1975

Chapter XI - The Ceremony of Innocence

Though the other students gasped, Julian Tierney surveyed the results of her botched Transfiguration with studied equilibrium.

"I hadn't thought that was possible, Miss Tierney," said Professor McGonagall drily. "Rosier, could you put the desk back together? I'll take charge of that... thing, Miss Tierney. Now, go and get washed."

Julian demurely handed McGonagall the would-be pincushion, a mass of grey squiggly material dripping a black liquid with the smell of tar. Leaving the classroom, she reflected on the upcoming OWLs. A Potions OWL was not a possibility, but she had been hoping to scrape one in Transfiguration. This incident cast a definite doubt on that prospect. She vaguely wondered how she would remove the stains from her robes.

On her way to the common room, she met Peter Pettigrew and Remus Lupin lurking in the third floor corridor.

"God! Are you all right?" said Pettigrew in a sincerely horrified voice.

"There was a Transfiguration accident," said Julian with dignity. "What are you two doing out of class, may I ask?"

"Research for History of Magic. Professor Binns wants to make his classes more tactile."

"Very funny, Pettigrew," said Julian. She made to move on.

"Wait a minute," said Lupin. "I wanted to ask you. How is Alison Howard?"

"She'll be returning today," said Julian.

"I'm glad to hear that," said Lupin.

Julian tried to imagine Alison expressing gladness over Lupin recovering from an illness and failing, wondered if there was something to be said for Gryffindor fair-mindedness after all.

"I'll tell her that," she said. "I'm sure it'll cheer her up."

It was a fine state of affairs, she thought, that the House system kept the Gryffindors and Slytherins so firmly apart. Sirius Black might be a bit of an idiot, but Remus Lupin would have been an asset as a friend. As it was, she thought it foolish of Severus and the others to choose him so firmly as an enemy. She was always very careful to keep on Lupin's good side. He had a smile that could hurt.

She was startled when she entered the fifth year girls' dormitory to find Alison already there, sprawled out on one of the beds.

"Julian," Alison said, "What happened to you?"

"Transfiguration accident," said Julian. "I'm all right. And you?"

"Quite all right," said Alison.

Julian stood there awkwardly.

"Sit down, Julian," said Alison. "Tell me. Weren't you a little upset by Severus's and my manner last Saturday night?"

"A little upset!" said Julian, still standing. "What is wrong with you, Alison?"

"I was under a good deal of stress," said Alison levelly.

"I'm sorry," said Julian quickly. "It's all right... if you're going to be all right."

"Mordred wrote me about your half-brother," said Alison. "You'll be gratified to hear that he expressed great regret that the honour of dealing with Mr. Kelly fell to Longbottom."

"I wish he hadn't done that," said Julian. "It just got me more detentions and lost Slytherin all those points."

"The points don't matter," said Alison. "And Viridian doesn't mark us for the OWL. Next year, though... Julian, he has to go."

"And how are a bunch of students such as ourselves going to bring that about?"

"I have plans," said Alison. "You can help. Tell me, why does Viridian hate you so?"

"He likes other people?"

"If you know something, Julian, tell me."

Julian hesitated a second then hopped up on the bed beside her. "You want to hear the whole sordid story?"

"Yes."

"Well, it began in 1959, when my father, Ignatius Kelly, was Head of Magical Law Enforcement... He was having an affair with my mother, Kate Tierney at the time," said Julian quickly. "But that's not relevant to the story. In 1959, Crouch entered Magical Law Enforcement. Viridian was there too."

Alison nodded. "He's told us a thousand times how tedious that position was."

"He's lying," said Julian. "He actually was set to become an Auror." She paused for Alison's reaction.

"Continue," said Alison with just a tinge of excitement in her voice.

"But then Crouch arrived on the scene, and from their first moment together, he and Viridian didn't get along. At last, Crouch convinced my father to sack Viridian."

Alison let out a low whistle. "How do you know this?" she asked.

Julian blushed. "My father told his mistress, my mother. She told me when I complained Viridian was singling me out."

"He hated you before us," said Alison. "All because of your father who doesn't even acknowledge you exist."

"I'm not surprised he doesn't. I lost him his political career, you know," said Julian. "Someone leaked my parentage to the press. Witch's Weekly had a hay-day."

"'Is this the sort of man we want enforcing our laws?' I know. I looked it up."

"You would, Alison."

"I hope you aren't offended, but you look a great deal like him."

"I know. That made his public denials very unbelievable."

"Julian, I want to show you something," said Alison. "You'd best change into new robes, and I think I can charm away those splotches on your face." She jumped up off the bed. "Let's go before Melania gets back and takes me under her wing."

"She's planning to make you drink a lot of chamomile tea," admitted Julian as she began to undress. "To calm you down."

"I've had my fill of being calmed down," said Alison. "What are people saying about me?"

"Mostly that Viridian drove you over the edge."

"Excellent," said Alison. "I hope they're not blaming Mordred too much."

"Somewhat. It's common knowledge you two have split up."

"Funny, I don't remember ever getting together," said Alison. Here, close your eyes. Occulto! There, that only hides it. You'll need to soak your face with a cleansing potion to get it off."

"Thank you."

"No, I sacrificed a good deal of blood for a different reason altogether, Julian. Rolly was ill that night and that's what it took to make him better."

Julian looked horrified. "But that's..."

"Very dark magic. Wouldn't you use dark magic to save a life?"

"Why was he ill in the first place?"

"Because we were silly and careless. We shan't be again. Now, come with me."

Julian did, following Alison quietly through the corridors to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

"Why would I want to go in there?" said Julian in disgust.

"What? Oh, the repelling charm Florenceand Severus put on the entrance. We'll have to change it for you." She took Julian by the arm and pulled her into bathroom.

"What is going on?" said Julian.

"Polyjuice," said Alison. "This is how we shall remove Viridian."

Julian stood there open-mouthed.

"Is it worth it?" asked Alison softly.

"Yes," Julian said.

"Good."

"But..." began Julian.

"I knew you'd have an objection," said Alison.

"You've changed," said Julian decidedly. "You've taken charge now, haven't you?"

"I've had to," said Alison. She cleared her throat, as if she had memorized what she was about to say. (She probably had.). "There's no strong arm to lean on. You must know that feeling. Melania tries to resolve it by finding someone to take care of her. Kenneth puts all his faith in the general order of society. Rolly retreats into a fantasy world he controls. And I choose to take charge."

"You're not dead?" came a disappointed whine from behind them.

Julian jumped. Alison turned about calmly. "No, I'm not dead, Myrtle."

"They said you were dead," said Myrtle. "They also said Mordred Lestrange had chucked you," she added with a satisfied grin.

"And you expect to catch him on the rebound, Myrtle?" asked Alison.

"Do I have to be insulted even in death?" said Myrtle tearfully. "Oh, go away and leave me alone."

"I am going away, but I have good news for you. Lestrange should be up here soon enough."

And bidding farewell to her fair rival, Alison left.

* * * * * * * * *

While Alison and Julian were creeping about Hogwarts, the second year Slytherins were hard at work at Potions. At least, they had been until a minute earlier.

"I refuse to work another lesson with Crouch!" hissed Kitty O'Hare.

Professor Meander sighed. The girl did not look ready to relent. Yet, of all the second-year Slytherins she was the last who had been willing to be partnered with Barty Crouch. In his one and a half years at Hogwarts, the boy had alienated all his classmates in Potions.

Meander wearily turned towards Barty, who was standing at attention with a defiant look on his face. "What is wrong?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Barty.

"He thinks he can say just anything to me, and I'm sick of it," said Kitty.

"I merely asked you not to cut the roots so thickly."

"I am sick of working with a nit-picking perfectionist," shot back Kitty. I'd rather work alone."

Meander turned to the Ravenclaw side of the classroom for a victim. "Miss O'Hare, go and work with Miss Lovegood. Miss Sinistra, come partner Mr. Crouch."

With much muttering from Althea Lovegood, a look of triumph on Kitty O'Hare's face, and no sign of emotion from Barty Crouch and Maria Celeste Sinistra, the switch was executed.

Meander meanwhile was making calculations of how quickly Crouch would run through the Ravenclaws. She couldn't blame O'Hare and the others for their reactions. Barty Crouch was a spoiled brat. He was accustomed to getting what he wanted and, Meander suspected, to seeing an unreasonable degree of exactitude demanded and granted in his own household.

It was especially infuriating since he was already set to be the most brilliant student she had ever taught. She should be enjoying the experience, not longing to wring his neck.

"How far did you get with your Potion?" Maria Celeste asked Barty.

"We were almost finished cutting the roots."

"She really did mess these up," said Maria Celeste, examining them.

"Did you think I was exaggerating?"

"Yes," said Maria Celeste bluntly. "I think I can salvage these. But you can't expect Slytherins to act like Ravenclaws, Crouch."

Barty laughed. He and Maria Celeste had been friendly rivals since their first days at Hogwarts. They vied for the top marks in every class, except Astronomy, where Maria Celeste left him and everyone else in the dust. Consequently, they shared an unspoken sense of superiority to their classmates.

"What do you think of that?" said Maria Celeste, pushing the roots over to him.

"I couldn't have done it better myself."

"That's what I thought. I aim to beat you in Potions this year, you know."

"I'm working against that eventuality."

"You couldn't spare me a victory or two?

"No," he said. "Complete conquest or nothing. It's the family code. Here, it's come to a boil."

She tipped the roots in carefully, then looked around the classroom. "Everyone works so slowly. What classes are you taking next year? Divination?" she teased.

"And Muggle Studies," said Barty. "I figured I needed a rest. No, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Care of Magical Creatures."

"Me too. What a remarkable coincidence!"

"Are you done already, Crouch?" asked Horace Croaker, one of the second year Slytherins, looking up from his work.

"Yes," said Barty shortly. "Do you want to know with which side of the knife to cut?"

"No," said Croaker and went back to work.

"Err, Horace, he just insulted you," said his partner, Mark Stebbins.

"I'm not going to win a war of insults with Crouch," said Croaker sensibly.

"Scared?" said Stebbins. He stood up. "Nice work with your Potion, Crouch. I suppose you come by it honestly, your mother's father being a potions maker. That's more than can be said for your blond hair."

Barty's pale face went a bright crimson. "Would you care to clarify that?" he asked stiffly.

"Well, some people would wonder when the dark haired Head of Magical Law Enforcement has a sickly, blond haired son who looks nothing like him..."

Barty pulled out his wand, "Disorientate!" he spat out, before Stebbins had a second to react. Stebbins staggered backwards and fell hard into a desk.

"Crouch!" cried Meander. She rushed to Stebbins "Are you all right?"

"I can't... oh..." moaned Stebbins.

"What did you do to him, Crouch?" said Meander hysterically.

"A disorientation curse," said Barty flatly. He was staring at Stebbins with mingled horror and satisfaction.

"It's all spinning," said Stebbins. "I can't stop it..."

"I'll take you to Madame Pomfrey," said Meander. "Crouch, go to the staff room. I'll be there directly." She took hold of Stebbins's shoulders and led him out of the room.

Meander having left the room, the class erupted into chatter.

"Now you've done it, Crouch," said Kitty O'Hare. "You'll be expelled."

"His father will get him off," said Horace Croaker.

Maria Celeste stood up. "I don't suppose any of you bright Slytherins has considered the trouble Stebbins will be in when they hear what he said about the wife of a school governor. Come on, Barty. I'll be your witness." She tossed her dark curls and marched out, followed by a very surprised Barty. It was the first time she had ever called him by his Christian name.

"Honestly," she said, as he caught up with her. "Haven't they ever heard of recessive genes?"

"Probably not," said Barty.

"How do you live with those people? I wouldn't feel safe in the dormitory at night."

"They can't touch me," said Barty. "My father wouldn't stand for it."

"But they can say cruel things."

"Miss Sinistra, Mr. Crouch, where are you rushing to so fast?" came a voice that they had both learned to hate with all their heart.

They turned to see Professor Viridian standing at the open door of a classroom. Viridian always taught with the door open, so he could keep an eye on the corridor outside.

"Professor Meander told us to go to the staff room," protested Maria Celeste.

"Did she? What trouble are you in this time?"

"There was a little bit of a squabble in Potions, and she's going to sort it out," said Maria Celeste evasively.

"Why the dead silence, Mr. Crouch? Come in, both of you."

Viridian was teaching the sixth year Slytherins. They looked relieved to have their lesson interrupted by Viridian haranguing a pair of younger students.

"Now, would one of you explain exactly what happened?"

Barty drew himself up to his full height, which wasn't very tall in relation to Viridian, and said, "Mark Stebbins insulted my family, and I hexed him."

Some of the sixth years giggled.

"While that excuse might be accepted before the Council of Magical Law," began Viridian, "It is not our custom at Hogwarts to..."

He stopped, seeing Professor Meander, pass the door. "Menenia," he said stepping outside, "I believe I have your miscreant." He then closed the door to talk privately with her.

Barty stared at the students. The arch-nemesis of all that was good, Hector Quimby, was sitting in the front row.

Mordred Lestrange's voice sounded in his mind's ear. You could goad anyone into attacking you. It's an interesting talent.

He walked up towards Quimby's desk. "You're still studying the Unforgivables?" he said. "I thought they finished those in fifth year."

"Shove off, Crouch," said Quimby.

"We're studying them in further detail," explained Quimby's deskmate, Winston Ayleward.

"I doubt the current fifth years will need to study them in further detail," said Barty. "They're going into them at depth now." He leant in a little closer over Quimby's desk.

"Leave my desk alone," muttered Quimby.

"Is there something there I shouldn't see?" asked Barty, picking up the slightly opened scroll near Quimby's right hand.

"Drop that Crouch or else."

"Else what?" asked Barty with an infuriating smile.

The next moment, he felt a fist hit his nose. As he stumbled backwards, a wave of euphoria overtook him.

Maria Celeste obligatorily began to scream, and though when Meander and Viridian rushed in, Barty was told to "get off the floor and cease the dramatics" (by Viridian), he continued to lie apparently half-conscious on the floor until they took him to the hospital wing, feeling entirely worthy of his House, even if he had shown his Gryffindor blood rather dramatically earlier on.

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

At lunch, Alison made the day of much of the student body by marching into the Great Hall and sitting down beside Mordred.

"She's so cold," one Gryffindor girl confided in another, expressing a widely held opinion.

"They say she's been slipping love potions into Lestrange's cup," a fourth year Hufflepuff told his friends.

"These Muggleborns," was all Hector Quimby of Slytherin had to say.

Alison gave no sign of noticing the whispering. "Things have changed," she said quietly to Mordred. "We'll need to rethink everything: you, me, Severus, and Florence."

"When?"

"After classes. Can we slip down to Gryffindor's crypt?"

"Gryffindor's crypt?"

"Last place the others would look for us," said Alison.

Mordred smirked and nodded. The crypt was attached to the dungeons, and was said to be the final resting place of Godric Gryffindor, though such respected authorities as Professor Binns confessed themselves very doubtful of that story. However, other noted members of House Gryffindor were certainly buried there, and during the night it served almost as a common room for the Gryffindor ghosts, to exchange timeworn jokes and tell anecdotes a few too many times than would amuse the living. During the day, it was usually empty, and as Alison had said, it was the last place anyone would look for a Slytherin, living or dead.

It was late afternoon when they entered the crypt. Alison hopped up on the tomb of Wulfhelm the Valiant, a favourite of Godric Gryffindor's who had thought it made perfectly good sense to fight without magic at Hastings, because it wouldn't be fair to the poor Muggle Normans to use his wand.

"What happened in London?" asked Florence, as soon as Severus and Mordred had swung the heavy iron door into place and bolted it.

"I was taken to the Ministry," said Alison. "And given a truth potion."

Severus made a choking sound. "What..." he began.

"I told Crouch everything. Not about the Polyjuice. He didn't know enough to ask about that. But the rest, he knows."

"But we're not in Azkaban," said Florence. "What did he do?"

"He wants me to continue contact with Lucius Malfoy. To spy on him."

"A double agent?" said Mordred. "Is he crazy? You could be killed."

"And we've already had enough of that almost happening," said Severus drily. "You don't have much of an option, do you though?"

"No," said Alison.

"You weren't supposed to tell us, were you?" asked Florence.

"No. He actually warned me you might turn me in to Malfoy if I told you."

"That's not an irrational conclusion," said Severus. "An utterly wrong one, of course, but he doesn't know us."

"Couldn't he have had any pity?" said Florence fiercely.

"He's not a Hufflepuff," said Mordred. "He's a Slytherin."

"Like us," said Alison. "We can play this game. We were sorted to play this game."

Mordred nodded. "But don't you think going underground and moving to Brazil is a tempting option?"

Alison and Florence snickered. Severus didn't smile. The situation was far too dark for him to be distracted. His brow was knit and his dark eyes were troubled.

"Are you going to tell the others?" he said.

"I don't know," said Alison.

"Lucius Malfoy is Rolly's cousin," said Florence.

"Crouch warned me to leave Evan and Kenneth out of this," said Alison.

"That's not just," said Severus bluntly. "If you want to divide us..."

"I don't," said Alison. "But will they bear with us?"

"We swore a blood oath together," said Severus.

"Look, how we stood together last Saturday," said Mordred.

"My life is in your hands," said Alison simply.

"And ours in yours," replied Mordred. "There'll be no inducement for Crouch to hold off on punishing us if you don't co-operate with him."

Alison didn't answer, but her eyes signalled an unspoken acquiescence.

"Good," said Mordred.

"If you'll stop gazing into each other's eyes," said Severus, "What's to be done now?"

"We'll go ahead with the Polyjuice and we'll use it to discredit Viridian," began Alison.

"Oh dear," said Florence with a smile. "Crouch hasn't crushed your spirit, has he?"

"I showed Julian the Polyjuice," continued Alison.

"And?" said Severus.

"She was a very easily seduced into this undertaking. I explained what happened with Rolly as well. I really think we'll have her by the end of the week."

"Just don't let her mess about with anything too dangerous," warned Mordred.

"Excellent," said Severus with a thin-lipped smile. "Julian Tierney, perfectly behaved Julian Tierney initiated into our midst. I await the sight with anticipation."

"We still need a new name for our society," said Florence.

"No," said Severus. "That was when we were playing a child's game. It's not a mystical society. It's just us: Snape, Avery, Rosier, Wilkes, Lestrange, Howard, and Jorkins."

"And Tierney," said Alison.

"And Tierney," agreed Severus.

"Good," said Florence. "Then, the first thing you must do is drop your quarrel with Mordred."

Severus looked as if she had asked him to wear Hufflepuff colours at the upcoming Slytherin vs. Hufflepuff match.

"I still have not received an explanation..." he began icily.

"Even if he did hand you over, he did it because he wanted to save you. Duelling with Black was one of the stupidest things you have ever undertaken, Severus Snape!"

"Steady on, Flo," said Alison.

"And why you must insist it was Mordred's fault is beyond me. Perhaps Potter or Black told other people and a Slytherin heard and informed Longbottom. If Mordred says he didn't do it, I think you should believe him."

Anyone but Severus would have quailed before Florence at that moment. "You must excuse me if I do not have as generally optimistic a view of human behaviour as yourself," he said, standing up. "Is this meeting finished?"

"I should think so," said Mordred.

"I am going to check up on the Polyjuice then. I hope Kenneth has not been meddling with it again." He swept out of the room.

"What did Ken do?" asked Alison.

"Stirred it too much, according to Severus," said Mordred. "He's becoming obsessed with that Potion."

"I'm glad to hear that," said Alison. "Once Severus's obsessed, he does things properly."

Kenneth, however, was not meddling with the potion. He was sitting in the library with Evan and Cynthia Rookwood. Supposedly, they were doing their Transfiguration homework, but they had quickly drifted into the exciting field of gossip, when Alfred Summers, who of late had yielded the field to Evan, came bounding across the library, his face bright and joyful.

"Cynthia! You're in!" he shouted earning a frown from Madame Pince. "Macmillan's too ill to play tomorrow. One of the Slytherins," here Summers looked at Evan and Ken as though they were personally responsible, "spilt her frostbite potion on him." Cynthia, Evan, and Kenneth winced. "He'll be in the hospital wing for two and a half weeks at least. So you're our Keeper."

Cynthia's eyes had grown wide and her voice trembled as she answered. "But I can't. I'll mess everything up."

"No, you won't," said Summers reassuringly.

"Yes, you will," said Evan. "You haven't been practicing too much recently and you're already going to pieces..."

Cynthia turned and slapped him in the face. "Alfred, I'm going back to the common room," she said, picking up her books.

"What was I supposed to say?" complained Evan after she had left. "Wonderful! I'm you sure you'll do a fine job grinding Slytherin into the dust?"

"You could have been more tactful," suggested Ken.

"I was demoralizing the opponent."

"I know this may sound crazy, Evan, but life is not all about Quidditch."

"I never thought I'd hear an Avery say that," said Evan.

"You're stereotyping me by my surname!"

"Why not? Everyone else does it. Like Crouch last week. "You two come from good families."

"Well, we do," said Kenneth.

"Ken, you are hopelessly dependant. Stand by yourself for once."

"Do you ever let me?" said Kenneth with surprising bitterness.

Evan opened his mouth to reply and shut it. He had never thought for a moment what it must be like to be the ever-pliable Kenneth Avery. "Sorry, Ken," he finally said. "You're right. I should have been nicer to Cynthia. And to you, of course."

"I hope so," said Kenneth shortly. "My parents are very upset about me," he added suddenly. "I'm not looking forward to facing them."

"Give it time. They'll have got over it by the hols."

"What did your parents say?"

"Told me to stop being silly and settle down to work."

"You're not going to do that, are you?" teased Ken.

"Well, I might. OWLs, you know. Not that I need good grades. I'll still take up my father's place in the firm."

"Lucky you," said Kenneth. "I have to go into the Ministry or go freeze in Canada. I could do both, I suppose. It's no fair being a younger son."

Kenneth was not the only one to meditate that afternoon on the injustices of life.

Hunched over his desk alone his dormitory, Rolly for once was not writing. Instead, he stared listlessly at the blank page. His epic saga was at a particularly thrilling point, but he could not bring himself to begin rescuing his heroes from the mess he had so eagerly written them into.

He had tried to convince himself that Viridian's dislike of his writing meant nothing to him. But Viridian was his first critic and one's first critic naturally has a good deal of stature in one's mind. Leafing through his literary efforts, he had begun to convince himself that his view of the world was simplistic and naively optimistic, his style ungainly, his plot unimaginative, and his dialogue stilted. He was seriously convincing chucking the whole thing into the fire, but his thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Come in," he said.

Florence slipped in quickly. "I think I left my cloak in here the other day," she said.

"It's in Mordred's wardrobe. Are you going outside?"

"Yes."

Rolly looked at her almost resentfully. Her eyes were bright and she seemed excited, as she wrapped herself in her cloak.

"Is it a nice day outside?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "If you like light rain and a blustering wind."

"I do," he said, putting down his quill. "May I go out with you?"

She stopped and it was plain to see she was not pleased by the suggestion.

"On the other hand," said Rolly quickly. "I did want to finish this chapter."

"Oh, good luck then," said Florence relieved. "When are you going to read us any of it?"

"When it's finished," said Rolly.

"That's unfair of you," said Florence. "Evan says you write poetry. If you won't show off your novel, read me some of that."

"I'd rather not."

"That's an order, Wilkes. After all the time I've spent worrying over you, you could at least repay me by reading a poem."

"All right," said Rolly, taking a piece of parchment from his drawer. "Here you are. But you'll have to read it yourself. Somewhere else."

"Thank you," she said. "I'll leave before you change your mind."

Florence didn't want him to come along. He'd always been the odd man out in their group. Evan and Kenneth. Mordred and Severus. Florence and Alison. Most days, that didn't bother him, but today...

He dipped his quill in his ink well and plunged into a savage character sketch of Vindictus Viridian.

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

The next two weeks were surprisingly uneventful, both at Hogwarts and in the wizarding world. Spring was in the air, heralded by a never-ending downpour. He-Who-Must-Be-Named had been conspicuously absent from the headlines of the Daily Prophet, and for the first time since Christmas, the average Ministry employee had time to linger over coffee or catch up on the latest Valeria Niggleby novel. To top all, Barty Crouch was even seen to leave the Ministry at four in the afternoon.

Fighting her way through the crowded street that late Friday afternoon, Persephone Fletcher was trying to finish her shopping before evening set in. Even here in Diagon Alley, it was probably not wise for Barty Crouch's personal assistant to be out after dark. She looked at her shopping list. One item left: floo powder.

The apothecary's shop was filled with the acrid smell of smoke. Persephone began coughing immediately.

"I'm just stirring up some Pepper-up Potion," said Hebe McPherson, the apothecary. "And what do you need today, Perse?"

"A pound of floo powder. How much is your wormwood?"

"Ten sickles a pound."

"I'll take a quarter of a pound, then," said Persephone.

"Having trouble sleeping?" asked Hebe sympathetically.

"Yes," said Persephone.

"Poor girl. Here, I'll make it two sickles for the floo powder. They don't pay you overmuch at the Ministry, do they?"

"I'd quit if I didn't think Crouch'd take it as treason," complained Persephone. "He's changed the regulations so it's very hard to leave."

"You're doing brave work at Magical Law Enforcement, though," said Hebe seriously. "If you weren't there..."

"You-Know-Who would enslave Britain. So I am told."

"I think you need a good cheering charm."

"Either that or a good drink," said Persephone.

"That reminds me," said Hebe. "I have a bottle of Chianti for you. Sent with compliments from Griselda." Griselda was Hebe's younger sister, Persephone's roommate at Hogwarts, now living in Italy. "I'll go upstairs and get it for you."

While Persephone waited for Hebe to come downstairs with the wine, she went to examining the potions on the back shelf. Persephone was competent enough to stir up most of her own potions, saving a good deal of money in the process, but many witches and wizards either were unable to make their own or had no time for it. The potions here always looked more interesting and inviting than the ones she made at home. The colours were rich and consistent (Hebe probably added dyes) and the bottles beautifully shaped.

Staring into a dark blue deflecting draught, she was torn from reverie by a small cough at her shoulder. She turned to see well near the last man in Britainshe would have willingly met that afternoon.

"Persephone Fletcher," he said. "We were at Hogwarts together."

"Thomas Kelly," she said, trying to stop her voice from trembling. "Yes, you were a few years under me?"

She knew so little about Imperius. He stood there as if nothing were wrong between them, as if they were old schoolmates who had not met for years. How much of his mind was aware of the true relation between the two of them? Why had he really spoken to her?

"Still working at the Spirit division?"

"No," said Persephone. "I've been transferred to Magical Law Enforcement. I'm Barty Crouch's personal assistant."

"Congratulations," said Kelly.

"How is the life of a surveyor?" she asked hesitantly.

"Wearisome," he said. "I like the work, but lately I've been set to mapping out every inch of land between two Scottish feuding families. I prefer plotting unplottable islands to hearing out the rights and wrongs of five centuries of squabbling. In fact, I'm here to ask Miss Hebe McPherson for a deposition regarding a strip of two feet width."

"You'll soon be set free from that, I hope," said Persephone.

"I wish so," he said. There was a look in his eyes did not match the subject of their conversation. "I long to be free again." He suddenly started. "I should probably leave a note for Miss McPherson. Good bye, Persephone."

"It was very nice to see you," she said weakly. Turning about, she saw the source of Kelly's sudden discomfort. Robert McKinnon was standing towards the end of the shelf, examining a bottle.

"Oh, hello, Perse," he said. "Do you think this potion actually gets rid of the cold or is that over-advertising?"

"Nothing kills the common cold, Rob," she said. "Has it got you?"

"I feel a slight tickling sensation at the back of my throat. Tomorrow, I shall be a complete wreck."

"Lovely, now my throat's beginning to tickle."

"Then, seize the day and come out to dinner with me before the plague strikes," said McKinnon.

She supposed that there wasn't much safer than going out to dinner with an Auror, so she gladly accepted his invitation.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Saturday morning was bright and unusually clear. Edmund Avery, who had been rumoured to be performing rain-dances in his dormitory, took this as a personal slight from nature. Everyone knew that the Hufflepuffs had a marked advantage over Slytherin in good weather.

"I'm glad this match is almost done with," said Frank heretically, after Edmund had finished complaining. "I haven't slept properly for a week. You've been composing Quidditch strategies in your sleep."

"Has he?" asked Megan Diggory, who had been staring blankly at her bowl of porridge. "Were any of them useful?"

"He claimed to have found the secret of the Starfish Without Stick."

Megan smiled for the first time that morning. "Shall we go?" she said, glancing at her watch.

Edmund took a deep breath. "Yes," he said. "It's time." He stood up, his face like one sentenced to life in Azkaban. "We'll go."

Alison watched wistfully as the Slytherin players filed out of the Great Hall.

"Should I wish for a stunning Slytherin victory or a defeat to show I'm still needed?" she asked Mordred.

"For defeat in your mind and victory in your heart," he replied. "If you are a true Slytherin."

"I'm not going to the game," announced Florence abruptly as they stood up from the table, "I have a head-ache."

"Poor Flo," said Melania.

"I foresaw you would fall ill," said Sybill with relish. "Didn't I?"

"Sybill," said Melania. "That is unkind."

"I only tell you what my inner-eye imparts," said Sybill. "I would be the first to rejoice were the futures I see brighter."

"Quidditch beckons!" said Evan cheerfully, moving in between Melania and Sybill. "Come!"

Julian kept her seat at the table, watching the throng leave the Hall.

"Aren't you going out?" asked Frank, stopping by her seat.

"No," she said. "I have detention."

"I do remember telling you not to serve that detention."

"And who gave you charge of my life, Frank Longbottom?" asked Julian, standing up. "I'll serve detention if I wish."

"Why would you wish to?"

"I'll be in this school for two more years. Viridian will be my teacher and my Head of House."

"I refuse to let you serve that detention."

"I must."

"You need to learn to stand up to people, Julian."

"Funny, I thought I was."

He stared at her. For a second, she met his eyes, then she turned a deep shade of red, and fled.

"Unpredictable," he muttered, as he made his way out of the Hall. "Entirely unpredictable."

The first half hour of the game was thoroughly enjoyable. Slytherin was putting up a good fight, though Hufflepuff had scored once, and the Snitch still had not showed up. Then, Gilderoy Lockhart unexpectedly sat down beside Frank. "Have I missed anything?" he asked.

"Only half an hour's play," said Frank. "10-0, Hufflepuff. May I ask, Lockhart, why you aren't sitting with the Gryffindors?"

"I'm here to cheer on Megan Diggory," said Lockhart.

"Oh," said Frank and tried to turn back to the game.

"Avery has the Quaffle," the announcer was shouting. "Passes to Diggory. Passes to... No, Morgan intercepts. Passes to Lello. Hufflepuff scores!"

"I warned Meg about that manoeuvre," said Lockhart smugly.

Frank wondered briefly what Megan Diggory saw in Lockhart and decided it was most likely the golden hair.

"I hear you're going to be an Auror," said Lockhart.

"Yes," said Frank.

"Magical Law Enforcement wanted me, of course," said Lockhart," But I regretfully had to turn them down."

"What are you doing after Hogwarts?" asked Frank, out of curiousity breaking his vow to ignore Lockhart.

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to divulge that information," said Lockhart briskly.

"I won't push you to divulge it then."

"Thank you," said Lockhart. "Meg scored! I taught her that move. It's a pity I had to give up Quidditch to concentrate on more serious matters."

"Quidditch's gain is Britain's loss," muttered Melania to Alison. Alison, however, was far too engrossed in the game to be amused.

"Look around you, you stupid boy!" she was shouting at Patroclus Peasegood, the Slytherin Seeker. "The Snitch isn't going to float into your hands!"

"Alison, I don't mean to offend," said Mordred, "but you're intolerable to watch Quidditch with."

"He's finally got it into his thick skull!" cried Alison triumphantly. "What did you say, Mordred?"

"Never mind," said Mordred, leaning over the seat to Evan. "We have got to get her back on the field."

"Absolutely," said Evan. "Peasegood versus Iliescu. We're done for the moment the Snitch shows."

"Cynthia Rookwood's not doing that badly either," said Mordred. "Couldn't you have done anything about that, Evan?"

"What would you have suggested?"

"I don't know... Lure her into a closet and lock her in there?"

"Cynthia Rookwood and closets simply don't mix," said Evan.

"Touch me not?" said Mordred. "I'm in the same boat here. Is the pursuit worth it?"

"I should think so," said Evan, keeping his eyes on the Hufflepuff Keeper, red-faced with exertion, her blonde hair an untidy mess. "Cynthia's giving me the cold shoulder, though."

"I know what that's like too," said Mordred quietly. "You know the old riddle: What do women most want?"

"Their own way," said Evan. "I'll bear that in mind."

"Gentleman," said Severus. "Discuss your tangled love-lives elsewhere."

There was a roar from the crowd as the Snitch appeared, and Peasegood and Iliescu were after it. Iliescu reached out his hand but then swerved off course as Bagman hit a Bludger his way. Peasegood was almost on top of the Snitch.

"ILIESCU TRAILS PEASEGOOD! PEASEGOOD..."

Patroclus Peasegood had collided with Cynthia Rookwood.

"She did that on purpose!" shrieked Melania.

Peasegood apparently had splintered her broom, which immediately began to plummet. But before a time out could be called, Iliescu had grasped the Snitch. Against a background of wild cheering from the crowd, Cynthia hit the ground.

"We almost won," said Ken bitterly. "I can't believe it. We almost one."

"And that blasted Rookwood messed it up," said Melania.

"So do we forgive her for that performance and go see her in the hospital wing?" asked Evan hopefully as Cynthia was carried off the field on a stretcher.

"Never," said Melania, pretending to fall sobbing on Ken's shoulder.

"You should be ashamed of yourselves," said Lockhart clearly, standing up behind them. "I'm sure that there is plenty of glory for all of us, though we can't all expect the lion's share of it. A wonderful performance by my dear third cousin Cynthia."

"Well, yeah, and you're my second cousin once removed," said Ken, once Lockhart had left. "But you don't see me jumping up and down about it."

They didn't go to see Cynthia immediately. At the moment, she was likely to be surrounded by celebrating Hufflepuffs, a prospect that fazed even Alison. Instead, they spent the afternoon playing cards and listening to Sybill tell fortunes to the younger Slytherins.

"I'm going out," said Alison finally, after hearing too many predictions of painful and drawn-out death. "I want to walk about the lake."

"Wade in the mud about the lake's more like it," said Severus, who was without much luck trying to teach Kenneth to shuffle cards.

"But I don't need to know how to shuffle," protested Ken. "I can use a self-shuffling deck."

"How do you know your opponent isn't using a trick deck?"

"Well, I'm not planning to play you for money, Severus."

Alison motioned outside, and Mordred followed her.

The mud was indeed thick on the ground, and their cloaks were thoroughly spattered by the time they reached the lake.

"I'm sixteen Friday, you know," said Mordred thoughtfully.

"I know," she stooped to pick up a rock. "I got you something in London, if you're worried."

"Now I'm worried," said Mordred. "You and your presents. Don't you remember Scalius?"

"Poor Scalius," said Alison fingering the smooth rock. "I'm sure he lived a happy life with Hagrid. Why do you hate salamanders so much?"

"You'd hate salamanders if one lured you into the fireplace as a child."

"That wasn't a likely hazard in my household," said Alison. "Besides, weren't there any wards on the fireplace?"

"Breaking the wards was my first display of magic. My parents were torn between worrying I was going to die and pride at my accomplishment."

"My first display of magic must have been surviving the book case I pulled down on myself when I was three. They said I should have been crushed, but I didn't take a scratch."

"Did you do any other accidental magic?" he asked. After more than four years of knowing her, he had never directly asked about her Muggle background before.

"No," she said reluctantly. "I did try, but nothing happened. Perhaps I was trying too hard."

"You tried to do magic?"

"There were always moments when I felt as if could just stretch out my hand and the book would jump to me."

"Then you were always a witch," he said firmly.

"What do you mean?"

"Even when you lived with the Muggles, you wanted to be here. Most Muggleborns still want to be part of that world. You should have been born into this world. It'd make things a whole lot easier."

"It would indeed," she said. She paused to send her rock skipping over the lake. "I wouldn't have to send my letters to that little Muggle village you tramp down to. Why do your parents allow that, anyway?"

"The bright lights of the two village shops are not likely to lure me astray. It can get dull about the house. The Muggles look up to our family, always have, and I'm something of a favourite with the greybeards."

"Haven't they noticed your family's a little odd?"

"It'd be hard not to," said Mordred. "I can't count the number of Ministry warnings we get. The local Muggles take it for granted there're dark things done in the Lestrange house. The younger Muggles don't believe it. They'd go to any length to ignore magic."

Alison laughed. "I think we're going to have a storm tonight," she said, looking up at the darkening sky.

"Lightning, thunder, about right for tonight," said Mordred.

"The skies weeping to see us at work," said Alison grinning. "And poor Lucius Malfoy completely out of it."

"And Crouch?"

"Crouch will have to know. It's all your fault, of course. He can't blame me for what you do."

"Have you made any progress with resistance to truth potions?"

"No. I'm not planning to go to London before the summer hols. There's plenty of time to learn."

"And if we fail?"

"We fail? It's a bit too early to fail, don't you think?"

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

Persephone Fletcher's head was nestled among the flames in the fireplace of Barty Crouch's study. She was, among the other things, telling him about her encounter with Thomas Kelly.

"If I hadn't known," she finished off, "I never would have guessed. He seemed so normal... and pleasant."

"Pleasant manner can as easily mask despicable behaviour as not," said Crouch. "Keep your eyes open, Persephone."

"I will."

"Good evening, then."

"Good evening."

He sat back and closed his eyes. His mind had returned to a bright frosty morning in 1955, when a young man impatiently sat waiting in the Leaky Cauldron.

"Ah, Crouch, I'm sorry I'm late," said another man coming to his table. He was almost thirty, dark-haired and handsome.

"Riddle," said the young Barty. "What did you want to see me about?"

"About the new Decree for the Restriction of Underage Magic," said Riddle, settling himself into his chair. "You are supporting it?"

"I have no influence, Riddle. I'm only a clerk in International Co-operation. Now, if you wanted to know about cauldron bottom thickness, I could help you."

"I know that, Crouch, but how old are you?"

"Nineteen on the 24th."

"Exactly. I very much doubt you'll be a clerk long," said Riddle. "And this Decree will be a long time coming. Do you support it?"

"I do."

"Good," said Riddle. "So many of our kind do not understand how close we tread to the complete discovery of our world by the Muggles. The Muggleborns especially. I shudder to think what will happen when some halfway perceptive Muggle properly documents his Muggleborn neighbour child playing at Transfiguration in the garden."

Barty nodded. "The law, of course, is for the Muggleborns. I don't expect it to be at all applied to wizarding children."

"As should be."

"Yes," said Barty hesitantly. "It would be against all our tradition if we stripped young witches and wizards of the right to practice magic. It will, however, be a struggle to convince certain people that the law will be selectively applied. After all, it is a policy that cannot be publicly voiced."

"My guess was right. You are in the thick of things, Crouch," said Riddle laughingly.

"I do know people," said Barty simply.

"Indeed," said Riddle. "You're the scion of one of our foremost families. Whereas I am most definitely not."

"For someone as politically minded as yourself, I'm surprised you're not at the Ministry, Riddle," ventured Barty.

"I think I have more influence outside the Ministry. In fact, I'm gathering together a coalition of like-minded witches and wizards to put pressure on the Ministry for reform."

"And very successful you've been so far," commented Barty. "I sense your hand behind Justinian Malfoy's proposals for Azkaban."

"Well-spotted," said Riddle, "Azkaban has become a joke. The Dementors ought to change that. Crouch, a group of concerned individuals is meeting at the Malfoy Manor this evening to discuss certain matters of current interest. We would be delighted to see you there."

"Thank you," said Barty. "I'll think about it."

He had gone. And he had gone against his better judgement. Even then, the gatherings at the Malfoy Manor had a tinge of ill fame to them. But for an ambitious young Ministry clerk, what was the alternative? To be left out of whatever was afoot? And so, he had gone that night and many nights after that.

Those were heady gatherings. Justinian and Melisande Malfoy were gracious hosts, who believed that the flow of ideas should be matched by the flow of good wine, mead, and ale. Everyone was treated as if he or she had something important to say, and the conversation sparkled with wit and enthusiasm. Barty remembered Roland Wilkes, in particular, holding forth to the company. Wilkes was Justinian Malfoy's brother-in-law and a fervent Ravenclaw who believed that all the wizarding world's problems could be solved through scholarship, through the exploration of older, stronger (and usually Northern) magic. A close friend of Riddle's, he lacked the interest in politics of the other members of the circle, and never failed to entertain with his erudite and very earnest diatribes. It had come as a great blow, but not however as a shock, when he was killed trying to study the Northern giants' enchantments.

But often, the talk turned to song around the fire.

April is in my mistress' face.
And July in her eyes hath place.
Within her bosom is September.
But in her heart a cold December.

Was he missing his time among the Death Eaters? For that is what that group became. Handsome, intelligent, popular Tom Riddle, the centre of attention at every gathering, was now known and feared as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named: Lord Voldemort.

Barty opened his eyes and, putting his parchment away, he went up to dress for dinner.

To the Crouches' dinner guests, Cornelius and Portia Fudge, it would hardly have seemed believable that their smiling host and hostess had been living completely separate lives for the last few weeks. Alysoun and Barty complemented each other perfectly in public. He, the devoted husband. She, the ever-competent mistress of his household, a wife to make any man proud. It was whispered about that Portia Fudge locked herself up in her room and refused to give the house-elf instructions even for dinner parties when she quarrelled with Cornelius. Both Barty and Alysoun were proud of the fact that the division between them was invisible to the outside world.

"What did you think of Stafford's new opera?" asked Portia over dinner. The talk, of course, had been light-hearted and bore no reflection of the darker aspects of their daily lives. Talk over dinner rarely did.

"Very ingeniously plotted," said Barty. "I wish I could similarly compliment the music."

"I quite agree. Not Stafford's best effort by any means," said Portia.

"There were some high points," said Cornelius. "I thought the duet at the end of the second act almost made up for the rest."

"And if the music was always so spell-binding, how could we chatter throughout the performance?" said Alysoun drily. The others laughed.

"Speaking of which," said Portia. "I had the most bizarre experience the other evening. You know how the orchestra is performing the works of Muggle composers. We went to the Shostakovich concert - we were in our box as usual - and right after the first piece Walter Jorkins stood up and shouted, "Shut up, you fools!" up at the boxes."

"I fear for that man's sanity," said Cornelius.

"A Soviet composer. What did you expect?" said Barty.

"He's run into some trouble recently, Barty," said Cornelius seriously. "We ignore him, but certain people won't if he carries on so outspokenly. They've killed for much less. He accused Horatio Nott this afternoon of being a Death Eater."

"I am seeing to safeguarding him," said Barty. "He's completely ungrateful. He insists we're trying to muzzle him."

"Public service is a thankless occupation," said Cornelius.

Portia caught Barty's eye, and they both started to laugh.

"All right. Not entirely thankless," said Cornelius, joining in the laughter.

It was a quarter to midnight when the Fudges left.

"I'm not feeling well, Barty," said Alsyoun once they had gone.

"Get yourself to bed," said Barty. "I'll send up some hot cider after you."

"Thank you," she said. "Good night."

"Good night," he said, smiling at her.

She made her way up the stairs alone. Even though she had lived here for years, the large almost-empty house was unfailingly spooky in the dark. It hadn't been built for two adults to live in. Once upon a time, there had been a large and extended family to fill the rooms. Even Barty's grandfather had had nine children, though by that time the Crouch family had been much diminished.

There seemed to be some malaise among the old families. Children were few and far between. Whether or not the magical community liked to admit it, there were illnesses that accompanied the pure blood in which they took so much pride, the pure blood that was the result of centuries of in-breeding. Even where there were children, misfortune seemed to haunt the old families. At parties it was often difficult to avoid being backed into a corner by one inebriated wizard or another who wanted to share the story of his family's curse.

The always progressive John Longbottom, though, insisted that some families were prone to tragedy because their members lived very dangerous lives. After all, if one plays with poisons in one's attic, engages in duels, keeps a manticore for a pet, and attempts tricky self-Transfiguration after a few drinks in the pub (to note a few standard practices among British wizards), a high mortality rate is to be expected. While Muggleborns brought with them the increasing caution and concern for safety of the Muggle world, the old families carried on with all the self-destructive energy they could muster.

In Barty's grandfather's family, three of the four sons had met premature deaths, and Barty's father had been left alone to bear the name of Crouch. He had only had two children: Barty and Narcissa.

Well, she reflected, she had done her part to ensure the survival of the Crouch line. She had borne her husband a son and nearly died doing it. Illness throughout her pregnancy had been followed by seemingly every possible complication in childbirth. Her first thought, having been presented with Barty Jr., was, "Thank God he's all right. I don't have to do this again."

Their room seemed unnaturally chill when she entered it, despite the strong fire burning on the hearth. She went into her dressing room, and after fumbling through a drawer for a few seconds, found a little bottle of salamander blood. Carefully measuring out a teaspoon, she swallowed it rapidly, trying not to taste the dark, burning liquid.

It didn't warm her at all as she went back into their room, her room actually. Supposedly, the master and mistress of the house had separate rooms, but Barty had always slept with her, except when they had quarrelled, as they had now.

Tonight, he would be finishing his work in his study and then going up to his room without even pausing outside her door. She knew it hurt him to stay away from her, but he would not be the one to budge. Her head was beginning to spin. She took a step towards the door and collapsed.

* * * * * * * * * * *

In the dark of the Slytherin common room, Julian Tierney pulled her cloak closer to her. Meeting in the middle of the night in the boys' dormitory was a new experience for her, and not a relaxing one.

"What if they find us climbing the stairs?" she whispered.

"They already think we've gone batty," said Florencecomfortingly. "It can hardly get worse."

They were not, though, apprehended on the staircase. Without incident, they slipped into the dormitory. The lights were out, but as Alison shut the door, they heard Severus's voice, "Lumos!" and a faint glimmer appeared over their faces.

"Good. Julian's here," said Mordred. "Welcome and take a seat on the bed."

"You all look suitably menacing," said Florence, casting a glance about. "Why the dark cloaks?"

"Because I'm wearing a nightshirt underneath and you don't want to see me in a nightshirt," said Evan cheekily. "Or at least I hope not."

"No, Thank you," said Florence. "Your taste in clothing is appalling enough during the day."

"We used to always be menacing at meetings," said Kenneth easily.

"I sort of miss those days," said Evan.

"Go off and be menacing in your own spare time," said Severus. "Business first. Julian, you'll have to swear a blood oath."

"Well, certain people have changed," said Mordred snidely.

"You among them," said Alison, taking out a pen-knife. "Ready, Julian?"

"Ready," said Julian, biting down hard on her lip.

The knife only nicked her left hand, creating a small trickle of blood. Alison wetted the nib of the quill in the blood and helped Julian to write out her name below the rusty red signatures of the others.

"You are now bound in blood to us," said Mordred quietly, taking the parchment from her. "And us to you."

"And none of us to Lucius Malfoy!" said Rolly with unexpected vigour.

"And none of us to Crouch," said Florence.