Dust and Shadow

Chapter Two: Confusion in the Ranks

"I should have known I'd find you here."

Alison looked down from atop the heap of coal that filled the tender of the Hogwarts Express. A precarious perch and also a rather sooty one. Her hands were dusted black and there was a dark smudge upon her right cheek. She waved to Rodolphus to climb up and join her.

Scrambling out of the adjoining carriage, Rodolphus jumped over to the tender, then swung himself up onto the coals, to sprawl by her side.

"Well?" she asked. "Why were you looking for me?"

"I thought we'd say vindictive things about Sirius Black and laugh," he suggested.

She did laugh. "But it was a bit petty! Severus's idea?"

"Who else?"

She shook her head. "I should find him something better to use his talents on. But you helped, didn't you?"

"Yes. I did."

"I need to find a better use for you too, then."

"Use me as you will." His eyes were locked on her face. He'd studied that face for seven years now and had grown to love the defiant stares, the moments of languid pensiveness, the amused little smiles. Her expression now was of the last category, lips only slightly curled, a radiance easily missed in her heavily lidded eyes. She was pleased with his remark, he knew. She might never accept his embraces, but she delighted in his words.

"I think you mean it!" she exclaimed. "I think you'd even find me a way back down underground if I asked you to!"

"Do you?" They had talked many times about exploring those underground caverns they'd briefly and memorably visited in their fifth year. The way they'd taken then was blocked now; the Ministry had seen to that. Both Barty Crouch and Albus Dumbledore had warned them about the dangers of underground realm and warned them against trying to find their way back.

He-Who-Must Be Named had been right, though. His words still echoed in Rodolphus's head.

"They are perilous beyond your imagination, and yet you feel in yourself a hunger to explore these hidden caverns and taste that forbidden knowledge."

He'd created that hunger in them, to be honest. It was an uncomfortable idea, that they were doing exactly as the Dark Lord wished.

"I have walked where no man before dared walk. I have seen what no man was meant to see. I have learnt what no man had yet conceived of."

Yes, he'd meant them to be entranced. But then he'd not meant them to escape from him as they had. So, it wasn't his plan for them to find their way down now, was it?"

Alison was frowning. "No, don't you dare find your way down while I'm in Russia! You have to take me with you when you go." Her tone was light but Rodolphus knew she felt they needed her along to protect them. Arrogance, a hostile Gryffindor had once called it. But then he'd not seen her do the things Rodolphus had.

"Rolly will be looking for a way down," he reminded her. Rolly's father had once explored the forbidden world under Britain. It was no wonder his son longed to follow in his dead and idolized father's footsteps.

"You'll keep him up above ground. That's your duty while I'm gone. You do know that?"

"You're leaving me in command then?"

"You're always in command, Rodolphus. I'm just your shadowy and little-known advisor."

He'd never told her he loved her. For one thing, it'd never been necessary. She'd known before he had. For another, it'd have made it so awkward. She knew, even better than him, how precariously they stood, Muggleborn and Pureblood. It was best not to plunge themselves into an impossible romance. One day, he told himself, things would change, they would find a secure position, and then... He hardly dared to think about then. It made now far too painful.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

She paused. "It's a very sentimental story."

"And you hate to sound sentimental," he supplied.

"I hate to bore you."

"But you never bore me."

The amused little smile again. "To make it very short, I wanted to ride here when I was eleven. So, I thought I'd finally do it. I waited till the Aurors were off the train, of course. Longbottom would have just loved to order me off."

"Once a prefect, always a prefect."

"Now an Auror," she replied.

That was a sore point. Alison had planned to be an Auror until... everything had happened. She was now personally barred from applying, while secretly working for Barty Crouch himself.

"You'll be an Auror yourself one day," he assured her. "Crouch isn't an idiot."

"Crouch could hardly play the games he does with me if I were an Auror. The least I can hope for is some gold in recompense for my unacknowledged efforts. If he doesn't cough up, I'll shame him by dancing in Diagon Alley for knuts."

It was a lovely image, he thought. "I'll make sure to throw you a few," he promised her.

"Oh no, I was going to have you passing the hat about."

There was little more than could be said on this topic. She insisted on pessimism here. She might even be right. "Hmmm.... you still don't know what you'll be doing in Russia?"

"Haven't the foggiest. Except that Crouch is very insistent that I go."

"And that Malfoy is very interested that you're going."

"I'm not afraid of Lucius Malfoy."

No. She wouldn't be. But he was. "The servant should remind you of the master, Alison," he pressed.

The wind whipped her dark hair across her face so that he could not see her expression. "I know."

* * * * *

"Alice!"

Amidst the hubbub of Platform Nine and Three Quarters, it took Julian a few seconds to realize that she was the Alice Mrs. Crouch was greeting. Yes, her birth certificate did say Alice Julian Tierney, but no one had ever called her Alice till she'd met her estranged godmother and namesake, Alysoun Crouch.

"Alice," said Mrs. Crouch again, embracing Julian, "I've been longing to have you down again."

"Thank you for inviting me," Julian answered properly. She liked her godmother well enough, but still felt a bit awkward about her. Her mother and Mrs. Crouch, once best friends, had not spoken in sixteen years, and Kate Tierney had made it quite clear to Julian that she considered the Crouches' new presence in her daughter's life an act of hostility.

"Alice, how tall you are!" Julian grinned. She doubted she'd grown an inch over the last year but this was a standard greeting for returning Hogwarts students.

"Your son's almost taller than me," she replied. "Look." Barty was fifteen and in the throes of a growth spurt. It afforded him a great deal of satisfaction, rescuing him at last from being 'that sickly little Crouch'. He now manfully shouldered his and Julian's trunks, but a few seconds of this heroism left him looking ready to tip over.

His mother rescued him from his predicament by waving the trunks to a trolley by wand.

"Where's yours, Narcissa?" she asked, looking around.

"I told Ludo Bagman we'd want some privacy and to take my trunk to the end of the platform. Is that all right?"

"Was it with Mr. Bagman?" asked Mrs. Crouch?

"It was. He's most obliging."

"Most gullible," replied Mrs. Crouch, smiling.

"Father doesn't approve of him," Barty reminded his mother.

As always in the company of the Crouch family, Julian felt utterly lost. It might have been her own lack of a proper family background, but there was a tension in this family that disturbed her. She watched in horrified fascination as Mrs. Crouch delivered the apparently obligatory rebuke to Narcissa, while letting her son know exactly what she thought of this maneuver.

"Narcissa dear, Barty is right. We'd rather you not be dallying with Mr. Bagman. Barty, best you collect Narcissa's trunk from Bagman and get it out to the motor car."

Mrs. Crouch turned to Julian, as her son stalked off in search of Bagman.

"We are looking forward to your company."

It didn't escape Julian that despite the show of warmth, Mrs. Crouch was still not at ease with her. Julian kept her reserve dealing with her new godmother. Mrs. Crouch was much nicer, Julian guiltily acknowledged to herself, than anyone would be to a girl who sat quietly by herself all the time. It wasn't really Mrs. Crouch's fault that she kept calling Julian 'Alice.' She would have to make a better effort to return some of the warmth.

Particularly as the godmother came with a house, in which Julian delighted.

* * * * *'

Florence stayed in her seat when the train pulled into Platform Nine and Three Quarters. It had been a wearying journey down, deprived of her best friend Alison's company. Things had begun better; Rodolphus and Severus had been in high spirits, waiting for the Aurors to board the train and spoil Sirius Black's day. That desired goal achieved, the ever-besotted Rodolphus had wandered off to find Alison, and Florence was left alone with Severus.

Not that she minded Severus. Unlike the majority of Hogwarts students, Florence liked the sullen and spiteful boy. They had been through a great deal together, and they shared knowledge of things beyond the understanding of their fellow students. Yet even Florence could tire of arcane discussions of potions and the Dark Arts. Discussion soon became a monologue on Severus's side, and Florence was relieved when he reluctantly finished his tirade and took his leave. Not for him to nostalgically hang about the station chatting with friends.

Silence slowly enveloped the train. The crowd on the platform outside was dispersing. Soon it would be safe to leave, to creep off without seeing Rolly. She wasn't sure at the moment she ever wanted to see Rolly again. Not until he had smartened up, anyway. At last, she stood up and reached for her trunk. Then froze at the sight of Rolly in the doorway.

"Need help?" he asked.

"Not with this."

"Oh, right. Thanks for making me feel awkward, useless, and uncivil."

She pulled down her trunk and set it on the floor. "Social conventions again," she said, avoiding his eyes. "They're quite important to you."

"No!"

"Oh, what else is behind your silly little campaign?"

"What campaign?" Rolly's voice exuded ignorance.

"Trying to bully me into marriage by frowning at me and withholding kisses. You drive me mad sometimes."

"Well, why can't you marry me?"

"And that was the worst marriage proposal ever, Rolly." She was laughing in spite of herself. "Scribbled notes are so romantic."

"Well, you would have hated it more if I'd gone down on one knee.... Florence, I love you. It doesn't have to be this hard!"

Florence's face turned serious. "I'll say this one more time, assuming you've had a change of heart and suddenly really want to hear the answer."

"I do!"

"One more time, then. You want a piece of parchment. And for that piece of parchment, we'd have to pay a price, maybe a terrible price. Your mother and stepfather will be enraged..."

"They'll disown me," he interrupted blithely.

"Yes, and it's not like you need their money," Florence answered sarcastically. "But even if you could live with that, there's your dear cousin Malfoy. Do you want to send Malfoy the message you've completely sided against him? That you're his enemy? Well, marry me then. I just don't know why a wedding is so important. You know my parents don't care."

Rolly's face was red. "Everyone else will care. Do you really want to be known everywhere you go as... as that Wilkes boy's mistress?"

"It'd be a trade-up from that Jorkins idiot's daughter. Are you going to dine tonight with your parents?"

"Yes, I must."

Florence smiled wanly. "No, you mustn't. There's nothing you must do."

"I think it best."

"Well... that is better. But when you've supped, where will you go?"

"To bed."

"I'll wait up for you."

"I won't be coming."

"Oh, all right. Do step out of my way then." She brandished her wand towards him.

Rolly was unfazed. "Are you sure you won't let me carry your trunk?"

"I'd rather hex you, but take it if you want."

"Thank you." He picked up the trunk. "You'll understand, Flo. What you want isn't right or healthy. You'll understand."

"More happy love! more happy, happy love!" quoted Florence derisively. "For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young."

"No fears then," he snapped. Perhaps she'd gone too far in employing verse against her poet lover. She could not recall the last time he'd shown anger towards her. "You had your enjoyment. We had that Christmas, and I've been at your mercy since. You don't care anything for my conscience, that's for sure. You must have everything now, without any cost. Well, it doesn't work that way, Florence. If you won't marry me, you'll have to wait for us to be together. Do you understand?"

"I do understand. Let me pass, Rolly."

"You wouldn't want me without my conscience would you?" Rolly demanded miserably.

"I'd hope you wouldn't want me without my concern for your well-being. But, forget it. We'll talk later. Tonight even, if you come."

"I won't."

"I'll wait." She ran out of the compartment, expecting him to follow after. He didn't, however, and that was both heartrending and helpful. It enabled her to run all the way down the platform to the Apparition area, at least, before he had got off the train.

Evan Rosier was standing there, the only person on the deserted platform, and he his eyes opened wide seeing Florence running towards him.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I'm going home." Florence took a deep breath, to compose herself for Apparition.

"Oh you can't do that!" exclaimed Evan. Florence Disapparated. Home, peaceful, tolerant home, beckoned.

* * * * * * *

"Well, you can," Evan admitted to thin air. "But you shouldn't have."

He turned back to where his friend stood speechless between his and Florence's trunks.

"Messed that one up didn't you, Rolly?"

"She left her trunk!"

Since Rolly showed no sign of moving from his rooted state of shock, Evan strolled down the platform to join him.

"You can Apparate," he reminded Rolly, in case he'd forgotten this fact. "Just take it to her."

"That's what she wants me to do."

"Send it by Floo, then. Though... if you're right and she wants you to come, she'll stop up the fireplace and turn away owls. She's stubborn that way."

"She's perfect. And horrible."

Evan's brow crinkled. "Rolly, I like you and Flo," he began tonelessly, delivering his much rehearsed speech, "But if you two don't work out together, that'll be all right. Really."

"A bit too late for that. You can't be cautious when you've already promised everything, already given everything."

Evan coughed delicately. "Have you..."

"Yes," snapped Rolly.

"Oh." This was entirely foreign territory to Evan. There were a number of questions he wanted to ask, starting with So, what's it like? But he couldn't really ask the ever-so-proper Rolly Wilkes. Come to that, he still couldn't see his friend the proper gentleman... Not that he'd lie... The situation held a terrible fascination.

"I'm stuck," continued Rolly. "But I don't know if I'd want to be unstuck. Not entirely, anyway. There's no one like Florence."

"Well, no." Florence was not at all like the other girls. Cynthia Rookwood objected when Evan kissed her more than she thought appropriate. Alison held herself completely aloof from Rodolphus. And no one could be more demure than Julian Tierney in her harmless little flirtation with Kenneth. Well, perhaps Kenneth could.

"So," Evan said. "Things were going along fine between you. Why are you fighting now?"

"She won't marry me."

"You want to get married!" Evan's voice was incredulous. "Well, of course, you would," he added after a second's reflection. "But it's not like you should. It's... responsibility. More responsibility than you're ready for. If you did get married, I'd call an annulment proceeding and testify you were insane."

"Stop it, Evan. It's not funny."

"It's bizarre, that's what it is. Most men would love to be in your situation, you know. I mean, she's willing and isn't trying to entrap you into marriage before you're ready. You're lucky, Roland Wilkes, you are."

"You're a naïve silly boy who's obsessed with sex," said Rolly icily.

There was a long pause.

Evan answered at last with predictable heat. "I don't see why the fact that Florence allowed you to bed her makes you more grown up and mature than me."

"That is not what I meant! But it's all about... it for you. And it isn't for me. I love her and I don't want to hurt her! I haven't been able to look at myself in the mirror since Christmas."

"How exactly are you hurting her? You didn't foist your attentions on her. Florence is clever enough not to get pregnant. There's no way under heaven you've picked up something nasty somewhere else to give her."

"They'll... say things about her."

"Were you planning to tell everyone you're sleeping with Florence? You two can be discreet. You've kept your best friends in the dark, haven't you?"

"More deceit, then. And there's the fact that it's wrong."

"Wrong? How did you become such a prig? Why's it wrong? Because it's pleasant? Because you both want to? Because you're too happy together? Because there's some divine commandment against it?"

"Oh shut up! Those are just excuses. You know it's wrong."

"More wrong than studying the Dark Arts?"

"Point taken," said Rolly slowly. "I'm already damned for black magic, so I might as well go in for fornication while I'm at it."

"I don't know how Florence puts up with you."

"You've seen. She doesn't."

"She's still waiting for you and that trunk."

"I'm not going to her."

"Evan took a deep breath. "Listen, you're in the grips of hysteria at the moment. Go and have supper."

Rolly nodded. "But I'm not wrong," he added quickly.

"Get going."

Rolly nodded again, and then summoning the trunks, went on his way, without another word to Evan.

Evan wondered a little about him. Why he was so stupid. Why Florence loved him. What it felt like to have a woman give herself entirely to you. Whether Cynthia ever would. And whether Augustus Rookwood would kill him even if he expressed the most honourable intentions towards his daughter. Most certainly yes.

He wasn't thinking about Rolly and Florence much anymore. He had his own problems.

* * * * * *

One might have expected the White Hippogriff in Knockturn Alley to be a grimy, dark, unwelcoming place. But the more sinister figures of wizarding society liked a safe place to drink and talk as much as anyone else, and the infamous pub was incongruently welcoming and cheery, if exclusive in its own particular way. Alison Howard had been here before a couple times, and the patrons actually smiled to see her. They probably thought she was carrying out a secret romantic affair with Lucius Malfoy, she reflected, and bit her tongue to stop laughing.

"Miss Howard, how unexpected that you should be here!" Malfoy loudly greeted her, nevertheless staying seated in his chair.

Alison smiled at him. She wasn't sure if she disliked or loathed Malfoy, but between them a strange camaraderie had sprung up. And, he was buying the drinks. She took the chair he hadn't offered to her.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked, paying him no attention at all. She was looking about the pub for the requisite spies. Crouch's and His.

"Having a drink, strangely enough. Shall you cast the secrecy circle, or shall I?"

"You may once I have my drink," she replied demurely.

"Of course." He raised his voice. "One butterbeer for the young lady!"

A joke most unamusing and typical of Malfoy. What Malfoy would like, Alison reflected, was to torture her for a few hours. Unable to do so, he settled for discomforting jokes.

The butterbeer was good, though, and she would not take offence. She sipped it calmly, while he performed the secrecy spell.

He finished, put back his wand, and turned to her with his usual infuriating smile. "Useless, really. Nothing I say is kept a secret."

"More than you think, Malfoy. Crouch doesn't care to hear all your blatherings."

"But if he did, he would hear them. You keep no secrets from your master, do you?"

"You keep them from yours?"

"I have no master," Malfoy answered stiffly. For purely legal reasons, he refused to admit he was a Death Eater. To be sure, Alison had stood three feet away from him as he bowed and scraped before the Dark Lord, but as Malfoy had told the Aurors, wouldn't anyone in the presence of a dangerous madman?

Crouch found it convenient to leave Malfoy alone. He was useful as a visible representative of an invisible enemy. One could deal with him.

So as not to be seen making deals with a servant of You-Know-Who, one could deal through Alison.

Despite everything, she and Malfoy shared a common role as pawns. Unwitting pawns even. Malfoy's father had thrown in the family's lot with The Dark Lord. Alison had been given no choice in working for Crouch.

A quieter part of her objected, You made choices to get to the point where compulsion took over.

So I did, she told herself. They were my right to make and I'll make more. I won't be bound forever.

"A knut for your thoughts?" asked Malfoy. "Or are they more costly?"

"They're not yours at any price."

"Do they belong to Crouch then? Or Rodolphus Lestrange?"

She eyed him warily. "Jealousy, Malfoy? I'm faintly disgusted."

He grabbed hold of her hand. "I know what you're thinking. You're wondering whether I find you attractive. Yes. You attract me to hurt, to humiliate, to destroy." He brought his finger down upon her palm and dug his nail into it. She gasped out in pain and tried to pull her hand back, but he had a firm grip. "Don't trifle with me, Mudblood," he said, tracing the blood in small circles on her palm. "I am not part of your game. And one day I will teach you this lesson in full and for good."

"Let go of my hand."

He didn't.

"Shall I show this mark to Narcissa?"

"I fail to follow your meaning," he said, but he let her go.

"Narcissa in her heart of hearts thinks you a bad man, but a noble one. Should I disillusion her?"

"Could you? She seems to have gone to some trouble to construct this image of me. I doubt you could destroy it if Crouch couldn't."

Privately, Alison agreed, but at least Narcissa was a relatively safe topic of conversation. "I like Narcissa. I really won't see her harmed."

"You express my sentiments exactly. I saved her life, and am glad of it."

"You bound her to you somehow," said Alison. Set Malfoy talking and he often would tell you interesting things. "Crouch could never get a word out of her about her time as your prisoner."

"The Dark Lord's prisoner," objected Malfoy.

"They studied the poor girl for months," finished Alison.

"A simple confidentiality contract, as I'm sure you and Crouch have figured out. The Death Eaters would never have let her go otherwise. No Imperius curse. No Obliviation. No love potion in her tea."

No, you didn't need that, did you? Silly girl. Alison decided to change the subject. "You have heard I'm off to Russia?"

"How delightful. With Miss Jorkins?"

"Yes."

"Remarkable that you should be able to travel abroad in safety."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why doesn't your master try to take revenge on me? I lost him a weapon against Crouch. I killed one of his servants. Where do I fit in his plans?"

"That is nothing I would know."

"I'm sure you wouldn't. But it eats away at you, doesn't it?" She frowned. "You may have told me this, when I was younger... two years ago, but I doubt I was listening properly. What do you want for this world?"

"A return to the old ways, naturally," he replied scornfully. "What else? Didn't Dumbledore tell you?"

"Dumbledore! Dumbledore of the twinkly eyes, stale sweets, and vague moral platitudes? That Dumbledore? He never did find much time for me. A hopeless case, I suppose."

"A rare display of sense on his part. I regret having found time for you myself."

She seized on that. "You did, didn't you? You even thought I could be an ally. Until.... Until I fought against your comrades or until your Lord showed me more favour than you? Am I your enemy or your rival, Malfoy?"

He seemed not to notice her question. "There were Mudbloods in the old days, you know. We took them into our world and gave them a place. Whatever one might think of your kind's influence, that was at least manageable. But what are we to do now, when Hogwarts is flooded with Mudbloods? They have no place, except for our politicians to manipulate."

"You're afraid of me, then." She finished her butterbeer. "Any more mad mutterings for my attention?"

"How about this? Russia may not be as you expect it. I believe Crouch has you hunting up the young genius Karkaroff?"

"Igor Karkaroff is older than you, Malfoy!"

"You'd hardly believe it from his press," said Malfoy, ignoring the jab. "I'm surprised anyone has read his epic saga, but then I doubt your interest in him is literary."

"It might be. Florence and I have read it."

"I see how it will work. He's to vain to resist meeting with you, even if he knows you've been sent to him by Crouch."

Alison smiled. "I'm not planning to kill him, Malfoy, only to talk to him. I'd go a lot more quietly if it were to kill him."

* * * * * * *

"Ettencross, my childhood home!" announced Barty, stepping out of the fireplace.

"Oh don't be silly," said Narcissa. "Winky, we've missed you!"

The house-elf was beaming. "I has been putting all your robes in your rooms," she squeaked. "Miss Alice's robes, too," she added, curtseying to Julian.

"I bought you a few things," explained Mrs. Crouch, handing her cloak to the house-elf. "Part of being an indulgent godmother."

"Thank you," said Julian, looking about the modest entrance with pleasure. The huge stone fireplace took up the whole wall behind her, left over from the original house, which had been burned down by giants in 1647. A dim light was cast on the dark paneling by a mullioned window that looked into the stone front courtyard.

"Master is being in his dressing room," Winky informed Mrs. Crouch. "He is asking me to remind you that you is going out to dinner tonight."

"I remember," replied Mrs. Crouch. She turned to the others. "Well, dears, I have to dress. Go off and amuse yourselves. Just don't wander off the grounds, Barty. You should know by now how dangerous that is."

Barty gave his mother a sullen nod. She smiled and left through the wooden arch that led to the stairs.

"I will be getting your things to your rooms," Winky announced. "And you is best obeying your mother, Master Barty. There is bad men out there to take you away."

Barty stifled a theatrical yawn. "They took me away, Winky. And I escaped and they died. I don't think anyone needs to worry about me."

"He snuck up into the hills during Christmas," Narcissa told Julian. "I'm not sure what's wrong with him."

"The Death Eaters don't want me anymore," said Barty confidently. "They had a power struggle, the proper purebloods prevailed. They only kill people with impure blood now."

"That makes them better?" demanded Julian.

"Never said that. It just means we three aren't targets."

"Naïve, Barty. Very naïve." All three turned towards the owner of the interrupting voice. Barty's father stood there. His silent tread, the downfall of many an erring subordinate, now placed his son in a sticky position.

"I trust you haven't been airing this nonsense about Hogwarts?" asked Mr. Crouch.

"No sir. I always toe the party line," replied Barty smoothly.

"I've placed wards on the boundaries. I'll know if you set a foot over them."

"Then it'll be a week in my bedroom with bread and water?"

His father shook his head. "More likely a touch of my wand. You can save us the trouble of finding out by obeying me."

"Yes sir."

"It's my duty to protect you."

"Yes sir."

Crouch shook his head wearily, then nodded to Julian. "I hope you and your mother are well, Alice."

"Yes, we are. Thank you for inviting us to Ettencross."

He smiled. "You can consider this house your home. I'm sorry we'll be away tonight, but we'll make it up to you with our dinner party on Friday."

"We should have a lot more parties," said Narcissa.

"We probably should," Crouch agreed. "Now you two girls are all grown up. You may plot all the merriment you like with my wife. I retain a final say on the guest list, though, as a matter of law enforcement."

"No Death Eater sympathizer will taste Crouch hors d'oeuvres," quipped Narcissa.

"Something like that. Narcissa, I want a word with you. In my study, if you please."

Narcissa nodded. "Right away. My marks were very good this year, weren't they?"

"Tolerable, Narcissa. Come along."

They departed, leaving Barty and Julian alone.

"Well, Alice." Barty's grin was not particularly agreeable. "Do you mind your new identity?"

Julian shrugged. "It's my given name. It's all right."

"We'll have you change your surname to Crouch next. Or perhaps they'll swap me for you."

"Barty, you know how proud your parents are of you. They treasure you."

"I know. Father's most treasured possession."

"Barty!"

He fixed her with a withering glare. "Don't nag, Julian. It's not an endearing trait. House-elves nag."

Julian pursed her lips.

"Don't sulk either." His voice took on a pleading tone. "I can't stand it when other people sulk. It drives me insane. It's so lonely here sometimes."

"I can believe that," said Julian cautiously.

"Houses are like their families. This one is benevolent, but not entirely human."

"Your family's human!" protested Julian, struck by the accuracy of Barty's description.

"Father doesn't like it any better than I do," said Barty quietly. "He draws people to him, you know, to make that untrue. Then he keeps them at arm's length all the time."

"Does he?"

Barty stared at her, then laughed. "Are you sure you don't want to go into International Co-operation, Julian? You could have a great career in diplomacy."

* * * * * * *

The elder Barty Crouch closed the door of his study, then turned to his sister Narcissa, who was standing before the fireplace with her hands on her hips and a look of defiance on her face.

"I see you have secrets from me," he said mildly. "Why are you betraying their existence by that stance?"

"Why not? Everyone has secrets. There's no guilt in that, Barty, you have to admit."

Barty smiled and drew forward a chair for Narcissa. "Lazy language. Never tell anyone he must admit something. He may refuse to admit it."

"I'm sure your Department cowers in fear of you."

"Not in fear of me. I'd rather awake their fear of the Enemy. It's much more useful."

"It's a good strategy," said Narcissa approvingly. She let her hands fall to her sides. "I am proud to be a member of this family, really."

"Thank you, Narcissa." He sat down, and waited for her to do likewise. "I'll admit I've worried enough over you for seventeen years. My greatest worry was that the Blacks would find some way too woo you over."

"Mercutio Black was my father, wasn't he?"

"He begot you. Your father, the man who made a place in his home for you and your mother, was Valerius Crouch."

Narcissa nodded. "Don't think for a moment I regard the Blacks as family in any way."

"I'm sure you don't." But he seemed to relax. "Sirius Black? What do you think of him?"

"I'm sure I'd find him intolerable if I had much to do with him. Are you asking because your Aurors arrested him?"

"Do you find that story feasible, Narcissa? That he stole the House Cup for a lark?"

Narcissa shook her head. "If it'd happened after the End Feast, yes. But he wouldn't deprive Gryffindor of a chance to lord it over all the rest of us. I think it was someone else who put the Cup with his things."

"Who do you think would do that?"

"Snape, Lestrange, and the rest? Is that whom you suspect?"

"I suspect no one, Narcissa. I don't plan to prosecute the young idiot. Though perhaps the threat of prosecution hanging over his head will be an incentive to good behaviour. Your Slytherin vigilantes worry me, though. Could you keep an eye on them for me?"

"Why me?"

"They like you."

"Very few people at Hogwarts don't," said Narcissa, tossing her hair.

"Good. You'll be an ideal spy."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, I am."

"It'd be something to do over summer. Other than attending parties."

"Well, it seems I've rescued you from the doldrums. Now, I must attend a very boring dinner party. Unfortunately, I can't delegate the task to you."

"I could use Polyjuice."

"Polyjuice is illegal. You don't think we have any of that in the house, do you?"

Narcissa crossed her fingers before nodding.

* * * * * * *

The house was musty, dank, and cold. Severus found this curiously reassuring. He had half feared he'd find a fire in the grate and his father ensconced in his favourite armchair, smoking his ancient pipe: what he liked to call his only vice, though his family and acquaintances would have begged to differ.

But the grey ashes in the grate were still cold. The cushion was covered with a layer of dust. Everything, Severus satisfied himself, was just as he had left it.

A search of the pantry produced a box of biscuits, and the last jar of his mother's peach preserves. He tasted a biscuit, winced at the staleness, and turned his attention to the preserves. He'd passed over the jar for years now. Silly sentimentality. He knew very well his mother hadn't vanished mysteriously. Her husband's obituary would bring her scarpering back from whichever seedy European watering place she now frequented.

Severus's mother was a disgrace. Plotting one's husband's death with a lover had class - look at Eris Black - but walking out on one's husband because he made one too many cruel remarks about one's dinners, that was unpardonably tawdry.

He wrenched the lid from the jar and took a spoonful. She really hadn't been a good cook, he thought, swallowing the over-spiced preserves. His father had married her for her dark hair and startlingly pale complexion, a love match, hard as that was to imagine now.

There were letters in the bin beside the kitchen door, he found. The bottom layer was waterlogged but the ones towards the top retained their original form. The Snape House in the Fens, one was addressed. It looked like Mundungus Fletcher's handwriting.

Where the hell are you, Snape? it read. All my owls have come back to me. Severus smiled. The letter blustered on, hinting of but never stating the business between Fletcher and Severus's father.

He was sure his father was dead. Well-meaning people told him often enough to keep up hope that his father might return an day from his week's jaunt to Central Africa turned two years. He put very little stock in this view. If Cadmus Snape were alive, he would have found his way back to his gold, and the gold still lay untouched in Gringotts. There was quite a lot of it, Severus had calculated. A lifetime of smuggling had done Cadmus well enough, though the man had been a miser of the first order. It probably was time to obtain a death certificate and trot out the will, which left everything to Severus, with an entirely unenforceable plea that not a knut go to his estranged wife.

He would give his mother something, of course. And then he would buy some decent robes. Years of the pitiful school allowance his father had humiliated him with were coming to an end.

It was revolting to let clothing so gnaw at one's mind. He was much better than that. Yet, every insult from Potter, every careless display of affluence by his dorm mates, had festered.

A simple set of black work-a-day robes. Some more books. Happiness had never seemed so easy to obtain.

* * * * * *

It had been a pleasant evening in Barty and Narcissa's company. They'd dined very informally in the kitchen, so as to listen to Winky's account of events at Ettencross since Christmas. Not much had happened in the world of the house-elf, where unexpected company could count as a major calamity. It was soothing listening, a break from the bleak news of the outside world.

After supper, they'd gone outside, and Barty had insisted on playing the tour guide and dragging Julian over every inch of the estate, much to Narcissa's annoyance. She'd gone back into the house at eight o'clock, leaving Barty to regale Julian with a long history of the old ruined chapel west of the house. Julian didn't mind. She stayed out walking with Barty till ten. They played cards in the sitting room for a while after that, then returned to chatting, until Barty nodded off in his chair. Julian had shaken him awake, then steered him out of the room and in the direction of bed.

She returned to the sitting room and, taking up a biography of Grogan Stump from a table, sat down to read by the hearth.

When the elder Crouch came in a little after midnight, she was still there. She started when he greeted her, and scrambled to her feet. "I was reading. And thinking.."

"Worthwhile pursuits," he said. "Are you heading straight to bed, or can you stay up a little while?"

"I'm not really sleepy," she said.

"Then have a seat." He himself sat down in his old leather chair. "I'll pour you some brandy, now you're old and experienced."

Nervously, Julian took the chair beside him. Often in dealing with Crouch, she'd felt under interrogation, but he now showed an easiness that was perhaps even more daunting. He'd stepped out of his official persona and taken up the role of a father, the father Julian had never had and always wanted. She wasn't sure how she felt about this, other than nervous.

She thanked him for the brandy and took a short sip.

"Now tell me, what were you thinking?" he asked.

Julian pushed away the sudden fancy that thoughts weren't private at Ettencross and formulated a vague answer. "I was thinking about my future, sir."

"Have you any plans?"

"My marks won't be good enough for the Ministry," she said rather hastily.

"Yes, I talked to your examiners," replied Crouch levelly. "I never did think you the sort to turn immediately to the Ministry, though. That sort of work would crush you, I think." He studied her face intently, daring her to look away from his eyes. She didn't. There was no secret in her life he'd not already pried into. Let him look. He might see something useful.

At last, he nodded to himself. "I think I was right. You'll excel at what I've chosen for you."

"Sir?"

"I'd thought to give you some work in the library here. First, you would need to brush up on your languages, of course. I've heard you chattering away in English and Irish, and you've a good deal of Latin under your belt."

"I..."

"Have been neglecting it in pursuit of those elusive NEWTs, I know. Ridiculous system. It won't be any trouble, though, to apply yourself to it again, and you're well set to learn the old local forms of Gaelic and English, which some of the documents are written in. No French here," he said with pride.

"What would I do?"

"Copy out old documents. Index them. Translate them. Show me what you find. It's important work. There've been very few people to look into the family archives, you know."

Julian did know. Like most of the old wizarding families, the Crouches kept their lore to themselves. Paranoia, Florence irritably called it, but it was a paranoia born of the constant quiet war that always enveloped wizarding Britain. When Ettencross had been burnt by the giants in the 17^th century, probably at the instigation of goblins, the house's safeguards had been betrayed by a member of the household. One's house really was one's castle here, and so one jealously guarded the lore the might hold the key to destruction.

It was an honour to be shown such trust, as well as a splendid opportunity. Her mother wouldn't approve, of course, but honestly, what was the point of nursing that old grievance? If Crouch had done Julian harm by leaking her paternity to the press, this certainly was reparation. He was very kind. Politically ruthless - yes, she had heard all the details - but genuinely concerned for her welfare.

"I'd be very glad to do that," she answered eagerly. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He took another sip of his brandy, then frowned. "Your mother, when she was your age, she was always smiling, so enthusiastic, so devoted to her work and to anyone who seemed to love her. So vulnerable."

To a false friend like you? a nasty bit of Julian's subconscious piped up. She pushed away the thought immediately. Resentment had no place here. "Sir?"

"Don't let everyone who calls you friend have power over you. Be careful of your love. You should know this. You're a Slytherin."

She nodded.

"No secret romances that can ruin your chance at life," he added drily.

"Like my mother?"

"In a way. I doubt you'll follow her example and have an affair with a married Ministry man. You're far too sensible for that. But you can do better than Kenneth Avery, for instance."

Julian set her face. "I'm not intending to marry Kenneth Avery, sir."

"Very good. Your lineage is pure even if you are born out of wedlock. I think, Alice, you can marry quite well despite the handicap your parents' behaviour has placed you under."

Handicapped? thought Julian. She wouldn't exist but for her parents' 'behaviour.' There wasn't some other Julian she might have been. The rhetoric made no sense.

"Yes sir."

"All right then. All things being arranged, do you think it's time for bed?"

She hesitated, then blurted out, "Mr. Crouch, do you believe in visions?"

He put down his glass abruptly. "Visions? Have you had any?"

"I thought I did. I've had them for years. I see myself - older than I am now - in a bed in a locked room."

Crouch frowned. "This is tricky ground. One can know so little of the world of dreams? What were you taught in Divination?"

"That dreams hold signs of things past, present, and future."

"But signs from whom? Is it your memory presenting something past in obscure symbols? Is it your imagination running mad? Or is a person sending you these moments? Enemy or friend? Or does it come from some place worse? Or better?"

"I don't know," said Julian.

"No more do I."

"So, what should I do?"

"Ignore them. There is no good in focusing on these so-called signs, be they oneiros, horama, or epynion."

"I don't know those words."

"How far can Divination fall? Did they never teach you the ancient classification of dreams?"

"No. I took it because it was an easy subject," she admitted.

"At least, your mind was not too far poisoned. Tell me if they continue, though. Best to be careful with these things." He rose from his seat. "Good night, Alice. And sweeter dreams."

* * * * * * *

Despite her promise, Florence had fallen asleep, lying on her covers in a nightgown she'd washed and pressed carefully earlier in the evening. It was a light, restless sleep, however, and she awoke easily from dark dreams to a persistent thumping noise at her window.

She rubbed her eyes, then remembering the day's events, jumped up from her bed to the window, and flung open the shutters. Rolly was below, ready to launch another handful of pebbles.

"Will you come up?" she called down to him.

"How?" He gestured to her trunk on the ground beside him. "I've got to get this up too. I just came to drop it off."

Florence made a face, then laughed. "Didn't you notice I got top marks in Transfiguration? I'll get you a ladder. Hang on."

She flew from the window to the bureau beside her bed, then began the task of introducing it to its temporary new life as a ladder. She fumbled the spell twice, unable to stop her hand from shaking. Meanwhile, a loud thud sounded beside her, and she turned to see her trunk in the middle of the floor.

Warning Rolly to stand aside, she carefully maneuvered the ladder through the window and down to him. He rushed up it, and flung his arms about her. They stayed in that precarious position for quite a while.

"I brought your trunk," he whispered.

She clung on to him. "Thank you. Don't go away again."

"Well, I wasn't planning to go away permanently," he promised, stroking her hair. "You're stuck with me, Flo. Generally."

"I think I can cope."

He paused. "Do you think I should get off this ladder before I break my neck?"

Florence disengaged from the embrace to let him climb through the window. "Help me set it up against the wall."

Together, they returned the short-lived ladder to its proper place. Then, because he could, Rolly kissed her again and Florence stood on her tiptoes in a rather futile attempt to match his height.

"Was the dinner awful?" she asked, breaking away at last to close the window.

"Very awful," he replied seriously.

"Do they know you're gone?"

"I said I'd an urgent call from Evan. He'll cover for me. I'm not staying long. Really. Just wanted to talk to you."

Florence snorted. "Urgent call about what?"

"You know how Evan's great-grandmother has been dying the last three decades? I hinted that she was finally going to kick the bucket, and Evan wanted me for support."

"Impressive! But it won't do for the long run."

"I don't see why. That woman's always dying."

Florence flopped down onto her bed. "Come here. I demand a better idea."

Hesitantly, Rolly sat down beside her. "I'll find myself a flat, Flo. Don't worry. My mother doesn't want me loafing about the house, you know. They'll pay the rent and I'm supposed to make myself useful. She and my stepfather want me in the Ministry. Traditional place for gentry who've come down in the world. I could keep my pride there slaving over paperwork."

"That's a no then?" teased Florence.

He shook his head. "Not necessarily. If there's nothing else, I'll do it. I won't sponge off my stepfather any longer than I must. I do have my pride."

Florence rolled her eyes. "You're very silly, love, I know. But forget about it." She sat up. "What do you think of my nightgown?"

He gave her a sheepish smile. "I could write a poem about it."

"Or you could, you know, unbutton it."

He hesitated again. "Flo, I wasn't going to..."

"I suppose I'll have to do it myself." She undid the first button.

"Uhh..."

"Rolly, come on."

"Well... here's to a happy century together," he said, putting his hand to the second button.