Dust and Shadow

The snows have fled, now grasses return to the fields
and leaves to the trees;
the dry land undergoes changes and subsiding
rivers flow past their banks.

One of the Graces, with the Nymphs and with her two sisters,
naked dares to lead the dances.
The circling year and the hour which removes kindly day
warn you not to hope for everlasting things.

Frosts melt with the west winds; after spring
summer follows close, itself doomed as soon as
fruit-bearing autumn has poured out its plenty;
and soon dead winter hastens back.

Yet swift moons repair their heavenly losses:
when we have gone down to where
righteous Aeneas, rich Tullus, and Ancus are,
we are dust and shadow.

Who knows whether the gods above will add
tomorrow's time to today's total?
Every gift which you give to your own dear self
will escape an heir's greedy hands.

As soon as you've died and Minos has passed august
judgement on you, neither your
high birth, Torquatus, nor your eloquence,
nor your righteousness will bring you back.

For Diana does not free chaste Hippolytus
from the shadows,
and Theseus is not strong enough to break the
chains of Lethe from his dear Pirithous.

Quintus Horatius Flaccus, Ode IV.7

Translated by Michael Gilleland

Chapter One: The End of the Beginning

When the House Cup went missing several minutes before it was due to be presented to Gryffindor, popular rumour quickly fastened on a culprit in the person of Slytherin Quidditch captain, Alison Howard.

As rumours concerning Howard went, this one was remarkably tame. Howard had killed a man in her fifth year, or so they said. She was supposedly giving Rodolphus Lestrange love potions. She was an agent of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or perhaps just Barty Crouch.

"Where's the House Cup?" an excited third year demanded of Alison Howard's best friend, Florence Jorkins, as Florence slipped into the Slytherin common room that evening.

"I don't know," said Florence.

"Where's Alison?" asked another student.

Florence didn't answer. Instead she marched across the common room to the staircase to the boys' dormitory.

Prefect Melania Frost challenged her at the bottom of the stairs. "Hey! You can't go up there!"

"Are you going to deduct house points for it?" asked Florence. She started up the stairs before Melania could deliver an answer.

She stopped at the door of the seventh year boys' dorm. "Let me in."

The door opened a crack to reveal a boy with blond hair and a worried face. "Quickly, Flo," he hissed and ushered Florence into the room.

An acrid smell greeted her nostrils. The room was filled with blue smoke.

"What's this?" she asked.

"One of Rodolphus's books had something vile in the ink," replied Rolly Wilkes, his voice somewhat muffled by the scarf around his face.

The blond boy, Kenneth Avery, coughed and nodded. Florence peered through the smoke to the hearth where two figures were hunched over the fire, stacks of books and parchment and on either side of them.

"Where's Evan?" she asked.

"Secretly meeting with Cynthia Rookwood," Kenneth informed her. "Planning to elope maybe."

"Seriously?"

"Of course not!"

Florence took a deep breath. "They're eighteen, Kenneth. They could, you know."

"They're still at school," said Kenneth stubbornly. "Not ready for that . . . adult stuff."

"They won't be at school tomorrow," said Florence. "Tomorrow, we'll all be adults."

"Well, theoretically," Kenneth conceded. "But not really."

"Oh?" said Florence, determinedly ignoring Rolly's eyes.

"Yes," said Kenneth.

"I see," said Florence. She turned to Severus and Rodolphus. "Make sure you burn everything," she directed.

Severus favoured her with a dull smile. "If you think that best, of course we will."

Florence frowned. "The Aurors will search the train. And they're more efficient than you think."

"I'm counting on them to be efficient," replied Severus.

"Everything is taken care of, Florence," Rodolphus reassured her. "Where's Alison?"

"In the infirmary. Julian's taken an odd turn. That vision again. She'd stop having the bloody things if she didn't have doom and gloom Sybill breathing down her neck"

"She should be all right then," said Rodolphus. "I don't think they allow visions at Ettencross."

"Not unless Crouch signs an authorisation form first," interjected Rolly.. "I'd like to see more of Ettencross. But I shan't ever get an invitation. If I weren't Lucius Malfoy's cousin, I'd have a much more successful life."

"You're already successful at being a dissolute poet," said Florence affectionately.

"But I want to be a dissolute novelist. Orpheus Scriveyn has been pigeon-holed as a writer of romantic verse for witches' magazines."

"Change your pen-name," suggested Kenneth.

"I don't know if you should," said Rodolphus, whose father owned the publishing house of Obscurus Books. "Recognition is recognition. You could talk to my father about it. We don't publish fiction, but he knows everything. About books, that is. Not about much else."

"Parents never do," said Florence lightly.

"Are you going to Russia to please your Dad?" asked Kenneth.

"I'm going with Alison to enjoy myself," replied Florence.

A smile lit up Rodolphus's face. "If you have Alison with you, I'm certain you'll enjoy yourself."

* * * * * *

End of year festivities at Hogwarts tended to inflict a large number of injuries on the student body. 1978 was proving to be no exception to this tradition as student after student filed (or was carried) into the hospital wing.

"Do you need my bed?" Julian Tierney asked hopefully of Madam Pomfrey. "For the real ill people?"

"Stay still and rest," warned Pomfrey. "Miss Howard, don't let her stir."

Alison Howard, who was sitting on Julian's bed, smiled and nodded. "You fainted," she told her friend as Pomfrey moved on. "That's quite serious. At school."

Julian bit down into the lump of chocolate she'd been given. "If I'd seen it during the NEWT, I'd have got an Outstanding in Divination, for sure,."

"Don't think about it."

"I have to. It was the same vision as always."

"Two or three times is not always," Alison rebuked her.

"The same, but this time I was in the room. I got a good look at her face. She was me, Alison. I'm sure of that now, but she. . . I looked as though I had.... wasted away lying there. She opened her eyes then and she wasn't looking at anything that was there, not at the boy who was by the bed watching her, at least. I saw this just as well as I see you right now."

"Stop it! You're working yourself into a state."

"I fainted then."

"Good thing too," snapped Alison, pushing her back down onto her pillow. "If you expect these gloomy visions, you'll have them, Julian. Hasn't Sybill shown you that?"

"You can't take away what I saw," said Julian simply.

Alison raised her heavy-lidded eyes to her friend's. "Couldn't I?" she asked.

Before Julian could answer, a commotion broke out at the end of the ward.

"It'll just wear off, I tell you!" a boy was protesting.

"It might," came the dispassionate response. Alison stood up at the voice, and then smiled to see Barty Crouch dragging someone into the hospital wing. That someone was so covered with bulging purple boils that his identity was entirely obscured.

"Good heavens!" cried Madam Pomfrey. "Who is that, Crouch?"

"Regulus Black," said Barty. "Some of the seventh year Gryffindors hexed him." An excited whispering began among the invalids.

Pomfrey pursed her lips. "Come along, Mr. Black."

Barty looked after Regulus with a blank expression, and then seeing Alison, walked over to her.

"What's wrong?" he asked Julian.

"I fainted," she said. "I'm all right now."

"I'm glad," he said automatically. "My mother will worry over you despite that, though.... No one will worry over Regulus. They'll want to know why he didn't out-hex Sirius."

"Sirius did that?" said Julian.

"Regulus was calling him a blot on the family honour," explained Barty.

"What honour?" asked Julian. "They're Blacks!"

"Sirius is a fool," said Alison. "They'll have his life one day. That's their honour, Julian."

Julian knit her brows. "They don't work. They don't make laws. They kill."

"They're sometimes killed," pointed out Barty. "My grandfather killed Mercutio Black in a duel."

"And stole his wife," added Alison.

"I believe she was within her rights to remarry more suitably," said Barty stiffly.

"And stole his child too," continued Alison.

Barty didn't even blink. "Only in rumour, Alison."

"But the rumours are correct," said Alison. "Narcissa isn't of your blood. She's Mercutio Black's daughter. He knew it."

Julian shuddered. He was Voldemort.

Barty continued to smile. "Her name is Crouch. And her blood is pure."

"I know," said Alison. She bowed her head to him, her dark hair falling across her face. "Your wish is my command. Always."

He laughed. He was fifteen and had never been deferred to in anything, least of all by Alison, whose wishes often were his marching orders. Still, he had family and she, a Muggleborn, didn't. He was fated to give orders some day, even if now he only obeyed them.

"Now, if I'm not mistaken, you wish to scamper off and leave us alone," continued Alison.

"There are some matters to see to before leaving," he agreed. "Good night."

"He fancies you," said Julian, watching him run from the room.

"He's a fifteen year old boy," replied Alison. "He'll get over it."

* * * * *

Frank Longbottom thought that spending most of the previous twenty-four hours in the rain entitled him to a cup of tea. Authority thought otherwise. He had barely taken a sip of the wonderfully hot liquid before he had received the summons from his boss, Barty Crouch.

A summons from Crouch was very unusual, he reflected, as he reluctantly put down the cup. He wasn't even finished his Auror training yet, though under the circumstances, his training was very much on the job. He had risked his life today. He felt as much a right as anyone to the silver 'A' that served as his cloak's clasp. That clasp drew attention wherever he went. Whispers, stares, giggles, frowns and outright fawning. When one wore the Auror's clasp, one was in the public eye. Frank did not mind this at all. He had thrived on attention since babyhood and welcomed any expansion of his audience.

Persephone Fletcher, Crouch's aide and Frank's cousin, was waiting to usher him into her boss's office.

"It's good, Frank," she assured him. "Go in."

"Good evening, Mr. Longbottom," Crouch greeted him. "Take a seat."

Frank did. "Good evening, sir."

Bartemius Crouch was, as usual, working late. It was very difficult to imagine, watching him surrounded by parchments and files, that he was famed for his charisma and social charm. He looked worn out. Haggard, even. But not ill. Barty Crouch was never ill.

"I think that I owe you some recognition of the fact that your training is, for all intents and purposes, over," said Crouch.

"Sir?"

"You aren't learning to be an Auror. You are an Auror."

Frank knew this, but he hadn't expected to hear it acknowledged. "Thank you, sir," he said.

"You have exceeded expectations in the performance of your duties. I haven't heard one ill word of you," continued Crouch. "I've directed that the silver lining be added to your cloak immediately."

"Again, thank you. I've been honoured to serve under you," said Frank.

Crouch smiled. "I think I am very much the gainer in this. As you're here, I'll personally give you the details of your next assignment. You'll be searching the Hogwarts Express tomorrow."

As far as Frank knew, the Express had not been searched since the war with Grindelwald. He frowned slightly.

"The luggage most particularly," continued Crouch. "You may find some interesting things. They will not be expecting you."

"No, sir," Frank agreed. Alison Howard would be on that train. What would she have in her trunk?

"I think an example needs to be made," said Crouch. "It must be made clear that youth is not a defence against the law. I will not turn a blind eye to your discoveries."

"Yes, sir," said Frank, feeling uncomfortable. He'd been a prefect at Hogwarts. These were his students he'd be searching. And he could feel in his bones that it would be a Slytherin, one of his Slytherins, who would become Crouch's example.

"Worried, are you?" asked Crouch.

Frank nodded. "With all due respect, it'll be difficult."

"I imagine it will be," said Crouch studying him closely. "But guilt is guilt. Even among old Hogwarts schoolmates."

"Yes, sir."

Crouch smiled much too broadly for the occasion. "On a happier note, my wife and I would be happy to have your company at dinner this Friday evening. My sister and my son will, of course, be present."

"Thank you," said Frank, trying hard not to radiate self-satisfaction. "I would be pleased to accept the invitation."

"Very good. Friday at seven then. You are dismissed, Longbottom."

There was no doubt about it. He was one of Crouch's favourites.

* * * * *

Severus Snape stood a long time in the Headmaster's office, waiting for Dumbledore to appear. It wasn't a pleasant wait. The room held too many memories, none of them good.

He wasn't even sure why he was there. The others had told him not to go. What was it he could say? That he hated Dumbledore and wished Dumbledore would die? There was no point in saying that. There was no consequence.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Severus."

Severus jumped at the voice and cursed himself for doing so. He made an effort to turn around slowly. "Headmaster, I have something to say to you before I leave," he said in what he hoped were measured tones.

"Go ahead, Severus." Dumbledore stared back with his horrible twinkling eyes.

"From the moment I was sorted, you have consistently acted for your own amusement, the pleasure of your favourite students, and the triumph of Gryffindor House," hissed Severus. "You have tolerated lawlessness, cruelty, and the intent to murder. Your decisions have been unjust and without honour." His speech was quickening now. His vision was blurred, and his heart racing. "They say that you are a target of the Dark Lord. I can only observe that in removing you from power, You-Know-Who would do us a great service. Good night, sir!"

Severus spat and spun around, ready to stride out.

"If you ever feel the need to talk to me," said Dumbledore mildly. "I'll be here, Severus. Good night."

Severus froze. He tried to find a response to that. But none came. Nothing sensible at any rate.

"You . . . you wish!"

He stalked out as well as possible under the circumstances.

* * * * *

The next morning arrived without event. The Quidditch Cup was still missing when the students clambered aboard the Hogwarts Express. Under an invisibility cloak in a locked compartment of the train, Frank Longbottom sat watching them.

"They're excited," said his partner Dawlish with a yawn. "They haven't any idea how well they have it at Hogwarts."

"Some of them don't have it that well," said Frank , his eyes fixed on Severus Snape, who was sullenly trailing behind the other Slytherins.

"Comparatively," said Dawlish. "I'm going to try and get some sleep. Wake me when we start."

Half an hour later, the two Aurors began their search of the train. As luck would have it, the first compartment yielded very familiar faces.

"Julian!" cried Frank.

Julian stared at him for a few seconds before saying, "Oh!"

Frank laughed. "Am I that changed?"

"You're in uniform," said Julian faintly.

"Alice Tierney, Kenneth Avery, Bartemius Crouch, Evander Rosier, Cynthia Rookwood, and Sybill Trelawney," Frank listed off the names to Dawlish who was holding a checklist.

"These are your Slytherins?" asked Dawlish.

"All but Cynthia. And she's an honourary Slytherin. Are you and Evan still an item, Cynthia?"

Evan's face turned the colour of his red hair but Cynthia snorted. "We're on different sides of the compartment, Longbottom. So, no, we are not an item. We're decidedly separate people."

Julian and Sybill giggled.

"You've grown decidedly cheeky," replied Frank.

"You're not a prefect anymore," Cynthia told him.

"Just an Auror," added Evan. "Are you going to search our luggage?"

A few searching spells later, all trunks save Barty's had been fully examined, with no greater incidents than a few blushes from the girls when an item of underclothing was sighted. Frank now moved to open Barty's trunk.

Pushing the lid up, he moved his right hand to a neat stack of books in the bottom right hand corner of the trunk. The lid crashed down, pinning his hand inside. Frank let out a yelp of surprise and pain.

"I forgot about that," said Barty calmly. "It's theft prevention." He made no motion to help out.

"Take it off!" hissed Frank.

"Of course," said Barty. He proceeded to take his time walking across the compartment and tapping the trunk with his wand. "I'm sorry, Longbottom."

Frank stared into those innocent blue eyes. There was no guile or amusement to be seen there. "Thank you," he said, rubbing his hand. "Be a bit more careful."

Barty nodded. "I'm working on it."

Cynthia suppressed a giggle.

There was nothing to say. Even if Barty weren't his boss's son, he couldn't prove the mockery he felt behind the boy's demeanour. He proceeded to search the trunk, a task made difficult by the number of protective measures Barty had put on it. None of them did further physical damage, but they were all remarkably pointless, and took up a full five minutes of Frank's time.

"Your paranoia does you proud," he finally commented, closing the trunk.

"Constant Vigilance," replied Barty in uncanny imitation of Alastor Moody.

"Good day," said Frank and turned to follow Dawlish out.

"Narcissa's in the next compartment!" Barty called after him.

"Brat," said Dawlish forcefully, once the door was shut.

"Yes." There was really nothing more to say about that.

As Barty had helpfully informed them, Narcissa was holding court behind the next door, surrounded by friends. She jumped up when they entered. "Frank! A silver lining already! She held out her hand. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you, Narcissa," said Frank.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Dawlish," Narcissa continued. "I hope you've been well since we last met."

Dawlish seemed slightly taken aback by this familiar address. He and Narcissa had met once. Exchanging greetings at the Ministry Christmas Ball had been the whole of their acquaintance.

"Very well, Miss Crouch. Thank you," he said. "We're to search the compartment, if you please."

"Go ahead," replied Narcissa.

"Thank you for your permission," said Frank.

She burst out laughing.

Narcissa Crouch. Seventeen and beautiful. Characteristically, she had already changed out of her uniform and into a green cotton dress that while acceptable in a Muggle train station wasn't usual or unobtrusive. She liked Frank a good deal and he liked her. They both understood that there was a possibility that this liking might grow into something more. But not yet.

"I'll be seeing you on Friday night," he told her.

"Oh?" she asked.

"Yes, I've been invited to dinner by your brother."

"I look forward to seeing you."

That was the full extent of their conversation, but saying goodbye to her, Frank felt as if he had just embarked on an adventure, possibly a quite dangerous one.

These thoughts were disturbed by the presence of Julian Tierney standing outside the compartment. Her cheeks were pallid and he noticed her hands were shaking, despite her best efforts. He nodded to Dawlish to continue to the next compartment.

"Yes?" he asked encouragingly, once Dawlish was gone.

"Do you still have my ribbon?" she burst out.

"Yes, I do," he said slowly.

"Could you give it back to me? I have your handkerchief." She pulled a wad of white fabric from her pocket. "I can give it back to you."

"Why?" he asked, trying to catch her eyes.

"I want it back. It's mine."

"No, Julian, it isn't," said Frank with a small smile. "You made a promise and that ribbon makes sure you keep the promise. It's working, isn't it? I'm surprised you asked me. You might as well have told me you wanted to practice the Dark Arts, Julian."

"How can you say that?"

"Don't play me for a fool, Julian. Your ribbon will tell me if you perform dark magic, and you want your ribbon back. What else should I think?"

"I see you're as hateful as ever."

His face darkened. "Hateful? Is that how it was? I covered up for you when they would have broken your wand at the very least, Julian. I saved your life summoning the Aurors that night. And I stepped in to protect you from Dark Magic. That's not hate."

"Give me back my ribbon. Please."

"No. And you'll get back to your compartment now before you draw attention to yourself, Miss Tierney."

"Give me back my ribbon!"

The door of the compartment opposite was flung open. "Longbottom!" shouted Dawlish. "You'll never guess what we've found in this Sirius Black's luggage!"

"Dark Arts paraphernalia?"

"Yes. But he's also got the bloody House Cup!"