Warning: The end of this chapter contains mentions of domestic abuse.
Fawkes's melodious squeak greeted him at the doorstep. At first glance, there was no one else in the office. The door to the cabinet that held the Pensieve, however, had been left ajar, the silver substance within standing still. As Albus hurried over, he saw which memory had swallowed Harry and felt both exasperated and relieved.
The fears the boy had come to relay were not so grave as to have overwhelmed him, or he would not have explored the office with such carefree curiosity. The fact that he had landed in the Lestranges' hearing—the bleakest memory imaginable—demonstrated, on the other hand, Harry's life was all extremes, never the middle.
Albus lowered his face into the basin to find the teenager settled beside his past self, so absorbed in the unfolding events that he did not notice the headmaster's presence until spoken to.
"I think, Harry, it is time to return to my office. Come."
Daylight was streaming in through the open windows into the circular room. Up close, there was no denying Harry looked ill. In the absence of Quidditch practice, his features had lost their tan, acquired during the hours spent on his broomstick under an unforgiving winter sun, and now appeared even paler.
"Professor, I know I shouldn't've," the boy said nervously. "I didn't mean—the cabinet door was sort of open and—"
"I quite understand."
One of the surest ways to comfort children was to teach them. Harry, who had never received as much attention as he needed, absorbed knowledge hungrily, even if he did not realise it when comparing himself to an ambitious Miss Granger.
"What is it?" came a fascinated question, directed at the swirling memories.
The serious discussion could wait. A little learning would help the teenager feel at ease.
"This? It is called a Pensieve."
The old wizard started explaining. To better illustrate the concept of the tool he had created many years ago, he showed how to extract a memory, how to view it. To his gratification, an animated blush returned to the pale cheeks.
Since Albus's first years as a teacher, he would find himself growing sad at the thought of children deprived of education. So many could not receive a fraction of the care they needed or a single snippet of interesting knowledge. Both in the Muggle and wizarding worlds, there were starving young minds and doomed talents.
As if in echo to this regret, a memory rose from the Pensieve, revolving in the air: sixteen-year-old Bertha Jorkins. She might not have gained as many O.W.L.s as the most studious among her peers, but she too had been clever. She had hoped for a happy life.
"Bertha?" Harry leaned in, his tone full of wonder. "Is that—was that Bertha Jorkins?"
"Yes. That was Bertha as I remember her at school."
A prod of the Elder Wand, and the memory trickled back into the basin. Past could not be changed, but if one tried hard enough, present could be moulded into something better, more beautiful. Harry, at least, could be saved: he now had a father in Sirius, and his needs would not be neglected again.
The headmaster looked up, his voice quiet.
"So, Harry. Before you got lost in my thoughts, you wanted to tell me something."
"Yes," the boy said. "Professor, I was in Divination just now, and—er—I fell asleep."
Despite himself, Albus smiled, recalling Justice, who had attended Divination classes at Durmstrang. It had earned her multiple jokes from Giacomo, all to do with kipping.
"Quite understandable. Continue."
"Well, I had a dream. A dream about Lord Voldemort. He was torturing Wormtail… you know who Wormtail—"
All mirth dissipated on the spot. People were at their most vulnerable when they slept. And no matter what students thought of Sybill's classes, she kept her room pure of energies, conductive to trances.
"I do know. Please continue."
"Voldemort got a letter from an owl. He said something like, Wormtail's blunder had been repaired. He said someone was dead. Then he said, Wormtail wouldn't be fed to the snake—there was a snake beside his chair. He said, he said he'd be feeding me to it instead. Then he did the Cruciatus Curse on Wormtail—and my scar hurt. It woke me up, it hurt so badly." Harry blinked, then cleared his throat. "Er, that's all."
Wilfully, Albus maintained a blank expression, lest the chill that was spreading over his body become manifest.
"I see," he uttered. "I see. Now, has your scar hurt at any other time this year, excepting the time it woke you up over the summer?"
At the boy's enquiry, he admitted the truth of his correspondence with Sirius and was assured the pain had only come once before. Yet, far from assuaged and unable to stay seated any longer, he rose to pace.
It was not the news of a dead wizard, whom he knew to be Barty Crouch, that alarmed him so. Pettigrew's negligence was what had allowed Crouch to escape. It was not the Cruciatus Curse either, or the contemptible promise of feeding Harry to the snake. The dream itself was the most frightening part, for it had occurred while Harry had been surrounded by the castle's protective wards.
Harry did not know—could not know—a fragment of Tom Riddle's soul lived within him like a parasite. Thus far, it had lain dormant. Was it waking up now that its master was about to return? The idea of this Dark entity lying in wait to take over Harry when he was at his weakest was terrifying. At any moment, Voldemort could take notice of their mental connection. Nothing would stop him then from influencing Harry's judgment and even forcing him to walk into the kidnapper's arms.
Their search for the Death Eater had to be brought to fruition, and quickly; so little time was left. Frantically, the headmaster placed more memories of suspects into the Pensieve until Harry's timid Professor? cut through his panic.
The boy was watching him with anxious eyes. Sobering up at once, Albus lowered his wand. The last thing he wanted to do was cause more distress.
"My apologies."
As Harry waited for him to settle down, he drew a breath.
"D'you—d'you know why my scar's hurting me?"
The inflection of his voice was that of a child, yet the firmness beneath belonged to a young man who was not afraid of asking questions and confronting the truth. How could one lie to a little wizard who knew he was different and was required to grow up in no time?
Without pausing to reconsider, Albus focused on the attentive gaze. All it took was a wordless Legilimens.
A chair; a shapeless, rasping mass on the ground; pleas mixing with a hiss; a scream in the dark.
You are very fortunate indeed. Your blunder has not ruined everything. He is dead.
But another memory shadowed this one; having haunted Harry for days, it lay at the forefront of his mind. Two bloodshot eyes staring from a lined, bruised, scratched face—a face belonging to a madman, and as daunting as a ghost's.
Bertha… dead… all my fault… my son… my fault… tell Dumbledore… Harry Potter… the Dark Lord… stronger.
Conscious Harry was waiting for his response, Albus pulled back, arrested. He did not understand. He needed to watch the full memory, to hear every word Crouch had said before the Death Eater had murdered him.
"I have a theory, no more than that," he explained, his full attention on the boy now. "It is my belief that your scar hurts both when Lord Voldemort is near you, and when he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred."
A partial answer. Very soon, it would not be enough.
"But… why?" Harry pressed on.
One could tell he had been desperate for an enlightening discussion. All he wished was to have his questions answered—what had happened to him, what genre of magic plagued him, what his connection to Tom Riddle was, and how he could arrange this knowledge in his mind so as to live peacefully. Except this was one of the rare cases where the truth was more sinister than a lie.
"Because you and he are connected by the curse that failed. That is no ordinary scar."
The conclusion took the boy a split second to reach.
"So you think… that dream, did it really happen?"
"It is possible—I would say, probable."
To conceal how much he knew, Albus enquired about Voldemort's appearance, which distracted Harry from musing on the dead man's identity.
"Professor, do you think he's getting stronger?"
The green eyes were open wide, and the headmaster took his chance. As gently as he could, he dove anew into the teenager's thoughts. It was there, prominent among the other memories. He saw a tortured Crouch emerge from the forest and latch onto Harry, whom he had subconsciously recognised, though it was Percy's name he kept repeating. Tottering between lucidity and hallucination, Crouch had asked to see Dumbledore, his warning interspersed with pleas. All of it confused Albus, though now that he held the memory, he could peruse it at leisure.
"Once again, Harry, I can only give you my suspicions. The years of Voldemort's ascent to power were marked with disappearances."
He proceeded to speak of Bertha, Barty Crouch, and Frank Bryce, the unfortunate Muggle whose body had been found at the Riddle House. More partial answers, more half-truths, since those people were dead, not missing. But he had promised to Sirius he would not breathe a word about the murders. If Harry was to survive the tournament, he had to maintain his nerve and train, not ponder on the tragedies he could not help.
It worked, the boy's curiosity now darting towards a different subject.
"Er, could I ask you about… that court thing I was in… in the Pensieve?"
At Albus's assent, he carried on more gravely.
"You know… you know the trial you found me in? The one with Crouch's son? Well… were they talking about Neville's parents?"
The past was painful to remember and always would be. Frank Longbottom had been charismatic, funny, and capable of getting along with anyone, so that even his intimidating mother, the sternest among his teachers, or the most arrogant pure-bloods would struggle to antagonise him. Alice, his wife, had been caring and courageous—tireless in her pursuit of justice as an Auror, and never indifferent towards other people's plights. How old had they been when their lives had been destroyed? Seven, eight years older than Harry was now? They had barely reached adulthood.
"The Longbottoms were very popular," Albus confessed after confirming the boy's suspicion. "The attacks on them came after Voldemort's fall from power, just when everyone thought they were safe. Those attacks caused a wave of fury such as I have never known. The Ministry was under great pressure to catch those who had done it. Unfortunately, the Longbottoms' evidence was—given their condition—none too reliable."
Horrified, Harry took a moment to digest this revelation. His voice came out timid when he asked his last questions about Ludo Bagman and Severus Snape's involvement in the Death Eaters' activities. At the very last question, it gained force.
"What made you think he'd really stopped supporting Voldemort, professor?"
It was difficult to hold back a smile at the stubborn, sceptical spark in the boy's eyes. The truth was simple: Voldemort had vanished, and Slytherins always chose the most pragmatic course of action. Snape had needed Albus's protection as much as Albus had needed the Death Eater's information. Then, of course, there had been Lily. Her and James's demise had ruined Harry and Sirius's lives and changed many others.
None of this was fit for a child's ears.
"That, Harry, is a matter between Professor Snape and myself."
The teenager did not sulk when he took his leave. If anything, his features lit up at Albus's parting words.
"Please do not speak about Neville's parents to anybody else. He has the right to let people know when he is ready. And… good luck with the Third Task."
With a grateful nod, Harry was gone, leaving the headmaster to stand next to an overflowing Pensieve. There was room for one more memory.
Ready to watch the interaction between Crouch, Harry, and Viktor Krum in its entirety, Albus lowered his face into the basin once again. What interested him most was the Ministry official's admission of guilt.
"I've done… stupid… thing… Must… tell… Dumbledore…"
More hallucinations while the two boys attempted to agree on what to do.
"I… escaped… must warn…must tell… see Dumbledore… my fault… all my fault… Bertha… dead… all my fault… my son… my fault…"
What was the stupid thing in question? What was his fault? And why had Crouch's instincts driven him to seek out an enemy instead of a trusted friend?
Something was eluding Albus, and it was key to understanding the madman's words. The warning could not only concern Voldemort's return, the signs of which had been present for almost a year. Had this been Crouch's sole piece of news, he would not have spent days making his way to Scotland to inform Albus, who already knew.
Equally mystifying was his self-blame in regard to Bertha's death and his son's fate. In order for one to feel guilty, one had to possess a conscience. Crouch had condemned dozens of wizards to a lifetime in prison or the Dementor's Kiss, and not once had he conceded there was cruelty to his methods. He had not hesitated to convict his own son without a trial—for the hearing Harry had witnessed could hardly be called one. In spite of Ludo Bagman's sincerity, Crouch had been eager to throw him into Azkaban while agreeing to free Karkaroff, a notorious criminal, in exchange for intelligence. Guilt, innocence, none of it mattered to a man unfamiliar with the concepts of mercy and justice. And such a man was not apt to experience remorse. There were cases, perhaps, of people whose suffering had led them to comprehend the error of their ways and grow from it. But Crouch? Had he truly been reformed by Voldemort's torture? Try as he may, Albus did not believe it.
So what was this stupid thing and the fault he had spoken of?
Frowning, the headmaster thought of Crouch's son, young Barty. A quiet student, known only for his assiduity. During the graduation ceremony, he had stepped forward to collect the award for his twelve O.W.L.s in silence, neither happy nor proud of his success. Unless Albus was mistaken, he had never even heard the young man's voice before the latter's arrest.
With an impulsive flick of his hand, he spun around and walked from one memory into another—the one inside of which he had found Harry.
There was his younger self seated in the crowd, his eyes on the four Death Eaters at the centre of the dungeon. Stationing himself right by their chairs, the old wizard could appreciate for the first time how harrowing it felt to be staring up at the jury's faces and have no right to defence. The power Crouch had wielded during that period of time had been incompatible with justice; it had rendered individuals' rights non-existent.
More than to anyone else, Albus felt drawn to Mrs Crouch, whose grief resonated in his chest like a crippling spasm. She was choking on her sobs, the handkerchief in her pale hands drenched with tears. This was how people cried when they lost what made their life worth living. He would cry this way after his monthly visits to Nurmengard, where he would witness his lover's suffering. And yet, no one was paying the frail witch attention unless it was to soak in her distress, as though attending a morbid play.
"You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law," Crouch intoned in a voice swelling with hatred, "so that we may pass judgment on you for a crime so heinous that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court."
"Father," rose a febrile plea from one of the convicts' chairs. "Father…please…"
Albus had always wondered whether young Barty's fear had been genuine or whether he had merely happened to be a phenomenal actor. Standing two feet away from the teenager, he could now glimpse drops of sweat on the pasty cheeks, strained tendrils on the bound hands, a vein throbbing on an otherwise bloodless neck, shaking fingers. The boy was on the verge of fainting.
"We have heard the evidence against you. The four of you stand accused of capturing an Auror, Frank Longbottom, and subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your exiled master, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
This evidence had consisted of St. Mungo's Healers' combined reports, as well as Bellatrix's proud confession, in which she had implicated all three of her companions. Even now, with her straight posture and her triumphant aura, the witch was wordlessly defying the assembly. She spared the youngest Death Eater a glance of disdain, convinced this was all the reaction he deserved. As for the Lestrange brothers, they awaited the verdict with bated breaths, as if praying.
"You are further accused of using the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom's wife when he would not give you information," Crouch continued vehemently.
At this, his son's pleas turned to shrieks.
"Father, I didn't! I didn't, I swear it. Father, don't send me back to the Dementors—"
But something was amiss. Barty had not once looked at his father. He was calling to Mrs Crouch, who held his gaze.
"Mother!" he implored. "Mother, stop him. Mother, I didn't do it, it wasn't me!"
Fresh tears streamed down the witch's blotchy face; she whimpered incoherently into her handkerchief. Positioned close enough to sense the boy's magic—it was stricken, agitated, and churning with unmistakable terror—Albus felt certain subtle understanding united the mother and the son. He could see she believed young Barty and that her inability to save him devastated her.
Crouch's eyes flashed, his tone rising. "I now ask the jury to raise their hands if they believe, as I do, that these crimes deserve a life sentence in Azkaban."
The jury did. Even those who had once sided with the Blacks and the Lestranges—and they were more than a handful—knew better than to go against the majority and compromise their reputations.
Amidst the general applause, the Lestranges stood up. While her husband and brother-in-law appeared giddy with relief, Bellatrix radiated glee. She tossed back her dark mane of hair.
"The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch!" she declared. "Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us; he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried to find him!"
By her side, the two men flinched. I told you so, said Rabastan's glower, fixed on his brother. Rodolphus clenched his fists. Had he not been restrained, he would have clamped his hand over his wife's lips to quieten her. They were afraid her outburst might cause Crouch to reconsider and sentence them to the Dementor's Kiss instead. As it was, they were saved by young Barty's screams of despair.
"No! Mother, no! I didn't do it, I didn't do it, I didn't know! Don't send me there, don't let him!"
But Mrs Crouch could take no more. She was shaking in a manner that made Albus fear she might drop dead.
At last, and for the first time, Barty faced his father.
"I'm your son!" The emotion in his voice felt as raw as a stab wound. "I'm your son!"
"You are no son of mine!" Crouch screamed back. "I have no son!"
Albus backed away, his hands clammy with sweat. This was the man who, supposedly, regretted sentencing his son to a lifelong imprisonment and who claimed responsibility over Bertha Jorkins's murder? Never. A person of Crouch's disposition would sooner have regretted giving someone a chance to live when he could have killed them.
And as soon as this thought occurred, Albus's heart stood still.
I've done… stupid… thing… my son… my fault… tell Dumbledore… Harry Potter… the Dark Lord… stronger… Harry Potter…
Had Crouch released someone from Azkaban? Was he the reason the elusive Death Eater now roamed the school grounds, at liberty to kidnap Harry? Was this the warning he had been determined to pass along after escaping from captivity?
Fudge's words now echoed in the headmaster's stupefied mind: Rumour has it, poor Barty's late wife wasn't exactly sane towards the end—walking around naked in front of Muggles and whatnot.
Those blended with Ludo's pained confession.
One thing, I can tell you. Bertha was going to see Barty. I told her not to. Then, for a while, she was sick, and I didn't even notice. Then she started repeating what she had already said, what she had done. I tried asking Barty about it once. He acted like he couldn't remember.
In front of him, wizards and witches had gathered to revive an unconscious Mrs Crouch. No matter how strongly blood pounded in his temples, how unsteadily Albus's own knees supported him, he could not afford to collapse. Hyperventilating, he hurried out of the Pensieve and fumbled for the Elder Wand. He had to send his Patronus to Sirius; this could not wait.
Half an hour later, he marched inside the cave on Hogsmeade mountain, his broom loose in his hands. He still was shaking.
"I believe I know who the Death Eater is," he announced the instant he felt Sirius's magical aura approach. "But first, there is one detail I have to verify. Did Barty Crouch ever come to Azkaban during the first years after Voldemort's downfall?"
The young man's eyebrows rose. He put two and two together.
"Barty Crouch Jr?" Sarcasm tinged his dispassionate voice. "Then why not Evan Rosier? He has the same potential."
Albus brushed this away with a vague gesture of his hand.
"Not if Crouch came to visit him in Azkaban, carrying a flask of Polyjuice Potion. Not if he wasn't alone. The guards wouldn't have checked a wizard of his standing."
The grey eyes narrowed. "You are serious about it."
Sirius's frustration was palpable: he had patrolled the castle grounds for several nights in a row, all in vain.
"Yes," he admitted at last, "Barty Crouch Jr did receive a visit from his mummy and daddy—a lot more than Bella and I can boast—but it's still a stretch. Suppose they smuggled him out during that visit. Why would he have showed up only now? Where was he hiding all these years? Why didn't he find his master sooner?"
Having reflected upon it on his way to Hogsmeade, Albus spoke, staring absently into the cave's dark depths.
"Ludo and I have talked about Bertha Jorkins. Years ago, she went unannounced to Barty Crouch's house to discuss work. When she returned, she was not the same—her memory appeared to have been damaged. I believe he had Obliviated her, aggressively so." He exhaled. "Barty Crouch was a tyrant—maybe even an abuser. I wouldn't be surprised to learn he had been hiding his son by force."
"Hmm." This time, Sirius did not dismiss the idea. "I might be wrong, but… Cousin Meda mentioned something like this during an outing. There were rumours in the Ministry. I've never met Crouch Jr. Did you know him? You must have memories of him."
"He was brilliant at everything, and very shy." A familiar wave of shame was coursing through Albus. If all of this was true, he had failed yet another child. "My only revealing memory comes from his hearing. He was begging for mercy, claiming he had held no part in the Lestrange's crime. He said he hadn't known. In addition, he avoided looking at Crouch, appealing instead to his mother for help. The more I think of it, the more firmly I believe he wasn't lying. Maybe—and this is nothing but a theory—he had joined Voldemort without understanding the consequences."
The young wizard shrugged.
"Wouldn't put it past Cousin Bella to bully the newbies into proving themselves. She would have been particularly sadistic to the son of an Auror. But fine, suppose you are right: he was an idiot who didn't know what Cousin Bella and her charming new family were like. He was imprisoned, then smuggled out. Do you really think Crouch had it in him to continue keeping him captive? Why free him at all? His family had already suffered shame, and there was no going back. Same as for my family."
"I'm not sure." While this was true, the headmaster had his suspicions, and they all had to do with Fudge's offhand remark. "I'm yet to find out what happened in that household. There is something else, though. I have seen Severus's memory: he reached the Forbidden Forest in time to catch a glimpse of the murderer. It was a young man, silhouetted against the green light. His wand hand was shaking. He escaped by seconds after realising he had been spotted."
This was met with a smirk. "And how do you know Snivellus didn't conveniently find some mud to rub himself into instead of giving chase? You know I don't trust him."
"I know. But he is not in cahoots with the perpetrator." Closing his eyes, Albus sighed. "What I don't understand is the Death Eater's skill in remaining undetected. How many times must he have transformed by now? Into how many people? Yet no one has noticed anything unusual. I know my teachers' auras."
"He might have the same kind of aura," Sirius pointed out before straightening up, full of purpose. "All right, it seems plausible. Frankly, at this point, we are out of possible candidates anyway. It even adds up. Father held him hostage; the only witness was promptly rendered harmless with mind magic; and then, sometime later, people started disappearing, including this unwanted witness and Crouch himself. It wasn't without Voldemort's help, I imagine. Let's assume that last summer, sometime before the start of the school year, Barty Crouch Jr was reunited with his beloved master. What now? How do we stop him? If you are correct, if Crouch Sr was as bad as the rumours portray him, Voldemort must have painted himself as a hero for the son. His loyalty will be unwavering. I mean, to come and go like this, to transform into different people…" He looked up sharply. "Was he close to anyone as a student? What House was he in anyway—that of the unimaginative bookworms? If so, ask Flitwick—he is bound to remember something useful. If you're right, we must apprehend and neutralise him before he succeeds in kidnapping Harry. I'm sure Harry must have already foiled many such attempts."
As ever, his conclusion was rational. It did not, however, dissolve the anxious knot in Albus's chest. Since the tournament had begun, there had been countless opportunities for planning an abduction. Even with luck on his side, as well as the protection Albus had surrounded him with, the boy had not been attacked. This long period of waiting… it could imply a trap. What if Voldemort and Barty had prepared a scheme and saw no need to ambush Harry beforehand? This silence was more sinister than a number of spontaneous attempts at kidnapping the boy.
"He was in Ravenclaw." Albus's throat had gone dry. "But we have an even better-informed witness: the house-elf Barty Crouch sacked last summer. She is at Hogwarts."
At this, Sirius's eyes glinted, and his magic flared. He took a step forward.
"His house-elf is at Hogwarts?! That's our chance then. Rip that creature's mind to shreds if you must but find out everything you can. If your theory is true, that elf will know."
A piece of advice worthy of a Dark wizard. Albus's proposition to question Winky together with Sirius died on his lips. By all means, the interrogation of a defenceless magical creature was unethical; he understood it perfectly well as he flew back to the castle, wind whooshing in his ears. When children's lives were in danger, though, ethics flew out of the window. It still was no reason to torture a house-elf to insanity.
Dinner was at an end, and the first students were leaving the Great Hall. Despite his intention to head straight for the kitchens, Albus paused at the sight of Filius Flitwick, who had walked out behind Septima and Charity. The hesitation did not last long.
Glancing up at the approaching headmaster, the Charms teacher smiled.
"Albus, good evening! Still working at this hour?"
"Good evening, Filius. There is, indeed, something important that can't be postponed." Albus gestured towards the first floor, where empty classrooms could be found. "My apologies for seeking you out at such an hour. Can we have a quick word over there?"
Prepared to joke the matter off, Filius took a closer look at the old wizard's face and sobered up.
"Yes, yes, let's go."
Once inside a room, Albus locked the door, not omitting to apply the Soundproof Charm. Speaking to Professor Flitwick was safe: given his goblin heritage, his identity could not be stolen with the Polyjuice Potion.
"Filius, do you remember Barty Crouch Jr?"
"Barty Crouch Jr?" Flitwick said slowly. "The son of Bartemius Crouch? He was in my House. I remember."
Albus drew a steadying breath; he could feel himself sweating with unease. "What was he like?"
If the Charms teacher found the question bizarre, he did not show it. He merely frowned.
"Quiet. Many of mine are. If I'm honest, Albus, Severus's students aren't the only ones who engage in bullying. It's a little delicate. I trust all of my students to be reasonable. I encourage dialogue, and most of them come to me. Young Barty—how do I put it—I always had a feeling there was bullying involved, but the boy was… quiet. He never disclosed anything, nor did I find any evidence of bullying by my other students. And believe me, given my own history, I take it very seriously. In retrospect, when the news of his arrest came out, I wasn't surprised. Bullied children will seek out the company of bullies more often than you'd think."
The headmaster's heart sank.
"I also have a reason to believe there was bullying involved," he admitted. "But it wasn't at school. At home."
Filius nodded gravely.
"It was one of my theories back in the day. That boy never accepted praise. Yet praise—the sense of being rewarded—is of paramount importance for a child. Even more so in my House, where they all compete for the best results. Barty, on the other hand, took it as a must—as if there could be no other way. I believe Muggles have long since come up with a name for such behaviour. In fact, one instance comes to mind. You know how, once every quarter, we send out owls to the parents? I met Mrs Crouch several times, and I made sure to inform her about Barty's outstanding results in every subject. She thanked me modestly, and that was that. It was… a little unsettling, to tell the truth. I remember her speaking in a low voice, assuring me Barty was a good boy. I found it peculiar. And as to Mr Crouch, he demanded regular reports on Barty's performance, yet he never showed up at meetings. Very odd indeed."
All of this made sense, and it was disturbing to hear. More likely than not, young Barty had not been alone in suffering abuse from his father.
"Thank you, Filius. Is there anything else you can recall about him? Anything that made him stand out? Any penchants?"
Sorrowfully, Flitwick shook his head.
"I never got through to that child. Lady Helena will sometimes converse with the lonely students, but she didn't befriend Barty. There is only so much we can do if the students don't seek our help."
If this was the case, Albus wondered, was it possible to save someone years later?
"Thank you. I'm sorry I can't yet explain what this is about, Filius. Soon, everything will become clear."
Upon wishing each other a good evening, they walked off in opposite directions. It was not that this Ravenclaw approach was unsensible, the headmaster thought. One could not force help on someone who rejected it. The trouble was, many people in difficult situations could not see a way out. Many more were too frightened to ask for assistance. How could one expect a child to denounce a despotic father? No, it had been up to the Hogwarts staff to heed the signs and intervene.
The house-elves were clearing the remaining dishes from the Great Hall. With a greeting and a request that they not inconvenience themselves, Albus cast about for colourful clothes.
"I'm looking for Dobby and Winky."
Lompy's ears stood to attention.
"Is headmaster here to sack Dobby and Winky, sir?" he asked hopefully.
There was a small whimper by a stack of dishes, which were being scrubbed with an enchanted brush, and they saw a trembling Dobby turn around and bow.
"Please don't sack Dobby, Professor Dumbledore, sir." His voice had risen with fear. "Dobby will work double shifts, sir. Triple shifts!"
"I'm not about to sack you, Dobby," Albus hastened to assure him. "Worry not. I was only going to ask for your help."
Pretending not to notice Lompy's disappointment, he stepped towards the fireplace, where Winky was swaying on her stool, her round brown eyes half-closed. A soft hiccup escaped her. Her outfit, which had once been blue, now amounted to little more than stained rags. It was a heartrending sight that made Albus's plan of action seem all the more unscrupulous. He had no choice.
"Winky." He lowered himself to meet her dazed eyes. "Hello, Winky. May I please talk to you? It's very important. Your help will allow me to save a student."
Her long ears did not twitch. With another hiccup, she glanced past him with unfocused eyes, her eyelids heavy.
"The headmaster is asking you questions, Winky!" came Lompy's sharp reprimand.
Dobby hurried over. "Dobby will help, Professor Dumbledore, sir! Dobby will answer questions."
Not without a pang of shame, Albus made up his mind. He asked Dobby and Winky to his office. Once they joined him upstairs and were seated in chairs, it was time to resort to Legilimency.
House-elves were powerful creatures. Once upon a time, Dark wizards had found a way of turning the elves' magic against them, thus laying grounds for their enslavement. As Winky was no longer tethered to a master, her magic was unrestrained. She was certain to resist.
Gently, though without a warning, the headmaster slipped into her mind, never looking away from her immense eyes. Those first seconds were key: gleaning as much as possible before she realised what was happening. He saw a boy in her memories—a young boy she loved dearly. Flashes of this pale, blond boy studying in his room. Memories of him being beaten. Belts, enchanted to leave no trace on the skin, were whipped out at every transgression, no matter how insignificant: any mark lower than Outstanding, an answer deemed too cheeky, an instance of reading a book instead of studying.
Plaintive wailing filled the office. Albus felt the change at once despite the protective spell he had cast before this mental intrusion: a wall of magic was pushing against him like the deep waters of an ocean, striving to propel him away. Disoriented as Winky was, she was trying to erect a shield around her. He did not break their eye contact.
The young boy kept studying. There were moments of peace when Crouch was at work; at such times, the mother, the son, and the house-elf could breathe more freely. But he would always return, and any suggestion of rewarding the boy for his hard work would be silenced. It was Barty's duty to be perfect; no embarrassment would be tolerated. Sometimes, Mrs Crouch would be beaten as well if she opposed her son's punishment too wilfully. More often, Winky would be given the order to injure herself.
It was becoming strenuous to resist the crushing pressure of magic. Without his protective Charm, conjured by the Elder Wand, Albus's body would have been squashed. Still, he had no intention of using offensive magic against the elf. It was Dobby who jumped to the rescue, talking loudly over Winky's cries.
"Winky mustn't! What is you doing? Winky mustn't be bad like Dobby; you is getting us in trouble! Winky must help Professor Dumbledore."
His chatter had for result to distract the other elf and deflect her focus. Holding his ground, Albus delved into new memories.
The boy had grown into a clever yet timid young man, only to be arrested. As always, Mrs Crouch's tears and pleas had no effect on her husband's demeanour. The hearing took place, and the household lost its child. But it also meant Mrs Crouch had nothing left to lose. This was when the atmosphere in the neat London house changed. For the first time, the witch fought back with all the fierceness she could muster.
At first, it was self-harm. After her slashed wrists were healed, she resorted to a curse, wounding herself so grievously that wizards from St. Mungo's had to be called. She destroyed Crouch's paperwork. Again and again, she would venture out naked. On one occasion, she removed the enchantments from the belts and provoked her husband into beating her so that the bruises would show. Nude under a simple cloak, she set off to the Ministry to reveal the truth to the employees. When she was not attacking, she would demand a chance to swap places with her son. At long last, Crouch caved in.
Winky's wailing stopped. While Dobby was still reasoning with her, the sounds he now made were a blend of human speech and squeaking, such as a rodent might emit. It was the house-elves' own language, which some of their kind spoke poorly or not at all, though many maintained its use. Hearing it uttered here had taken her aback.
One memory clung heavily to Winky's heart. Before leaving for Azkaban, Mrs Crouch had asked her to be the mother to Barty that she herself had never been. In her tormented state, she likely did not comprehend the burden she had assigned to her servant and which the latter accepted without question. For years to come, the elf would protect frail Barty to the best of her skill. Until, that was, she was presented with clothes.
The eye contact broke; the hostile magic vanished. Winky had slid onto the floor, and the only sound, besides Dobby's comforting words, was her sobbing. Sickened to his core, Albus wiped at his eyes. He knew he had just forced Winky to relive her most traumatic memories and to realise yet again how powerless she had been. It was not out of devotion for Mr Crouch that she had been grieving and drinking for months on end. She was terrified for Barty, whom she still believed to be at home with no one to shield him from his monster of a father.
There could be no question of sending her back to the kitchens. It was the Healers' care she needed: attention and support and help. Dobby could keep her company among the unfamiliar wizards if he consented. And as for young Barty Crouch…
Both Sirius and Severus believed the Death Eater to have escaped after performing the Killing Curse. Albus disagreed. He felt convinced Barty was still at Hogwarts—closer perhaps than any of them imagined—hiding or disguised. It was crucial that they find him. And if there was the slightest possibility of saving him, the headmaster was going to do it, no matter what anyone said.
For seven years, they could have interfered. They had failed that boy so miserably, no words could truly express it. It had been only natural for the young wizard to offer his loyalty to the first person who had shown him kindness, who had presented a charming façade, and who, most significantly, had wielded a greater power than his abuser. Voldemort was that person. At present, young Barty was being taken advantage of by another monster. But the fact that his hand had trembled upon casting the Killing Curse could mean he was not lost. If this was true, both Harry and Barty had to be saved.