Chapter Two

After a slow, steady breath, Art knocked three times.

"Enter."

Opening the door to his father's study, Art stepped inside and closed it behind him, before walking over to his desk. With hands at his side, posture rigid, and expression blank, he waited.

His father looked him over, from shoelace to haircut, eyes harsh and measuring as ever.

Art bit his tongue to keep from fidgeting.

Briefly taking in his appearance, Art was silently pleased to find bags under his eyes, and precious few wrinkles in his otherwise immaculate work robes. Breathing deeply through his nose, he took in the distinct smell of fire whiskey. Someone had obviously been under a lot of stress.

Art found himself unsurprised, and completely lacking in sympathy.

It spoke to how out of sorts the man was that he looked away from Art first. He brought his fist up and cleared his throat, yet there was still a long silence before he attempted to say anything.

"As you asked… I have spoken at length with the board of governors, and the headmaster," he said, turning his gaze to the twilight outside his window. "It is done. All of the arrangements have been made."

Fantastic news. Art might have smiled, were he in better company. Alone would be best.

"Tomorrow morning, an associate of mine will arrive by floo. You will be escorted to Diagon Alley. To Ollivander's, where you will purchase a suitable wand and nothing else."

There it was. It was corny as hell, but his heart may have skipped a beat. More than he dared to hope for. Taking a second to collect his thoughts, he quietly asked, "My robes and supplies?"

His father's jaw tensed when he spoke out of turn, so used to being in control of everything, before he shook his head. "They have already been taken care of. Malkin already has your measurements, and your school supplies do not require your presence."

Looking back at Art, his father's scowl faltered. He opened his mouth slightly as if wanting to say something else. Something more. An explanation, an excuse, or even an apology. Even a lie would be worth partial credit. Anything. Art waited for him to say it.

Then the moment passed, and his brown eyes turned cold once more. It was a close thing, but Art kept his own expression schooled and impassive, as he once again embraced that total lack of shock.

"They were not happy with this, Artorius. You will be scrutinized. Your age will be held against you, as it should," he ground out, before pausing and unclenching his fist. "No matter. You are a Crouch, and you will not allow the years of instruction you've received to go to waste."

"Of course, father," Art drawled, in a rare moment of cheek, no doubt stemming from his good mood. "I can appreciate an opportunity. It must have been so very hard for you, breaking the rules like this for your family. You have my utmost gratitude."

The man stiffened.

"Leave me," he commanded, waving his hand in dismissal.

Reigning in the urge to push more of his buttons, Art left the room.

Their mutual animosity aside, his father was true to his word. The very next day he found himself walking down Diagon Alley alongside some nameless assistant, a rotund man with quite a lot of wrinkles and not a lot of hair.

Art hummed a quiet tune as they walked, his eyes darting around at the shops. Many times he had walked this way, being escorted to this wandwork instructor or that language tutor. Yet it was only now that he recognized all of the potential around him. All of it, that much closer to his reach.

The thought of it made him almost giddy.

Finally, they came to their destination, a lopsided building with crusted gold writing on the archway and ornate looking wands displayed in the window. Art pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The shelves and walls were lined with thousands of marked boxes. Many grouped together by color, though not all. Art could only begin to guess as to how they were organized. He drank all of it in, eyes gleaming in anticipation. One would be his to wield, and do totally rad stuff with.

A thin old man came lumbering from the back of the store, pushing white hair out of his face. This would be Ollivander, then. "What's this? Another student, so close to the start of term?" He frowned, quirking his head at Art. "Oh? Not late, then. Rather, it seems you're here early, Mr. Crouch. I trust there's a good reason."

Art blinked, taking a slight step back. "How do you know me?"

He chuckled lightly. "I've been selling wands since the days of your grandfather, Demetrius Crouch. You resemble him, but you're the spitting image of your mother."

Scowling, Art did not reply. He looked over at his escort and jerked his head.

"No cause for concern, good sir," the man said, chortling as he reached into his coat. "I have here a document from his father. Perfectly alright. Went through all the appropriate channels, or so I'm told."

"Indeed?" Ollivander took the offered letter, cracking the seal and swiftly inspecting the contents with a raised eyebrow. "Quite unorthodox."

Art paid the exchange no mind, eyes still roving the shelves.

Perhaps noticing his impatience, the man shrugged. "Not my place to question the 'appropriate channels', I suppose. Now then," he cleared his throat, drawing Art's attention back to him. "Which would be your wand arm, boy?"

"Left," he said at once, holding out his arm.

"Truly? Unlike either of your parents." The man wandered off, mumbling to himself as a tape measure floated around Art at varying lengths, finally snapping shut as he returned with one of the boxes. "Try this on for size. Hawthorn and unicorn hair, twelve inches. Your father had one like it, though his was slightly less-"

Art wasn't sure he had even touched it before the wand was yanked away. Ollivander hummed and walked to a different shelf, "Certainly not. Perhaps a good ebony and phoenix feather, eleven and a half inches. springy, but still-"

One of the shelves almost toppled before the wand was gently laid on a table beside the other. "Not good, not good at all," he said, smiling widely in spite of the damage to his store. Another shelf this time, before he returned with a glint in his eye. "Not like your brother either, I see."

He scowled once more, though the man didn't seem to notice.

"Perhaps a different approach. Pine and dragon heartstring, nine inches, a bit temperamental. Try it out, would you?"

Grabbing the offered wand, Art yelped as a shock ran down his arm and immediately dropped it. Ollivander caught it, quicker than Art could see, before setting it on the table while rubbing his chin.

"Not quite, and yet… Give this one here a go. Beech and dragon heartstring, ten and a quarter inches, very supple. Go on then, give it a wave."

Art narrowed his eyes at the wand. When it seemed like it wouldn't try to kill him or get taken from him right away, he reached out and grabbed it.

A torrent of cold flew up his arm, and into his chest. He shivered, but it felt good and right, in a way that only magic could. He tightened his grip to keep from dropping this one. Ignoring Ollivander's stupid smug face, he waved it around a bit. A burst of blue sparks sprang across the room. Art allowed himself a grin.

"I'll take it."

"As you say," he chuckled, walking over to the counter to box up the duds. "I rather expected it would take longer, given your age. Alas, seems that one was waiting for you. About time, I say. The old thing has been collecting dust for oh… Some twenty years now."

Art nodded, only half paying attention.

"That'll be seven galleons then."

This time he only briefly glanced at his escort. The man grumbled to himself as he paid Ollivander. "Right then, come along now young sir."

As they left the building Art looked back. "Thanks very much for this," he called, offering a short wave with his empty hand.

"You're quite welcome, Mr. Crouch. I trust you'll use it well."

Of that, he had no doubt.

Another day, another faceless ministry employee, Art mused. He spared his new babysitter a look. This time he was a she, and she was lithe and blond. No doubt she had lost a bet or something, as she looked rather put out at having to escort someone else's child to platform nine and three quarters.

Oh yes, the time had finally come. Off to Hogwarts and away from his father.

The latter by itself was cause enough for celebration. But both at once?

A truly wondrous day.

When the two came to the pillar between the two platforms, she impatiently gestured towards it. "Off you go then. Try not to freeze up like a ninny, else you're sure to end up in a heap."

Art rolled his eyes. "Right, why would that scare me?"

She snorted, then looked at her watch. "Better be quick about it."

"Someplace to be?"

"Not really, but you do. Trains gonna be off here soon."

"Ah," he trailed off, giving her a parting wave. "Thanks, I guess."

"Make no mention of it. Honestly, please don't."

With nothing else to say, he pushed his cart forward and ran at the doorway.

It was a doorway. That expectation was enough to get through with no issues.

"That was anticlimactic," he muttered, slowing down and turning into the magical station.

There were mostly just parents mulling about, Art being among the last to arrive. A bit awkward, but he pressed on. Navigating through the crowd of tall people towards the train, he had just about made it when he was accosted by a pale man with long blond hair. He carried a cane of all things, which he proceeded to prod Art's chest with.

"Good morning, Mr. Malfoy," Art said brightly, doing a short bow against the cane. "Dropping off Draco, I presume?"

"Indeed," the man responded, eyeing him up and down. "You're Crouch's youngest, correct? I believe you've crossed paths with Draco, once or twice."

Art suppressed a laugh. Once or twice, right.

"That's right! Artorius Crouch, sir, but people call me Art."

Lucius hummed, "Tell me, Artorius." Damn. "What got it into old Barty's head that you ought to attend Hogwarts this year? Your entry made quite the stir amongst the board members."

Oh, right. Lucius was on the board of governors. This conversation was starting to make a lot more sense. Just how many feathers had his father ruffled to pull this off? It couldn't have been that bad, could it?

Art's polite smile strained as the silence crept on.

"I don't pretend to know my great father's mind, sir."

"Yet you are somewhat young. Is he not concerned for your safety?"

At this point, his smile was almost gone entirely. Instead, he focused even more on not laughing. His father, concerned for his safety? Art's arm itched, and he fidgeted as he resisted the urge to scratch it.

"My father has faith in my abilities, sir," Art said, using his best customer service voice.

He raised a finely groomed, yet clearly unconvinced eyebrow. "Of course."

Yes, he definitely bought that.

Clearly the man was fishing for answers. Answers Art had no intention of giving. What a stroke of luck it was then, that the last call for the train sounded out, and saved him from having to be very rude.

Art tried not to look too relieved. "That'll be my cue, sir. Good morning!"

Eager to be rid of the man, he ran to the train and boarded.

With great effort and a silent curse or two, Art heaved his trunk into the train. Marching down the carriage, he was intent on finding an empty compartment. There was bound to be one around here somewhere.

"I knew we should have left earlier," he cursed. Almost an hour into the trip and he was still scouting for a room. Dropping his trunk, he massaged his back with care. Perhaps he was being the tiniest bit silly. Surely he was mature enough to stomach sitting around and socializing with a bunch of eleven-year-olds for the whole trip.

He laughed into his fist, which turned into a cough.

That was when a tall ginger boy marched up from another carriage. With a polished badge shining on his robes and an annoyed look on his face, he smelled like trouble.

"Haven't found a compartment yet, firstie?"

Art scratched at his neck. "Well… I mean I was just headed to the loo."

"You've got your trunk still," he said, crossing his arms.

Art looked around, before stepping closer and whispering, "I didn't trust those other kids, if you catch my meaning."

He didn't look impressed. "I can't have you dragging your luggage around to the loo and back. Leave the trunk in your compartment. If someone knicks your things, just tell me. I am a prefect, so you can rely on me to make it right."

"Fantastic, I'll just go and find a room then."

He frowned. "Hang on. I thought you were just coming from one."

"An empty one, I mean."

"There are no empty ones. Just get back to your old one already."

"But I don't have an old one."

The ginger prefect groaned. "You just said you didn't trust the kids in your compartment."

"No," Art said with a scoff, "I said I didn't trust those other kids. That's all."

"Which kids then?"

He shrugged. "All of them?"

The boy clenched his jaw and took a moment to calm himself.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, someone interrupted before Art could rile him up any further. A fellow first year, from her height. She had really, really big brown hair, and a determined look about her. But really, the hair. What was even the point of magic, if hair like that was allowed to exist?

"Excuse me," she said, and Art cringed away from the sound. Was his voice that high-pitched? Christ, he hoped not. "Have either of you seen a toad? A boy named Neville lost his."

"No toads here," he supplied, feeling rather helpful. "Have you seen an empty compartment? I've lost mine."

She narrowed her eyes at him, perhaps deciding if he was teasing, which he absolutely was not.

"Of course not, don't be daft."

Yeesh. Tough crowd.

"Don't worry, I'm a prefect, so I'll ask around for this toad," the ginger said as he straightened his tie, apparently miffed at being forgotten for ten seconds.

"I suppose that will have to do. Thank you." She nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait," the boy said, sounding far too excited for Art's comfort. "Do you have any room in your compartment? Room for just one more, maybe?"

The girl's face soured, glancing at Art critically before responding, "It is just Neville and I, right now."

Art took a few quick steps back, forcing a laugh. "I'm sure it's too much of a bother… I can just—"

"Enough already," he snapped, glaring at Art. "I'm a prefect. It's my job to patrol the train, and right now you dragging your luggage about is congesting the walkway."

Art groaned in defeat, "Fine…" He grabbed his trunk and turned to the girl. "Lead the way, I guess."

She frowned and walked back down the carriage, him lazily trailing behind.

"The nerve of that guy, am I right?" Art stage whispered, still in earshot of the ginger. "It's like he thinks he's a prefect or something."

"I heard that!"

Art snickered to himself.

"You shouldn't antagonize the prefects," the girl scolded.

"Bah." He waved her off. "What can he do, I'm not even in a house yet."

"It doesn't matter," she insisted, "he'll remember your face and be sure to take points away, or find some reason to give you detention, and what will your housemates think of you getting in trouble so early on? That's right, they'll be ever so annoyed, I know I would be if you were in my house." She wrinkled her nose at him. "Oh now I've gone and jinxed it, haven't I? If we do end up in the same house, you had better not turn into a troublemaker and lose us points. I plan on working hard, and you had best do the same. What's your name anyway? I'm Hermione Granger."

Art squinted at her, still trying to parse through her rant. Was she an important character or something? Was that why she had so much to say? Or was she just like this all the time? Her name sounded familiar. Pondering this, it took him a hot minute to realize which of her questions he was actually expected to answer.

"Art," he said, still very uncertain. "Art Crouch."

Her eyes lit up at his surname. "Really? You're part of the so-called 'sacred twenty-eight', then? Neville's one of them as well. There's a lot about those in Ancient and Noble Pureblood Dynasties, which I only half skimmed, as it all looked like rather dodgy information. Did you know your father was head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement during the war with You-Know-Who? I read that in—"

"Modern Magical History, yes." Art's gaze drifted to the ceiling. "I'm familiar."

"Right, of course you would be, I expect you know all about the magical world. I only just learned this past summer, since I'm a muggleborn you see. I was delighted to learn about it all. With so many fascinating new subjects out there, I've been awfully excited for the start of term."

She finally stopped talking for a second, opening the door to her compartment and taking a peek inside. "Here we are. You can drop your trunk off just in here. Seems Neville is still out looking."

"Looking for what?"

She tilted her head at him. "His toad, of course. That's what I was doing out and about in the first place."

With a slow nod, he hauled his trunk inside and collapsed into a seat, sighing in satisfaction. What a trial that had been, finding a suitable compartment. Now it was time to rest, relax, and watch the picturesque countryside fly by.

A loud coughing noise brought his attention back to Hermione, who was now tapping her foot with an air of impatience. "Yes?" he asked, with a growing sense of dread.

"Come along then, we ought to get a move on."

He scrunched his face up. "Do I have to?"

She crossed her arms. "Well no. I just thought you might want to help, instead of lazing around by yourself, no use to anyone."

Art did his best to sink even deeper into his seat. That was exactly what he wanted to do. Couldn't she see that? Couldn't she understand? But it was too late. By asking, she had turned this into a cursed situation. If he did refuse to help, they would come back and make the journey uncomfortable with glares and silent accusations. It would ruin the whole experience.

It was all just too great a risk to take.

He groaned and stood up, dragging his feet out of the compartment and falling into step beside Hermione. She didn't seem to properly appreciate the sacrifice he was making.

"Don't be so dramatic," she said, "it won't take long."

"Famous last words," he grumbled.

Thirty minutes of fruitless searching were quick to prove him right. He was even on his own again, after Hermione declared that they should split up to cover more ground.

Bored and annoyed, Art wrenched open yet another compartment door and stuck his head inside to glare at the two occupants, lounging around in comfort and eating loads of sweets. Bunch of spoiled tossers.

"Have either of you seen a toad, frog, or any sort of amphibious creature? Some boy whose name I can't be bothered to remember lost one, the prat."

The two boys flinched at his abrupt entrance, or maybe it was his attitude.

The gangly redhead was the first to collect himself, giving a frustrated groan. "Why's everyone gone barmy for this toad? You're the third person to ask after it. I swear that Hermione girl just left, and I thought she'd never leave."

"She did, did she?"

"It was actually about an hour ago," said the other one, a boy with glasses and an absolute mess of brown hair. Honestly, was magic just background dressing to these people?

"I told her to tell me where she'd already checked, but noooo." Art pounded his fist on the wall. "This could have been avoided."

"Calm down, mate. I'm sure it'll turn up soon enough," said the ginger, sharing a clueless shrug with his friend. "I'd check with my older brother. Stuck up git that he is, he takes his prefect job real serious like."

Art narrowed his eyes, remembering the other ginger he met earlier. "That was your brother? No way am I talking to him again. It's half his fault I'm even in this mess."

The boy laughed, "So you met Percy? Bad first impression of the family, that. Rest of us Weasley's aren't so bad. I'm Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley," he whispered the next bit, gesturing to his friend who just looked happy to be there. "And this here's Harry Potter, if you can believe it."

Art blinked somewhat owlishly, looking the boy up and down.

Harry waved at him, shrinking back a little under the scrutiny.

This was the protagonist? This little spit of a kid?

"So you're the one? That— uh, the guy-who-didn't-die?"

"Boy-who-lived, apparently," Harry said with a friendly grin, "I'm only just hearing about it all, myself."

"Weird," Art whispered to himself, "not sure what I was expecting, really. I'm Art, by the way," he added as an afterthought.

"What's weird, then?" Harry asked, sounding defensive.

"Oh, well I mean it's just typical, isn't it? The heroic hero of myth and legend being the little guy. Scrappy underdog type of situation."

"Little, am I?" Harry looked him up and down. "You're one to talk."

Ouch, he had spikes.

"Sorry about that, bad example," he said with an awkward shrug, "all I meant was you're different, then how I expected. That's on me. Gotta reexamine my personal biases, is all."

"Right…" Ron said, looking at his friend and back to Art with a frown. "Well, like I said Art, ain't no toad here. You might want to catch up with that other girl and… Regroup or somethin', I dunno."

Art knew an invitation to scram when he heard one. Cursing under his breath, he nodded and stepped out, closing the door behind him.

"That went well," he muttered, trudging off to find and complain at Hermione.

After thirty more minutes of completely different, yet equally fruitless searching, Art was starting to contemplate homicide. He had no idea where Hermione was, and no idea how to get back to their compartment. That was when a nervous, round-faced boy walked up to him, a question obviously on his lips.

"Right, me first," Art said, cutting him off. "Have you seen an annoying little girl with absolutely insane hair running around here? Or maybe a toad?"

The boy brightened immediately. "You lost yours as well? They c-can be so slippery. This girl I met, Hermione, she's been helping me ask around for mine, but we haven't had any luck."

Art's face darkened. "You… Is your name Neville?"

"That's right, Neville Longbottom. What's yo- ack!" The boy cried out as Art grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him close, almost nose to nose.

"The name's Crouch. Artorius Crouch," he snarled, enjoying how Neville's eyes widened, and how he paled in the face of such skillful intimidation. "Now you listen here, Longbottom. I've been walking around this bloody train for an hour, looking for your toad. I'm tired, hungry, and I've just about run out of patience. So when we find this toad of yours, if we find it, you'd best never let it out of your sight again. Or I will make sure you regret it. Are we clear?"

The boy's head nodded forward and stayed bowed.

He gave him a shake. "Longbottom, I said are we clear?"

Neville suddenly became a lot heavier.

"Longbottom? You feeling alright?" Art asked, grunting with effort as the boy went completely limp in his grip.

"Oh come on, don't faint on me!"

As gently as he could with his small size, Art laid Neville down on the floor. Kneeling down and lightly slapping his face a bit, he sighed, "Wake up Longbottom, it wasn't that bad."

Art frowned, scratching his cheek. Why had he reacted so strongly to a few classic scare tactics? He had never met this kid before, even if the name sounded familiar. Perhaps the boy was just easily startled?

But then, there was also the way he reacted when Art had introduced himself.

He was definitely missing something. Was it the name? It had to be. He was a pureblood, so maybe they had met before. Or their parents had. Art was sure he would have remembered meeting such a pansy, but maybe not.

"Longbottom? Longbottom. Long-bottom… Longbottom. Longbottom…"

Art paused, then slapped his forehead with a violent groan.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."