A/N: I'd like to thank Draconic Ragnorock a thousand times over
for being my first (and so far *only*) reviewer.
Disclaimer: I own only Michael Shipman, Jacob Dias, and Paul Aries. All other characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
Chapter 3: Eavesdropping and a Visit from Bertha Jorkins
Barty Crouch Sr. was late to the office two days in a row over the next few weeks, nothing short of a record for him, but not one he was at all proud of. He was a creature of habit, and any change in his bland daily schedule was enough to make him noticeably uptight.
Hurrying down one of the Ministry Building's narrow hallways toward his office, Barty tried desperately to come up with a quick alibi to get him past Bertha Jorkins, who worked in the office across from his, and always seemed to know when anyone was late or gone from work. She had been known to plant herself outside of a co-worker's door and refuse to give them entrance to their own office until they gave her a good reason for being late. Of course, no one ever told Bertha the truth, as she was always willing to share any juicy pieces of gossip she might acquire with anyone and everyone.
But to his relief, Bertha didn't seem to be in that morning. "A good thing, too." He muttered to himself, beginning to sift through the stacks of papers lying neatly on his desk. "What would I have told her?"
The reason he was late was his son, of course. The boy's hair had grown past shoulder-length, and was still so matted and tangled that it was impossible to run a comb through, despite Winky's valiant efforts.
When Barty Jr. had wandered downstairs that morning, (still clinging to the wall for support) Crouch had decided that the state of the boy's hair was unacceptable. "Boy," he'd snapped, feeling the smallest pang of guilt when he realized that he hadn't called his son 'Barty' in over a year. "Winky will be cutting your hair today. I'm sick of playing host to someone who looks like they've just crawled from off the streets!"
Barty Jr.'s anger was rekindled by the sharp order. "Who's going to see me?" he sneered. "I mean," he went on, his pent-up fury flaring up suddenly. "Just imagine what would happen to your career if anyone *were* to see me. Or if I were to, perhaps, turn myself in?" He knew perfectly well that it was a hollow threat, that he would never turn himself in, not even if he spent the rest of his life locked in the house with Winky and his damned father.
Crouch leapt from his chair, turning on his son. "I'd watch how you speak to me *my son. *" He hissed, spitting out the last two words. Without giving a thought to what he was doing, he raised his wand, shouting, "Imperio!"
Barty's face suddenly went very slack, the anger gone from his eyes to be replaced by a dull, indifferent look. Winky, who had been standing unnoticed behind them throughout the entire argument, let out a gasp of shocked horror. Being the servant of a high-ranking Ministry official, she knew all about the Unforgivable Curses, and the consequences of using them.
Hearing her sudden intake of breath, Crouch dropped his wand, immediately releasing his son from the effects of the Curse. He hadn't ever even considered using Imperius to control Barty Jr. Certainly, he had always encouraged the use of the Unforgivable Curses against Death Eaters, but he had never, before that moment, used one himself. Part of him was terrified at the thought of it. After all, it was one thing to use the Imperius Curse against any *other* Death Eater, but against one's own son-
Crouch's thoughts were interrupted when Barty, a look of humiliated fury on his face, turned and ran back up the stairs, his still-unsure footing causing him to stumble with each step. For a while Crouch listened to his son's heavy footsteps pounding upstairs, and winced when a door slammed loudly, shaking him from his oblivious state. He turned to Winky, ignoring the horror still etched on her features, and snapped, "Well? Go, elf!" he pointed up the stairs after his son. "Trim his hair and see to it that he puts on the invisibility cloak!" He threw the silvery garment, which had been hanging on the back of a chair, at her and she gave a clumsy bow before dashing upstairs, tripping over the light, airy folds of the invisibility cloak as she went along.
He had apparated immediately to the office then, and currently sat at his desk, trying to clear his mind of all that had taken place, attempting to lose himself in his work.
Crouch suddenly heard a group of voices chatting away just outside of his office door. He frowned down at his desk. It annoyed him that his fellow Ministry workers always seemed to be standing about in the hallways, chattering away when there was work to be done. He stood up, thinking to tell them to clear off, but froze suddenly, and began to listen closely to their conversation.
It sounded as though the group consisted of Michael Shipman, a young man who was new to the Ministry, Jacob Dias, who worked at St. Mungo's but was a frequent visitor to the Ministry building, and Paul Aries, who worked for the Department of Magical Disasters.
Dias had a loud, booming voice, so it wasn't difficult for Crouch to listen in. "- anyway, I've just come from Azkaban, (you know how St. Mungo's makes a yearly inspection of the place). Of coarse, it's really no more than a twenty-minute affair, all we really do is come in, check to see who's died in the past year, and we're on our merry way." He chuckled, but Crouch heard Aries snort dissaprovingly. "Oh, come on Paul!" Dias boomed, sounding extremely cheerful for someone who had just come from Azkaban. "I know what you're thinking, but you know what these people are like! The more of them die, the safer we are, I say."
Aries grumbled under his breath, but finally he spoke. "Why're you here anyway? I thought you worked 'till six on Tuesdays. Given yourself another day off, eh?"
Dias chuckled again, but some of his characteristic cheerfulness seemed to have left him. "I'm here on business Jake." His voice lowered suddenly and Crouch had to press his ear against the door to hear him. " You see, back at the hospital we drew straws to see who would have to break the news to old Barty Crouch. His son died just two days ago."
Crouch's stomach plummeted. His wife was dead. He felt like running back to the house, missing his first day of work in twenty-five years, but the group outside wasn't finished talking yet, and they blocked his only exit. As he slid down to the floor, resting his back against the door and burying his face in his hands, Shipman piped up suddenly.
"Good riddance to 'im!" he snarled angrily, " You all know what he did! The Longbottoms was some of the best people I ever met. They didn't deserve what they got, but Crouch deserved worse than death. I was one of the ones who was all for givin' him and those Lestranges the Kiss, but the Ministry wouldn't hear me out. I remember, I was in the same year 's Crouch Jr. at Hogwarts. There was always somethin' funny about that one, you know? I remember how everyone was a bit shocked when 'e got sorted into Slytherin, we all figured 'e'd be in Griffindor or Ravenclaw like 'is parents."
"I suppose now we know why." Said Aries quietly, and low murmurs of assent came from the group.
Dias cleared his throat loudly, eager to contribute his opinion. "Of coarse, what could you expect, with him coming from a family like that. Pureblooded, sure, but you know what his parents were like. The father never home, and the mother- well, you all knew Sicilia. Never quite grew up, did she?"
Silence reined in the hallway outside for a few moments, and the sudden quiet jarred Crouch from his thoughts. He stood up abruptly and turned, swinging the door open to find them all standing there, Shipman with his mouth open as though he'd been about to say something. Crouch glared around at them, Aries shuffling his feet nervously, and Dias looking as though he was ready to forget his appointed task and break for the door.
"Umm- Mr. Crouch-" Crouch turned to the St. Mungo's employee.
"Yes?" he snapped impatiently.
"Er- I've been sent to inform you that your son-" he took a step back, as though Crouch might decide to kill the messenger. "Your son is dead!" he blurted finally.
"So I've heard!" Crouch snapped, turning on Aries and Shipman. "All three of you would do well to get back to work instead of standing about in the hallways gossiping like a bunch of schoolgirls!"
The three men blanched, realizing that he had heard their conversation.
"Shipman!" Crouch snarled, making the young man jump. "Get back to your department. You haven't been working here for more than a month. You're hardly an indispensable employee!"
"Yes Mr. Crouch!" Shipman said, and dashed down the hallway with Aries at his heels. Crouch watched them go before rounding on Dias, who quickly took the hint and, grabbing his hat from a nearby chair, said curtly, "I'll be off, then." before turning on his heel and practically running for the door, looking over his shoulder every once in a while as though afraid that Crouch might be following him.
When Dias was gone, Crouch went into his office and slumped back into his chair. He sat there for nearly twenty minutes, staring at the bland surface of his wooden desk, before jumping up from his chair. "Accio, file."
A small green folder floated towards him and he caught it, sighing, sorry to be getting back to work for perhaps the first time in his life. "It really is a foolish little feud, though." He mumbled to himself, thinking about this latest problem the Minister had dumped on him.
A conflict had arisen between Greece and Turkey when both countries had wanted to host the year's Quidditch World Cup. Cornelius Fudge ("That half-wit," thought Crouch sourly) had decided to get involved. Finding that his efforts were in vain, the Minister had turned to Crouch's department, thrusting the whole affair, considerably worsened, into their hands.
Crouch sifted through the green folder, looking for a specific paper, and slammed it angrily on his desk when the item wasn't found. "Damn!" he hissed, realizing that he'd left it on the table at home. He grabbed his cloak and stormed from the room, heading back to the manor.
Barty Jr., meanwhile, was sitting on a wooden stool in the bathroom with Winky standing on her toes behind him, trimming his golden hair, which was still somewhat tangled, though much cleaner than when he'd arrived. As always, Barty had put up a fight at first, ("You stay away from me with those scissors, elf, my hair's fine the way it is!") but she persisted and eventually won out. Barty sat grumbling to himself as she worked, reading the *Daily Prophet*.
Winky trimmed off a last lock of hair, and put down her scissors to admire her work. "There you are, Master Barty, you is looking much better now." His hair *was* shorter than when he'd arrived from Azkaban, albeit uneven.
Barty knew the second order his father had given Winky that morning, so he tried to slip downstairs without her noticing. As he reached the landing, though, her tiny voice squeaked, "Master Barty! Your father is telling Winky to make you wear the Invisibility Cloak!" she waved the garment around for emphasis.
"Fine!" he snarled, snatching the cloak from her hands and putting it on, disappearing instantly. Winky could hear his angry footsteps storming down the stairs, though, and she followed him into the kitchen.
Peeking in the kitchen door the room appeared to be empty, but a newspaper was floating in midair above the cabinet. "Master Barty?" she called timidly.
"Right here." His voice growled from behind the paper.
"Is you liking Winky to make you something to eat?"
"Fine."
"What is you wanting?"
"I don't care, pick something!" he snapped irritably.
The house-elf heard the bite in his voice and began to rummage through the cupboards, looking for something to fix.
Just then, the doorbell rang. Winky put a finger to her lips, looking at the spot where the newspaper was still hovering in midair. "Stay quiet, Master Barty."
She padded softly down the hallway to the large, oak front door, opening it cautiously and peering out. A woman stood there. She had obviously been expecting someone human-sized to open the door, because her gaze had been focused on a spot three feet above Winky's head.
The woman had a round, cheerful face, but she wore a slightly dull expression that suggested she was none too bright. Winky recognized her as Bertha Jorkins and opened the door all the way, bowing formally. "Come in, Miss. Is you wishing to see my master?"
Bertha stepped inside, beaming around at the house before her gaze traveled back to the elf at her feet. "Yes. He wasn't at the office this morning, so I thought I'd drop off a few papers for him to sign. Is he ill?" she said it with a suspicious look.
Winky shook her head. "No, Miss. My master is leaving a short while ago. He is going in late this morning."
"Ahh. I see." Said Bertha, but she was still looking at the elf as though trying to detect some hint that she was lying. "Well, perhaps he'll be by here for lunch, eh? I'll just wait here if it's alright with you." She helped herself to a seat on the leather couch without waiting for Winky's answer.
The house-elf hesitated for a moment. Mr. Crouch had *never* come home for lunch, but she thought it would be rude to tell Bertha off. "Very well, Miss. Winky is getting back to her work." With another formal bow, she scurried off to the kitchen.
Barty was still sitting atop the cabinet when she returned. He hadn't found anything in the *Daily Prophet* that looked even remotely to his interest. Just as he was about to give up and throw the paper into a corner, though, a tiny article in the bottom right-hand side of the second page caught his eye. It read:
DARK LORD'S WHEREABOUTS CONFIRMED?
As all in the wizarding community know, You-Know-Who, the killer of hundreds of muggles and wizards alike, disappeared in October of last year while attempting to perform the killing curse on young Harry Potter. The question on everyone's minds: is he gone for good? If the Dark Lord has gone into hiding as some believe, then where? Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School, claims that You-Know-Who is currently hiding out, biding his time, in Albania. "There is much evidence to prove this," he stated, "but so few of our kind read the muggle newspapers that many of us are unaware as to how much useful information they can contain. Sightings of a strange, dark shadow in Albanian forests have been reported all year. The muggle papers also mention that a great many animals in those same forests have been found dead, with markings on them that suggest they may have been possessed by a wizard at some point." Whether Dumbledore's theories turn out to be correct or not remains to be seen, but many people support the idea, and a few aurors have begun to search Albania for the Dark Lord.
Barty stared at the article for a moment, thinking back to that night at the Longbottoms' residence. /If we'd had this information then, we'd have had a place to *start*, instead of charging blindly in to torture that damnable auror and his wife. /
He began to laugh suddenly, without quite knowing why. "Too late." He whispered, giggling to himself. "Too late!" he bellowed suddenly, breaking into a fit of hysterical laughter. "One year too late! If we'd known then-" Winky had spun around when she heard his voice, and was trying desperately to quiet him.
"No! Master Barty, please be quiet! Miss Jorkins is in the other room, Master Barty, she will hear you!" but her pleas were drowned out by Barty's laughter.
"Oh, if we'd only known then!" he began to tear the paper to shreds, flinging them all over the room. "Albania! And meanwhile, we were questioning those damned Longbottoms!" He threw the remaining pieces of the newspaper to the floor, his hysterical laughter bubbling up again.
Winky covered her ears as though it would keep Bertha Jorkins from hearing the noise, all the while sobbing quietly to herself. "No, no, no. Master Barty you is getting Winky into trouble. Master Barty, please be quiet!"
From the next room, Bertha could indeed hear the racket coming from the kitchen. She had been admiring the old Oriental rug on the floor of the Crouches' living room when she heard Barty's laughter. She began to listen closer. The first voice certainly wasn't the high-pitched squeak of a house-elf. It was deeper, a human voice. Bertha frowned. She was sure the youthful tenor didn't belong to Mr. Crouch, but who else would be in his house?
Bertha decided that the suspense was too much for her, and crept up to the kitchen doorway, peeking in through the crack between the door and the wall. She had already recognized the second voice to be Winky's, and sure enough, the house-elf was standing in the middle of the kitchen. Bertha adjusted her position to get a better look, and frowned again. The elf appeared to be talking to the empty air on top of the cabinet, pleading.
She peered around the room, searching for the source of the second voice before realizing that the crazed laughter she'd first heard was coming from the exact spot on top of the cabinet where Winky's gaze was focused. "Oh, Master Barty!" the house- elf was wailing at the supposedly empty air. "Please be quiet! Your father will be angry with Winky, please!"
/Barty? Your father? / Bertha Jorkins thought for a moment, and then had to suppress a terrified gasp as it dawned on her. "Barty Jr." she whispered.
/Impossible-/ Bertha searched her mind for another explanation, but nothing came. /But he's dead! Unless-/ her thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the sound of the large, oak front doors slamming open and then shut. Loud, irritated footsteps echoed through the large house, and Mr. Crouch's voice rang out, "Winky! Where are you, you useless elf?"
Bertha heard an audible gasp from the kitchen, and Barty Jr.'s raucous laughter stopped abruptly. Slipping back into the spacious living room, she collapsed back onto the couch just as Mr. Crouch stormed in. He jumped noticeably upon seeing her. "Jorkins! Why are you in my house instead of at the office?"
"Good morning to you too, Mr. Crouch." Said Bertha, with as much cheerfulness as she could muster, given what she'd just witnessed. "You weren't in the office this morning, so I thought you might be ill and took the liberty of bringing you a few papers the Minister needs signed."
Crouch seemed to relax considerably. "The World Cup conflict, is it?" He snatched the forms from her hands.
"I'm not sure, Mr. Crouch. The Minister asked me not to look at them-"
He snorted to himself, thinking, /If I know Bertha, she's read these forms enough to have them memorized. Fudge telling her not to look at them would only egg her on! / But out loud he only mumbled, "Good, very good."
As Crouch sat down, taking up a quill and reading each form in turn, Bertha was having an inward battle with herself. /I've got to tell him that I know! Perhaps he'll do the right thing and turn himself in. But- what if he doesn't? / She watched his quill scratching across the papers, and suddenly blurted out, "Mr. Crouch, who've you got hiding in the kitchen?"
He stood up abruptly, and Bertha knew she'd struck gold. She plunged on, oblivious to the dangerous situation she had placed herself in. "I waited here for you to come home, and I heard voices in your kitchen, Mr. Crouch. *Two* voices. One was the house-elf, Winky, and I think I've got a very good idea as to who the other voice belonged to."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Jorkins!" He hissed. "I've nothing to hide!"
"I know what I heard!" she shot back. "You're hiding *him* here, aren't you! Your son! You smuggled him out of Azkaban, freed him from the fate that he deserved. I'd never have thought that you, of all people-"
Bertha never got to finish. Mr. Crouch raised his wand high and roared, "Obliviate!"
There was a flash of light, followed by a moment's silence. Bertha stood blinking for a moment, then shook herself as though coming out of a trance. "If you're done signing those forms, Mr. Crouch, I'd be glad to take them back to the Minister for you." She said, as though nothing had happened since she'd arrived, and in her mind nothing had.
Crouch handed her the papers with a shaking hand, and she left, stopping in the doorway and giving him a cheery wave before setting off, walking to the south, in the opposite direction of the office.
Mr. Crouch collapsed onto the couch as soon as she was out of sight. He buried his face in his hands and didn't look up until the kitchen door creaked open, seemingly by itself, and hurried footsteps could be heard climbing a staircase that appeared to be empty.
A/N: Now that you've read this chapter, be good little girls and boys and review, 'kay?
Disclaimer: I own only Michael Shipman, Jacob Dias, and Paul Aries. All other characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
Chapter 3: Eavesdropping and a Visit from Bertha Jorkins
Barty Crouch Sr. was late to the office two days in a row over the next few weeks, nothing short of a record for him, but not one he was at all proud of. He was a creature of habit, and any change in his bland daily schedule was enough to make him noticeably uptight.
Hurrying down one of the Ministry Building's narrow hallways toward his office, Barty tried desperately to come up with a quick alibi to get him past Bertha Jorkins, who worked in the office across from his, and always seemed to know when anyone was late or gone from work. She had been known to plant herself outside of a co-worker's door and refuse to give them entrance to their own office until they gave her a good reason for being late. Of course, no one ever told Bertha the truth, as she was always willing to share any juicy pieces of gossip she might acquire with anyone and everyone.
But to his relief, Bertha didn't seem to be in that morning. "A good thing, too." He muttered to himself, beginning to sift through the stacks of papers lying neatly on his desk. "What would I have told her?"
The reason he was late was his son, of course. The boy's hair had grown past shoulder-length, and was still so matted and tangled that it was impossible to run a comb through, despite Winky's valiant efforts.
When Barty Jr. had wandered downstairs that morning, (still clinging to the wall for support) Crouch had decided that the state of the boy's hair was unacceptable. "Boy," he'd snapped, feeling the smallest pang of guilt when he realized that he hadn't called his son 'Barty' in over a year. "Winky will be cutting your hair today. I'm sick of playing host to someone who looks like they've just crawled from off the streets!"
Barty Jr.'s anger was rekindled by the sharp order. "Who's going to see me?" he sneered. "I mean," he went on, his pent-up fury flaring up suddenly. "Just imagine what would happen to your career if anyone *were* to see me. Or if I were to, perhaps, turn myself in?" He knew perfectly well that it was a hollow threat, that he would never turn himself in, not even if he spent the rest of his life locked in the house with Winky and his damned father.
Crouch leapt from his chair, turning on his son. "I'd watch how you speak to me *my son. *" He hissed, spitting out the last two words. Without giving a thought to what he was doing, he raised his wand, shouting, "Imperio!"
Barty's face suddenly went very slack, the anger gone from his eyes to be replaced by a dull, indifferent look. Winky, who had been standing unnoticed behind them throughout the entire argument, let out a gasp of shocked horror. Being the servant of a high-ranking Ministry official, she knew all about the Unforgivable Curses, and the consequences of using them.
Hearing her sudden intake of breath, Crouch dropped his wand, immediately releasing his son from the effects of the Curse. He hadn't ever even considered using Imperius to control Barty Jr. Certainly, he had always encouraged the use of the Unforgivable Curses against Death Eaters, but he had never, before that moment, used one himself. Part of him was terrified at the thought of it. After all, it was one thing to use the Imperius Curse against any *other* Death Eater, but against one's own son-
Crouch's thoughts were interrupted when Barty, a look of humiliated fury on his face, turned and ran back up the stairs, his still-unsure footing causing him to stumble with each step. For a while Crouch listened to his son's heavy footsteps pounding upstairs, and winced when a door slammed loudly, shaking him from his oblivious state. He turned to Winky, ignoring the horror still etched on her features, and snapped, "Well? Go, elf!" he pointed up the stairs after his son. "Trim his hair and see to it that he puts on the invisibility cloak!" He threw the silvery garment, which had been hanging on the back of a chair, at her and she gave a clumsy bow before dashing upstairs, tripping over the light, airy folds of the invisibility cloak as she went along.
He had apparated immediately to the office then, and currently sat at his desk, trying to clear his mind of all that had taken place, attempting to lose himself in his work.
Crouch suddenly heard a group of voices chatting away just outside of his office door. He frowned down at his desk. It annoyed him that his fellow Ministry workers always seemed to be standing about in the hallways, chattering away when there was work to be done. He stood up, thinking to tell them to clear off, but froze suddenly, and began to listen closely to their conversation.
It sounded as though the group consisted of Michael Shipman, a young man who was new to the Ministry, Jacob Dias, who worked at St. Mungo's but was a frequent visitor to the Ministry building, and Paul Aries, who worked for the Department of Magical Disasters.
Dias had a loud, booming voice, so it wasn't difficult for Crouch to listen in. "- anyway, I've just come from Azkaban, (you know how St. Mungo's makes a yearly inspection of the place). Of coarse, it's really no more than a twenty-minute affair, all we really do is come in, check to see who's died in the past year, and we're on our merry way." He chuckled, but Crouch heard Aries snort dissaprovingly. "Oh, come on Paul!" Dias boomed, sounding extremely cheerful for someone who had just come from Azkaban. "I know what you're thinking, but you know what these people are like! The more of them die, the safer we are, I say."
Aries grumbled under his breath, but finally he spoke. "Why're you here anyway? I thought you worked 'till six on Tuesdays. Given yourself another day off, eh?"
Dias chuckled again, but some of his characteristic cheerfulness seemed to have left him. "I'm here on business Jake." His voice lowered suddenly and Crouch had to press his ear against the door to hear him. " You see, back at the hospital we drew straws to see who would have to break the news to old Barty Crouch. His son died just two days ago."
Crouch's stomach plummeted. His wife was dead. He felt like running back to the house, missing his first day of work in twenty-five years, but the group outside wasn't finished talking yet, and they blocked his only exit. As he slid down to the floor, resting his back against the door and burying his face in his hands, Shipman piped up suddenly.
"Good riddance to 'im!" he snarled angrily, " You all know what he did! The Longbottoms was some of the best people I ever met. They didn't deserve what they got, but Crouch deserved worse than death. I was one of the ones who was all for givin' him and those Lestranges the Kiss, but the Ministry wouldn't hear me out. I remember, I was in the same year 's Crouch Jr. at Hogwarts. There was always somethin' funny about that one, you know? I remember how everyone was a bit shocked when 'e got sorted into Slytherin, we all figured 'e'd be in Griffindor or Ravenclaw like 'is parents."
"I suppose now we know why." Said Aries quietly, and low murmurs of assent came from the group.
Dias cleared his throat loudly, eager to contribute his opinion. "Of coarse, what could you expect, with him coming from a family like that. Pureblooded, sure, but you know what his parents were like. The father never home, and the mother- well, you all knew Sicilia. Never quite grew up, did she?"
Silence reined in the hallway outside for a few moments, and the sudden quiet jarred Crouch from his thoughts. He stood up abruptly and turned, swinging the door open to find them all standing there, Shipman with his mouth open as though he'd been about to say something. Crouch glared around at them, Aries shuffling his feet nervously, and Dias looking as though he was ready to forget his appointed task and break for the door.
"Umm- Mr. Crouch-" Crouch turned to the St. Mungo's employee.
"Yes?" he snapped impatiently.
"Er- I've been sent to inform you that your son-" he took a step back, as though Crouch might decide to kill the messenger. "Your son is dead!" he blurted finally.
"So I've heard!" Crouch snapped, turning on Aries and Shipman. "All three of you would do well to get back to work instead of standing about in the hallways gossiping like a bunch of schoolgirls!"
The three men blanched, realizing that he had heard their conversation.
"Shipman!" Crouch snarled, making the young man jump. "Get back to your department. You haven't been working here for more than a month. You're hardly an indispensable employee!"
"Yes Mr. Crouch!" Shipman said, and dashed down the hallway with Aries at his heels. Crouch watched them go before rounding on Dias, who quickly took the hint and, grabbing his hat from a nearby chair, said curtly, "I'll be off, then." before turning on his heel and practically running for the door, looking over his shoulder every once in a while as though afraid that Crouch might be following him.
When Dias was gone, Crouch went into his office and slumped back into his chair. He sat there for nearly twenty minutes, staring at the bland surface of his wooden desk, before jumping up from his chair. "Accio, file."
A small green folder floated towards him and he caught it, sighing, sorry to be getting back to work for perhaps the first time in his life. "It really is a foolish little feud, though." He mumbled to himself, thinking about this latest problem the Minister had dumped on him.
A conflict had arisen between Greece and Turkey when both countries had wanted to host the year's Quidditch World Cup. Cornelius Fudge ("That half-wit," thought Crouch sourly) had decided to get involved. Finding that his efforts were in vain, the Minister had turned to Crouch's department, thrusting the whole affair, considerably worsened, into their hands.
Crouch sifted through the green folder, looking for a specific paper, and slammed it angrily on his desk when the item wasn't found. "Damn!" he hissed, realizing that he'd left it on the table at home. He grabbed his cloak and stormed from the room, heading back to the manor.
Barty Jr., meanwhile, was sitting on a wooden stool in the bathroom with Winky standing on her toes behind him, trimming his golden hair, which was still somewhat tangled, though much cleaner than when he'd arrived. As always, Barty had put up a fight at first, ("You stay away from me with those scissors, elf, my hair's fine the way it is!") but she persisted and eventually won out. Barty sat grumbling to himself as she worked, reading the *Daily Prophet*.
Winky trimmed off a last lock of hair, and put down her scissors to admire her work. "There you are, Master Barty, you is looking much better now." His hair *was* shorter than when he'd arrived from Azkaban, albeit uneven.
Barty knew the second order his father had given Winky that morning, so he tried to slip downstairs without her noticing. As he reached the landing, though, her tiny voice squeaked, "Master Barty! Your father is telling Winky to make you wear the Invisibility Cloak!" she waved the garment around for emphasis.
"Fine!" he snarled, snatching the cloak from her hands and putting it on, disappearing instantly. Winky could hear his angry footsteps storming down the stairs, though, and she followed him into the kitchen.
Peeking in the kitchen door the room appeared to be empty, but a newspaper was floating in midair above the cabinet. "Master Barty?" she called timidly.
"Right here." His voice growled from behind the paper.
"Is you liking Winky to make you something to eat?"
"Fine."
"What is you wanting?"
"I don't care, pick something!" he snapped irritably.
The house-elf heard the bite in his voice and began to rummage through the cupboards, looking for something to fix.
Just then, the doorbell rang. Winky put a finger to her lips, looking at the spot where the newspaper was still hovering in midair. "Stay quiet, Master Barty."
She padded softly down the hallway to the large, oak front door, opening it cautiously and peering out. A woman stood there. She had obviously been expecting someone human-sized to open the door, because her gaze had been focused on a spot three feet above Winky's head.
The woman had a round, cheerful face, but she wore a slightly dull expression that suggested she was none too bright. Winky recognized her as Bertha Jorkins and opened the door all the way, bowing formally. "Come in, Miss. Is you wishing to see my master?"
Bertha stepped inside, beaming around at the house before her gaze traveled back to the elf at her feet. "Yes. He wasn't at the office this morning, so I thought I'd drop off a few papers for him to sign. Is he ill?" she said it with a suspicious look.
Winky shook her head. "No, Miss. My master is leaving a short while ago. He is going in late this morning."
"Ahh. I see." Said Bertha, but she was still looking at the elf as though trying to detect some hint that she was lying. "Well, perhaps he'll be by here for lunch, eh? I'll just wait here if it's alright with you." She helped herself to a seat on the leather couch without waiting for Winky's answer.
The house-elf hesitated for a moment. Mr. Crouch had *never* come home for lunch, but she thought it would be rude to tell Bertha off. "Very well, Miss. Winky is getting back to her work." With another formal bow, she scurried off to the kitchen.
Barty was still sitting atop the cabinet when she returned. He hadn't found anything in the *Daily Prophet* that looked even remotely to his interest. Just as he was about to give up and throw the paper into a corner, though, a tiny article in the bottom right-hand side of the second page caught his eye. It read:
DARK LORD'S WHEREABOUTS CONFIRMED?
As all in the wizarding community know, You-Know-Who, the killer of hundreds of muggles and wizards alike, disappeared in October of last year while attempting to perform the killing curse on young Harry Potter. The question on everyone's minds: is he gone for good? If the Dark Lord has gone into hiding as some believe, then where? Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School, claims that You-Know-Who is currently hiding out, biding his time, in Albania. "There is much evidence to prove this," he stated, "but so few of our kind read the muggle newspapers that many of us are unaware as to how much useful information they can contain. Sightings of a strange, dark shadow in Albanian forests have been reported all year. The muggle papers also mention that a great many animals in those same forests have been found dead, with markings on them that suggest they may have been possessed by a wizard at some point." Whether Dumbledore's theories turn out to be correct or not remains to be seen, but many people support the idea, and a few aurors have begun to search Albania for the Dark Lord.
Barty stared at the article for a moment, thinking back to that night at the Longbottoms' residence. /If we'd had this information then, we'd have had a place to *start*, instead of charging blindly in to torture that damnable auror and his wife. /
He began to laugh suddenly, without quite knowing why. "Too late." He whispered, giggling to himself. "Too late!" he bellowed suddenly, breaking into a fit of hysterical laughter. "One year too late! If we'd known then-" Winky had spun around when she heard his voice, and was trying desperately to quiet him.
"No! Master Barty, please be quiet! Miss Jorkins is in the other room, Master Barty, she will hear you!" but her pleas were drowned out by Barty's laughter.
"Oh, if we'd only known then!" he began to tear the paper to shreds, flinging them all over the room. "Albania! And meanwhile, we were questioning those damned Longbottoms!" He threw the remaining pieces of the newspaper to the floor, his hysterical laughter bubbling up again.
Winky covered her ears as though it would keep Bertha Jorkins from hearing the noise, all the while sobbing quietly to herself. "No, no, no. Master Barty you is getting Winky into trouble. Master Barty, please be quiet!"
From the next room, Bertha could indeed hear the racket coming from the kitchen. She had been admiring the old Oriental rug on the floor of the Crouches' living room when she heard Barty's laughter. She began to listen closer. The first voice certainly wasn't the high-pitched squeak of a house-elf. It was deeper, a human voice. Bertha frowned. She was sure the youthful tenor didn't belong to Mr. Crouch, but who else would be in his house?
Bertha decided that the suspense was too much for her, and crept up to the kitchen doorway, peeking in through the crack between the door and the wall. She had already recognized the second voice to be Winky's, and sure enough, the house-elf was standing in the middle of the kitchen. Bertha adjusted her position to get a better look, and frowned again. The elf appeared to be talking to the empty air on top of the cabinet, pleading.
She peered around the room, searching for the source of the second voice before realizing that the crazed laughter she'd first heard was coming from the exact spot on top of the cabinet where Winky's gaze was focused. "Oh, Master Barty!" the house- elf was wailing at the supposedly empty air. "Please be quiet! Your father will be angry with Winky, please!"
/Barty? Your father? / Bertha Jorkins thought for a moment, and then had to suppress a terrified gasp as it dawned on her. "Barty Jr." she whispered.
/Impossible-/ Bertha searched her mind for another explanation, but nothing came. /But he's dead! Unless-/ her thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the sound of the large, oak front doors slamming open and then shut. Loud, irritated footsteps echoed through the large house, and Mr. Crouch's voice rang out, "Winky! Where are you, you useless elf?"
Bertha heard an audible gasp from the kitchen, and Barty Jr.'s raucous laughter stopped abruptly. Slipping back into the spacious living room, she collapsed back onto the couch just as Mr. Crouch stormed in. He jumped noticeably upon seeing her. "Jorkins! Why are you in my house instead of at the office?"
"Good morning to you too, Mr. Crouch." Said Bertha, with as much cheerfulness as she could muster, given what she'd just witnessed. "You weren't in the office this morning, so I thought you might be ill and took the liberty of bringing you a few papers the Minister needs signed."
Crouch seemed to relax considerably. "The World Cup conflict, is it?" He snatched the forms from her hands.
"I'm not sure, Mr. Crouch. The Minister asked me not to look at them-"
He snorted to himself, thinking, /If I know Bertha, she's read these forms enough to have them memorized. Fudge telling her not to look at them would only egg her on! / But out loud he only mumbled, "Good, very good."
As Crouch sat down, taking up a quill and reading each form in turn, Bertha was having an inward battle with herself. /I've got to tell him that I know! Perhaps he'll do the right thing and turn himself in. But- what if he doesn't? / She watched his quill scratching across the papers, and suddenly blurted out, "Mr. Crouch, who've you got hiding in the kitchen?"
He stood up abruptly, and Bertha knew she'd struck gold. She plunged on, oblivious to the dangerous situation she had placed herself in. "I waited here for you to come home, and I heard voices in your kitchen, Mr. Crouch. *Two* voices. One was the house-elf, Winky, and I think I've got a very good idea as to who the other voice belonged to."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Jorkins!" He hissed. "I've nothing to hide!"
"I know what I heard!" she shot back. "You're hiding *him* here, aren't you! Your son! You smuggled him out of Azkaban, freed him from the fate that he deserved. I'd never have thought that you, of all people-"
Bertha never got to finish. Mr. Crouch raised his wand high and roared, "Obliviate!"
There was a flash of light, followed by a moment's silence. Bertha stood blinking for a moment, then shook herself as though coming out of a trance. "If you're done signing those forms, Mr. Crouch, I'd be glad to take them back to the Minister for you." She said, as though nothing had happened since she'd arrived, and in her mind nothing had.
Crouch handed her the papers with a shaking hand, and she left, stopping in the doorway and giving him a cheery wave before setting off, walking to the south, in the opposite direction of the office.
Mr. Crouch collapsed onto the couch as soon as she was out of sight. He buried his face in his hands and didn't look up until the kitchen door creaked open, seemingly by itself, and hurried footsteps could be heard climbing a staircase that appeared to be empty.
A/N: Now that you've read this chapter, be good little girls and boys and review, 'kay?