finally crashed through a window, after bouncing off James's face. James quickly repaired the window, and aimed a Tantallegra curse at his Frank, who ducked. Young Geoffrey Wimple smiled a little, but Tristan seemed not to notice.

The library of Haut-Desert was nothing at all like Tristan's idea of a library. No one could have ever been quiet in this place. It demanded laughter, loud conversations, and the most energetic and highly inappropriate games.

Tristan still didn't understand Haut-Desert. Living in Hogwarts castle for the greater part of the year, he was sure it wouldn't be too much of a change, even if this old castle bore no resemblance to his own ordinary home.

But Haut-Desert was different. It wasn't a school. It was a home. Whereas the halls of Hogwarts were always cold and dreary in the winter, Haut-Desert was everywhere warm and cheery. Over the whole place hung an enchantment so powerful that Muggles still felt called to it across five centuries when they encountered it in the medieval poem: Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

The castle had never forgotten its first owner, the Green Knight, Bertilak of Haut-Desert. It remembered him most strongly at Christmas, when some swore that you could late at night hear his laughter on the stairs, though no one ever claimed to have seen his ghost. He was much too happy to turn a ghost. Whatever the next world is like, Bertilak has plunged into it with all the demonic or angelic energy with which he once led King Arthur's court and Sir Gawain a merry dance. And under his spell, even Tristan was beginning to feel happy again.

In the midst of the fun, a house-elf came in with a letter. "For Master Frank, sir," she said.

Frank who had been duelling with chesterfield cushions spun around, the smile on his face fading. He took it very gingerly and cringed at the seal. "Department of Magical Law Enforcement," he said, fingering the letter, but making no move to open it.

"Go on," said his father.

"I'm afraid to," said Frank, fixated on the seal.

"Shall I open it then?"

"No." He slowly began to open the letter, then with a sudden movement, tore it open, and scanned through it quickly. Immediately, his face relaxed. "I've been accepted. Conditional on not dropping out of Hogwarts or going insane."

"Congratulations," said his father. "Now the only question is whether you want to do this."

"I do," said Frank, glancing across the room at Tristan and Geoffrey.

His father sighed. "I'd rather you not be an Auror. Cowardice on my part. But it's best to say it now, rather than letting it lurk between us."

"You're not a coward!" said Frank indignantly. "You get death threats daily, don't you? And you keep writing."

"Not quite daily. But I'm safe enough here. You won't be."

"I can't make that bother me," said Frank. "I just can't. I should be afraid thinking about it, but I'm not. I'll have to discover later whether I'll be afraid."

"Frank, I promised myself to never to stand in the way of my sons' decisions. But I don't want to lose you. And I have a terrible feeling that you'll be signing your own death certificate by becoming an Auror."

"Any other objections?"

"No."

They looked at each other, then John began to laugh. "You are stubborn, aren't you?"

"So I have your blessing?" pressed Frank.

"Of course. You'll need it."

'Thank you," said Frank earnestly.