A/N:
this is Jerry.
And this is ZONKO
well, ZONKO and I just wanted to let you know, thank you so
much for reviews! We really are excited to be getting so many in just one
weekend! Now, mind you, I have been paying back all you signed in ppl by
reviewing one or two of your stories, and I must say, they are all really
good.
Same here, though I haven't gotten to all of them yet. Thanks
for the awesome response! Dumbledore is so much fun to write, and it's a bonus
when people like to read it =)
"You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law so
that we may pass judgement on you, for a crime so heinous that we have rarely
heard the like of it within this court."
~Bartemius Crouch, Sr.
Dumbledore snapped back into reality when he realized Mrs.
Longbottom was speaking.
"What? What was that, Merriweather? You'll have to pardon me, I
didn't have my cocoa this morning."
Merriweather nodded and said, "I was just asking, Albus, whether
you were finished with your string. I saw you from outside, and thought you
might like to accompany us. We're on our way to St. Mungo's."
From behind the counter, Maggie the Muggle scoffed. Not only
would the customer not be paying, she'd be stealing her other
customer.
But, Dumbledore noticed nothing. He was too full of emotion,
listening to Merriweather.
"Are you sure?" he said softly.
Mrs. Longbottom looked back at Dumbledore. She gave him a look
of pity, longing, and sadness, one that Neville didn't pick up, but she nodded
firmly.
"Yes," she said, covering the look immediately, "We'd be glad
for your company."
Dumbledore looked thoughtful for a moment, remembering
again...but he shook it off. That could wait.
He nodded at the two, and then sat down on a chair to remove his
bowling shoes, saying, "Yes, I think I will come. It's the least I can do..."
Mrs. Longbottom looked to where Neville had been, but he was a
few yards away, watching in awe as a little girl got a soda from the machine.
She looked back at Dumbledore as he put his shoes on the counter.
Merriweather didn't seem to notice Dumbledore's guilt, or if she
did, she pretended not to notice. But Dumbledore still looked
uncomfortable.
He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from foot to foot.
"Well," he said, "Let's go then."
He took Merriweather's arm, and she pulled Neville along beside
her, out of the small alley leaving Maggie behind to shake her head.
They emerged out to the London streets, walking down long Muggle
sidewalks. They were a strange group, with Merriweather's vulture hat and
Dumbledore's Hawaiian shirt, but it was a Monday morning, and Muggles had places
to go, so they hardly paid attention to the wizard folk.
Dumbledore led the group down the dingy street, and stopped in
front of a place familiar to almost all Wizards in the area. The Leaky Cauldron.
The bottom floor was dug in below street level, and the front door was reached
by descending a few stairs. The trio went into the dimly lit pub and straight
over to the bar where the owner greeted them.
"Albus, so nice to see you!" Tom greeted Dumbledore from the
bar. "How can I help you? Will it be the usual?"
Dumbledore looked to Merriweather as though to ask if one drink
would hurt, but she had that businesslike way about her.
"I'm afraid not, Tom," he said. "We only came so we could make
use of your fireplace."
Dumbledore looked slightly put out, but then the look of guilt
returned, and he headed straight to the fireplace. He took a pinch of the
shimmering blue dust from the jar on the mantel, and threw it in, making the
flames spring to life in a flash of green. He stepped in and the flames danced
around him as he said, "St. Mungo's please." He had found many years ago, in an
experiment, that if one asked politely the spirit that operated the Floo powder
network, whatever it was, would be much more gentle with the user.
They emerged from a giant fireplace that was clean as a sterile
hallway. Dumbledore had no trouble brushing off any ashes whatsoever as he
helped Neville and his grandmother out of the fireplace.
They were in a clean white room with clean white walls...in
fact, everything about the room was clean. White, white, white, it was all
dazzlingly white. Even Dumbledore blanched as he thought of what was to come.
And what there was to be...
*
An Albus Dumbledore with a slightly shorter beard than the one
standing in the hall of St. Mungo's came out of the main fireplace in the
Ministry of Magic headquarters. His midnight blue starred robes whoosed behind
him as he hurried towards the Auror Department to find Moody.
But apparently, Moody was already waiting for him.
"Albus!" Moody pranced on his friend. "We have a crisis here!
It's not just the Crouch thing, but if word gets out there...Sirius Black has
been spotted. Near the London area. We already have Aurors on the job, I'm going
down there in a few minutes, but I fear he may do something rather rash, for all
former Death Eaters are acting out of the ordinary. We still don't know whom to
trust or what to believe..." Moody trailed off. Dumbledore could only nod,
understanding.
"Anyway. I'll be back in a few hours...please do me a favor and
take a look at the paperwork on my desk, okay?"
Dumbledore just nodded again, still hardly believing Sirius had
been the traitor. As Moody went out the door, closing it behind him Dumbledore
shook his head, clearing it of all but business-like thoughts. He opened the
folder on Alastor's desk, and started flipping through pages.
Dumbledore frowned as he read over the pages. He looked at a
recent newspaper clipping. There was a list of suspected Death Eaters, and the
name Bartemus Crouch, Jr. was highlighted near the top. Though not one of his
favorite people, Barty Crouch, Sr. was the last person Dumbledore would expect
to be involved in this type of thing. Even if he was a stick in the mud, and old
before his time, whereas Dumbledore was young long after his time, Crouch was an
outstanding personality of the wizarding community. His son, on the other hand,
was more the bratty upper-class son, loafing off of his family estate.
Dumbledore was suprised Barty hadn't put his foot down before, but then his wife
was excessively attached to the boy, so it was understandable.
He poured over the reports, the data, and all the papers on
Moody's desk and found he couldn't concentrate. Thoughts of his brother, Sirius,
Lily, James, the image of a young baby with a deep cut across his
face...Dumbledore found he had too many thoughts in his head, and none were
organized.
He sighed, wishing for a way to get his thoughts straight...
he'd have to think about something to help him with that when things settled
down.
Dumbledore sighed again. He knew it was no use trying to
concentrate when his mind was all befuddled like this, so he sat back in the
chair and started chanting, "Deep cleansing breaths, deep cleansing breaths..."
to try and calm the storm raging in his head. Then the door to Moody's office
opened.
"What are you doing, Albus?" a voice from behind
asked.
Dumbledore kept talking to himself, lost in his chant. The
Minister for Magic smiled wryly, though it was too dark a time to truly smile.
Well, geniuses are supposed to be a little off, now aren't
they? he thought as he stepped over to the desk and tapped Dumbledore on the
shoulder.
"Excuse me Albus, I don't mean to interrupt, but Alastor told me
you were here, and I thought I'd come and ask your opinion on a few
things."
Dumbledore looked up from what he was doing.
"Oh, of course, Minister," he said.
Hoarie Rochester smiled at Dumbledore. There were great black
circles under the Minister's eyes, but he didn't seem at all tired. He was a
great man, an old man, but nonetheless great. He had hair whiter than
Dumbledore's, long, thin, and tangled in his beard. He had what at first looked
like a permanent frown upon his old face, but it became a gummy smile, from time
to time. Hoarie rarely spoke, and when he did, it was important. He had been
Minister for Magic for over 25 years and in the Ministry for nearly 50. His work
was diligent, not to mention endless, and even at his age he still worked just
as hard as he did when he was fresh out of Hogwarts, from long ago.
Rochester took a seat in the chair facing Moody's desk, sighed
and then began speaking.
"Well, as you know, Barty Crouch's son is accused of being in
league with the followers of the Dark Lord. Now, I don't know too much about the
son, but if he is anything like Barty, I'd be willing to bet he was under
the influence of the Imperious Curse. But of course, I don't want to jump to ant
rash conclusions. What do you think, Albus?" He asked. Even the Minister of
Magic greatly respected Dumbledore's opinion.
Dumbledore mewled over what Rochester said to him.
"It certainly would explain a lot," he said. "The reports, the
photos, the evidence...it all points the wrong way. I don't know. I do agree
with the American system, innocent until proven guilty."
Rochester nodded, understanding.
"Mr Rochester?" a secretary's voice interrupted. She was young,
blonde, beautiful, in fact, but she looked pallid and downright scared about
something.
"What is it Ms. Shackleton?" Rochester asked, getting up from
his chair so he could face her.
"Sir, we've just received news. Sirius Black has been found-"
She was going to continue, but Rochester cut her off.
"Good. Have they brought him to Azkaban yet?" The secretary
nodded grimly, "Yes Minister, but there's more. It wasn't the Aurors who found
him first. Peter Pettigrew got to him, in the middle of a street in Muggle
London. He confronted Black, yelling about betraying the Potters, and Black blew
up the entire street."
Rochester stood up. So did Dumbledore.
"Was anyone hurt?" Dumbledore asked quietly.
The secretary looked at her feet, then up at the two men.
"Twelve Muggles were injured, two killed, and they think Pettigrew was killed
too... they haven't found him yet, but..." her voice quavered a bit, "they think
he was blown up."
The three people in the room allowed a moment of silence for the
poor victims. Dumbledore gave a low sigh. He just couldn't believe Sirius was
capable of such a thing...he just couldn't...and yet, all the evidence was at
hand. Sirius had to be the culprit; of course James had to make him the Secret
Keeper, against Dumbledore's will. Foolish of James, really, to trust someone so
close to him when they knew it was one of James's close friends. But this
tragedy was a new, terrible kind of low.
Rochester looked over to Dumbledore. "I had better go, there'll
be paperwork, and I'm sure the newspaper will want a statement, and of course
something must be thought of to explain this to the Muggles..." he said, and
started towards the door. He paused. "Innocent until proven guilty then? I
suppose you're right... there is no evidence that Crouch was acting of his own
free will... but you don't think –" Dumbledore cut him off.
"He is innocent," Dumbledore said peremptorily, "until proven
guilty."
Dumbledore knew there was a chance Crouch was guilty, but it was
a slim one, and he didn't need another thing to worry about, what with the
Potter's death, and Aberforth, well... being Aberforth.
And Sirius...why? What did he do? Something told him there was
something fishy going on there, but then again, Sirius was the Secret Keeper
too. He was.
*
Barty Crouch Jr. wound his way through the underground maze,
glancing at his map every so often to be sure he was still headed towards the
dot labeled "Wormtail" that was waiting for him at the end of one of these dank,
dark tunnels. He turned the last corner, and found what he was looking for. A
small, sniveling, poor excuse for a rat was crouched in a shadowy corner of the
tunnel. Crouch knew it was him from the map, or else he never would have guessed
that creature was indeed an Animagi.
"Pettigrew," Crouch barked. "Pettigrew, show
yourself!"
Rats scurried from hiding places at the sound of his voice, but
none stopped to reveal themselves as they ran for a quiet spot. Crouch peered
into the shadows, annoyed at Pettigrew's cowardice.
"Do I really need to say the code line, Wormtail? Who else would
come looking for you in this slime pit?"
When there was still no answer, Crouch sighed and said
grudgingly, "The toucan flies at noon." There was a faint pop from somewhere in
the shadows, and a short, pudgy man came out tentatively.
"And he roasts at midnight," a shaky voice answered.
Crouch sighed when he saw a man, covered in dust, grey from head
to toe, approach Crouch. He was fat, pimply, half-starved, tear-strained, and
covered in goosebumps, but he was undoubtedly Peter Pettigrew.
"I killed them," he said. "I killed the whole lot. I killed
Sirius...I killed all those Muggles...they are screaming in my mind, the souls
are crying out to me...oh, God, Barty..."
Crouch grinned. "Gives you a kind of high, doesn't it?" he
asked. "Master will be proud..."
Pettigrew looked at Crouch. "You don't expect him to come back
after what Harry did last night, do you?"
Crouch stared at the pathetic little man. "The master will be
back." He told him, "And I will be right there beside him. Many of his so-called
supporters are already denying him. Fools."
Pettigrew smiled at Crouch's courage, but he was still shaking.
"I still can't believe I killed all those people," he said.
"You were a true Death Eater, for once. But I did not come here
to talk. Come with me," he told Pettigrew, and started walking as the other man
got up.
Crouch led Pettigrew down, away from the explosion site, and
further down until they reached the last of the sewer. Crouch told Pettigrew to
change back into his rat form and then picked him up and placed him on his
shoulder.
As he reached the ladder that led to the manhole cover he
planned on using, Barty took out his wand and transfigured his clothes. He
obviously couldn't just come popping out into the middle of Diagon Alley from
the sewer; he had a reputation, and he needed that reputation for his cover. No
one would suspect a respectable Crouch to be in league with Voldemort, but if he
were seen popping up out of sewers, people would obviously get suspicious. He
transfigured his suit into something he'd seen Muggle workmen wear, and climbed
out into the Muggle street, Wormtail still hidden in his pocket.
Crouch sighed – he had a long walk ahead of him. It wouldn't be
so bad; he planned on walking about three miles, to St. Mungo's to use their
fireplace to the Floo network, and then they'd go to Diagon Alley, where he
would sell Pettigrew the Rat to a petstore down the way.
He reached St. Mungo's as the sun was setting, and trudged
tiredly up the pristine white marble stairs. As he walked, he noticed people
looking at him curiously, and wondered detachedly if he had forgotten to
transfigure a pantleg back or something.
"Yes? May I help you?" asked a beautiful young face behind a
front desk.
"I just wanted to use your Floo network, if you don't mind,"
Crouch said in his manipulative, kind voice.
The girl nodded and pointed to the fireplace in the corner. He
thanked her, and moved to take the bowl from the mantel. He took a handful of
the blue powder, threw it in and stepped into the flames. There was a breeze in
the fire like a warm summer wind as he said, "Diagon Alley." in a cold
voice.
Crouch hated Floo Powder; it always banged him around and made
him feel motion sick. Again he had that feeling as he hit his funny bone on the
side of a metal pipe and then nearly got knocked unconscious when something
whooshing around knocked his head. But, luckily the trip was quick, and he
managed to actually land in the right fireplace, which was a first for a long
time.
He stepped out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron, pasting
his faux polite smile on once again. He quickly walked out of the pub, wanting
to get rid of Wormtail and get some rest after his long walk. But that didn't
happen. As Barty walked across the street, uninformed that there was a warrant
out for his arrest, two men in black cloaks came up and grabbed him from
behind.
Crouch reached for his pocket, for he only had to do the task
set before him by his master...but unfortunately for him, Wormtail wriggled
free, and Crouch watched the rat run all the way out the Alley and to a young
woman pushing a stroller.
"What's this?" asked a little boy, picking up
Wormtail.
The little boy stared at the rat in his hands for a moment.
"Scabbers. His name is Scabbers."
His mother looked down at the rat and made a face. "Can't you
think of a nice name for the rat? How about Harold? Isn't that better?"
The boy scowled at his mother.
"NO! Scabbers!" he yelled, clutching the rat to him.
But, Crouch couldn't watch anymore, for he was Stupefied just
then, and he remembered no more.