I sit under an ancient oak, on a small bench that seems to have been here for just as long as the tree. And wait. Wait for Harry to come get me when I'm needed. Wait for Prisoner Crouch to arrive. Wait for an idea of just how the hell I'm going to question a wasted, twisted, tormented creature such as Barty Crouch. As yet, I've no idea. And so I wait to tell my boss that I can't help at all on the only case to which I'm assigned if I can't come up with something within the next few minutes. But that isn't the only thing on my mind. The Death Eater's wasn't the only call I heard in that destroyed prison.
As though the tree senses in its very roots that I sit here seeking peace, it sends some my way. The air is slowly filled with dancing, dipping, swirling leaves, crackling in the space around me with the sounds of autumn. In seemingly practiced choreography, they move in circles around me, butterflies borne from the earth just for me. Nature comforts me, as it always does when I need it most. It's one of the perks of my odd connection; Nature is connected to me, too. Things like this don't actually happen very often, however. I watch it with wonder.
"You're very good at wandless magic," Harry says as he approaches. Sneaked up on me again. I'm going to buy him a bell.
"It's not me, " I inform him. The slowly spinning swarm broadens to encompass him while I speak. He looks delighted.
"Not you?"
"No, it's the tree."
"You say that so easily."
"Fact of my life. I stopped questioning a long time ago."
"As lovely as this is, Anwen, we have work to do."
"He's arrived?" The leaves float to the ground. I'm sad to see it.
"He's in a room. They're just finishing up the security Charms. Can't have him getting out."
"No, no we can't."
"I'm giving you first crack at him. You're the only one with any objectivity at all. What are you going to do?"
"Talk to him, see if I can connect with the part of his mind that seems . . . present."
"What do you mean present, Anwen?" His agitation shows clearly, though he's trying to maintain a professional detachment. That will be a tall order for many of the Aurors and officials on this case. Barty Crouch's appearance has awakened more than one wizard's fear and hatred and worry. "Present in what way?"
"Something in him was calling for help, loud enough from within him that the rubble called to me. And, and there's something else. Something happened."
"Yes?" I can tell from the look on Harry's face, and the tone of his voice, that he's already figured out he's not going to like whatever I say. He's right.
"He spoke to me."
"What?!"
'Just after you'd gone downstairs, only a moment before I followed you."
"What did he say?" He asks me this through clenched teeth. I don't blame him.
"He said 'Help me,' Sir, that's all."
"And you are just now telling me this because?"
"I wanted to tell you privately, afraid of a panic or a mob, afraid to frighten and shock everyone-"
"Slow down," he snaps.
"I'm sorry. I should have found a way to tell you. However, I thought it best to tell you when others could not hear. I'm not entirely sure who's on the 'Need to Know' list. Things have been hectic since the prisoner was discovered."
Harry sighs deeply, lifts his glasses and rubs his eyes.
"Fine. Valid points. From here forward, make sure you let me know there is information to be shared."
"Yes, Sir." He does not remind me to call him Harry.
"Anything else?"
"Yes." The look on his face could melt bricks. "Nothing like that. No, I just wanted to talk something over with you."
He walked over to the friendly oak, straightened his robe, and leaned. I'm not the only only one feeling eased by its ancient presence. Most people just don't know they feel it. "What's on your mind?" he asks, much calmer than a moment ago.
"The other thing I felt, the other call. That hasn't yet been explained. I think I have to go back to Azkaban."
"Not alone."
"Of course not. I'll need a team, plus a boat crew."
"No, not only them. I want Ron to go with you, as well."
"Ron? Why?"
"Your leads have proven to provide results. I'd like a senior Auror there in that event. Besides, last time you followed that particular feeling, you nearly walked over a cliff."
"There's that," I admit.
"You can go back, but not yet. Crouch is the priority. Understand?"
"Understood."
"For now, you have a Death Eater to chat with. On your way."
Making my way quickly to what has to be the most closely guarded and tightly secured room in the hospital, I try to tell myself that talking to him will work. That I will somehow just make a connection with a mind that hasn't worked in a very long time. And what if I do? Can he speak? I know he asked for help, but that's almost as instinctual as breathing. And what do I ask him, anyway? Hey, did you blow up Azakaban and just forget to escape? It would tie things up nicely if he just said yes. But I doubt that's even close to what happened. There's another mystery waiting for me in Azkaban.
"Shouldn't even be 'ere! Was him that put the Longbottoms in 'ere. If people find out about this-"
"Quiet," I hiss, rushing to the the nurse outside the prisoner's door, the heels of my boot loud in the sterile quiet.
"I'm only sayin' what's true!"
"You're only saying enough to get you arrested. Were you not warned that there would be no public discussion about the man in this room? You should have been," I warn. I'm young, but I have authority, and I know how to carry it.
"I was. We're in the 'ospital."
"Yes, and I heard you from down the hall."
"I do apologize, Miss."
"Agent. Agent Hafgan. Don't let it happen again. I'll be speaking with your supervisor to be sure it doesn't. Now, I'm here to see the patient. Is he awake?"
"No, the prisoner is not conscious at this time, Agent."
"What is your name nurse?"
"Imogen Goodfly," she tells me defiantly. Everyone knows it's never a good thing when a cop asks your name.
"Nurse Goodfly, he is my prisoner, true. But while he is here, he is your patient. Are we clear?"
Her eyes widened, as did those of the nurse she'd been complaining to when I first arrived. She tilted her head as if to take my measure, then nodded.
"You're right, Agent. You are right and I know it. I am sorry."
I nod back, no need to belabour the point, then ask, "May I go in?"
"Yes, of course."
I go in exuding much more confidence that I feel. The heavy door closes slowly behind me, and at the the soft thud it makes when it hits the doorframe, I'm prompted to take a deep breath. Time to make this work.
"Mr. Crouch?" I keep my voice even, controlled, indifferent. They teach us how to do that in training. We are, essentially, the police in our world. People are nervous around us anyway. Best to not let them see fear or hatred in us before we've gotten answers. Or any other time, for that matter. It's counterproductive. I will refer to him as Prisoner at all times, except to his face. It aids in keeping a distinct separation. "Mr. Crouch, can you hear me?"
HIs fingers move, but nothing else. No indication of sentience at all. But I know he's in there. I felt him before. I pull up a heavily upholstered, clearly antique wooden chair, so unlike the clinical modernity of the hospitals back home. We are so much more aware of our state of hiding. We live in so much more fear.
I think I understand the broken man in the bed. He's in hiding, too, from a world intent on his eradication. I get it, now. Sitting down at his bedside, I begin to call him out, much more confidently.
"Mr. Crouch, I know you're in there. You're at least slightly aware. Stop playing possum. You talked to me earlier. Do you remember? You asked me to help you."
"And you said you would."
His voice is not quite like I expected. Scratchy from disuse, and much deeper than the few recordings that Rita Skeeter had somehow managed to procure. She broadcasts them on the anniversary of Barty Crouch, Sr's death. I sit upright and further back when I remember that the man under the tattered quilt killed his own father. A killer who is much more aware than he has let on.
"Yes, I did. I made sure you were found, I made sure we got you out."
"I suppose it was you who had me brought here, then?" he asks, still not moving but for his mouth. The snake-like tongue that has been the nightmare of children for nearly twenty years refusing to make the expected appearance. We all heard the stories. Words and images travel swiftly and stick in the memory when they can move on the page.
"Yes."
"And you expect gratitude?" His voice is still even, but I can hear the unrest beneath it.
"I expect nothing, Mr. Crouch."
"Good. You've done me no favor. They'll want me Cursed here. For the Longbottoms, they'll want me Cursed into madness."
"This is a hospital. They will care for your needs here. There will be no Curse." I understand his fear, though. He's not far off in his assumption.
"But they'll want it. All this time and they will still not believe, I know that much. Never believe me," he rambles. After so long with perhaps only his voice for company, only his own mind in response, he must ramble quite a bit.
"Believe what?" He has always cried innocent. In all but his father's death, anyway. Though he has never denied the fact that he was indeed a follower of Voldemort, a Death Eater of seemingly blind allegiance, Barty Crouch never copped to the casting of the Cruciatus Curse upon the Aurors. None of us believe that. He's as guilty as the rest of the lying, conniving murdering Dark Wizards who nearly took down a civilization. "Believe what, Mr. Crouch."
"Nothing. Never mind. No matter," he mutters as he settles. "Who are you?" he asks, cocking his head in my direction, still not opening his eyes. "Are you Canadian?"
"I'm Agent Hafgan, CWA."
"CW-? You're American! They've sent an American. Are the Aurors, are they . . . where are the Aurors?"
"I'm working with the Auror Office, Mr. Crouch. Don't worry. They're around."
"Not worried. What happened, Agent?"
"Azkaban blew up. Know anything about that?" Might as well ask outright while he's responding. He's moving around a bit now, becoming agitated, fidgety. No telling if or when he'll decide to stop talking.
"No. I only know it was loud. The explosion, falling rock. Men and women shrieking all around me. Didn't take long for the ceiling to cave on top of me. I just lay there. Lay there and waited to finally die. But even that comfort was not allowed to me." He grew quieter as the words flowed, becoming morose at the thought of death being denied him. But sad tales prettily told do not make the stories true.
"Why won't you open your eyes? Are they injured? Are they hurting you?"
"Oh, no. No pain in my eyes. Everywhere else, though."
"Open your eyes, Mr. Crouch," I order, growing tired of what now seems to be a game set to unnerve me.
"I don't want to."
"Come on. Why not?" Frustrating, this one simple thing.
"Do you know I've been in and out of that prison for most of my life? Or hidden away where no one can see. Do you know how little beauty there is in a life like that?"
"Mr. Crouch."
"I don't want to open my eyes, because your voice is beautiful, musical. I want so very much for you to be a pretty as your voice."
"And you're afraid I won't be?" I ask with mock offence and impatience.
"No. No, I'm afraid you will be."
Exasperated, I order, "Open your eyes."
And he does. Deep brown, wide, sad, old. But then a light, like an awakening.
"You are. You are very beautiful."
"Enough of that. I have more questions," I snap at him. I suddenly feel very self conscious.
"I have a question, Agent Hafgan."
"Yes?"
"What is 'playing possum'?"
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