1975

Chapter IX - The Dying of the Light

Severus dropped the book and stared in horror.

"Don't touch him!" he hissed, as Evan reached out his hand.

"Finish the spell," ordered Alison brusquely.

Severus did, maintaining a frightening calm as he intoned the finishing words. Then, carefully, slowly, he and Mordred pulled Rolly off the table and onto a bed.

"Should I go for help?" asked Ken hesitantly.

"No, get a restorative," Severus said, but Florence had already found one in the supply of useful but forbidden things they kept under the floorboards. She was prying open Rolly's mouth and forcing the stuff down his throat.

"Stop it!" said Alison, as Florence frantically tried to make him swallow. "You'll choke him. He's in a trance."

"Should I go for help?" asked Ken again, his voice panicked.

"He's breathing easily," said Severus, "No reaction to anything."

"He'll probably snap out of it in a minute or two," said Alison.

"You don't know that!" snapped Florence. "He needs help!"

"What if we go for help," said Severus, "and we're hauled up in front of the Council of Magical Law for practicing Dark Magic?"

"And if we don't and Rolly dies?" shot back Florence.

"He's showing no signs of dying," said Alison curtly.

Mordred had closely been examining Rolly's face. "No signs of any damage," he said quietly. "I've seen what it's like when that happens." Everyone stared at him. "My uncle killed himself summoning a demon," he said blankly. "I learnt a lot about trances then. Rolly'll snap out of it eventually."

"That's what I thought," said Severus.

Florence looked unconvinced.

"He's all right. I promise you," said Mordred. "Do you think I'd let him be hurt? We're all going to come through this safe and sound. I promise."

Florence nodded.

"Good," said Severus. "Now listen..."

"Florence, Alison," said Mordred. "I think you should get out of here."

Alison paused. "All right," she said. "I'm going down to the common room. I expect you to keep me posted."

"Well, that was brilliant of you, Snape," said Mordred as soon as Florence and Alison had left the room. "You too, Rosier."

For a moment, seeing Rolly lying there, it seemed as if the quarrel had been forgotten, but apparently it had not been. Severus said nothing, and picking a book off his shelf, began to read. They sat quietly for an hour till at last Mordred went down to the common room.

He found Alison sitting alone in front of the fire. Florence was asleep on another sofa.

"Is he really all right?" asked Alison, as he sat down beside her.

"We'll know soon," he said. "It can't hurt to wait. I do know that."

They sat in silence. "Do you really believe," he said suddenly, "that I handed you in to Longbottom?"

"What else should I believe?"

"Then," said Mordred, with an air of resolution. "I'll take the blame for that."

"You'll what?"

"I said I'd take the blame for handing you and Severus in," said Mordred.

"But you aren't saying you did it," pointed out Alison. "You'll just take the blame for it."

"I say I did it as well," said Mordred.

"You almost make me want to believe your first story," said Alison.

"Pick one story to believe. I'm tired of fighting with you. It's like fighting the North Wind."

"A fine compliment," she said, sounding annoyed. But though he couldn't see her face clearly in the shadows, he thought the icy look in her eyes had thawed. "The blustering North Wind, hated by everyone."

"Not by me," he said, stretching out his hand to touch hers lightly.

"Aren't you afraid I'll dirty your hand?" she said softly.

He stiffened. "Yes," he finally said, his hand still on hers. "Wouldn't you be if you were in my position? It's almost as dangerous to be called a Mugglelover as it is to have Muggle blood."

"I think you should get back to the dormitory," she said tonelessly.

"I couldn't lie," he said.

"I know." She took her hand from his. "You should go back to your dormitory."

He did.

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

Alysoun Crouch silently watched her husband writing at the desk in their room at Hogwarts. She was surprised to find herself here. Some months before, Barty had reluctantly agreed to address the Slytherins, but he could have apparated up to Hogsmeade, spent a few hours at Hogwarts, and returned to the Ministry. Instead, he had abruptly announced they were staying at Hogwarts for the weekend. She hadn't asked why, knowing that he couldn't answer. She had to preserve some normality and a trip up to Hogwarts, whatever was behind it, would be a good thing. Lying in the old four-poster, she was certain she was right. Barty had been more his old self at dinner with Dumbledore and the staff: charming, witty, jovial, the man who was immensely popular at any dinner party, instead of the laconic, constrained, and overworked civil servant he had been for the last few weeks.

Barty was, she reflected, first and foremost an actor, forever playing one role or another, but never exactly what he played at. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he was always more than the role he played. As a Hogwarts student, she had been charmed by the Slytherin Head Boy with the handsome face, the piercing grey eyes, the dark hair, and the air of command. What girl's heart hadn't quickened when he walked into a room? But she had learnt that this Barty Crouch was only one of his roles. Bartemius Crouch, the earnest and eager scholar, who devoted his youth to learning so many languages, was another persona with whom to contend, and where these two personas met was often not clear. That schooldays' observation was only the beginning of her acquaintance with the man who was all things to all people: charming when the situation required it, sombre when that was required, commanding at times, and forbearing at others, always acting, never giving himself away, and then, suddenly, unexpectedly, passionately in love with her.

She sometimes wondered if she had had a choice in the matter, if she could have chosen not to respond to that intensity. He was an overpowering personality, and it took a very strong will to stand up to him. Not surprisingly, he had always dominated their marriage. His views, his tastes, his moods, his decisions, her life had always revolved around his and never his around hers. Yet while he unconsciously did dominate her, as he dominated everyone in his life, she was the only person to whom he showed his vulnerabilities. He did try to stop himself from intruding too far into her private space, from stomping out all beliefs and feelings that differed from his. Considering that he was used to control in all things, his forbearance with her was, she had decided, remarkable. Why he still worshiped the ground she walked on, she didn't know, but the look in his eyes as he turned towards her now left her as in love as had the eyes of the young Ministry official, starting out upon a promising career many years before.

"I'm glad to be back at Hogwarts again," said Alysoun. "It brings back so many good memories."

"No bad memories?" he asked, standing up and replacing several books on the shelf over the desk.

"No! Everything here was perfect. Why would you doubt that, Barty?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.

"Yes, of course, you would have enjoyed watching Slytherin win the House Cup every year. How chivalrous of you, Alysoun."

"You needn't have reminded me of that," said Alysoun, as he sat down on the bed beside her. "I suppose your Hogwarts memories are one happy triumph after another."

"Not entirely. I learnt to cast the Unforgivable Curses here."

"Why?" He had never spoken to her about this.

"I was fifteen and I wanted to know. I'll never forget what that was like to put a creature in so much pain. It was a beetle and it was lying on its back, its legs flailing. I knew that if it had had a voice, it would be screaming. I went back to safer things like languages. For a little while. Languages can't keep people from being killed. I know now what I did not know then. There are worse things than the Cruciatus Curse."

He was talking to an audience, but was she the audience or was it himself?

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

It was morning and Severus was still paying Mordred no attention. He was still lying on his bed, reading his book closely. Evan was sitting in a chair, staring blankly into space, while Ken sat beside Rolly, pointlessly mopping Rolly's brow.

"Are you reading that book for any reason, or just to pass the time?" asked Mordred irritably.

"Both," said Severus, refusing to be drawn into conversation.

"You can't lie there and pretend that nothing's happening!" said Mordred.

"Very interesting observation, Lestrange."

Mordred bit his lip. He had always found Severus's tendency to hold long bitter grudges somewhat endearing. That had been when the grudges were held against others. Now, finding himself completely shut out of Severus's friendship or even civility, he was learning the intolerability of Severus's character. To stop himself from hitting Severus very hard, which would undoubtedly not change Severus for the better, he left the dormitory to look for Alison. Though he must make sure not to look like a lovelorn puppy. He was painfully conscious of the fact that he was behaving like an idiot over her, and he knew that public demonstrations of the fact would lose him any power he had over the younger Slytherins.

Unlike Severus and Alison, who had no interest in the younger students unless they were interesting, Mordred had built up a network of little alliances that he hoped would serve him through life. But it pained him that Severus and Alison did hold sway over the interesting students, the important ones. Entering the common room, Alison was nowhere to be found. But his eyes fixed on Bartemius Crouch Jr., recently pushed too far by Alison and Severus. He was hunched over a mess of books and parchment. His blond hair needed cutting, as he continuously tried to push it out of his eyes. He was far too pale, and his numerous freckles contrasted violently with his skin. It struck Mordred that he had an opportunity here.

"Crouch, are you doing that for fun?" asked Mordred unbelievingly, as he looked over Barty's shoulder. Barty was translating a page of Vergil into English verse.

"I can't let my Latin get rusty," said Barty defensively.

"You're heading for a nervous collapse by the age of fifteen," warned Mordred. "What are you planning to do with all these languages?"

"Read those annoying unreadable memos my father leaves to himself about the house," said Barty.

"Can you spare me a moment from that quest?"

"Certainly."

Mordred took a chair at the table. "I'll make it very brief. We're approaching an in-House power struggle. You wouldn't know much about this, but our year had an awful time before you were at Hogwarts. Somehow, the ruling clique took a dislike to us very quickly."

"Yes, Narcissa told me," said Barty gravely. He was obviously extremely flattered to be consulted. "Anti-Muggleborn feeling?"

"In large part yes," said Mordred. "Alison Howard was kept off the Quidditch team until Avery became captain halfway through our third year, even though we couldn't field a decent Seeker. Very un-Slytherin. But Avery became captain because of his and Longbottom's very successful bid for power in our third year. We had some awful people as prefect and Quidditch captain, and as I said, a pretty firmly entrenched clique around them. Longbottom and Avery enlisted the help of the younger students to take them down. With our help, they discredited the Quidditch captain and persuaded Viridian, who didn't know them that well then, into replacing him with Avery. Alison Howard became Seeker, we won the Quidditch Cup, and the now very popular Longbottom politicked his way into being prefect in his sixth year"

"He lost out in the end," said Barty.

"I don't think you can win against Viridian," said Mordred. "That's the current problem. The man hates everyone, but he hates our year passionately. While Longbottom was at the helm, it seemed certain Julian Tierney would be our next prefect. She's really the only person in the fifth and sixth years I would trust with that responsibility."

"Including yourself?"

"Trust me. I'm not prefect material. I wanted Julian as a prefect, but now that seems impossible. I think Viridian's going to pick a sixth year to spite us. My guess is Hector Quimby."

"Quimby doesn't like me," said Barty thoughtfully.

"He doesn't like you because you're on very good terms with us," said Mordred.

"Do all Houses have politics as bitter as this?" asked Barty.

"More than they admit. Against their House codes to admit it."

"Meanwhile, we've been indoctrinated into revelling in it," said Barty.

Mordred looked surprised. "Not a devotee of the cult of Slytherin, are you?"

"How could I be? My mother's a Gryffindor."

"And your father's a consummate Slytherin. You couldn't talk him into firing Viridian, could you?" said Mordred lightly.

"No-one ever talks my father into anything," said Barty.

"Failing that, you could help me make Quimby completely inappropriate as a candidate for the prefecture."

"What do I need to do?"

"Provoke the idiot into taking out his irrational dislike on you. Viridian can't make a prefect out of a student who attacked the son of the Head of the Board of Governors."

Barty looked alarmed. "Wouldn't...

"Mimic him and he'll lash out at you. You could goad anyone into attacking you. It's an interesting talent."

"You want me to risk life and limb to advance your grand scheme..."

"Of making life here a little more tolerable. Will you?"

"It is tempting," conceded Barty. "I'd like to see Quimby get his comeuppance."

"And you like the prospect of taunting him in public. You'd make a grand production of it, I'm sure."

"Barty," called Narcissa, coming into the common room. "We have to be going to see your parents."

"Yes, Cissa, I'm coming," said Barty, beginning to gather his books and parchment. "Thank you for the advice," he said to Mordred gravely.

Barty related the entire conversation to Narcissa as soon as they'd left the common room.

"I like the sound of that," said Narcissa. "You really are a Slytherin."

"Did you think I wasn't?" said Barty in a hurt tone.

"Not me," said Narcissa vaguely. "People. They say things, you know."

"No, I don't know. They don't say them to me."

"Well," said Narcissa, looking embarrassed. "They don't understand that you can be smart and get along with the other Houses and still be a Slytherin. They think you're a missorted Ravenclaw."

Barty looked furious. "How come there are so many idiots in this world?" he asked. "Either they're fawning over Lucius Malfoy, or they think Valeria Niggleby is the height of good literature, or that the House system is the crowning achievement of civilization."

"But the House system is the crowning achievement of civilization," said Narcissa. "How dare you suggest otherwise, Crouch? But seriously, people may be idiots, but they're still generally decent."

"True. That at least makes them easy to manipulate."

Narcissa snickered. "Hold the cynicism. It doesn't become you at your age, dear," she said.

"Hold the adult act. You come off as an old lady," said Barty.

"You two fight here as well?" asked Alysoun Crouch, coming down the hall to meet them.

"Not really. We don't have to see each other all the time," answered Narcissa smoothly, as she embraced her sister-in-law.

"Oh dear. So, will you give me a tour of the grounds before you go and crimp for the ball? Your brother's hard at work."

"At Hogwarts?" asked Narcissa in disbelief.

"The Department of Magical Law Enforcement stands still for nothing," said Alysoun with a smile.

Barty Crouch Sr. was sitting in a study overlooking the lake, listening to Alastor Moody deliver a report.

"What was Kelly up to last night, Alastor?" he asked.

Moody shrugged his shoulders. "Fletcher hasn't sent me anything yet. But unless the curse is slipping, Kelly will send her an account."

"Do you see anything to indicate the curse might slip?" asked Crouch sharply. "He has been writing us faithfully."

"Nothing at all. He always had a weak will. That allowed Voldemort to bend him to his own will in the first place. Now he's bent to yours. Pitiful."

"He chose this path," said Crouch.

"I doubt it," said Moody. "But let whatever powers there are sort out his messed-up soul. What will you do with him?"

"He will be sent to Azkaban for murder," said Crouch. "If he isn't killed once our scheme is found out."

"That's a likely enough ending," said Moody. "What does Dumbledore know?"

"I didn't tell him we have Kelly under Imperius," said Crouch drily. "He might object. He does know we're keeping Kelly under a close eye. He is too. Whether through you or someone else, I don't know."

Moody raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying something, Barty?"

"I thought it was a given that you work for Dumbledore as well as me. That you keep his secrets from me."

"Worries you, does it?"

"That Albus Dumbledore doesn't trust me? No, it doesn't worry me. Only irks me. We fight against a darkness of which we've never seen the like and the greatest light wizard of our times keeps me from his counsels."

"It wasn't always so," said Moody softly. "You shut yourself out of his trust."

"Perhaps I did," said Crouch. "I am the head of Magical Law Enforcement, not Albus Dumbledore."

Moody shook his grizzled head. "Hogwarts will stand after the Ministry falls," he said.

"I know that," said Crouch curtly. "I'm counting on that if things turn to the worst. At least, Voldemort fears Dumbledore. He certainly doesn't fear me... Now, keep close to Kelly tonight and we'll hope for the best."

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

Florence had spent the entire day snuggled up with a book in a common room armchair, her mind far from its pages. She wanted to know for herself what was happening with Rolly. Then her mind could have been at rest. But she couldn't know. She doubted Severus and Mordred were wrong when they said Rolly was in no immediate danger. They knew about such things. But still...

Kenneth came down in the afternoon, looking like hell warmed over. He had not washed since the day before and his eyes were bloodshot. Narcissa, about to go up to her dormitory to get ready for the ball, frowned at the sight.

"Are you all right, Kenneth?" she asked in a tone that signalled grave consequences for Kenneth were he to answer negatively.

"Yes," he said dazedly. "I'm all right. I'm tired."

"Take a nap," ordered Narcissa. "I expect you to be ready by six." She left before he could reply.

"I can't go to the ball," moaned Kenneth, collapsing on the floor by Florence's chair. "Not with Rolly in that state."

"You have to, Ken," said Florence brusquely. "To keep all of us, including Rolly, safe. You have to."

"Are we really doing this for Rolly?" said Ken miserably. "Wouldn't he be better in the hospital wing? Even if we were to get into trouble?"

"No," said Florence, though she had been asking herself the same question. "Rolly's all right. You'd best take that nap or face the wrath of Narcissa Crouch."

Ken said nothing, but slowly got up off the floor, and returned to the boys' dormitory. Florence continued to lifelessly leaf through her book.

"What are we going to do about Julian?" Alison asked her as the afternoon wore on with no sign of Rolly reviving.

"They can tell her Rolly is feeling ill," said Florence.

"And he may come around by then," said Alison hopefully.

At ten after six, Ken came down to the common room. Despite her insistence that Kenneth be there exactly on time, Narcissa was not there. He breathed a sigh of relief. Then he saw Julian, sitting on a sofa waiting for Rolly. Seeing her sitting there, in robes of deep green, her dark brown hair put up for the occasion, her face flushed with anticipation, Kenneth realized for the first time that Julian Tierney was pretty. Not beautiful, like Alison Howard or Narcissa Crouch, but very pretty. Before he had time to further explore his reaction to that revelation, she jumped up and ran to him, asking if Rolly was coming down soon.

"I-I don't know," he stammered.

"Could you tell him to hurry?" asked Julian brightly.

"He'll be down as quickly as possible, I'm sure," said Ken, not meeting her eye. "Here's Narcissa. I have to go."

Narcissa's arrival had produced audible gasps across the common room. Her long golden hair was arranged in coils on her head. She was dressed in blue silk with silver embroidery, and at her throat was an amethyst on a silver chain. So that while many of the boys' jaws dropped, it was brought back to them very quickly that this girl was untouchable. She was a shameless flirt, but one would have to have wealth and family to match hers to meet her standard.

Lydia Stebbins followed her, torn between pride in her best friend's appearance, and violent envy. It perversely pleased her that Kenneth Avery was the only boy in the room to be paying Narcissa no attention as he mumbled a compliment, and taking her arm, escorted her from the common room. They met Frank Longbottom at the door. Frank seemed taken aback at Narcissa, who treated him with an alluring smile. He bowed to her, and made his way across the room to Edmund Avery.

"Well..." said Frank, grinning.

"She's setting her cap at you," said Edmund.

"Fourth years shouldn't be allowed to do that. Even if they are rather... developed. Does Crouch know her dress is so décolleté?"

"Probably. She's fifteen and that's high time to art looking for a husband if one wants to marry straight out of Hogwarts. You should marry her. It'd probably advance your career."

"It probably would," said Frank thoughtfully, "No. I refuse to make a Slytherin marriage. Narcissa will have to win me with her charms, not her money or her family."

"That shouldn't be that difficult," teased Edmund.

"Do you think your brother would mind very much if I stole his partner for a dance or two?"

"He might, but Narcissa wouldn't. Do you propose to spend the entire evening stealing other people's partners?"

"Yes," said Frank, putting on his most charming smile. "I will sweep them off their feet. Megan Diggory will be begging for a dance by the end of the night. But really, poor Meg. I hope Lockhart can dance better than he can do magic. Shall we go and get ready?"

The common room had emptied of the older students, Ludo Bagman had organized a poker tournament for the younger students, and Julian was still waiting for Rolly to come down.

She heard footsteps on the stairs, and a faint flush reappeared on her pale face. It was Severus Snape.

He walked across the room to her before saying a word.

"Rolly is feeling ill tonight," he said in a low voice. "He will not be able to come down. I'm sorry."

"Ill?" asked Julian. "And he can't even come down to tell me himself?"

"He's ill in bed," said Severus softly.

"How long has he been ill?" Julian's voice was rising. "And you didn't bother to tell me?"

Alison jumped up from her chair and ran to Julian's side.

"Why hasn't he gone to the hospital wing?"

"It's not serious enough," said Severus.

"You're hiding something," said Julian suddenly. Alison glanced desperately at the poker-absorbed younger students who hadn't noticed this confrontation yet.

"I am hiding nothing from you," said Severus scornfully.

"You are," she said. "You are." She turned suddenly to Alison, "Sneaking out nights. What have you been doing? What's happened to Rolly?"

"He's resting in bed," snapped Severus.

"I'm going to see for myself." She made a move to pass him, but he seized her by the shoulders.

"Let go," she tried to yell, as he slipped his hand over her mouth, dragged her over into a small alcove, and thrust her down on the sofa. She fell forward on her face, and began to cry.

"Don't cry," he hissed, pulling her up into a sitting position. His dark eyes were burning. "Rolly is ill. And that is his business not yours."

"Let go of my arm. You're hurting me," moaned Julian.

His grasp only tightened. "Not as much as we will if you don't leave him alone."

Julian began to cry again.

"Do you understand?"

His nails were digging into her flesh, and the look in his eyes frightened her. "Yes," she said. He let go, and she buried her face in the sofa again.

"Rolly will be well tomorrow morning, Julian," said Alison. She followed Severus out of the room.

When Frank came down from his dormitory, he heard muffled sobs coming from the alcove. He found Julian there, crying her heart out into a pillow.

He knelt down beside her, and put his hand on her shoulder. "What happened?" he asked.

"Rolly Wilkes is ill," she said in a strangled voice.

Frank bit his lip. He didn't relish the idea of spending the evening having his feet trod upon, but the poor girl - damnit - couldn't be left there crying like that.

"Julian," he said softly, "would you do me the honour of being my partner?"

She sat up quickly and looked at him in shock, a shock that quickly turned to embarrassment. "Yes," she said, trying to meet his eyes. "I have to... wash my face.

"I'll wait here for you," said Frank.

After washing her face, re-applying her cosmetic charms, and re-arranging her hair, Julian paused. She was afraid of going down to the common room. She'd made a fool of herself in front of Longbottom. He was only taking her out of pity. She had never wanted his pity. Since the night she had tripped on her way to her seat at the Slytherin table, and he had helped her up, she had been his constant but silent admirer. Now her fondest dream was about to come true, and for all the wrong reasons. She felt humiliated. But it would be worse not to go down.

"Much better," he said, when she returned. "You look beautiful."

Julian consciously decided that this was flattery, but the warmth in his voice won her over anyway, as he took her arm and lead her out.

* * * * * * * * *

"Julian Tierney is dangerous," announced Alison, storming into the boys' dormitory with Severus behind her.

Florence looked up from taking Rolly's temperature. "What did she do?" she asked apprehensively.

"She suspects us," said Severus. "How are your memory charms, Mordred?"

"You can't memory harm her," Florence protested. "You don't know enough to do it properly."

"I'm not sure I don't," said Mordred. "What is she doing right now?"

"We shut her up," said Alison. "Severus scared her out of her wits. And we are not memory charming her. Tomorrow, she is joining us. That's that."

"How..."

"I'll take care of that. How is Rolly?"

"I don't know," admitted Mordred reluctantly. "He's very cold."

"Does that mean we should give up and bring him to the hospital?" asked Florence.

"No, it doesn't," said Severus.

"What does it mean then?" she pressed on. "Even if you only care about saving your own skins, killing him with Dark Magic will land us in Azkaban for sure."

Alison was examining Rolly closely. "His lips are blue," she said.

"Yes?" said Mordred irritably.

"I've been reading about trances all day."

"And?"

Alison paused. "This isn't an ordinary trance, is this? It's possession. Something has him in its grasp and won't let him go."

"Yes," said Mordred. "That lovely spell of Severus's did have to invoke Woden. Normally, though, it's easy enough to break away from the old spirits. They've been weakened by centuries of Christianity and no sacrifices. They have barely any power left."

"That certainly looks like barely any power," said Florence, pointing at Rolly's rigid body.

"He should have snapped out of it quickly," said Mordred.

"But he didn't," said Florence. "What else, Alison?"

"I don't know," said Alison. "Is there anything else you're hiding from us?"

"That'll it do no good to go running to the hospital wing," said Severus suddenly. "He either recovers or he doesn't. He's the one who has to fight his way out of it."

"And he isn't fighting out of it," said Florence. "Is he?"

"You don't know that," said Mordred.

"Are you sure there's nothing we can do?"

"Yes," said Mordred, a despairing smile on his face. "I had the occasion to learn all this, as I mentioned."

Florence sat down beside Rolly, and stroked his hair.

"This is not fair!" burst out Alison.

"What's not fair?" asked Severus.

"Death!" She stood silent for a second and then quietly began to recite something to herself, "In the middle of the hall there is a comforting fire to warm the hall; outside, the storms of winter rain or snow are raging. The sparrow flies swiftly in through one door of the hall, and out through another. While he is inside the hall, he is safe from the winter storms; but after a few moments of comfort, he vanishes from sight into the wintry world from which he came. Such is the life of man."

* * * * * * * * * * *

As Frank expected, his feet were trod upon constantly dancing with Julian. The girl had no co-ordination at all. He wasn't sure which was more painful, the feeling in his feet or seeing the burning colour of her cheeks as she kept apologizing. When the music ended, he steered her to a table and sat her down.

"I'm sorry," she said for about the thousandth time, "I'm terribly clumsy."

"You're also terribly nervous," he said. "I'll get you a glass of punch." He came back quickly with two glasses. "A second," he said, and taking a flask from his pocket, poured something into her glass. "Here you are," he said.

"What was that?"

"Brandy," said Frank cheerfully. "Drink up."

"Does Professor Viridian know you carry a flask of brandy on you?" asked Julian slyly.

"Dumbledore does," said Frank with a grin. "By the way, I should apologize to you. I think I've killed your chances of being made a prefect."

"I would think I've had a lucky escape," she said earnestly. "I couldn't have handled Viridian."

"Really, you don't think Viridian would find you charming and a pleasure to work with?"

She laughed, then fell silent. "I heard you were accepted by Magical Law Enforcement," she said awkwardly.

Never one to feel uncomfortable talking about himself if someone really wanted to listen - as Julian obviously did - Frank launched into an account of his hopes and ambitions. That seemed to cheer her up, though he thought she could be a little less enthralled with his voice. One person can carry the conversation only so far before it becomes a monologue, and while the monologue has its purposes, social interaction is not one of them. If Julian was determined to be petrified, the evening looked grim.

Across the great hall, Evan Rosier was dealing with a very different problem, a partner who would not shut up. In the usual course of events, he very much enjoyed Cynthia's constant chatter. Ken said that she brought out his inner gossip. But with Rolly's ashen, still face in his mind's eye, he for once did not care to hear how Professor Forsyte was said to be seeing a married official of the American Ministry.

"Sybill's quite a good dancer," said Cynthia, having dissected Professor Forsyte's scandalous behaviour far enough. "She's looking very nice tonight."

Out of remorse for blackening Sybill's character, Cynthia had taken Sybill in hand, and set her up with Alfred Summers. As far as Evan was concerned, revenge was sweet. He shot Summers a glance of utter scorn and contempt.

"Cynthia," said a man coming up to their table with a large smile, a pretty dark-haired woman on his arm. "Could you introduce us to your friend?"

"This is Evan Rosier," said Cynthia. "Evan, these are Florence's parents: Walter and Marika Jorkins."

"Oh you're one of Florence's reactionary friends," said Walter with interest.

Marika frowned. While her husband was only joking, she knew full well that many people took his jokes badly. Evan, though, immediately decided that, communist or no communist, he liked Walter Jorkins.

"Is Florence here tonight?" asked Marika.

"Florence doesn't care for balls," said Evan. At least, that's what Florence had said.

"That's my daughter," said Walter with pride. "Rejecting this society's patriarchal customs." He looked over to where Bertha was dancing with mild disapproval. Then, he leaned over the table. "Cynthia," he said in a hushed tone. "Did you get a chance to read that copy of Marx's Manifesto I sent you for Christmas?"

"Mr. Jorkins," said Cynthia gently. "My father destroyed it. You know he doesn't approve of me reading communist literature." Walter Jorkins looked crushed for a second, then his face brightened.

"I'll send you a copy here at school," he said. "Oh, dear. Crouch is coming in this direction. Should we just turn our backs on him or should I exchange words with him?"

"Perhaps we should return to the dance floor," suggested Marika sensibly.

"But I'd really like to tell him what I think of his new measures," protested Walter.

Cynthia looked uncomfortable.

"Good evening, Walter, Marika," said Crouch, bowing slightly.

"Good evening," said Walter Jorkins stiffly. "Taking a breather from the pleasures of the interrogation chamber?"

"I fear interrogation here is much less pleasurable than in any communist state," said Crouch. "No doubt you are working to amend that situation."

"There's no blood on my hands."

"I am grateful for that. However, if you believed everything you say, if you really believed that the upper class was dooming the working class to death and destitution, your hands would be bloody. There is no right to be squeamish about matters that important. Marika, would you do me the honour of dancing with me?"

Marika assented with a smile and a quick reassuring wink to Walter as Crouch led her to the floor.

"Sickening," said Walter. "Absolutely sickening. Cynthia, Evan, that man is an incarnation of everything wrong with our society. One can be a bloody tyrant and oppressor, but as long as one's blood is pure, one's manners refined, and one's oratory inspiring, the wizarding world will applaud."

"How on earth do you know him?" asked Evan, as soon as Walter had left in search of other prospective converts to the cause and bade farewell to "Comrades Rookwood and Rosier."

"He's an old friend of my father's," said Cynthia.

"Your father's not exactly a communist, is he?" asked Evan, amazed.

"No, but they were in Ravenclaw together."

"I don't know what that says about Ravenclaw." Cynthia looked affronted. "Walter Jorkins, that is, Cynthia. Not your father. Communism doesn't strike me as a bright idea."

"Why not?" asked Ken, who had just come up to their table with Narcissa, and overheard the last sentence.

"It's already hard enough sharing a dormitory with you," quipped Evan. "Without sharing everything else. Though I'm not sure I'm not. Is that my collar you're wearing?"

Ken's face reddened as Narcissa and Cynthia laughed. "It's not my fault if the house-elves can't clean them fast enough," he complained.

"I really am not impressed by the way the elves have been performing lately," said Narcissa carelessly. "There is dust a quarter inch thick on the common room mantelpiece."

Cynthia looked sympathetic. "There have been stains on our dormitory floor for four days."

Evan and Kenneth exchanged knowing glances. Coming from families without house-elves, the service at Hogwarts had amazed them, but it amazed them further how much the children from the old, wealthy families found to complain about.

* * * * * * * *

"Is anyone going to recite more portions of Bede's Ecclesiastical History to cheer us up?" asked Mordred sarcastically. Wounding Alison seemed better than letting the silence they were sitting in continue. "Why did you learn that anyway?"

"To remember that we will die," she said quietly. "All of us. Even if Rolly recovers and lives a hundred and fifty years, he'll die."

"I think he'll die tonight," said Florence suddenly. Her face was white. "We have to face..." her voice choked up.

"Are you sure there's nothing that can be done?" asked Alison.

"Yes," said Severus. "We are sure."

"I'm not," said Alison. "I refuse to believe that." She stood up and walked to the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Mordred.

"To speak with Lucius Malfoy."

Mordred and Severus looked at each other and ran after her.

"Why do you want to talk with Malfoy?" Severus said, catching up with her.

"For pity's sake, you can't," said Mordred. "You're a mudblood. He won't talk to you."

"But he did, Mordred," she said, opening the door out of the common room. "He did. And if anyone can keep Rolly from dying, he can."

"What do you mean he did?" demanded Mordred.

"During Christmas when I took Rolly down from London. I told him all about us."

"You did?" gasped Mordred. "God, what have you done?"

"I don't know. I gave Malfoy to understand that we might be interested in You-Know-Who's aims. He seemed intrigued. That buys me time."

"And puts us all in danger," said Severus, taking hold of her arm, and stopping her.

"Perhaps. We already were, you know. But they are learning how to fight death."

"So they say," said Severus, his eyes glinting.

"Rolly is his cousin. He would help."

"We'd be in his grasp then," said Mordred. "There's a saying in my family. Never bargain with the devil or a Malfoy."

"If Rolly would live..." protested Alison.

"We'd do anything." Severus loosened the grasp on her arm.

"Right," said Mordred. "Where is he?"

Their hearts sank when they found Lucius Malfoy was not in the Great Hall. "He could be outside," suggested Mordred.

Racing from the Hall, the three, dressed in their dishevelled uniforms, were a strange sight amidst the brilliant colours of the Alumni Ball.

"Good evening," drawled a familiar voice as they reached the door, "Are you looking for someone?"

An instant wave of relief washed over Mordred, relief immediately replaced, however, by dismay.

His father was standing beside Malfoy.

"Yes," said Severus. "Could we speak privately with you?"

"Mordred," said Geraint Lestrange, taking in his son's rumpled appearance and his companions. "What are you doing?"

"They're delivering a message to Lucius Malfoy," said Alison hastily. "From his cousin. It's urgent, I believe."

Mordred nodded fervently.

"I'll hear it out then," said Malfoy with a smile. "Follow me."

"Are you Alison Howard?" asked Geraint Lestrange abruptly.

"Yes," she said, her eyes narrowing. Mordred's father only smiled, and Severus tugged at her sleeve to follow Malfoy.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Shall we go walking in the silvery moonlight?" asked Frank. "Or is it too cold?"

"I would mind freezing," said Julian. "It's much too hot in here." She left unspoken the fact that she dreaded another dance. She had danced several times throughout the evening, and had managed to retain some scrap of dignity. Edmund Avery had been decent enough to cut in and whirl her around the Hall. Edmund was a horrible dancer, but amazingly energetic. Meanwhile, however, Narcissa had waylaid Frank, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the two made a perfect pair. After that, she couldn't dance again. And so, she assented to going outside.

She was glad that she did. Despite the bitter weather, Professor Spore, the Herbology teacher, had somehow created a garden for the evening that looked fit to challenge Eden. Unfortunately, she had spent the whole evening as a result pursuing students who presumed to procure corsages from her garden.

"Longbottom," she called across a bed of orchids. "Who is that boy who just took off with the magnolias?"

"I didn't see his face, Professor," he said.

"Oh, he's a Slytherin, is he? What do you think, Miss Tierney?" Julian excelled at Herbology and was a favourite of Professor Spore's.

"It's amazing. Are the flowers real?"

"Some of them are. Professor Flitwick worked some illusions as well. Nasty shock to that Potter boy. Tried to uproot a lily which actually was a tanglethorn."

"I think a rose would suit your hair," said Frank turning seriously towards her. "A white rose."

"But one that isn't a tanglethorn," she said laughing.

"Oh no," he said, pulling out his wand. "An ex-pebble. I hope you don't mind."

"Excuse me a moment," said a pale-faced young man who had been standing by listening. "Did I hear that your name is Tierney?"

"Yes," said Julian unsurely. "Julian Tierney."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the young man stared at her. "So," he finally said, his voice seething with hatred. "That's who you are. It's you who shamed my family. My father's bastard."

Frank hit him hard in the face. The young man staggered, but then hit back. Julian, gathering her wits, went for her wand and shouted, "Impedimenta!" At the same moment, Professor Spore shouted, "Petrificus Totalus!" The two spells collided, and bounced off in different directions, leaving an onlooker in the full body bind.

Not for nothing was Frank to be an Auror, however, as before Julian or Professor Spore could try again, he had knocked his opponent flat on the ground. He then took out his wand, and pointed it at him.

"Leave now!" he hissed.

"Longbottom," said Professor Spore fearfully. "I don't think he can get up." Frank lowered his wand.

"What have you done now, Longbottom?" came a cold voice. "Killed a guest?"

"He called Julian Tierney a bastard, Vindictus," said Professor Spore, who was checking the young man's pulse. "He seems all right. Just unconscious."

"I'll see you expelled," said Viridian, ignoring Professor Spore.

"No," said Frank calmly. "You won't. You'll have to forgo that pleasure. The Headmaster will not expel me."

Viridian obviously recognized this as the truth. "Four hundred points from Slytherin," he snapped.

"I hardly think the House Cup matters anymore," said Frank in a hard voice.

"You will serve detention."

"I will not," said Frank. "Unless you fancy dragging me to detention."

"I just might," hissed Viridian. "Tierney, you will also serve detention for the rest of the year."

"For what?" demanded Frank. "For being insulted?"

"I didn't do anything, Professor," protested Julian.

"Exactly. You turned a blind eye while Mr. Longbottom lashed out at Mr. Kelly. What Thomas Kelly said was quite true. And you must develop a thicker skin if you hope to survive in this world."

"Vindictus," said Professor Spore. "Isn't that..."

"Phyllida, I and I alone have the responsibility to discipline members of my own House."

"Well, I shall certainly be speaking to the Headmaster about this," said Professor Spore.

Frank's eyes were blazing, but he said nothing.

"Till we meet again, Mr. Longbottom," said Viridian, a mirthless smile playing on his lips. "Now you can return to snogging Miss Tierney." And turning on his heel, he stalked off.

"Let's go back to the common room," said Julian dejectedly, watching as Thomas Kelly was taken into Hogwarts.

"I think that's a very good idea," said Frank.

* * * * * * * * * *

He had been far away. He couldn't remember where, but he had been far away, and now he was back again. There was an unpleasant taste in his mouth. No, it wasn't entirely unpleasant, but it was a forbidden taste, and the smell of the wet stuff that coated his tongue and face frightened him. Blood. There was blood all over his face. Rolly Wilkes sat bolt upright.

"Finally," said Severus.

"Finally what?" asked Rolly. "Why were you..." But he stopped. Alison was staggering from the bed, blood all down her robes, and Mordred and Florence were binding her arms with the sheet. Finishing, Mordred took her in his arms, and carried her through the door, followed by Severus.

"What?" mouthed Rolly in horror.

"She gave her life blood to save you. She'll die if they can't heal that cut," said Florence. "Now, stand. I'm supposed to clean you up." She waved him towards the washroom.

"Why did she do that?" he asked miserably, as he stumbled towards the room, and began to strip off his robes as Florence turned on the water in the bath.

"Because she was ready to risk death for you. Here, give me those clothes. And get into the bath." She ran out into the room to stuff the bloody clothes under the floorboard. "When they come," she shouted. "Say that you were sleeping and didn't hear anything until Severus yelled. You've been feeling under the weather recently. Are you clean yet?" she said bursting back in.

"I think so," he said.

"Get out of the tub then."

There was no opportunity to feel embarrassment as Florence quickly performed a drying charm, and then he was slipping into his nightshirt, as she cleaned the tub. Just as she finished, the door flew open. With all her wits about her, Florence collapsed on the floor and began to weep hysterically.

"I can't stop her," said Rolly to Professor McGonagall.

"What happened, Wilkes?" said McGonagall, ignoring Florence.

"I was sleeping when I heard Severus scream. There was blood everywhere, and they were taking Alison away."

"Miss Jorkins, get off the floor and tell me what happened," ordered McGonagall.

"Alison was angry at Mordred. And she said she was going to show him. So, she came up here. I told her not to, but she wouldn't listen. And I followed her. She came and sat down there, half hidden by the hangings." Florence pointed to the blood-soaked bed. "And they argued. Then suddenly, she lifted up her arms and showed us that she had cut them!" The emotion in Florence's voice was genuine, even if the account was not.

"Wilkes, Jorkins, come with me," said Professor McGonagall curtly. They followed her down the staircase into the crowded common room.

"What's going on?" came Frank Longbottom's voice across the common room.

"Miss Howard has met with an unfortunate accident," said McGonagall to the Slytherins. "They have taken her to the hospital wing to patch her up."

"I heard she's dead. She killed herself," said Tristan Wimple, his eyes wide.

"Nonsense, Wimple. Miss Diggory," she turned to Megan Diggory, who had just entered the common room. "Send these students back to their dormitories!"

"I'll help!" said Gilderoy Lockhart, who attracted by the confusion, had followed Megan into the common room.

"Mr. Lockhart, I'd rather..." said McGonagall, but then decided it was pointless. "Longbottom, Tierney, you can come with me if you wish."

"What really happened?" asked Frank, as they left the room.

"She tried to kill herself," said McGonagall. "She may very well have succeeded. She cut her wrists so they couldn't be closed up again easily."

Florence was sobbing hysterically. Julian and Rolly were weeping. Frank felt as if his insides had been torn out, and he noticed that McGonagall's sharp eyes were oddly blurred.

"She'll be all right!" cried Professor Flitwick running towards them. "Fawkes's tears healed the cuts!"

Julian flung her arms about Rolly.

"Well then," said Professor McGonagall. "I'm very glad to hear that." She burst into tears. Frank offered her a handkerchief.

"Thank you, Longbottom," she said, burying her face in it.

"Why did you use Alison's blood?" whispered Rolly.

"It had to be the lifeblood of a Muggleborn. It was a sacrifice to pacify Woden. Lucius Malfoy told us. And Alison just had to do it."

Rolly digested that for a moment and then he said, "I don't care if she is Muggleborn. She's head and shoulders above the rest of us."

* * * * * * * * * * *

In the Slytherin common room, Gilderoy Lockhart was holding the doorway against the restless students.

"Come a step nearer and I'll blast you to smithereens!" he roared, waving his wand about wildly. A student reached out and removed his wand from his hand.

Lockhart looked confused. The next moment the Slytherins stampeded him.

"Are you all right, Gilderoy?" asked Megan, rushing to his side.

He felt his hair and groaned. "Could you find me a mirror, Meg, my dear?" he said "I really thought that was a better course of action. You wouldn't have been able to keep them in check, and then McGonagall would blame it on you. So, I decided to take the pounding for you."

Megan Diggory's eyes misted over in admiration.