Remus couldn't sleep.

Amelia had fallen asleep so fast that he had been mildly concerned she'd passed out, exhausted as she was from taking a trip around the inside of someone else's broken mind.

She was sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling gently. Aware that he was unlikely to get any rest himself, Remus had curled up protectively around her several hours before. Making sure that, should she wake from some kind of brain pot-holing related nightmare, she'd know he was there.

Fortunately, she seemed not to be dreaming at all and had quickly turned to rest her head against his shoulder. He liked it there. Her arm, as usual, had been flung out at random, this time coming to rest around his waist.

He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face and pressed his lips to her sleeping forehead. Given Crouch's current mental state, her being a bit tired was probably the least damaging result he could have hoped for.

She would insist on carrying such burdens!

He understood both her decision to read Crouch and to keep the information that two of the most dangerous men in Britain were probably somewhere inside the castle or grounds to herself – after all, they had no way of knowing who might overhear – but it didn't make watching her wring herself out any easier. It was enough to give a tolerably healthy werewolf high blood pressure.

A fond smile played about his lips.

She always did tell him she was a bad influence.

He sighed and rested his head against the pillow, his wife a comforting weight on his shoulder and chest.

They would have to tell Dumbledore, and soon. Whatever he might feel about the man's approach to putting Amelia in danger (which, he had to admit, was considerably less frequently than she did of her own accord), Remus trusted Dumbledore absolutely. If anyone could winkle out an impostor and quietly deal with him, Dumbledore could. The question was, he decided, unhappily, whether they could trust the people that Dumbledore might trust enough to tell.

The Headmaster was an excellent judge of character, and yet… Remus just wasn't sure enough that they weren't all being fooled by someone close at hand. The feeling had been with him for a few weeks now, and had grown in intensity given the events of the past few hours.

He left it alone, hoping it would percolate through his brain at its own speed. Hopefully sooner, before anyone got hurt.

He sighed.

Peter Pettigrew, back at Hogwarts.

Even a year ago, he would have been ecstatic to see him – once he'd recovered from the shock of discovering that his friend was alive – but now…

His mind drifted back to the night last June when he had been completely prepared to kill the conniving little bastard. He wondered whether he would have gone through with it, had Harry and Amelia not been there. He wasn't sure of the answer, and that uncertainty scared him.

Doubtless, many of the dangers they were currently facing would have been avoided if Peter had fallen that night, but did that give him the right to make that decision? He imagined watching Peter crumple in a glow of green light, shot from the end of his own wand.

No.

Even after everything he had done, unless Peter was attacking him or someone nearby, Remus knew he couldn't kill him. Just as with Sirius, he couldn't quite separate the sweet, genial chorister he had spent evenings blowing things up with from the selfish murderer he had become.

If he came across him now, Peter would be unconscious and hog-tied in the time it took him to raise a wand – and he suspected that he wouldn't pay all that much attention to which way up he was when he dragged him to the nearest Auror – but he wouldn't kill him.

Amelia had been right: it simply was not in him.

If Peter was in the castle, life was going to get a lot more difficult in the run up to the Triwizard Tournament. First thing in the morning, he would write to Sirius. Peter and Sirius had been the two most proficient Marauders when it came to sneaking around, Sirius would know just where to look – and having an extra wand and pair of hands in Hogsmeade wouldn't hurt.

If there was a chance that Peter was anywhere near Hogwarts they'd never get him to leave.

He'd have to borrow the Map – or enlist Harry and his friends to keep a constant watch on it. Amelia would happily pitch in, he knew, and Severus.

He frowned.

What if Harry and Severus hadn't seen Barty Crouch on the Marauder's Map after all? What if it had been his son?

Crouch had told Amelia that he'd thought one or both of them were at Hogwarts, what if they were right? What if Hermione and her friends, grasping at every straw they could to try to keep their friend safe, had actually stumbled on what was going on?

He didn't like the thought of an escaped Death Eater creeping around people's offices at night. If he had access to their offices then he had access to the students, and that thought didn't sit well with him at all.

Remus pulled the duvet a little further up around Amelia's shoulders.

He hadn't attended Crouch Jr's trial, but he knew just as well as the other members of the old Order of the Phoenix what he'd done. Amelia snuggled closer, almost as if she knew he needed her.

Frank and Alice had been very good friends.

If he was in the castle…

He chewed the inside of his cheek. They would have to find a way of isolating him – there were too many students at risk. Knowing his record, Crouch Jr wouldn't hesitate to hurt anyone who got in his way.

This couldn't just be about revenge, though. Peter wouldn't target Harry directly unless there was something in it for him, and although Crouch Jr's loyalties were firmly with the Dark Lord, he'd had several opportunities to kill Harry at the World Cup – probably more in the months following, if he'd been sneaking around Hogwarts for any length of time.

Why bother going to all the trouble of evading the security surrounding the Triwizard Tournament if the goal was just Harry's death? No. There was something deeper going on. The whole thing smacked of conspiracy, and that worried him: generally you needed more than two people to make a conspiracy, and there was only one person ever likely to be able persuade a man like Crouch Jr to work with Peter Pettigrew.

He rubbed his face, feeling exhausted.

They had to track them down before they had the chance to do whatever it was they wanted to do, and preferably before the third task. If they were trying to get Harry through to the end of the final task, then whatever they were up to was bound to happen then.

He curled around his wife's sleeping body with the vague hope that being warm would make him sleep.

He frowned into her hair, which was coiled around them in that slightly alive way it had when she was sleeping.

Could the Map tell the difference between two people with the same name?

Just because society had attributed an arbitrary 'Jr' to the younger Crouch didn't mean the Map knew about it – or cared. That settled it. He'd borrow the Map from Harry at breakfast, and if there were two Bartemius Crouches on it, he'd have them both.

He pushed the horrible thought that Peter or Crouch Jr might be masquerading as one of his colleagues away.

If there was going to be trouble in the morning – and he rather suspected there would be – he needed to be sharp.

It might mean the difference between life and death.

0o0o0o0

The oblivion of heavy sleep was shattered that morning by an urgent pounding on the door of their rooms; both Remus and Amelia were on their feet and armed in moments, though neither of them felt they could reasonably take anyone on this early.

"What time is it?" Amelia asked, squinting at the clock. "Fuck."

If it was early enough for Amelia to swear about it, then it was early enough for the banging on their door to mean trouble.

Remus hurried into the main room, tripping over a pile of books in the dark. Amelia, hot on his heels, lit a couple of candles.

So far, so good, he thought.

She'd left just enough shadow to give them the advantage while whoever was at the door's eyes adjusted. He motioned her to stand behind the door while he opened it.

A grim-faced Pomona Sprout loomed out of the darkness.

"Sorry chaps," she said, her voice cracking with weariness. "I know it's early."

Amelia emerged from the shadows, concerned.

"Crouch is dead."

"What?" Remus heard himself sputter; Amelia gasped.

"Albus wants us all in the Hospital Wing for a debriefing in ten minutes."

"How did he-?" Amelia began, but Pomona cut her off.

"Not sure yet, but I will tell you this – Poppy is certain it's murder."

She hurried off down the corridor, presumably to wake somebody else up.

Remus met Amelia's eyes.

"I should have read him again last night," she muttered.

"You couldn't have," Remus told her, as they hurried to dress. "It would have made you ill, and then where would we be?"

Amelia said something that sounded a lot like 'Hmph'.

"Hey," he said, catching her arm as she headed to the bathroom. "This isn't your fault."

Amelia's expression told him that she didn't believe it for a second, but she said, "I know."

Her last thought flashed in his mind as he buttoned up his shirt:

But if I get my hands on that little bastard there'll be hell to pay.

0o0

"It wasn't a potion or a spell," said Poppy, who had taken it as a personal affront that anyone would dare hurt, let alone kill, one of her patients. "And I didn't hear a bloody thing!"

Amelia was quietly bending over Crouch's corpse, and almost everyone was ignoring her. Remus wondered what she could see there that they couldn't.

"This isn't your fault," Filius patted her hand.

"Bloody well feels like it!"

"Blame the murderer," said Remus, leaning heavily on his stick. "Besides, we can't bring him back now – we have to concentrate on catching him now, that's the most important thing."

"Wise words," Moody barked, striding in, slightly lopsided, with Minerva and Dumbledore in tow. "We need to know everyone's whereabouts."

Amelia gave the back of Moody's head a sour look; luckily, perhaps for everyone present, he had been focussing his magical eye firmly on Severus.

Remus grimaced, knowing where this was going.

"Where were you, Snape?"

"In my rooms," he said, without even a tremor of hesitation.

"I suspect alibis amongst the staff will be few and far between," said Remus, tersely. "Perhaps we'd be better questioning the portraits – you'd be hard pressed to get through the castle at night without waking at least one of them up."

Moody turned to him, and for a moment Remus thought he detected a flash of anger. It was swiftly replaced by a scowl.

"I think that's an excellent idea," said Dumbledore, with a curt nod to Remus. "Alastor, you and Minerva consult with the portraits. Argus, Hagrid, Martin, if you could check the perimeter charms and have a word with our neighbours in the Lake and the Forbidden Forest I would greatly appreciate it." He glanced at Amelia for a moment, still peering closely at Crouch's sallow face. "Pomona, Filius, if you would speak with Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, please? I've left the others in charge of the students, who are – as yet – blissfully unaware of the circumstances."

They all began to move at once, recognising marching orders when they heard them, but Dumbledore stopped them.

"I hardly need to remind you that there is a murderer in our midst, have a care, please. I want no more casualties tonight. Stick together."

Remus watched them go, thoughtfully.

"Poppy?" Dumbledore asked, gently, aware of how personally she was taking recent developments.

"I'm alright, Albus, I just want to catch the blighter."

He nodded, understanding.

"Alastor has made it quite clear to me that he believes Severus to be the murderer," he said, his eyes on Severus, who stiffened.

"Poppycock," snorted Poppy as Remus shook his head.

"Well, that's plainly bollocks," Amelia muttered, loud enough for them all to hear.

"Quite," said Dumbledore. "I have assured him that I trust Severus completely."

"Thank you, Headmaster."

"I think, however, it would benefit all of us if we cleared this up as quickly as possible. Severus, I fear you have a difficult day ahead."

Severus grunted.

"Now, Amelia, perhaps you could enlighten us as to why you are staring so intently at a corpse?"

Amelia looked up at him, frowning.

"Poppy's right, this wasn't magic," she said.

"Oh, you're using forensix, or whatever it's called,?" Poppy asked, joining her beside Crouch.

"Close enough," said Amelia, as Remus, Severus and the Headmaster joined them. She pointed to the area around Crouch's eyes. "Did you close his eyes, by the way?"

"No," said Poppy. "I knew something was wrong when I checked on him – no-one alive is that colour yellow. I left him as he was after checking for a pulse."

"Was he still warm?" Amelia asked.

Remus suppressed a shudder, inwardly marvelling at how detached Amelia had become in a short space of time. It was as if someone had flicked a Muggle light switch inside her head.

Poppy thought about it for a moment.

"Warmish," she said, finally. "Not immediately dead, but dead not too long before I came to check on him, either."

"Why did you?" Severus asked, quietly. "Check on him, I mean."

"I make the occasional night round when a patient is in a condition that concerns me," Poppy explained, frowning, "but I woke, suddenly, about ten minutes before I came out to check on him. I couldn't tell you why – everything seemed perfectly normal when I came out here, except for –" she motioned at the corpse.

"Hmm," said Dumbledore. "Do you think it was our murderer that woke you?"

Poppy shook her head.

"He'd been dead for much longer than ten minutes."

Remus nodded and gave Poppy an awkward shoulder hug, something he never would have imagined doing a year ago. The staff had become his family so quickly. They'd been through rather a lot in a short space of time.

"So we're looking for someone that's very good at sneaking around at night," Remus mused, resting on his cane.

Amelia snorted.

"Well, that narrows it down," she said. "That description could be applied to anyone in the castle from the age of eleven up – including the House Elves."

She paused and frowned.

"No," she said, after a moment, thinking aloud. "She still believes it's her fault, she wouldn't hurt him. Besides, she's far too drunk…"

"Can you smell anything?" Severus asked, quietly.

He and Dumbledore shuffled out of the way to let him get closer.

Crouch smelled of disinfectant, shoe polish and death.

There was something else, something tantalisingly unidentifiable, lingering about the dead man's bedclothes.

"There's something," he said, frustrated. "But not enough. I'm sorry, it's too long since full moon."

Peppermint, maybe, he mused. Or boiled sugar…

"How did he die?"

Dumbledore was watching Amelia's face; she glanced up at them all, frowning deeply. Remus guessed that she wasn't entirely comfortable with the scrutiny.

"Suffocation," she told them, and again pointed to the area around Crouch's eyes. "See those little spots of blood under the skin? They're called petechial haemmorages – it's when the tiny blood vessels burst under immense pressure. You tend to only see it in suffocation cases, as the heart tries to get more oxygen by pumping harder."

"Merlin help us," Poppy breathed.

"How?" Severus asked, expression dark.

"Well, they could have held their hands over his mouth and nose, like this," said Amelia, with a note of disgust in her voice she mimed suffocating the old man. "Or," and she glanced around and picked up the pillow from the next bed. "Or a more detailed examination of his mouth and nose might turn up cotton fibres."

Remus stared at her, horrified.

"It all depends on what manner of bruising develops in the next couple of days," she said, lowering the pillow. "But my guess would be the pillow – it leaves less evidence in terms of hand-shaped bruising and there's no chance of the victim biting you." She sighed, looking down sadly at her one-time enemy. "He probably didn't even wake up."

0o0o0o0

Dumbledore's office that morning was filled with grim and weary faces. Dawn was just beginning to break over their school. The women were pale and dark eyed, while the men scrubbed at the stubble they hadn't had time to deal with. Even the portraits, woken from their slumber, interrogated and set patrolling, looked cranky and harassed.

Remus hoped there would be enough time to shave before he had to face students. His scars didn't leave much room for even facial hair. Besides, it was itchy.

They had let him have a chair because he was still walking with his cane, and he was grateful. After a whole morning of rushing around like a maniac, sitting down felt fantastic. Amelia was leaning against him, one hand on her hip and in a particularly bad mood.

Cornelius Fudge, a couple of bodyguards and a very shaken Percy Weasley didn't look much happier.

"Of course, we'll have to remove the body while the students are in class," Fudge was saying, sadly. "The less stir about this, the better." He glanced up at Dumbledore. "I think, for the time being, we should keep this whole business under wraps," he licked his lips. "I'll release a statement to the press – say that Barty succumbed to a long-term illness."

Remus frowned, deeply. Beside him, Amelia tutted a little too loudly and Severus elbowed her in the ribs.

"He's been absent at work for months – we don't want to cause a sensation here, we need to contain it – not cause panic…"

Dumbledore was just letting the man talk, Remus realised, until he ran out of steam and they could talk some sense into him.

"The Tournament must continue – too much planning has gone into this, all round."

He looked pleadingly at Dumbledore and the Headmaster nodded.

"I agree. We need the murderer to feel safe," he said. "For now, the best thing we can do is to continue."

"Exactly," said Fudge, sounding greatly relieved.

Remus wondered whether the man ever made a serious decision without checking with Dumbledore first. He fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"I think it's what Crouch would have wanted," Fudge said.

Remus thought that, under the circumstances, he might have put catching his own murderer above a sporting event, no matter how politically charged it was turning out to be.

"I must make arrangements," he said. "Weasley, you're about to learn how to give a statement to the press," he told him. "They're all camped down in Hogsmeade as it is." He looked at his bodyguards. "You two get the body out during the first lesson – I don't want those press vultures getting hold of this before we have the chance to diffuse them."

Fudge and his party bustled out, apparently determined to add extra bustle so it felt like they were doing something. Remus watched Dumbledore watching them go with faintly pursed lips. The door shut behind them and silence descended over the office.

Amelia, unusually, was the first to break it.

"You have to stop the Tournament," she said, quietly.

Several pairs of eyes turned to stare at her.

Dumbledore looked at her, a hint of deep sadness in his face.

"A man has died, Albus," said Amelia, and Remus realised he had never heard her use his first name before. Like him, the Headmaster had always held an air of awe for Amelia. Apparently, not anymore.

"I am aware of that fact, Amelia," he said, gently.

She shook her head and turned away, glaring so vehemently at a portrait on the far wall that its inhabitant took refuge with one of his neighbours.

"Cornelius is right, we must reassure the students. Classes will continue as normal – I'm sorry, but the continuation of the Tournament is the best way of discovering our murderer."

Amelia snorted, not even bothering to hide it.

"And it would be worth remembering that our champions are under a contract which it would be inadvisable to break."

"Three of them are," said Amelia, apparently no longer able to stop herself. "Harry didn't enter into the contract willingly, and that is a tenet of the Tournament. If he refused to compete he wouldn't be bound by the rules of the Tournament."

Muttering broke out amongst their colleagues; Moody was fixing Amelia with one of his most penetrating stares. Amelia simply shook her head again, furious.

"As you well know," she muttered, glaring back at the vacated picture frame.

As the meeting began to wind down, Remus kept one hand firmly entangled in his wife's cloak. He had the distinct feeling that she was about to do something inadvisable.

She met his eyes when they stood, ready to face their students in class, exhausted and without breakfast.

He saw the determination there, and the taut fear.

Her words came into his mind, and he wasn't entirely sure if she had meant them to or not:

Well if they won't do something about it, I'll bloody well have to!

0o0o0o0

Hermione meticulously copied the notes from the blackboard onto the parchment before her, wishing that she could get up and stretch.

A night spent on the cold, stone floor of the Great Hall hadn't done her back any favours, big purple squishy sleeping bag or not.

The class was restive today, hardly concentrating at all. By rights, she mused, at least half of them should have been dozing on their textbooks by this point, given how little sleep they'd got the previous night, but there was a feeling in the air that was keeping them all alert.

Something was going on. Harry had told them about Crouch's sudden appearance the night before, and about his mental state. Hermione had been astonished to discover that the spell of dizziness she had experienced in the common room the evening before had been at roughly the same time as Amelia had delved into the mind of a mad-man.

There was something else, though. Their teachers seemed tense – far more tense than you might expect if a situation was under control. Her classmates could feel that tension as much as she could, and consequently all forty of them were entirely on edge, and none of them, except her, were getting any work done at all.

Besides, Mad-Eye Moody was not a teacher whose class you wanted to fall asleep in if you wanted to avoid a rude and rather public awakening.

Movement beyond the window made her glance up.

Funny, she thought, I haven't seen a beetle that colour this far north before…

She rubbed the bridge of her nose, only half listening to Moody. He was lecturing them about the Art of War this morning, in another typical departure from the curriculum. On any other day, Hermione would have been hanging off his words, but Amelia's recent distrust of the man had made her wary.

She rubbed her forehead again. The all-night conspiracy theory session that had occurred in her corner of the Great Hall appeared to be catching up with her.

She paused. For a moment she could have sworn that she had heard someone's voice, calling her name. She had to battle down the urge to turn around and look behind her – something about the voice had told her that if she hadn't simply imagined it, none of her classmates had heard it either.

She wrote the next few words from the board before pausing again.

Hermione.

She shook her head as if to clear it.

"But that's impossible," she breathed, putting down her quill.

"Alright, Granger?" Moody's gruff voice shook her out of her speculation.

Both of his formidable eyes were staring at her, joined – now – by the rest of the class.

"Er – yes, sorry Professor," she said, hoping that he couldn't actually read her thoughts. "I've just got a bit of a headache, that's all."

Professor Moody humphed and nodded, apparently satisfied.

"I think we all could've done with a bit more sleep last night," he said. "Get down to the Hospital Wing after class if it gets worse."

"Yes, sir…"

Hermione picked her quill back up.

'Mione.

She swallowed, blinking, and Neville nudged her in the ribs. She glanced at the top of his notes, where he had scribbled 'Are you alright?' in his peculiarly chaotic handwriting.

She nodded, knowing that he would see it out of the corner of his eye.

'Mione, keep making notes, Amelia's voice instructed, in the confines of her skull. I'm going to call Moody out of class – lock the door behind him and keep everyone inside. Understand?

Hermione forced her quill to keep moving, not paying any attention whatsoever to what she was writing. They weren't even real words.

Trust me.

She bit her lip and thought the word 'yes' so hard it made the back of her head hurt. She hoped Amelia had heard her.

There was a discrete knock on the classroom door, making Hermione jump. Cursing internally, she watched her cousin stick her head around the door.

"Sorry to disturb you," she said. "Can I have a word?"

Moody nodded, curtly.

"I want all this copied down by the time I get back," he grunted, heading out into the corridor.

Amelia gave Hermione the slightest of nods when Moody passed her. Hermione swallowed. She hadn't imagined it.

The whispering broke out almost as soon as the door shut.

"Something's definitely going on," said Ron, "Brown wouldn't disrupt a lesson for anything."

"Hermione, what's got into you?" Harry asked as she sprang to her feet.

She ignored him. Amelia would have had enough time to get Moody away from the door now. She locked the door, the entire class staring at her back. She sincerely hoped she was doing the right thing.

"That's a bit forward, Granger," Malfoy observed. She looked at him. He hadn't said a word to her since he'd come back from suspension. He was studying her now, and looked just as worried as she felt.

"Something's up," she said. "My cou- Professor Brown wants us locked in here, where it's safe."

"I told you something was up," said Ron. "They're all onto something!"

"When did she tell you?" Seamus asked, looking at her oddly. "I didn't see any teachers at breakfast."

"She – er – stopped me in the corridor," Hermione lied. "On the way down – said if anything called a teacher out of class to lock the door behind them…"

"It's not like they can't break in," said Ernie MacMillan.

"I wonder what's happening," said Lavender, tense and excited.

"Maybe Crouch has run off," said Harry, in an undertone to Ron.

"Look!" said Neville, getting to his feet. He pointed out of the windows, which faced a small courtyard with benches and a yew tree. Hermione followed his gaze. Mel and Moody were talking urgently, on the far side of the courtyard.

Her earlier conviction that Barty Crouch Jr was hiding in plain sight resurfaced. What if she'd been wrong about who he was masquerading as?

"Oh Mel," she hissed, hurrying to the window. "What are you doing?"

"Moody looks pretty grim," said Dean, peering out of the window.

The whole class were on their feet now. Some of them were even standing on the tables.

"I think Brown looks angrier," said Parvati.

"She looks the way you do, just before you hit someone," said Ron.

Hermione turned to find Malfoy standing behind her, watching the figures in the courtyard with obvious disquiet. She was still staring at him when several people screamed – she whipped her head around in time to see her cousin deflecting a nasty looking curse. It hit the yew tree, which caught on fire.

"What the hell?" Neville gasped.

"He just attacked her!" Justin cried, from somewhere nearby.

"He's trying to kill her!" Hannah Abott gasped.

"Look out!" Susan Bones yelled, and suddenly everyone was shouting.

The duellists on the lawn ignored them, intent on disabling one another.

Hermione yelped in fear as a jet of green light missed Amelia by millimetres.

"The Avada Kadavra…" someone said, astonished.

"He really is trying to kill her!"

"Hermione! Hermione, give me the key!" Harry shouted, from somewhere behind her. "We have to get help!"

"Bugger the key!" Ron shouted. "Just charm it open!"

An explosion rocked the classroom and everyone froze – the courtyard was shrouded in smoke now –

"Mel," Hermione breathed, fingers pressed painfully into her cheeks.

The smoke began to clear and Professor Moody took a few steps forward, looking horribly satisfied. On the ground in front of him, behind the shattered remains of one of the benches, was a prone figure.

Hermione felt like her heart had actually stopped beating.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Amelia pulled herself upright, her wand still trained on Moody. Her face was bloody and her robes were torn, but she stood defiantly in front of him, wearing an expression of such fury that Hermione was surprised that Moody hadn't caught fire purely from the force of it.

Forty silent students stood, shocked, as Moody threw back his head and laughed.

"You were a fool to think you could take me down, Miss Brown," he gloated, loud enough for the whole class, rapt as they were, to hear.

He raised his wand.