1975

Chapter Eight: Old Magic

Barty Crouch had never considered that there could be a thousand ways to kill Rita Skeeter. Neither had he realized how bloodthirsty the average Ministry employee could be.

The document had fallen into his hands by accident that morning while rummaging through Amos Diggory's desk for the minutes of that week's inter-Departmental meeting. One suggestion, "Make her eat her own articles," seemed appropriate. He was inclined to destroy the document, privately reprimand those responsible, and pretend he had never seen it.

"What are you working on?" asked Alysoun, entering his study.

"Absolutely nothing," he said with a yawn, taking his wand to the parchment. "Incendio!"

He conscientiously swept the ashes off the desk into his hand and disposed of them in the wastebasket.

"This place is chokingly neat," said Alysoun, watching him.

"Would you rather I strew trash over the floor or smear ink into the rug?" he said smoothly, as he put his quill into its case.

"I read your speech to the press."

"Rita Skeeter's version?"

"Did she mangle it?" asked Alysoun.

"A very little," he said with an icy smile. "She put quotation mark around my use of the words "good" and "evil."

"I didn't think that sounded like you," she said, sitting down on his knee.

They were an unlikely pair: Gryffindor and Slytherin, golden and dark hair, warm and cold, merciful and unforgiving.

"Do you love me, Barty?" she asked.

"It's one of the few givens of my life," he said.

"Then let's escape to New Zealand, start a sheep farm, and live happily ever after undisturbed and in harmony with nature."

"What about Barty and Narcissa?" he asked, looking amused. Very few people saw that look except Alysoun.

"Oh forget them! They've come between us too long." She playfully ran her hands through his hair. "A grey hair!" she said in shock.

"The first of many," he said.

"Are you going to dye your hair?" she asked.

"Certainly not. You'll have to live with my grey hair."

"It'll match your eyes," said Alysoun sincerely. "Your inhumanly grey eyes, to quote a certain journalist."

He kissed her. Her smooth lips on his, her body in his arms. Why did Voldemort have to kill and torture the innocent? Why did he have to kill and torture the guilty?

A popping sound was heard behind them. Alysoun jumped up off his knee. Adjusting his collar, he nodded in the direction of the fire, and the face of Arthur Weasley appeared.

"Mr. Crouch, I'm sorry to disturb you. We believe we've apprehended some of the people responsible for the Wimple murder."

"Very good," said Crouch, a glint appearing in his eyes, "I'll be Apparating in immediately."

"Yes, sir," said Weasley, and disappeared from the fire.

"With luck, we'll have some questions answered tonight," said Crouch quietly, as he went for his cloak. Alysoun looked after him apprehensively.

"Who are they?" he asked Persephone Fletcher, on Apparating into the Ministry.

"Andrew Wimple and Thomas Kelly," she said, not meeting his eyes. "They could be under Imperius."

"They could be," he replied.

"Moody said that you'd want to deal with Kelly first. Wimple's not cooperating," she said.

Persephone Fletcher would rather have been anywhere but there, taking his cloak, and leading to him to the interrogation room. Two weeks before, she had been the life and soul of the Spirit Division of Magical Creatures. Then she had been transferred to Law Enforcement without the slightest consultation.

"You're much too valuable an employee for Magical Creatures," her boss, Prisca Nettles, had said helplessly. "Crouch has had his eye on you for the last two years, to tell the truth, and under the circumstances, Perse, I couldn't very well refuse him."

Magical Law Enforcement was hell, Persephone reflected. So far, she had been limited to paperwork, horrible paperwork: coroners' reports, guidelines for use of the Cruciatus curse. She had never seen an interrogation and was trembling from head to toe, but if Crouch noticed, he said nothing. Arthur Weasley was waiting for them at the door of the room, looking, Persephone was glad to see, worried.

"Moody and McKinnon have him inside," he said frowning.

"Take a chair, both of you, once inside," said Crouch. "Miss Fletcher, you'll be taking notes. We won't be recording this."

And this is where a talent for shorthand gets you

, thought Persephone as Crouch opened the door.

Kelly was bound to a chair, looking around desperately. He caught Persephone's eye for a second, but she resolutely looked away. Thomas Kelly had been four years below her at Hogwarts and she could remember intervening often to keep him from being bullied. He had been that sort of kid: one of life's victims.

"They used her own wand to kill her, you know," said Arthur Weasley quietly as they sat down on the appallingly ordinary sofa. "We guessed it was someone they had known, though I never would have thought her brother-in law... They got away with it too, only they were fingered by one of Dumbledore's people."

"Is there any evidence against them?" asked Persephone.

"That's what we're here for," said Weasley grimly.

"How's Molly?"

"Pretty well. All things considered."

"When's the due date?"

"Today," said Weasley. "Not that you can expect a baby to be exactly punctual in arriving." He looked at his wristwatch miserably.

Crouch had taken out his wand and turned to Kelly. "You killed Rebecca Wimple," he said. It was not question.

Kelly blinked. "I didn't," he said, his eyes trying but failing to meet Crouch's. "I didn't do it," and then, "You can't send me to Azkaban."

"I'd rethink that belief, boy," growled Moody.

"My father..."

"Your father doesn't even know you are missing," said Crouch drily. "We are the only ones who know what's become of you. These Aurors could take you to Azkaban now, and you could sit there forgotten until you answered me. But I don't think we have time for that." He lowered his wand at Kelly's chest. "Voldemort," Kelly flinched "is a criminal who relies on a band of thugs to keep his name in the papers by killing. And against him stands a country determined to protect its citizens. You can't win against that by keeping silent." He paused. No answer from Kelly. "You can't keep silent. Crucio!"

Crouch held the curse for a second only, but it transformed Kelly. His head had fallen forward on his chest. His limbs were shaking violently. "I didn't know they were going to kill her," he gasped. "I'm not a Death Eater!"

"I didn't suggest you were," said Crouch contemptuously. "Who went with you to the Wimples' house?"

"Andrew Wimple and a hooded man: a Death Eater, I think. Wimple killed her. I wasn't there. I was in the garden. I couldn't go in. I was sick."

"Nice try for sympathy," interjected Moody, a ghastly smile on his scarred face.

"You'll send me to Azkaban?" said Kelly, as if he couldn't grasp the concept.

"No," said Crouch coolly. "Not yet." He lifted his wand again.

"No!" cried Kelly. "Please. I'll tell you..."

"Stupefy!" Kelly went limp.

"Small fry," said Moody. "Wimple, I think, will be more worth our time."

"Yes," said Crouch. "I thought so, but a minute..." he trailed off. "Finish with Kelly tonight," he said abruptly. "Then wipe his memory. He'll be put under Imperius tomorrow morning and sent back into the world."

Moody nodded. He looked as if he were enjoying himself. "Who'll do that, Barty?" he asked.

"I will. And he'll keep us informed of what's going on. Not Wimple, though. He might throw it off. Wimple must disappear for a while. A quiet trip up to Azkaban, I think. But we'll see after we've talked with him."

"Where should we put him right now?" asked Moody. "We have him locked up in my office, tied under the desk."

"We need a special cell for prisoners we don't admit to having," joked McKinnon.

Something approaching a smile played about Crouch's lips, but it passed quickly. "I've given some thought to that. We'll talk later. For now, leave him under the desk. Your office is about as secure as Azkaban, after all. Any other questions?"

"Not right now," said Moody.

"Very good," said Crouch. "Weasley, come with me. Fletcher, carry on taking notes."

Persephone Fletcher resigned herself to a hellish night.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"You're an idiot, Howard," blustered Edmund Avery. "A Gryffindorish idiot."

Alison said nothing. She had been sitting in an armchair for half an hour as Edmund paced back and forth haranguing her for being taken off the Slytherin team. Some of the Slytherins were still absorbed by the spectacle, but most people had gone back to their previous pursuits, and were to the best of their abilities ignoring Edmund's rant.

"We've lost any chance at the Quidditch Cup," said Edmund for about the sixtieth time. "That Cup belonged to us this year and you've lost it for us. It's time..." He stopped abruptly at the sound of his own words, and looked down at his wristwatch. Realizing that he was supposed to be meeting Catherine Black in five minutes, he decided to cut short the lecture. "I hope you enjoy the rest of your year," he said nastily, and stormed out of the common room in what he hoped passed as righteous indignation.

Alison waited a second, got up, and, leaving the common room, made her way to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, where she supposed the others were already at work.

She was not mistaken. "Your brother's finished chewing me out," she said to Kenneth, who was carefully shredding knotgrass.

"He's a little Quidditch-mad," said Kenneth apologetically.

They

were, of course, wholeheartedly on Severus's and Alison's side. The rest of the House might have wanted the unlucky pair's heads, but after what had happened to Kenneth, none of their gang (as Remus Lupin was pleased to call them) doubted that Alison and Severus had been entirely justified in entering into a duel.

"No one's complaining about all those points Longbottom lost us," observed Evan. "Rolly, will you lend a hand? He's been lazing about with his book for the last twenty minutes."

"I'm almost finished," protested Rolly, who was hunched up over a worn and battered book.

"Uric the Oddball and the Wild Hunt by Ariana Deralte," read out Alison. "Haven't you read that one already?"

"Everyone has," said Kenneth. "We used to play that when we were little. Edmund was always Louis Iliescu, Catherine Black was Mena, Sirius Black was Uric, and I was everyone else."

"You really were pushed about as a child, weren't you, Kenneth?" said Evan affectionately.

"I never read it," said Florence. "My father said it promoted upper class oppression."

Everyone stared at her. "Your family is weird," said Rolly clearly. "Here, take the book and read it. What was it you wanted me to do, Evan?"

"Are the leeches supposed to be tipped in alive?" Rodolphus asked Florence.

"God no!" said Florence, looking horrified. "Dead, and whole."

"Have you ever tried squishing a leech, Flo?" asked Rodolphus skeptically. "They bounce right back up."

"Oh let me!"

"I was counting on you saying that," said Rodolphus. "Severus, what is it with you?"

"Nothing," said Severus coldly.

"For the last time, I did not turn you in to Longbottom. Why would I have done that?"

"You were the only one we told," said Severus. "And it had to have been a Slytherin. A Gryffindor obviously told McGonagall, but Longbottom was pulled out of bed late at night."

"I think Crouch ratted on you," said Rodolphus. "After all those things you said about his father, I wouldn't be surprised."

"Crouch didn't know about the duel, Rodolphus," said Alison.

"He could have guessed."

"Guessed that we would be in the trophy room? Rodolphus, you might as well confess," said Alison coldly.

"I didn't do it, and that's my final word on that," said Rodolphus.

"Of course, he didn't do it," said Myrtle, who suddenly floated through the door of one of the stalls. She was glaring at Alison. "Why don't you leave him alone?"

"I'll do that," said Alison.

Rodolphus looked as if the world had just come crashing down around him, as Alison walked out of the room without even looking at him.

"You've got rid of her," said Myrtle gleefully.

"I.. I... Oh, God," he said, and sat down on the floor with a dazed expression.

"You've just been chucked," said Severus coldly.

Rodolphus didn't hear. It was a moment of epiphany for him. Till a few seconds before, he had somehow assumed in the back of his mind that she was there for him, that if he decided to fall in love or even, one day, to marry her, he could. And now he knew that he had fallen in love and she might not be there for him at all.

"Could we call a truce?" said Florence sharply. "Severus, you can't accuse Rodolphus of something he denies with no proof."

"I won't then," said Severus. "Are we done?"

"For the moment," said Evan. "Come on, let's go."

"You can stay if you like," said Myrtle to Rodolphus.

Rodolphus did not take up on Myrtle's offer. Kenneth took him by the arm, and when he objected to going back to the common room, they went outside to walk around the lake.

It was troubling. They didn't usually fight, reflected Rolly to himself, not like that. Well, he supposed they would figure things out. He couldn't.

"Rolly, you write poetry, don't you?" asked Evan, as they climbed the stairs up to their dormitory.

"Why would you think so?"

"Kenneth went through your drawers looking for your History of Magic notes last week and I swear I saw something that looked like meter."

Rolly sighed. "Kenneth Avery will never get it into his head that he shouldn't rifle through my stuff. Yes, I scribble a bit."

"Good, because I can't. I'm writing a poem and it's not working out."

"A poem?" asked Rolly, sitting down at his desk.

"A love poem," said Evan grimly. "It's necessary apparently."

"Necessary for what?" asked Rolly.

"I was going to ask Cynthia Rookwood to go to the ball with me, and then that damn Hufflepuff - whatshisname - with the blond hair and the blue eyes comes along to where we were sitting in the library, and puts down an envelope before her, and bowing, leaves. She opens the envelope and it's a bloody poem! "When fairest Cynthia blah blah blah..."

"Excuse me, Evan. Cynthia Rookwood?"

"She's quite nice, Rolly."

"She has a tongue that could do murder."

"Well, tongues can be tamed," said Evan. "I'm working on that. Anyway, how am I supposed to compete with Cupid's slave?"

"Cupid's slave?" asked Rolly.

"That's what the idiot called himself in his poem."

"Did Cynthia like the poem?"

"Yes, confound her!"

"Well, if Cynthia prefers Summers (that's who it is, isn't it?), she's not worth your attention," said Rolly sensibly.

"Perhaps she doesn't prefer Summers," said Evan desperately. "It's just I couldn't ask her to the ball after that. I sat there dumbstruck and then changed the topic to Transfiguration. I'm tutoring her in Transfiguration."

"I'd say that gives you the advantage over Mr. Summers. Any girl that will sit and listen to you talking about Transfiguration for hours at end must have a crush on you, Evan. Think about it."

Evan's face reddened.

"Furthermore, when did a Hufflepuff best a Slytherin in matters of love?" asked Rolly. "We'll write a poem to send Summers sprawling in the gutter."

"Thank you! That's exactly what I need. But I'm not in love, mind that."

"Oh, of course," said Rolly pulling out a quill and smiling to himself. "Do you have any preferences: dactylic hexameter, blank verse?"

"Anything more advanced than a limerick," said Evan.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Frank was not at all surprised to find Edmund Avery and Catherine Black in a compromising position when he walked into the small room he and Edmund had extralegally snagged as a study and put under an illusionment charm. He was a little annoyed to find that the Gryffindor girl had been let in on the secret, but he was not surprised.

"Hello, Catherine," he said warmly. "No storage rooms available?"

Catherine sniffed but couldn't think of a suitable retort. Edmund was grinning like an idiot.

"Something wrong, Frank?" he asked, as Frank began to violently go through their bookshelf.

"Look for Vindictus Viridian," said Frank, slamming down a heavy volume in front of Edmund.

"Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century," read Edmund. "Not very promising, Frank. Now if it was Pathetic Failures of the Twentieth Century, we might have a chance. Let's see, Viridian. Deletrius Viridian invented the sneakocsope. No, no Vindictus here."

"That's my copy," said Frank. "Now compare it to his."

"You nicked his copy?" asked Catherine.

"You bet I did," said Frank, a light dancing in his eye. "Here, read."

"Viridian, Vindictus. - Author of "Curses and Counter-curses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying, and Much, Much More)" Born January 11, 1931... He wrote an entry for himself into his copy!"

"Pathetic, isn't it? But the important thing is that I don't think Curses and Countercurses is something Dumbledore would approve of," said Frank.

"How did you get this book?" asked Catherine.

"I was searching his office. A bit of a tricky business. He's actually sealed and charmed it very well. He does know his subject, we'll give him that."

"But you disarmed his protections?"

"Yes, I did," said Frank without a shade of modesty. "And I confounded his detectors and traps. I couldn't finish, because the perimeter charm I put up warned me someone was coming, but I made a good start. I think I'll finish tomorrow."

"Frank, if I had even considered becoming a dark wizard, I'd pause knowing you were an Auror," said Edmund with heartfelt admiration.

"Are you supposed to be searching a teacher's office?" asked Catherine sharply.

"No," said Frank. "I'm not. Does that bother you?"

"When in Slytherin, Cathy, do as the Slytherins do," said Edmund amused.

"The point is that Viridian has tucked away somewhere a manuscript that is potentially very incriminating," said Frank. "We need to find it."

"We?" asked Catherine.

"Yes, it's a requirement. If you plan to be taking up Edmund's time, you could at least be a bit helpful."

"Avery, I'm not sure we should continue this secret romance," said Catherine. "Too many strings attached."

"Are you two going to the ball together?" asked Frank.

"No," said Catherine. "I'm going with Basil Bletchley. If word gets out that I'm seeing the Slytherin captain, I don't know what would happen."

"So, I'm left without a partner," said Edmund. "Frank's going with Megan Diggory."

"Not anymore," said Frank. "I've been jilted for Gilderoy Lockhart.

"What?" choked Edmund.

"I was just told. According to her parents, I'm too political to be seen dancing with. I don't really blame them."

"Well, I do," said Catherine. "If we 'Mugglelovers' don't stand together, we're in trouble."

Edmund looked uncomfortable. Neither the Averys nor the Black had ever counted themselves as 'Mugglelovers,' and while being best friends with Frank for seven years had changed his view on many things, he wasn't ready to rebel openly against his background.

"I could probably find you a partner, Frank," said Catherine.

"No thank you," said Frank. "But save a dance for me. Unless that'd jeopardize your place on the Gryffindor team, dancing with an ex-Slytherin prefect."

"It'd probably jeopardize my Defence Against the Dark Arts mark, but I'll do that."

"And meanwhile, Edmund can glare at us out the corner of his eye, and wonder what we're talking about and why we're dancing so closely. Well, I'll leave you two to whatever it was you were doing. I need to do a little detective work."

With that, he went out.

"Isn't he wonderful?" asked Catherine.

"He's not available, though," said Edmund teasingly.

"Oh, who does his heart belong to then?"

"The Department of Magical Law Enforcement. These days, an Auror shouldn't fall in love."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In the girls' dormitory, Julian and Florence were trying to distract Alison from her quarrel with Rodolphus with little success. "If he'd just admit it," she was saying.

"Have you considered he didn't do it?" asked Florence.

"That's not possible, Flo," said Alison blankly. "And, of course, he won't invite me to the ball because I'm a Mudblood."

Julian flinched at the word. "Are you sure he won't?"

"No, I'm spending a restful evening up here with Rodolphus, Severus, and Florence."

"Restful?" snorted Florence.

"You bunch need to be a little more sociable," began Julian.

"I don't like dancing," said Florence defensively.

"I can't dance to save my life," said Julian, "but that's going to be Rolly's problem not mine. Look, Flo, choose your poison! Severus or Evan? Melania and I'll press him into service."

"Melania's corrupting you," said Alison severely. "If you don't keep a careful watch, you'll become a giggler."

"Don't be harsh," said Julian laughingly. "I've just discovered the fun of being a silly girl. A few years late, I admit, but Melania's lending me a dress and I'm putting up my hair. Now if I could only dance, I'd be in heaven. Could you help me with a shoe shining spell, Florence?"

"Certainly," said Florence, as Julian pulled off her shoes and put them on the bed. "You're wearing these to the ball?"

"No one will see them," said Julian defensively.

Alison sighed. "Wear a pair of mine, Julian," she said. "Your feet are smaller than mine. I'll do a shortening spell on them for the evening.

"He won't pay for proper shoes?" asked Florence bluntly.

Julian's face reddened. "He's pretending I don't exist these days," she said quietly.

"Can't he be taken to court?" asked Alison.

"No, in the eyes of the law, an illegitimate child has no father unless he chooses to acknowledge paternity," said Florence.

"Exactly," said Julian. "Which Ignatius Kelly was not kind enough to do for me."

"Add that to our list of legal reforms," said Alison.

"My father's been crusading against that law for years," said Florence.

"And not having much luck," said Julian.

"No. He doesn't tend to," said Florence. "He wanted to speak to the Ravenclaws about communism, but they didn't let him."

"That's a real shame," said Alison. "I love hearing your father talk about communism. I'd rather hear him than Crouch."

"Crouch?" asked Julian.

"Julian, where have you been? Some of the alumni are talking to their various old Houses tonight, to inspire us, etc. We've got Crouch."

"I don't see what's so bad about that," said Julian, blushing. "He's quite good-looking." Florence choked. "Well, he is, isn't he?"

"Yes," said Alison. "He most certainly is. But we shouldn't say that in front of Florence."

"All right, he is very good looking," said Florence. "Does that satisfy you? Are we now going to sit on the bed giggling over Crouch photographs we cut from the Daily Prophet? Shall we become slathering vengeance enthusiasts: 'Avada Kedavra them all'!"

Julian looked at the ground for a second, then said, "Fighting You-Know-Who isn't vengeance."

"Oh yes it is," said Alison. "Nothing wrong with vengeance in my opinion. Haven't you ever wanted to take revenge on someone?"

"Yes," said Julian quietly. "I have, which is why I'd rather not hear you justify it. Thank you for the shoes, Alison. I must go and find Sybil." She got off the bed, slipped her own shoes back on, and left.

"Still waters run deep," said Florence.

"It's always the quiet ones," said Alison. "Do you think she would..."

"Julian Tierney and the Dark Arts? Very unlikely," said Florence.

"I wonder," said Alison. "Put that down on our list of things to do."

"The list's getting rather long," said Florence. "We'd need to live a few extra hundred years to finish it."

"Add alchemy to the list," said Alison, laughing.

In the invisibility section of the library, Rolly and Evan were not laughing as they held a conference in hushed whispers.

"Put the poem inside the Tranfiguration book, so when she opens it..." whispered Rolly. "Evan, this is not the time to freeze up."

"I'm not freezing up. I'm just wondering whether this is a good idea," said Evan irritably.

"Good. You can wonder all you want. Here comes Summers."

Summers's arrival on the scene seemed to spring Evan into action. He and Rolly cut across the library to where Cynthia was sorting through a stack of books, just in time to hear Summers ask her to the ball.

The situation called for desperate measures. Before Cynthia could answer, Rolly picked up a copy of "He Flew Like a Madman: The Biography of 'Dangerous' Dai Llewellyn," and pitched it at Summers's head.

"Wilkes!" shouted Summers as Rolly fled. Summers was after him in a second.

"Why did he do that?" demanded Cynthia of Evan.

"Rolly? I really don't know. Would you go to the ball with me?"

"Alfred just asked me."

"You didn't say yes to him," said Evan pleadingly.

Cynthia looked at him for a second. He wasn't as handsome as Summers, but he had red hair, a point in his favour, and he was smart, which as a Rookwood, she valued. Besides, she could just see the look on her friends' faces when she announced she was going with a Slytherin.

"I'll go with you, Evan," she said. "Now, can you explain this exercise?"

"Rosier," spat out Summers, returning. "Tell Wilkes to take care."

Evan turned the Transfiguration textbook to page fourty-three and handed it to Cynthia. "I meant to show you this before I asked, but here you are." Then he turned to Summers. "No, I won't tell Wilkes to take care. We'll take care of him."

"Cynthia," said Summers, ignoring Evan's answer, "May I have a word with you?"

"I'm sorry, Alfred," said Cynthia. "I've already promised to go to the ball with Evan.

Summers looked crushed. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, nodded, and left.

"I feel terrible about him," said Cynthia.

"I don't see why," said Evan, slipping on his reading glasses.

"He's too intense," said Cynthia. "Even writing poetry."

"Oh," said Evan.

Cynthia looked down at the textbook.

Since golden hair and eyes blue as the sky,
Are brought together in one woman fair,
Forgive me, lady, if the wandering eye
Is halted in one place when she is there.

To look upon her is not ecstasy.
Nor yet is it a bliss past human ken.
It is indeed a lovely sight to see,
And that should be enough for mortal men.

But past that beauty, there are smiles and looks
Which show her to those few that she lets see
As more than lovely. As a friend of books,
And better yet, a faithful friend to me.

So let it not be wondered at, at all,
That I would wish to ask her to the ball

.

"It's not too intense, is it?" asked Evan, as she looked up from it.

"It's very sweet," said Cynthia. "Just don't take to stalking me." She looked at her watch. "It's getting late. Shouldn't we be getting back to our common rooms? You've got Crouch, right? We're going to be listening to Professor Mordicus Egg on "How Hufflepuff made me what I am today."

"A frightening prospect," said Evan. "Well, give my love to Summers."

"Don't pick a fight with him," said Cynthia. "At the rate you Slytherins are going, you're going to antagonize the entire school by the end of the year."

"We can't help it if everyone's so disagreeable," protested Evan, as he picked up his bag and headed for the Slytherin common room.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Are you sure I'm allowed in here?" asked Alysoun Crouch, pausing on the threshold of the Slytherin common room.

"If you don't vandalize anything," said Barty, taking her hand in his and drawing her into the room. "Here you are."

"I thought they were just joking when they said it looked like a dungeon," said Alysoun. "An elegant dungeon," she added quickly, seeing a glint come into her husband's eyes.

However, he said nothing. "Barty," he said, seeing his son. "A seat for your mother." Barty Jr. jumped up and motioned his mother to the armchair he'd been sitting it.

"Thank you dear," she said. "Where's Narcissa?"

"Here," said Narcissa, sitting down on the floor beside the chair. Barty Jr. sat down on the armrest, but when he saw the look on his father's face, he quickly jumped up.

"Sit down all of you," Viridian snapped. "Mr. Crouch doesn't have all evening to speak to you."

"We do have a little while," said Crouch. He was scanning the audience, dividing the students into categories. The boy with the dark hair and the glasses would be a Lestrange. No wonder he was already smirking to the girl with the painfully earnest expression. Walter Jorkins's daughter. He would bet his life on it. He couldn't place the boy sitting beside her at first, but he had the Malfoy chin. Probably that Wilkes kid. Death Eater material, he thought wryly. His eye wandered on to the older Avery boy, a spitting image of his father who worked in Magical Games and Sports. And sitting beside Avery was Frank Longbottom, who was going to be one of his Aurors. A mixed group, this.

"It's usual to say," he began, "on such occasions like this that you have your lives ahead of you, that anything you want is within your grasp, that the future is bright with promise. That would be a lie. The future is dark and youth is cut short as easily as old age. Some of you will die soon, unless we are granted some miracle."

That seemed to grab their attention. They had expected something different entirely, something inspirational and boring.

"So I will not reminisce about how much I loved my days at Hogwarts or praise House Slytherin to the skies. I don't need to explain those things to you, anyway, I would think. We are an oft-maligned House. Voldemort was a Slytherin, as you will never be allowed to forget." At the sound of the name, most of the students flinched. "We have an unparalleled record among the House of turning out dark wizards. Don't be proud of that."

Several of the students laughed.

"I do not joke," said Crouch, a smile playing about his lips. "As strange as it may sound these days, I attended Hogwarts in a time of peace, when students found it amusing to boast of our dark wizards." His eyes met Alysoun's for a moment, and he was amused to see that she looked shocked, as if, after all these years, she still couldn't fathom the Slytherin mindset. "I know how much dabbling in the Dark Arts goes on in this House, despite your teachers' best efforts. I know that Voldemort's lies entrance the minds of many of you. I know the hunger for power. I know the allure of what he is offering you."

There was a dead silence across the room.

"What he offers, besides power, is immortal life," said Crouch. "That's not to be scorned. Can he deliver what he offers? I don't think he can, but that may be wishful thinking on my part. But he offers immortal life at a price that I would never pay and I wish you would never consider paying. The Dark Arts destroy all those who try to master them. They become a person's master. You all know this, especially those of you who have meddled with them. They are, for the most part, Old Magic. The Magic that isn't taught here in Charms, or Divination, or any of your other classes, for the most part."

"Well, yes, we've studied that in Defense Against the Dark Arts," said Viridian testily.

Crouch shot him a sharp glance. "Have you?" he said, his voice dripping with skepticism. "I hadn't thought there was more than a few paragraphs in the textbooks. Defense Against the Dark Arts teaches one to defend against the Dark Arts, but not their workings, except to note that they are parasitic, that they take power from something other than the individual's own potential."

"That's what I teach," said Viridian. If looks could kill, all the students knew that Crouch would be dead on the rug. Rodolphus had stopped smirking and was looking admiringly at Crouch. Viridian being corrected by the Head of Magical Law Enforcement was a sight to be enjoyed.

"That warning given," said Crouch, as if he had not heard Viridian, "there is another reason to resist those temptations. Because they are temptations. Killing innocent people and spreading terror are wrong. That's simple enough, and you all know it, and will know it for the rest of your lives, whatever you delude yourselves into telling your minds. As a House, we are accused of justifying the means by the ends. But if we do this, we're not different from any person on the face of the earth. The question is always, What means? What ends? If the end is not worth the means, that is wrong. An end which demands the killing of innocent children can not be worth all that much. And yet, there are times when an end is worth actions that we would normally not take. Slytherins have a more acute sense of this than other people, perhaps, and that is why you should never take this question lightly." He paused. "I am engaged in fighting a war every day, as you know. It is to be hoped that when you must fight in that war as well, you will fight on the right side. This war cannot be won, whatever certain Gryffindors think, without Slytherin."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"And now for something completely different," said Evan, as he finished brushing his teeth.

"What? That wasn't inspirational enough for you?" asked Rodolphus in a mocking tone.

"I thought it was a very good speech," said Severus. "Not entirely practical, but worth hearing anyway."

"What do you have for us tonight?" asked Evan.

"A charm. Old Magic, I suppose," said Severus, his lips curling slightly.

The door opened and Alison and Florence slipped in. "Someone's going to catch us eventually," said Florence with a worried look. "And Julian's noticed we slip out at night."

"We'll bring her along soon enough, in my opinion," said Alison dismissively. "I went through her diary and..."

"Alison!" said Kenneth in shock.

"Well, I did. If she didn't want anyone to read it, she should have kept it hidden, or not written in one. I'd never write in a diary. My prying revealed that the girl needs to be here, so you should thank me. Severus, what are those herbs for?"

"The charm I'm preparing."

"And what is this charm, may I ask, before you start doing it?" snapped Rodolphus.

"It's an Anglo-Saxon herbal charm," said Severus briefly. "Against all poisons."

"Oh very exciting."

"Very useful," said Alison.

Rodolphus looked determined to find something to complain about. "Where does it take its power from?" he asked. "I don't feel like exposing myself to any power that happens to wander along."

"That's curious, actually," said Florence, who was looking at the old book Severus had handed her. "The charm mentions Christ and Woden."

"So it's someone's messed up religion. Very comforting," said Rodolphus.

"If you don't like it, leave the room," said Alison sternly. She carefully laid down the herbs in the chalk circle Severus had drawn on the table. "Mugwort, plantain, lamb's cress, cock's-spur grass, camomile, nettle, crab-apple, chervil, and fennel. Don't touch anything within the circle. Severus?"

Severus took the book from Florence and began to read,

"Gemyne ðu, mucgwyrt, hwæt þu ameldodest,"

It sounded uncanny enough in Old English, but translating it to himself, Rolly found it hard not to laugh, "Remember, thou, mugwort, what thou revealed." The idea of Severus holding a conversation with a mugwort plant was absurd. Not for the first time, he wondered if spells and charms were always in Latin or Greek or Old English, not because Modern English had less magic, but because the old languages made the wizards sound much less silly saying the incantations.

Rolly's father had taught him Old English as a child. "Why do people stick with Latin? There's as much or more magic in the North as the South," he could remember his father declaring passionately. "I'll teach him Old Norse too eventually." He hadn't. He had died when Rolly was nine. But he had left his son with a love for Language and a feeling for its inherent power. Language could describe but it could also create. It could create stories, but it could also literally bring things into being, as Severus was doing here, taking these ordinary herbs and transforming them into something else, guardians against danger, power against...

"Stond heo wið wærce, stunað heo wið attre,

seo mæg wið III and wið XXX,
wið feondes hond and wið færbregde,
wið malscrunge manra wihta."

"It stands against pain, stands against poison, has might against three and against thirty, Against devil's hand and against deception, Against the witchcraft of the wicked ones," translated Rolly to himself. Obviously the charm's creator hadn't known it would eventually be classed with the witchcraft of the wicked ones.

"Nu magon þas VIIII wyrta wið nygon wuldorgeflogenum,
wið VIIII attrum and wið nygon onflygnum,
wið ðy readan attre, wið ðy runlan attre,
wið ðy hwitan attre, wið ðy wedenan attre,
wið ðy geolwan attre, wið ðy grenan attre,
wið ðy wonnan attre, wið ðy wedenan attre,
wið ðy brunan attre, wið ðy basewan attre,
wið wyrmgeblæd, wið wætergeblæd,
wið þorngeblæd, wið þystelgeblæd,
wið ysgeblæd, wið attorgeblæd,
gif ænig attor cume eastan fleogan
oððe ænig norðan cume
oððe ænig westan ofer werðeode."

The words were pounding in his brain, and his heart felt as if it was burning and yet grasped by a cold, hard pressing hand. Severus's words were a hot, fierce, triumphant poetry of a different time. Old Magic. Not the mechanical Latinate stuff of Hogwarts classes, but a magic that called on the old powers of the earth. "These nine herbs have power against nine horrors, Against nine venoms and against nine poisons: Against the red venom, against the running venom, Against the white venom, against the purple venom, Against the yellow venom, against the green venom, Against the black venom, against the blue venom, Against the brown venom, against the bay venom; Against worm-blister, against water-blister, Against thorn-blister, against thistle blister, Against ice-blister, against poison-blister. If any venom comes flying from the east, Or any from the north comes, Or any from the west upon the tribe of men."

Evan sneezed. A piece of nettle blew out of the circle and onto Rolly's hand. For a moment, he felt a sudden sharp pain, then he was falling into a rich, soft, welcoming darkness.

Rolly Wilkes had fallen forward on the table, and he made no sound.