1975

Chapter Ten - Interlude

Lying behind the curtains of his hospital bed, James Potter could catch snatches of the hushed and frantic conversation at the other end of the room.

"St. Mungo's right away."

"Should we notify..."

"... did she do it with..."

Then, a louder, gruffer voice. "Can I take a look at those cuts?"

"She's been sedated, Moody," said Madame Pomfrey.

"Good, give me a few minutes."

Potter lifted his head and pulled the curtain back very slightly, so that he could see what was going on but not be seen himself. He had infected his hand on that pseudo-lily of Professor Spore's and spent a very dull evening in bed. But now, there was a sight to be seen through the gap in the curtains. Many of the Hogwarts staff were standing about, but more excitingly, there was Alastor Moody, the famous Auror, pulling back the curtain of the bed beside his.

Alison Howard was lying there unconscious. Moody lifted her arm, "Phoenix tears healed this?" he asked.

"It couldn't be closed up otherwise," said Madame Pomfrey. "She cut it with a barrow knife."

"Where could she have got that?"

"Anywhere," said Professor Viridian. He looked very white and shaken. "You know the sort of things our kind like to play with. The parents of most of my students would see nothing wrong in giving their child a blade that cuts through anything and whose work cannot hardly be undone. And then, it's picked up by a Muggleborn..."

"Alison Howard would have known exactly what that knife was," interrupted Professor Thorn, the Ancient Runes teacher.

"Do you have the blade?" asked Moody.

"Yes, I can get it for you if you like," said Professor McGonagall.

"Thank you." He put down her arm. "She's healed up very well. Too well to make out anything. What did you think of the cuts when she was brought in?"

"There were quite a few," said Pomfrey. "All down her lower forearm."

"Did they look self-inflicted?" asked Moody.

"Yes, I'm certain they were. The cuts on her right arm were less precise. As if she had made them with her left hand."

"Do you think it was very painful?"

"Yes," said Madam Pomfrey, shuddering.

"Does that seem in character for Howard to you?"

"She's tough enough to have done it," said Viridian. "And she has a very destructive personality.

Several of the teachers nodded.

"Though, frankly," continued Viridian, "I'm surprised that she cut her own wrists and not someone else's throat."

"Really?" said Moody, interested. "We need to talk further about this. Somewhere where we won't bother Madam Pomfrey." He turned to her. "Are you sending Howard to St. Mungo's.?"

"As soon as they can take her," said Madam Pomfrey. "This is beyond my skill."

As the adults trooped out, Potter leant back on his pillow. He agreed with Viridian that Alison Howard had seemed more likely to cut someone's throat. Black's throat. Or his own.

As soon as Madam Pomfrey had left the room, he heard the sound of someone sitting up in the bed beside him. Startled, he ripped open the curtains to see Alison Howard wide wake, examining her arms. She gave a start.

"I don't think they gave me enough sedatives," said Alison, after they had stared at each other a while. "What are you doing in the hospital wing, Potter?"

"I infected my hand on a tanglethorn," said Potter flatly. "You pretended they'd given you enough sedatives, didn't you?"

"I didn't want to be unconscious," said Alison.

"You're a danger to yourself. I'm calling Madam Pomfrey."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Potter. I'm not going to be doing anything untoward."

"I was under a great deal of stress," said Alison. "Professor Viridian was right. I should have used the knife on Lestrange."

Although Potter would have liked nothing better than to pull back his curtains, lie down, and forget this messed-up Slytherin girl, he felt he had a duty to try and help in some way. "Why did you want to kill yourself?" he asked.

Alison's bright eyes seemed to be peering out from under her heavy lids. "This is not the time to be a Muggleborn. In Slytherin or anywhere else." She spoke dispassionately, but her eyes were alive with emotion, though with what emotion he could not tell.

"It's not a good time for any of us," said Potter suddenly. "My parents were as pureblooded as anyone."

"Lucius Malfoy seems to be doing well enough," said Alison.

Potter stiffened.

"If I were you," continued Alison maliciously. "I would have shoved my wand down his throat before now. Everyone knows he's a Death Eater."

"And everyone knows that his father was a dear friend of Minister Pritchard," said Potter bitterly. "Don't worry. I've sworn that my parents' death will not go unpunished. They made me swear that, of course."

"Of course? Who?"

"My guardians: Augustus Rookwood and Arabella Figg."

"That's the wizarding world for you," said Alison, falling back on her pillow.

"What do you mean?"

"You're preoccupied with vengeance. You think it's shameful to leave a murderer to the law, a sign of weakness on your part."

"Should I reconcile myself to my parents' murderers walking free?"

"No. You should kill or be killed in the process." A mirthless smile was on her face. "I've drunk much too deeply of your blood-lust," she added. "I've lost all the Muggle sensibilities I once had, whether they were worth anything or not."

"They were worth something," said Potter fervently. "Even the presumption again vengeance."

"You've been talking to Lily Evans, haven't you?"

"And you to Mordred Lestrange?" shot back Potter.

"Mordred Lestrange called me a mudblood, Potter. I see very little future there." Her eyes closed, she seemed completely emotionless.

"Where do you see a future?" asked Potter boldly. "In the Dark Arts?"

"Dark magic is just magic," said Alison shortly. "It's not the way out of anything. The question is where to stand... or to run."

"I'll stand for what's right."

"You'll stand for the world that brought you up, for your friends, for your House. When did you decide that was right?" she answered calmly.

"I only need to see you to know that I'm right. You Slytherins are a happy lot, I must say."

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she turned on her side to stare at him. "So," she said slowly, "You think I'm a Death Eater? You think that I have chosen the Dark Lord's side?"

"Have you?" said Potter.

"No," said Alison. "You can't be saying that."

"I'm not saying that," he said.

"You had better not ," she said. There was a definite note of panic in her voice now. "You can't say that. If they heard that... If Crouch heard that..."

"Stop being paranoid," snapped Potter.

"I'm not being paranoid. I'm acting like any sane person would if they were alone in the world and accused of being committed to the overthrow of that world."

Footsteps were heard outside the room. She fell back on the bed again. Potter pulled in his curtains. A second later, Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall re-entered.

"Really, Vindictus should be doing this," said Pomfrey in a hushed tone.

"But Vindictus is part of the problem, Poppy," said McGonagall. "I have no objection to taking Miss Howard down to London. I may not be her favourite teacher, but I can handle her well enough." She took out her wand. "Enervate!"

Madam Pomfrey put her hand on Alison's shoulder, as she sat up dazedly. "I'm going to help you dress, dear," she said, pulling the curtains around the bed again.

"Where am I going?" asked Alison.

"To London. You will get better there."

"Professor Viridian isn't going to take me?" asked Alison, her voice trembling.

"No, not at all."

Underneath the pathos she was acting out for the benefit of Pomfrey, Alison's mind was racing. Some of the Hogwarts teachers seemed sold on her story of attempted suicide. She had sensed from McGonagall's words that Viridian was being held responsible on some level, and that thought at least delighted her. Yet, Moody hadn't sounded at all convinced. She wondered what he would be told about her. Had they been seen talking with Malfoy? Everything Moody was told would be passed on to Crouch, who, staying at Hogwarts, had the leisure to pay attention to their activities. This was a wonderful way to come to the attention of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Being sent to the loony bin would certainly be an escape from the situation. She meekly followed Professor McGonagall from the hospital wing.

* * * * * * * * *

Thomas Kelly just had to have lashed out at his half-sister. Then, Frank Longbottom just had to have knocked him out cold. And after being revived in the hospital wing, Kelly had been sent home. As a result, the entire weekend had been wasted. Whatever Kelly was to do had not been done and Barty Crouch was not used to wasting his time.

He had not seen Alysoun for most of the evening, except in passing. The ridiculous closeness some married couples maintained at social functions amused him. He and Alysoun were married, which meant that they did not have to dance with each other all night like young lovers. Balls are for dancing and talking with other people, not your wife.

Still after Moody informed him of Kelly's mishap and the attempted suicide of one of the fifth year Slytherins, he was glad to take Alysoun from Wilfred Rutherford of the Department of Mysteries for the last dance of the evening.

"I may be busy tonight," he said, putting his arm around her waist. "There's been an "accident" with one of the Slytherins, and there might be something going on to interest my Department."

"What's happened?" asked Alysoun.

"A fifth year Slytherin, by the name of Alison Howard, tried to kill herself."

"The Slytherin Seeker?" asked Alysoun.

"Is she?"

"Yes, Barty always writes about her in his letters."

"What does he write?" he asked sharply.

"He's a fanatical Quidditch fan. He admires anyone who can fly half decently." She sounded hurt, to be explaining this to her husband.

"He's much too impressionable."

"Well yes," she said, forcing a smile. "After all, he worships you."

"I'm very proud of him," he said curtly. "I've heard nothing but praise from his teachers. Except from Viridian, of course. He gave me to understand tonight that my son is a spoiled brat. The man's still holding his grudges."

"They're the only things he has left. Was he always so spiteful? Or was it..."

"He was always like that," said Barty. "Always. That's why I couldn't put up with it."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?"

"Both. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is not a charity home for the inept."

"If you say so," said Alysoun, trying to change the subject. "What did you think of Narcissa?"

"She's very beautiful. She's not a child anymore, unfortunately."

"Fortunately. I'm glad to see her standing on her own two feet. "

"Standing on her own two feet and going where, Alysoun?" said Barty.

"She doesn't have the same priorities as you do."

"No, she doesn't," he said drily. "Getting through school isn't one of them."

"Stop taking whatever-it-is out on me, Barty" said Alysoun. "Go and make life miserable for your subordinates. I know you're an expert at that."

"I beg your pardon if I have offended you," he said coldly. "I must be going. Good night."

"Good night," she said.

He was gone. When things displeased him, he withdrew until the offender repented. Then he was quick to forgive and even quicker to reward. Alysoun knew that if she went to him and seconded his concern over Narcissa, all would be well between them again. Yet, she would not do that, not immediately at least.

Striding out of the Hall, Crouch met his son idling about the entrance with a few other Slytherins.

"All students are supposed to be in bed," he commented.

"They're searching our House, sir," said one of the girls.

"And your teachers consequently gave you permission to snoop about here?"

"We got carried away," said Barty Jr. quickly.

"Yes, I think so," said Crouch. "Let's go to your common room."

The Slytherin common room was a flurry of activity. Many of the Slytherin students were huddled on sofas trading rumours in a state of nervous excitement. From the sounds of things, the dormitories were being thoroughly combed through.

"Where is the fifth year boys' dormitory, Barty?" Crouch asked.

"I'll take you there," said his son.

Evan Rosier and Kenneth Avery were standing at the dormitory door, as they approached.

"And the hemlock?" came a woman's voice from inside the room.

"Never seen it before," replied Evan. He saw Crouch and moved back from the door.

"And the book on Demonology?" asked the woman

"Not one of mine. Kenneth?"

"Not mine either," said Kenneth weakly, shooting a frightened look at Crouch.

"So you're saying this entire collection somehow ended up in your room."

"I think it might have been left here by the room's previous occupants," said Evan in a fit of inspiration.

Crouch strode into the room. Professor Meander and Professor Forsyte were overseeing the school house-elves dismantling the place. The floor was being pulled up. Mattresses were torn open, and the boys' belongings were being gone through.

"Hello, Mr. Crouch," said Professor Meander, looking up from a pile of dodgy looking bottles. "Would you give us your opinion on this collection?"

"It looks like a Knockturn Alley shop," said Crouch. He took the Demonology book from Professor Forsyte. "Fingerprint resistant."

"It all is," said Meander.

"This isn't illegal," said Crouch putting down the book. "Unfortunately." He turned towards Evan and Kenneth. "Your name's Avery, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Kenneth reluctantly.

"And your father works for Magical Games and Sports. You come from a good family. They'll be shocked to hear of this. And you are?"

"Rosier, Evander Rosier."

"As in Rosier and Lovegood: Importers?"

"Yes, Silvius Rosier is my father."

"Another respectable family," said Crouch with distaste.

"H-how bad is this?" stuttered Kenneth.

"I assume you're not asking from a moral standpoint, Avery. It looks as if you've managed to keep on the right side of the law with all this. But not, I should imagine on the right side of school rules, and I do not believe for a moment that you have refrained from putting these things to unlawful use. If you were older, I would have you questioned, but you're under Dumbledore's protection and he will deal with you. Be sure that I shall your watch your further careers with great interest."

"I'm sorry," said Kenneth wildly. "I didn't know."

"Didn't you?" said Crouch. "You don't have to continue down this road. But the Headmaster will tell you that and so will your parents, if I know them at all. Goodnight, Mr. Rosier, Mr. Avery, I hope we meet next under more auspicious circumstances."

He exited the room, his son trailing after him.

"What did you think of these fine fellows, Barty?" he said, pausing on the staircase. "Did you admire them?"

His son stayed silent.

"Don't put your faith in such fallible heroes. Take care."

"Yes," mouthed Barty Jr., his face flushed.

His father smiled slightly and departed. Barty sat down on the stairs.

A second later, Kenneth and Evan came down.

"Meander finally told us to leave," said Evan apologetically to Barty.

Barty said nothing. Kenneth sighed and made to move around him, but Evan knelt down and seized Barty's shoulders.

"We're not poisonous, Crouch," he said quickly. "Maybe a little silly, but you can't really blame us for being curious about what we're all up against."

Barty didn't reply.

"Nice speech, Evan," said Kenneth in the common room.

"I left out the part about his father being a bloody hypocrite, though," said Evan crossly. "I'd be sent to Azkaban for using the Cruciatus Curse on a person, and he can use it with the approval of the law."

"But that's different," said Kenneth. "Crouch is the Head of Magical Law Enforcement."

"And I'm not. Really, Ken, do you think that makes a difference?"

"Yes."

"You would." He paused. "We're all right. They won't find the incriminating stuff. Too well hidden."

"We'll destroy everything as soon as this all dies down," said Kenneth fervently.

"I don't see why."

"You don't see why? I..."

"Rosier, Avery," called Viridian, entering the common room. "Alastor Moody wants to talk to you."

It was a marvel that they all kept their stories straight. But after all, they had thought out their reaction to any trouble beforehand. They knew to stick to the bare bones of the story, to volunteer no information, to claim not to remember anything uncertain. Moody and Crouch might have left the school with the firm opinion that Snape, Avery, Rosier, Wilkes, Lestrange, Jorkins, and Howard were up to no good, but they left without any evidence of illegal behaviour.

Albus Dumbledore, of course, talked to them individually the next day. Kenneth was very moved, broke down sobbing, and it took several days for Florence and Severus to talk him from his resolution of reforming his ways. Mordred, on the other hand, listened complacently, nodded at all the right places, and left Dumbledore's office completely untouched. Severus stormed out part way through the conversation.

Detentions were, of course, assigned and letters sent out to parents.

"Lucky thing the Polyjuice doesn't need much attention," said Evan, as the boys climbed into bed Sunday evening.

"Shouldn't we ditch that?" asked Kenneth, his eyes still red from meeting with Dumbledore.

"Absolutely not," said Mordred firmly. There was no more discussion on that point. No one wanted to bother Mordred, who was absorbed in writing a very long letter to Alison.

"I hope you're not going into the gritty details."

"Certainly not, Snape. I know as well as you that they'll open up this letter before giving it to her."

Rolly sighed. He had thought that his near death experience would be enough to reunite his friends, but Mordred and Severus were still at each other's throat. Severus wouldn't drop anything until it was satisfactorily resolved, and this showed no sign of resolution. He turned back his attention to his own epic. The worst part of the proceeding day - Well, not the worst part, but the part that actually disturbed him most - had been Viridian going through his literary efforts.

"Well, you're only sixteen, Wilkes," had been Viridian's only comment on handing them back.

Breakfast Monday morning at the Slytherin table was a talkative affair. Most of the students were more interested in swapping rumours than in eating.

"None of your business," said Frank Longbottom, sitting down at the table, and interrupting a frantic conversation. "Let's leave the mess to the authorities."

"What did happen, though?" asked Megan Diggory.

Frank glared at her. "Pass the toast," he said.

Down at the far end of the table, Severus, Mordred, Evan, and Rolly were eating in silence, pretending not to notice that everyone in the Hall was curiously scrutinizing them. Florence and Kenneth had decided to skip running the gauntlet to breakfast.

"Frank, we need to injure a few of the other Houses' players," said Edmund seriously. "Peasegood doesn't even begin to replace Howard, and understandably, Tristan Wimple isn't in best form."

"Why are you forcing Tristan to play?" asked Frank. "If he hates doing it, let him leave the team."

"He only thinks he hates doing it," said Edmund stubbornly. "Once he's actually out there practicing, he's miles happier than sitting about brooding. He and Bagman still make a magnificent pair of Beaters. Ah, here's the mail. Come on, let it be a letter from a Quidditch team. Please." An owl dropped a letter in his lap. "Yes, yes... oh just from the Chudley Cannons."

"You're too snobbish to play for the Cannons?"

"No, but my father would leave the farm to Kenneth if I did. Playing for the Cannons is the next thing to begging on the Muggle street for him." He tore open the letter quickly all the same. "They want me to try out." There was an unmistakeable note of pride in his voice.

"Congratulations."

"Well, it's either that or paper-pushing the Ministry. Frank, is that what it looks like?"

Frank stared at the red envelope that had landed on his plate.

"That's a howler," said Megan Diggory in shock.

Frank looked paralysed. "It's not for me, is it?"

Edmund gingerly flipped it over. "Mr. Frank Longbottom, Slytherin House, Hogwarts."

"My mother," moaned Frank.

"You've only got a few seconds to open it," warned Megan.

"Do it for me," said Frank. He buried his head in his arms.

Megan tore open the envelope.

"FRANK LONGBOTTOM! HAVE YOU GONE COMPLETELY MAD? FIRST, YOU GET SACKED AS A PREFECT AND NOW YOU ATTACK A SCHOOL GUEST! ARE YOU PLANNING TO DISGRACE YOUR FAMILY ANY FURTHER?

I NEVER WOULD HAVE GUESSED IN A MILLION YEARS THAT I WOULD RECEIVE A LETTER LIKE THE ONE PROFESSOR VIRIDIAN SENT ME YESTERDAY. HOW ON EARTH DO YOU EXPECT TO BE AN AUROR IF YOU CAN'T EVEN OBSERVE THE RULES OF PROPER HUMAN BEHAVIOUR?

I DO NOT WANT ANY MORE UNPLEASANT SURPRISES! START BEHAVING PROPERLY, OR YOU CAN PUT YOUR MIND TO FINDING NEW LODGINGS. THERE IS A CERTAIN LEVEL OF RESPONSIBILITY REQUIRED UNDER MY ROOF!"

The envelope burst into flames. Frank noticed out of the corner of his eye that Julian Tierney had gone completely crimson and spilt orange juice on her robes.

"I never thought I would get one of those," he said quietly. "I remember Mum sending them off to my brother James, though. I thought it was funny. I'll have to write him and apologize for that."

"I think what you did was heroic," said Megan seriously.

"Thank you." In a lower tone, to Edmund, "The most bothering thing is that she actually thinks I'm planning to live in Haut-Desert after I'm finished school."

But Edmund was not paying him any attention. He was instead absorbed in another letter. His brow was furrowed, and Frank saw his eyes uneasily flicker towards his younger brother for a second.

At last he put it down. "Frank, let's skip Charms," he said softly.

There was no need to explain that he wanted to talk. Frank nodded. Finishing his toast, he got up and followed his friend out of the Hall, pondering the mystery of his mother's behaviour. It had been a shock to discover at the age of five - he could remember it all quite clearly - that he thought in a very different way than his mother. It was after Magnus "Dent-Head" Macdonald had gone to St. Mungo's for the fifth time and Frank's parents were discussing it with his uncle and aunt.

"Creaothceann's a barbaric game," John Longbottom had said. "If the Ministry actually were to legalize it, it'd be symbolic." There was no need for him to elaborate what it would symbolize. He had, after all, several books to his name exploring the current malaises of wizarding society.

"I don't know if it's any worse than Quidditch," said Aunt Enid with a small smile. Aunt Enid had played Beater herself for the Holyhead Harpies, and had reason to know.

"If I were at St. Mungo's, I wouldn't have bothered to put his brains back in," Elizabeth Longbottom had said.

"Liz, that's rather harsh," said Uncle Algie mildly. "Besides, he's a very good advertisement against reinstating the game."

"He'd be a better advertisement locked up in Azkaban."

Aunt Enid coughed. "Frank's learning how to read, isn't he?" she said, delicately changing the subject.

"Can Mum send people to Azkaban?" Frank had asked a house-elf when he was being put to bed. Somehow the elf seemed to find that a funny question, but Frank had been very relieved to find out that his mother did not possess that power.

And she hadn't been joking. Remembering the incident, he had asked her again a couple years ago if she really thought Macdonald should have been sent to Azkaban.

"Yes, the man could have been responsible for the deaths of many people, if he had got his way," she explained.

Frank sincerely wondered why John Longbottom had married Elizabeth Fletcher. Although his parents dearly loved each other, they seemed fundamentally unsuited. But then, they had only been nineteen when they were married. They were quite typical of British wizarding society, in which it was almost expected that one would fall in love at Hogwarts or soon after with someone eminently suitable from the society's point of view.

"What's wrong?" he asked Edmund once they were in their study.

"This letter is from my parents," said Edmund unsteadily. "And it says all sorts of things about Kenneth. When they searched his dormitory, they found a good deal of Dark Arts stuff under the floorboards."

"Kenneth?" said Frank, shocked. "I wouldn't have thought..."

"I never trusted that Snape. It's his fault, I'm sure," said Edmund.

"Most probably," said Frank, rapidly perusing the letter.

"What am I supposed to do? My parents are blaming me for not keeping a closer eye on him, but what am I supposed to do?"

"Well, you're going to have to sit him down and talk to him."

"And keep him on a leash," suggested Edmund.

"I don't think Kenneth is a bad kid," said Frank firmly. "He does have interesting classmates, to be sure, but that doesn't mean he's heading for Hell at the speed of racing broomstick. You know, everyone's messed around a little with the Dark Arts."

"You haven't. I haven't."

"You haven't," said Frank shortly.

"You have?" said Edmund in shock.

"Not much at all," said Frank with a grin. "But you can't imagine with a library at my disposal like Haut-Desert's that all my reading was innocent. My mother would be horrified to know the books I snuck into. Yes, I tried out a few not so wholesome spells. Ended up slightly poisoning myself, but I convinced the house-elves to cover for me. So, Kenneth is not at all doomed. This may be just the wake-up call he needs."

"You're not secretly practicing the Dark Arts under your bed, are you?" asked Edmund.

"Absolutely not. That was the end of that. Though, I suppose..."

"Out with it."

"I suppose I'll be using the Unforgivables in the future."

"Would you?"

"Yes, I can imagine times when one might need to use them," said Frank. "They'll be used very rarely, only under extreme circumstances."

"What did your father think of it?" asked Edmund.

"He declined comment," said Frank. "He's still thinking it through. He would have been opposed, I think, but then we saw the war firsthand. Those Wimple children left without a mother. And one starts to see why the Unforgivable curses might be needed. It's not what those murderers deserve for what they did. Death or Azkaban, no doubt, but that's not the point," his words rushed out. "The point is that they and others are going to keep doing this. That people are going to die. And not just witches and wizards. My father devoted his entire life to trying to better the relationship between us and the Muggles. And now Muggles are dying too."

Catherine Black poked her head around the door, "I thought you'd be in here, when I didn't see you in Charms," she said. "What are you up to?"

"Discussing how we're all going to die," said Edmund.

She wrinkled her nose. "I was hoping you were plotting against Viridian."

"We can do that," said Frank. "Take a seat."

"What do you think of the Unforgivables being authorized, Cathy?" asked Edmund.

"Very bad," said Catherine shortly. "All apologies to our future Auror. Don't go around using them, please?"

"No, of course not," said Frank. "As I said, it'd be a rare time when they were needed."

Catherine shrugged her shoulders. "Not everyone's as moral as you, Frank. But really, I'd rather not talk about it, since I know my opinion is going to be unpopular here. Did you finish searching Viridian's study?"

"No, I didn't. I was very busy yesterday, but I do have a long term game-plan if you would be interested."

"I would be," said Catherine.

"I think our best bet is the Board of Governors. For various reasons, Dumbledore is determined to tolerate Viridian, but if the Board was to turn against him, Viridian would have to go."

"So how do we do that?" asked Catherine.

"We need to provoke Viridian into something unforgivable in the eyes of the Board."

"Let's be honest here," said Edmund suddenly. "We need to turn Barty Crouch against Viridian. The other Board members do what he wants."

"Exactly," said Frank. "And I think I know who to enlist as an ally. Narcissa."

"You're both nutters," said Catherine. "You, especially, Frank. You're going to try to manipulate your future boss with the help of his fifteen year old sister. That's a recipe for disaster if I ever saw one."

"You're a Gryffindor. You don't know Narcissa Crouch. She won't rat on us," said Edmund.

"Narcissa would only be our conduit of information. We're not manipulating Crouch. I don't think you can manipulate him," said Frank. "At least, that's never been my impression of him. We're going to bring certain things to his attention."

"Such as? He probably already knows Viridian is a rotten, horrible teacher," protested Catherine.

"But does he know what Viridian thinks of Crouch?" Frank. "How often does Viridian make snarky comments about the government?"

"Not that often."

"Often enough, Cathy," said Edmund.

"And he could be brought to say worse things, don't you think?" added Frank.

"I'll leave it to you Slytherins then," said Catherine. "Anything that takes courage rather than cunning?"

"I'll tell you if I need a helping of daring and nerve," said Frank.

"Thank you," she said, jumping up from the table. "I'm going back to Charms now. I'll give your love to Professor Flitwick."

"Where is that going?" asked Frank bluntly, after she had left the room.

"I don't know," said Edmund hesitantly. "I think it really is serious. To tell the truth, I wouldn't mind marrying Cathy down the line."

"That's romantic. "I wouldn't mind marrying you, dear, so what do you think?"

"Frank, best friend or not, I am hardly going to practice proposing to you." There was a slight blush on his face.

Everyone seemed to be in love, Frank reflected, as they left the room, and as always had happened, people were going to get married. He couldn't hold a grudge against his society's marriage patterns. After all, his parents had produced him. On his way to Flitwick's class, however, he paused at the sound of an interesting conversation from one of the classrooms

"Entrails reading," Professor Forsyte was saying "is essential to the art of Divination."

"And that is why I never bothered to take Divination," he said to Edmund, standing out of sight of the door.

The students were looking faintly sick. "Finally, a method that makes the diviner suffer as much as his or her victims," said Evan to Melania. In a louder voice, he asked, "How long have the birds been dead?"

"It's best to kill the bird on the spot, Rosier," said Professor Forsyte.

"Lovely," said Evan, turning around to get a good look at Sybill Trelawney, who had gone completely white.

"Do we have to kill the bird ourselves?" asked Julian.

"No, Miss Tierney, that'll be done for you."

Professor Forsyte went into her study.

"This is barbaric," said Melania indignantly.

"Actually, it's Greco-Roman," said Evan.

"I think I read somewhere that entrails reading is very imprecise," said Sybill tremulously.

"Unlike crystal balls?" shot back Evan.

Professor Forsyte returned with a cage full of squawking pigeons.

"Now, it's important that the bird be..."

"Professor, do we have to do this?" said Melania.

"The poor birds," said Sybill.

"Birds are not beings, Miss Trelawney," said Professor Forsyte. "And judging by the fact that none of you has shown the slightest objection to eating fish, flesh, or fowl at dinner, you are not promoting the liberation of the beasts. Now, I will select a pigeon for demonstration." She began to open the cage.

Melania whipped out her wand. "Mobilcarcer!" The cage tipped over and the pigeons flew out. Chaos ensued.

"Get them back!" called Professor Forsyte, as one flew out of the room, driven out by Melania.

Frank took out his wand.

"No, don't!" said Melania, grabbing his arm. The pigeon flew up to a high window and settled itself squawking on the ledge.

"Miss Frost, let go of Mr. Longbottom's arm," called Professor Forsyte, as she gathered together the birds in the classroom.

"What sort of class is this? Killing a bunch of defenceless birds," said Melania imploringly.

"Divination," said Frank. "I'm sorry, Melania, but this is how it is. You'll have to stomach it."

"But the poor birds!"

"Will die. If you can't bear seeing it, don't look."

"And then we have to pick them apart," she said hysterically.

"Is that worse than Potions classes?"

"But in Potions, you don't have to think about how the things were just alive."

"So, you don't want to think about reality?"

"Yes!" said Melania.

"That's natural enough," he said, amused. "Professor Forsyte, could they take the rest of class off from entrails reading? They're just a little queasy about killing, that's all. Next time, you could bring the birds in already dead."

"But not those ones," gasped Melania.

"That's illogical, Miss Frost," said Professor Forsyte. "However, I think you're right, Longbottom." Like most teachers, she has a soft spot in her heart for him. "How come you didn't choose to explore the art of Divination?"

"I didn't have enough time," said Frank sincerely. "But I see that you have a capable class here to more than make up for my absence."

"Yes," said Professor Forsyte with sudden pride. "Miss Trelawney especially makes great advances."

"Do you, Sybill?" said Frank. "Can you tell me my fortune?"

"By palmistry?" asked Sybill.

Frank stuck out his hand.

"You have a long life line," she said after a moment's intent study. "And a curved heart line. It ends up under the index finger. That means that you are aggressive in love and that you will be choosy about your partner." Several of the girls giggled. "A very strong fate line. You will find your life path early and stick to it."

"So far so good," said Frank.

"Oh dear," said Sybill. "I'm afraid this is a fire hand. You like to be in charge of other people,"

Edmund snorted.

"But the lines are too strong. I see a grievous accident ahead of you. Oh dear, I'd rather stop there."

Frank wrinkled his nose. "Well, at least, you've given me the long life line. Thank you, Sybill. And thank you Professor, for letting me step in."

"You're very welcome, Mr. Longbottom."

"You schmooze an awful lot," said Edmund, as they left the room.

"Yes," said Frank. "I do."

* * * * * * * * * * *

In the ante-room of Crouch's office, Persephone Fletcher was organizing her files and her thoughts. Crouch was inside in his office, reading Kelly's latest letter.

The first problem with being Crouch's personal assistant was that she would probably soon die from overwork. There was never a restful moment working for him. It surprised her that not only did Crouch keep tabs on his Department but on the other Departments as well.

"Has the memo from the American Secretary of Magic arrived yet?" Crouch asked, coming out of his office.

"No, not yet," she said, "But your tea's ready."

"Thank you, Persephone," he said, taking the cup from her and sitting down on the sofa. "You can sit down," he added in an amused voice. "I'm going to be interviewing a young woman today and I'll need a vial of truth potion." He said it as unconcernedly as if he were asking her to draft a letter or brew him a cup of tea. "I'll authorize you to get me that." He paused. "And I think you should add some tincture of Valerian Root."

"Valerian Root?"

"Yes, it makes the process much easier. Have you ever seen a truth potion used?"

"No," said Persephone. She left unvoiced the thought that she didn't want to either.

"Most people try to put up a fight against the potion's effects. Valerian Root restrains them."

"Could they resist the truth potion?" asked Persephone surprised.

"Yes," said Crouch. "Especially the weaker potions such as this. The stronger potions have very bad side effects, and I want this one for a Hogwarts student."

The particular Hogwarts student he wanted it for was at that moment lying in a bed in St. Mungo's drifting in and out of sleep, trying to decide exactly what she thought of what had happened. She had nearly died on Saturday evening. She should be happy to be living, but she wasn't.

"What can we do?" asked Mordred.

Lucius Malfoy looked to the locked door. "Only a Muggleborn's lifeblood can undo that," he said softly, his eyes moving to Alison. "Roland's life or the mudblood's gentlemen?"

"Are you crazy?" said Mordred, grabbing Alison and pushing her behind him.

"No, you are," said Malfoy. "You're in love and completely blind. Which is worth more, the life of a pureblood wizard or this mudblood girl's?"

"You can't ask us to kill one friend to save another," said Severus. Alison noticed that he avoided answering the question.

"No, I see I can't. Expelliarmus!" Their wands flew to his hands. "I'll have to do it. Let go of her, Lestrange."

"No," said Mordred, holding Alison tightly to him.

"Do you really want me to die, Malfoy?" said Alison.

"I want Roland to live," said Malfoy coolly.

"I'll give him that blood then," said Alison. "Mordred, let go of me." He didn't move.

Lucius Malfoy raised his wand again and flung Mordred to the floor. Alison faced Malfoy quietly. He paused a second, then lowered his wand. "It would be better if you did it yourself," he said.

"Oh, is that right?" said Severus. Mordred stumbled up from the floor and took hold of her again.

"Yes, cut your arms and let your lifeblood drip down his throat. Who knows?" said Malfoy. "You might even live. If it takes a short enough time and they get hold of Dumbledore's phoenix for you."

"Thank you," said Alison coldly.

"I'll grant you this on one condition," said Malfoy.

Mordred groaned.

"And what is that condition?" asked Alison.

"You sign your names to this document," said Malfoy, pulling some parchment from his robes.

"It's blank," said Severus.

"Yes, I'll write it later, but I'm sure you can imagine what I'll write. Let us just say that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would be most interested in it."

"Alison Howard?" came a voice. Alison opened her eyes.

"Hello, my name's Theira, Theira Pist."

"Hello," said Alison hesitantly. Anyone who wore purple with gold trimming was a force to reckon with.

"Tell me about yourself, Alison," said Theira, taking a chair.

Alison stared at her coldly.

"You're a Londoner, aren't you?" pressed Theira.

"Yes."

"Lovely. I grew up in Cheapside, you know."

"Really?"

"I'm sure we have a lot in common," she said with a demonic smile.

"Since I grew up in Muggle London, and judging by your name, you're wizard-born, I doubt it," said Alison valiantly.

The comment didn't faze the woman. "I suppose so," she said. "You'll have to tell me more about your early life."

"I was a happy, well-adjusted child. I didn't bully my nanny, I socialized with other children and I did reasonably well at school until the age of eleven," said Alison resignedly.

"Do you have any siblings?"

"Two older brothers: Michael and Anthony."

"What is your relationship with your family like?"

"Perfectly cordial."

"And how would you characterize your role within your family?"

"Spoiled youngest child."

"Are you comfortable with that role?"

"Yes."

"How does your family deal with your being a witch."

"They are quite comfortable with it." Please, get me out of here, or I WILL go crazy.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," said Theira irritably.

A man in an Auror's uniform entered. "My name's Robert McKinnon," he said, "And I'm here to take Alison Howard to the Ministry for questioning."

"I'm sorry," began Theira, drawing herself up to her full height. "Miss Howard is ill, and cannot be disturbed."

"My orders are signed by Barty Crouch," said McKinnon patiently. "Miss Howard, get ready to come with me."

This wasn't precisely how Alison had wanted to get out of St. Mungo's. In fact, the expression, "Out of the frying pan, into the fire" came to mind.

Crouch was standing beside his desk, when she entered his office.

"Take a seat, Miss Howard," he ordered.

She reluctantly did.

"Are you feeling all right?" Crouch asked.

"Yes," she said. "Under the circumstances."

"I am going to have you drink a truth potion then. Do you have any questions?"

Alison stared at him.

"Do I have to drink it?"

"Yes, you do. It tastes horrible, but other than that, you'll be all right." He opened a drawer and took out a vial.

"Please," said Alison.

"I'll give you a few seconds to compose yourself." He put his hand on her shoulder. "It won't kill you and, have no fear, I won't ask you about your love life." He had a charming smile. "Now," he knelt down beside her, and took the stopper from the vial. "Your hands are shaking so I'll hold it to your lips. Just swallow."

She wanted to dash the vial to the floor and make a break for the door. But that would be useless. They would only strap her down and force-feed her the potion. It was better to drink it now. Crouch was waiting patiently for her to open her mouth. She did.

The potion was horrible. If he hadn't been holding on to her, she would have fallen to the floor writhing. Everything inside her seemed to be dislocated.

Then, a warm tingling feeling overtook her and for the first time since the previous Friday, she felt the tension leaving her limbs.

"Do you hear me?" Crouch asked.

"Yes."

"How do you feel?"

"Calm." She didn't want to feel calm. She wanted to tense herself up, to resist his questions.

"Did you cut your arms?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

She was breathing rapidly. The answer was trying to fight its way out of her throat, but she could force it down. She could. There, she had. He had asked and she hadn't answered.

"Breathe deeply," said Crouch. "You're all right. Now why did you cut yourself?"

"To save Rolly Wilkes. Oh God!"

"Lean back. What happened to Wilkes?"

"He was dying," she gasped.

"Why was he dying?"

Alison didn't answer. Instead, she began to cry. Her face was soon wet with tears, which Crouch gently wiped away with his handkerchief.

"Why was he dying?" he repeated.

Illogically, it seemed to her that he was on her side. The words began to pour out. She was telling him about their experiments with the Dark Arts, about Lucius Malfoy, about the deal they had made with him. She ended up sobbing into his shoulder, and then she lost consciousness.

She woke up half an hour later, her mouth burning. She was lying on the sofa in Crouch's office. As soon as she saw her stir, Persephone Fletcher was at her side with a glass of water.

"Drink up," she said. "How do you feel?"

"Terrible," moaned Alison.

She was almost glad, though, that she had been forced to tell Crouch all that. If he didn't send her to Azkaban, which was indeed quite probable, she was out of Lucius Malfoy's grasp. That paper he had was now worthless.

Would Crouch send her to Azkaban? Right now, sipping the ice-cold water, lying on the soft cushions, and feeling inappropriately light-hearted at the thought of escaping Malfoy's stranglehold, it didn't seem to matter.

"Alison Howard's come around," she heard Persephone say.

"Has she? Very good," said Crouch briskly. He entered the room. "I needn't tell you that you've landed yourself in a mess, Alison. You do have an interesting connection with Lucius Malfoy. And yet you are a Muggleborn. There's no future for you to throw in your lot with Voldemort."

"No."

"First of all, you are not mentally disturbed, and I will have you released from St. Mungo's immediately. Secondly, you will leave Rosier and Avery out of this. They come from good families and will not come to grief unless you bring them there. Now, you can choose between two paths of action. I could have you locked up for a few years, or you could help me."

The correct answer was not difficult to reach. She nodded, and he began to lay out his plans. Once again, she was walking the line, perilously close to falling. But there was something in this situation to thrill a Slytherin. What other fifth year could reasonably claim to be working for both Voldemort and Barty Crouch?