Severus Snape opened the door seconds after the knock.
"Come in, there is trouble."
His office was as chilly as a cave. Candlelight reflected from labelled glass jars; floating in preservative fluids, the potion ingredients appeared to slumber. Some of them—tadpoles, insects, and smaller, simpler organisms—were kept alive. Only the older students, those who intended to pursue careers in Potions, were aware how vital experiments were to this branch of magic. Innovation came at a price, and Severus dedicated much of his time to research.
Without asking questions, Albus watched him cast the Soundproof Charm and waited. The other wizard turned around, his expression composed.
"You must know a murder was committed in the woods tonight."
"I know." Sirius had been correct. Had the Potions Master remained in the castle all evening long, it would have been plain he was the one the killer had transformed into. As it was, nothing was certain. "You must have been the first person to arrive at the scene. What did you see?"
"Earlier tonight, Potter ran up to me screaming some nonsense about needing to see you," came a dispassionate response. "Of course, special Potter thinks everything is allowed to him and that everyone disposes of unlimited time for him alone because he is the famous Boy-Who-Lived. This being said, his obnoxiousness seemed to have a semi-valid reason this time. Once you two left to waste the precious little time you had, I went to the woods."
Albus observed him, equally collected. "The Forbidden Forest is vast. How did you know where to go?"
Severus's expression grew darker. His eyes glinted, his lips tightening into a thin line.
"If you want to kill someone and do it fast, you do it out of sight. I simply went… where I would have gone."
It could be his tiredness or nerves. Perhaps nothing else could shock him that night. All Albus knew was that he felt no unease at the confession. Rather, he found himself grateful for the other man's honesty, for not shying away from the grim facts.
"Did you glimpse him?"
"I was seconds late," Snape admitted bitterly, "But I saw the Curse happen. The perpetrator's hand was trembling. It could have been someone Crouch knew—or else, an amateur."
This piece of news was so unexpected, the older wizard's heart gave a jolt while his tone turned urgent.
"What did he look like, Severus? What did he do? And how could he disappear with the dead man's remains in a few seconds?"
Snape's smile was a bleak one.
"I saw a shadow. As for how he disappeared… I can only speculate—same as you—but it's possible Potter isn't the only one used to stealing Polyjuice Potion ingredients. Now, the fact that he was shaking more than a bush in the wind as he performed the Killing Curse doesn't necessarily mean he didn't prepare in advance. With a stash of ready-made Polyjuice, he could have taken on anyone's appearance. He might even have changed it several times afterwards. He could have gone to Rosmerta's for a nightcap. And as for the dead body, you can Transfigure it, take it with you, and dispose of it later. It's feasible… unless you're generally abysmal at magic."
He was the third person that night suggesting the mysterious Death Eater could have chosen to flee in the direction of Hogsmeade. As reasonable as this opinion was, Albus could not bring himself to believe it. Why did no one consider the possibility that the killer had turned around and headed for the castle?
"What did you do then?"
"What could I do?" The Potions Master shrugged. "There was no point in running after him. He knew I was on to him, you see, so he vanished quickly. I walked around a bit, reached the spot where the Curse had been cast. Some stupid rabid animal almost got in my way… Once I stood there, I could sense the residual magic in the air, but there was no evidence or clear traces. Still, I can show you the place if you want."
"I have been there. Nothing but tree trunks and roots." Albus sighed, closing his eyes. "I agree, the murderer resorts to the Polyjuice Potion. Have you ever experienced miscommunication with your colleagues, which would imply he has transformed into you as well?"
Another shrug. "If you know how to use the Extension Charm, it's easy enough to find a few sets of standard black robes and keep them at hand. Of course, he'd have to have entered Hogwarts or met me outside. Recently, I've only been out to visit Lucius—and before you ask, no. As much as Lucius sympathises with the Dark Lord's ideas, he is not one to crawl in the woods and get spiders in his golden mane. More than anything else, he is a politician. He will always resort to those skills."
It was a fair observation, and it invited the most crucial question of all.
"The man we are looking for is exceptionally loyal and patient. He is an accomplished actor and a clever strategist. Yet killing Crouch was not easy for him." The sky-blue eyes narrowed. "Do you know anyone who fits this description?"
For the first time, the corners of Snape's mouth rose in genuine amusement.
"Let's see," he said silkily. "The loyal supporters of our Lord. There is, of course, Bellatrix. Impossible to forget her: she yells about her loyalty left and right without the slightest incentive. She would certainly do anything for the Dark Lord, even transform into one of us—such is the common point of view among the Death Eaters. But I doubt the Dementors care about her thirst—the last time I checked, she was still in Azkaban. The same goes for her husband and brother-in-law; not that they are very loyal. Then there is Walden. He is not locked up, but his hand wouldn't have trembled; if anything, he would have been disappointed he couldn't take Crouch to his secret dungeon. Lucius, as I said, is a politician. This leaves us with Crabbe and Goyle, who would likely have tripped over a branch, and you would have taken them out in your sleep."
A mirthless grin followed this summary.
"The short answer is no, headmaster. Nobody is loyal enough to do this. If you were to ask the Death Eaters who currently reside in Azkaban, they would tell you I come close. Certainly not someone like Antonin, whose greatest achievement was recruiting Igor… and, admittedly, being decent at an impressive family curse that brings about a slow and agonising death as it cuts through your organs."
The matter was far from amusing. Severus's confidence, on the other hand, called for a smile. Albus doubted whether Bellatrix, the Lestrange brothers, or even Dolohov would have described Snape as exceedingly loyal and patient. He understood the younger man's frustration, though, for despite the latter's precautions, the killer had spotted him from a distance and run off.
As usual, flattery was the surest way to handle this wizard.
"Well, I certainly am fortunate your loyalties lie with Hogwarts. Thank you for your insight. I have one last question: could you please share your memory with me?"
Snape nodded curtly. "If it helps."
Once upstairs, the headmaster tipped the luminous strand of recollections into the Pensieve and lowered his face into the basin. He was walking next to the Potions Master, whose wand illuminated the restless darkness around them. There was nothing to inspire suspicion—no clue, no noise even—yet the young man walked without hesitation, as quiet as a snake.
Without a warning, emerald light filled the forest, throwing every tree into sharp relief. For a few seconds, one could have thought a new day had dawned straight after dusk, except its radiance blinded the eye and pressed against one's throat and chest like a stifling hand. Snape spun around, peering towards his right, and Albus did the same. A silhouette stood between distant trees, one arm extended, its clenched fist trembling around a wand. It was a thin figure with short hair. A single heartbeat before the green glow faded away, its faceless head snapped towards them.
Severus broke into a long stride. It took him a moment to reach the spot where Dark magic hovered thickly above the ground, and he came too late: this part of the forest was now as deserted as it had been before intrusion.
If only he had run, if only he had thought of firing a hex in the killer's direction and chasing after him, there would have been hope of solving the mystery. But Severus had not tried hard enough, and Albus had to refrain from shouting uselessly at the memory.
He emerged from the Pensive and let himself fall into an armchair, too exhausted to laugh at his ignominious defeat. At this very instant, the Death Eater was at Hogwarts with them all: Albus felt so certain of this, he would have wagered the Elder Wand. Why run towards the Apparition point with Crouch's Transfigured remains when he could have disguised himself as any student or teacher and taken refuge in the castle?
It was four in the morning. Then it was five and six. The old wizard could not sleep, however sore his eyes felt. Not even to quieten his mind, which kept conjuring the images of Barty Crouch from different times in his career. Life was strange. That cruel man would have happily seen Gellert disfigured. A young Ministry assistant back in the mid-forties, he had been vocal about the punishment he believed fitting for the German revolutionary. When his own safety had been compromised, however, this same Crouch had reached out to Albus—a person he had always despised—for help. And the headmaster had attempted to save him; truly, he had. At the end of the day, it had been the right course of action. But had Crouch hurt Gellert as he had wished to, everything would have been different, and Albus would have sought revenge. Only people such as Aurora or Ariana did not seem capable of Darkness, and individuals like these were rare.
Seven and a half. A tap on the window disrupted this flow of disconnected musings. An owl had flown all the way from Vienna to deliver an invitation to an official appointment with the Austrian Minister for Magic. Glancing at the proposed dates, Albus put a cross next to the first one, scheduled for that same morning, and felt magic surge through the parchment, which meant his answer had registered in Ebensee's private papers. The owl took flight.
The Englishman wished he were not lifeless with fatigue when a meeting this important was about to occur. Witches and wizards flickered in his line of vision. The cup of coffee Frau Knef handed to him felt hot against his palms, but shifting it cost too much effort. Colours and sounds were blending into a dull blur. Once his legs carried him into the minister's office without, it appeared, his awareness, Hagen Ebensee halted mid-greeting, his frown shrewd. He must have meant to comment on Albus's tortured airs.
"Have a seat, Mr Dumbledore," he said instead, his tone clipped. "Would you like more coffee? Austrian coffee is just as good as Italian, mind you. We can make it extra strong if you wish."
"The best coffee I've ever tasted was served to me in a small village in Tyrol," the other wizard confessed. "Thank you. I couldn't possibly decline."
After passing his order to his secretary, the minister turned back towards the visitor.
"Thank you for accepting the offered timeslot. I'm a very busy wizard, Mr Dumbledore. I'm sure you understand. To save us both time, I will be blunt. I believe we are experiencing rather profound cultural differences. Please take a look at my desk—what do you see?"
Two tall stacks of parchment lay between them: the verbose reports Albus had sent out during the previous months.
"I recognise my handwriting, minister."
"Yes. You seem to enjoy writing. This is why I've booked this appointment. Perhaps you misunderstood when I asked that you keep your accounts concise. It was not a suggestion but a request." Ebensee cleared his throat. "Compared to your isles, we tend to be more direct down here, Mr Dumbledore, which is why I worded my request the way I did. Was it still too vague? If so, let me immediately correct my mistake. I ask you to please stop sending me heaps of letters mostly full of nonsense."
Frau Knef entered to place down a coffee with a small pretzel-shaped sweet. After ascertaining the minister wanted no refreshments, she walked out. Albus remained silent.
"Do we have an agreement, Mr Dumbledore?" the other man insisted. "Will you communicate concisely from now on? If yes, this meeting can now be concluded: I have no further questions or requests for you. Just please try to value my time. As the Austrian Minister for Magic, I hardly have the leisure to read about the progress of Muggle agriculture throughout the twentieth century, combined with weather forecasts and advice on witches' attire."
Still, the Englishman stared at him. The office was swimming before his eyes. He could not tell where the sense of nausea had come from; he was only conscious he ought to regain a grip of himself.
"You say nothing?" Ebensee raised his eyebrows. "I take it we have an agreement then."
The response tore out at last. "We do not."
"Pardon?"
"I cannot agree to your terms."
"Terms?" The minister's voice had flared. "I haven't even begun listing the terms I would otherwise have presented to you. You do realise how obvious it is that you've been using a cheap Self-Writing Quill?" He leaned in. "Discipline. Elementary respect towards other wizards' time, not just your own."
"Time." The old wizard could have chuckled. Somehow, the room they were sitting in had barely changed in fifty years. "There seems to be a lot of it, and at the same time, so little. When every minute is torture, and minutes stretch to hours, and hours suddenly become years, time loses its texture. Those with the power to end your suffering and save you years—decades—of time won't budge, though. To them, you are an ant."
"In other words," Ebensee concluded coolly, "this is your strategy to make me relent and allow you to use the prison—which falls under the jurisdiction of the Austrian Ministry of Magic, may I add—as your personal love inn."
"And why shouldn't I?" Albus shifted in his chair, striving to muster his anger and infuse every syllable with it. "I fought for this right for thirty years. That's three decades of my life, lived for the purpose of saving Gellert from the inhumane treatment imposed by your predecessors. You know the law: in the world we live in, it's illegal to require that one spouse testify against the other. I've been blackmailed by the European Ministries into more than testifying: Gellert and I have had to duel. And to those who will object it doesn't count because we were never married, I will say this. When you ensure sheets of parchment dictate everything in life and then you make it impossible for certain groups of people to gain access to those documents, this is what happens. Lives get broken. Gellert and I have only a few years left to live—that is, if we are fortunate. We wish to spend as much time together as my duties permit. It's a favour that hurts no one and impacts nobody else's life. After everything we have gone through, minister, we feel it is hardly an extravagant request."
The Austrian could not stop himself. For a few seconds, he covered his face with his hand.
"If I may—you are not legally married—but all right, it doesn't matter. I am not about to delve into the… details of your relationship with our most notorious prisoner." He straightened himself, drawing a deep breath. "Your game plan is clear to me. Let me put it this way: will you stop sending junk mail if I allow you to spend more time with the prisoner? Without a wand, of course, and after submitting to a check by the guards. Everything you bring with you will have to be approved."
The Englishman nodded. His fortune had turned: the minister had relented. All at once, he had to struggle to conceal his relief and speak through his constricted throat.
"You will receive weekly reports, no lengthier than a page at a time. Outside of these, you will not hear from me again unless a true calamity occurs. Since we are speaking frankly, I will ask for one more favour: I would like for Gellert to have a new pillow and duvet. That is all."
"This, we can agree on." Ebensee signed a form with a terse gesture of his wrist. "I wish you a nice day, Mr Dumbledore, and I suggest you drink your coffee because you look like you need it. That will be all from my side."
Armed with the new document, Albus called for Fawkes's help to return to Hogwarts. Tired or not, there was more work than ever to be done. He knocked on Alastor Moody's door and was mildly surprised to be given a memory on the spot. The Auror, it turned out, had anticipated his demand and had already extracted and sealed his memory in a vial.
It was with trepidation that the headmaster plunged his face into the Pensieve once again. He watched and waited, barely daring to breathe. To his bewilderment, there was nothing new to discover. A frustrated Severus could be seen returning to the castle after having failed to catch the murderer. Then there were trees, a few spooked creatures darting past the Auror, and a glimpse of the large black dog sniffing the ground. As thoroughly as Moody had searched, his endeavour had yielded even less than Snape's. They had, truly, lost the battle.
That night found Albus at Nurmengard, sharing the new pillow with his lover. Formalities such as replacing a prisoner's bedding took no time to carry out when people in positions of authority wished them fulfilled. Despite the stiffness in his limbs, the Englishman kept running gentle caresses down Gellert's cheeks, the side of his neck. Under the duvet, their legs touched, keeping each other warm.
"It's all right," the German wizard breathed. "I won't ask if you don't want to talk."
"I do." Albus held on to him, as though they were in the open sea and in danger of being swept away by the current. "It's… Barty Crouch. He was tortured to insanity, and now, he is dead. There was just enough fixation, strength, and stubbornness in him to escape and drag himself to Hogwarts. Naturally, he was destined to run into Harry. This is when it happened: minutes after Harry went to fetch me. This Death Eater is everywhere. He killed Crouch before I could have spoken to him. The fact that Harry wasn't kidnapped there and then is the only mercy."
Gellert frowned. "Maybe you ought to show me."
He tilted his head towards the loose brick, under which Lucille's candles and the chalk reposed.
"Afterwards, we could even order dinner," he jested. "I feel as if, this once, we might get away with a little mischief. They changed the pillow this morning, and so swiftly too. I could have sworn the minister himself had ordered it."
His words were as effective as the Cheering Charm. A small smile tugged at the other man's lips, some of the tension in his body draining away.
"The minister was bullied into it, I'm afraid. He has had to endure several months of extensive reports composed by a Self-Writing Quill that cost twelve Knuts."
"Ah. You have found our greatest weakness: we've always favoured swift and precise answers. Anything longer than this will be perceived as a particularly cruel form of torture." Gellert smiled back. "I'm glad it worked, Schatz."
He started drawing symbols on the ground to render Legilimency less laborious. Pushing himself up, Albus eyed the candles. They were nearly finished.
"Summer Solstice." He peered up earnestly. "I'll be ready. Let's get rid of this Dark entity once and for all."
"Summer Solstice," came a reminiscent echo. "What a night…"
It was on Summer Solstice, all the way back in 1899, that they had become lovers.
Stopping in the middle of the drawn pentagon where the air was now purified, as if suffused with moonlight, Gellert held out his hand.
"Whenever you are ready. You'll feel much better once it's over, I promise."
The Englishman shared everything: Harry's alert, the search in the Forest, the teachers' memories. There was so much to see yet very little information to show for it. It left the other wizard pensive.
"Hmm. He's clever. Schatz, you know his followers. It must be someone you know. Who could possibly have pulled this off?"
"No one I've met who hasn't been imprisoned." Albus shook his head. "All I can say for certain is that they resort to the Polyjuice Potion. This is why their true scent appears so sporadically around the grounds."
"What if he is not a follower but a sympathiser? Has anyone you know ever expressed radical ideas?"
After careful deliberation, there was another headshake. "I understand why you believe he is someone I know. He must know me well enough. I might even have taught him at some point." Their gazes met. "How can we trap someone who has grown so accustomed to disguising himself?"
Gellert let out a sigh. "I'm the wrong person to ask. I was… fooled in quite the same fashion."
He contemplated the shadows candlelight was painting over the walls.
"Haven't you told me the Durmstrang champion is a Krum?"
"Viktor Krum." Albus grew still. He remembered the rumours. "Have you met one of his ancestors in person?"
"Falibor. I first approached him at school. Years later, I contacted him again, and it went surprisingly well. Falibor was outspoken, admired, and popular in Bulgaria, his homeland. Times were, sadly, not so kind towards him and his people. This family has gypsy blood, you see. As you know, gypsy mages prefer to live among their Muggles—much like the vanmaji back in the day. As history would have it, their Muggles are met with prejudice among other Muggles. When a hostile campaign was launched against their folk, the gypsy mages were placed in a dire predicament. Falibor agreed lifting the Statute of Secrecy—locally, at least—would help them, so we found common ground. We worked together until I made the mistake of sending one of my followers to meet with him. That wizard killed Falibor. I found out only later. Needless to say, Bulgarians haven't been particularly fond of me ever since. The ground that had been shaky before… well, it was gone now. My follower died too: he ended his life after ending Falibor's. And yet, his story is a tragic one. He was very clever, mind you… just like our elusive friend at Hogwarts."
The other wizard listened, his heart heavy. Gently, he placed his hand on Gellert's.
"I knew one of your followers had killed a Krum," he admitted. "But why? To end it all after committing murder… It must have been personal."
"It was fear," Gellert said simply. "There are bokors among gypsy mages. Most wizards hold the unfounded belief that all gypsies are bokors. We don't see nearly enough people like the Krums to show how unjust this prejudice is. Even so, the Krums—not only Falibor—have never felt ashamed of their mixed ancestry, and they've never pretended to be Bulgarian pure-bloods, the way Ignat did. In retrospect, I've come to think this is yet another reason Ignat never tolerated me: he didn't want me to disturb the precious balance between the Bulgarian, Ottoman, and gypsy wizards within the Statute of Secrecy. Falibor, on the other hand, argued that both gypsy mages and their Muggles were human beings worthy of protection and decent treatment. But I digress. There are bokors among gypsies, and they might be the reason their entire folk has endured so much hatred. My unfortunate follower had fallen victim to one of them. His life was full of pain and fear, so he decided… he would foil any attempts at granting the gypsies protection or even consideration. Falibor's murder sent everyone a clear message: it was meant to show I sided with pure-bloods and that my ideas of the Greater Good, of lifting the Statute of Secrecy, were lies. Everything went downhill for me as of that moment. And yet… I just feel sorry for Balsar. He left me an apologetic note, you know. It was sad."
Inhaling deeply, the German wizard straightened up, his sapphire eyes melancholy.
"I hope the individual who has been deceiving you is despicable. It's easier to hate someone than to pity them. But one thing is certain, Schatz. No matter how well he disguises himself, he is someone you know."
Those words settled in and would not leave Albus's mind. He pondered them, as he did Balsar's story, on his way to Hogwarts the following morning. After hours of rest, his tiredness had subsided, and resolve was coursing through him. If the killer was an acquaintance of his, he was bound to have appeared in a memory.
The Pensieve was retrieved from its cabinet, and memory after memory fell into its silver, cloud-like depths. A parade of the known Death Eaters, both dead and alive, followed by those who had been associated with Voldemort's name at least once, even if they had never been granted the Dark Mark.
When reviewing those names, one had to wonder at the numbers of witches and wizards who had chosen to follow Tom Riddle. The truth was, only a handful of them were criminals. Many merely believed in the traditional structure of the wizarding community and were unwilling to accept that the times of the pure-bloods' rule were at an end. They were too frightened to face a society mostly composed of half-bloods and Muggle-borns.
Could such people's fear result in murder and plotting? Only a thorough scrutiny could reveal the truth.
Three days later, Albus was poring over still more recollections when Everard's announcement broke through his focus.
"The Minister for Magic will be here in five minutes."
Perplexed, the headmaster hastened to put the Pensieve back in its cabinet. He had not contacted Cornelius Fudge in any manner. Surely, none of his teachers had done so either. He had hoped to solve the mystery without any interference from Umbridge.
The flames in the fireplace glowed green, and there was Fudge, shaking ashes off his pinstripe suit and bowler hat.
"Dumbledore," he called, regaining his bearings, "I hope you don't mind me barging in like this. I just discussed it with Dolores, and we've agreed it's rather urgent. I'm here about that whole Crouch affair."
With some effort, Albus banished resignation from his features, hoisting on a smile.
"Of course, I don't mind in the slightest. Please, make yourself at home, Cornelius."
The minister did not need encouragement; he plopped into a seat.
"We found out from Karkaroff's letter. A student of his was attacked—a beastly experience, from what I've read—by both Barty and Hagrid." He let out a groan. "Awful business, awful, old chap. We are lucky it hasn't landed in the tabloids. If it had… well, with all the other scandals on top, I believe you'd have been packing at this point. I'm here as a courtesy—our old friendship matters to me. But adding Harry Potter as a champion, attacking the foreigners like this, not to mention all the minor aggressions against the Durmstrang students… If we don't do something, Hogwarts will lose what little reputation it has left."
So, it was Karkaroff who had complained. He had promised he would not let the incident slide. This should have been expected.
Albus frowned. "Minor aggressions against the Durmstrang students?"
It was Fudge's turn to gape. "Your brother hasn't told you? Why, he refused to serve the Durmstrang boys and insulted them when they entered his pub."
This made no sense. As blunt as Aberforth's manners were, he never insulted children. What did make sense was Karkaroff's penchant for blowing simple matters out of proportion. No doubt, he had described a single, snappish I don't sell to minors as an instance of discrimination verging on a physical assault.
The headmaster cleared his throat. "You know all about Karkaroff's past, Cornelius. It has come to my attention he would make his students taste the wine provided by Hogwarts before drinking it. I cannot blame Aberforth for refusing to sell to a man who has abused his position of power."
He ought to have spared his breath. All this admission elicited was a pitying smile.
"I understand you feel the need to protect your brother, but better talk to him, old chap, whatever his motivations. Granted, Mr Karkaroff shouldn't be sharing his wine, but accusing him of something so nefarious just to protect a family member…" Fudge tsked. "No, no, there is no need for that. I'll just give Aberforth a warning for now. Discrimination can't be tolerated. But he, at least, hasn't gone further—unlike Hagrid, mind you. That's something we have to address as well. Things have gone too far, old friend. I've told you again and again: your tendency to see the best in people will be the ruin of you."
Arguing was useless. It was said that happy, healthy relationships could bring out the best in individuals. Umbridge's influence kept bringing out the worst in the minister.
"Would you like to see what happened that evening?" Albus proposed evenly. "I'll be happy to show you my memory."
At this, an irritable note entered the portly wizard's tone. "Dear man, there's no need to fly into a bate. I don't doubt you. Just, you should know this complaint hasn't been sent to me alone—the Norwegian Ministry has been notified as well. All we can do at this point is keep it out of the tabloids."
"I'm confident this won't be an issue." The more stubbornly Fudge spoke, the calmer the answer had to be. "You yourself have forbidden Rita from visiting these grounds without authorisation, and none of her colleagues are quite as militant."
"Right…"
For an instant, the minister appeared lost, as if he could think of nothing to say.
"I didn't see Crouch myself," Albus ventured. "But I believe the two witnesses who saw him come out of the Forbidden Forest: Harry Potter and Viktor Krum."
"Right."
The stubby fingers twirled the lime-green bowler hat round and round. Something about the way Fudge was holding himself—his body language stiff, alert—felt distantly reminiscent. The headmaster could recognise mistrust when it stared him in the face.
It had happened then. The Minister for Magic was no longer on his side. The stories he had been fed on a daily basis had penetrated under his skin, and now he was lost. The delicate alliance between the school and the Ministry had become an illusion.
Without skipping a beat or changing his demeanour, Albus turned towards the portraits.
"May I ask you to check whether Alastor Moody is available? If he is, I would like him to join us. He conducted the investigation for hours after Barty Crouch's disappearance."
"Yes, yes, good idea," Fudge remarked while Dilys Derwent walked out of her frame. "Mad as he is, he does have that big, all-seeing eye… Hmm, it would be good to visit the crime scene too. And I almost forgot—I have here a list of suspects…"
He pulled out a scroll of parchment containing, Albus feared, more accusations against innocent people. Yet woe to anyone who dared to point out Karkaroff had once been a Death Eater.
Within several minutes, Moody knocked on the door and was invited inside.
"Thank you for coming, Alastor." The headmaster chose his words prudently, confident the Auror would notice them and would not deviate from this version of events. "The minister and I were just discussing the night Barty Crouch went missing on these grounds."
The newcomer's natural and magical eyes both flew towards the official.
"Good day, minister. You look like you've seen better times."
Fudge pursed his lips.
"Some very serious allegations have been made against Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; we're lucky none of them have yet appeared in the papers. I was just telling Dumbledore here—absolutely outrageous, what happened…"
"Agreed," Moody said gravely, though he considered Albus, as if to ascertain how much they were going to reveal.
With a reassuring smile, the headmaster turned around to nod at the ominous scroll of parchment.
"You mentioned you had brought a list of suspects, Cornelius. Are these the people you believe capable of kidnapping Barty Crouch?"
"Yes, yes." Fudge pulled out a quill. "Let's see… That African witch who was allegedly involved in putting Harry Potter's name in the Goblet of Fire… She would have a motive for taking care of an independent Ministry judge, yes? Where was she at the time of the incident?"
This was a mere start, and already, the old wizard's blood had begun to boil.
"Professor Sinistra was at the top of the Astronomy Tower, teaching a class of third years."
"Oh?" Disappointed, the minister crossed out the first line. "Then I take it this can be confirmed by the students? Ah, well, like I said, I believe you. Now, I was thinking… that French champion has Veela blood, doesn't she? So, objectively speaking, it wouldn't have been too difficult for her to lure poor Barty into the woods and force him to attack Karkaroff's champion. After all, she has proven to be the weakest contestant, and that boy might win. I would imagine it feels frustrating."
Alastor intervened before another word could be uttered.
"Well, my magical eye didn't spot her in the woods that night. Either way, our opponent is a great deal more experienced than a seventeen-year-old girl."
Fudge gestured vaguely, as one might have batted away an insect.
"Ah, those half-breeds… Speaking of, her headmistress is another matter, isn't she? Where did the incident take place again?"
"Near the Quidditch pitch, at the entrance to the Forbidden Forest." Keeping a flat tone had rarely felt so challenging.
"And how far away is the Beauxbatons carriage exactly?"
This proved too much for Moody.
"Excuse me, minister, but I feel you might have overlooked the most glaring issue: Bartemius Crouch."
"Oh, that." Without tearing his eyes off the parchment, the portly man shrugged. "Yes, well, you know… I've been thinking about it. Haven't they all been affected by magical fatigue? Rumour has it, poor Barty's late wife wasn't exactly sane towards the end—walking around naked in front of Muggles and whatnot. Don't even get me started on that son of theirs, who turned out to be a criminal and a cuckoo to boot. Frankly, it explains why Crouch preferred to live in a Muggle area: imagine the embarrassment, otherwise. Anyway, we no longer suspect he was kidnapped. Most likely, he was overcome by fatigue and had one of his episodes. How did Harry describe him to you, Dumbledore? Did he look ill? I imagine he did since he attacked Karkaroff's student, of all people. Merlin's Beard, so lucky the papers haven't got wind of it! After Hogwarts' reputation, mine would have fallen straight away."
To the headmaster's alarm, Alastor appeared unusually furious at this rant: the expression on his scarred face left no doubt he was seconds away from aggravating the situation. Quickly, Albus cut in.
"As I said, I never saw Crouch in person. According to Harry's description, the man looked tortured, rather than ill." This was as good an instant as any to lead the conversation in a different direction. "It's not the first disappearance this year either, Cornelius. Almost a year has passed since Bertha went missing. There is even more: a Muggle vanished in the village near the Riddle House, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's ancestral home, only to be found dead. I don't believe these are isolated incidents."
As could have been anticipated, all he earned himself was an annoyed scoff.
"Dumbledore, I'm afraid I don't see the connection, don't see it at all! Ludo says Bertha's perfectly capable of getting herself lost. I agree we would have expected to have found her by now, but all the same, we've no evidence of foul play, Dumbledore, none at all, as for her disappearance being linked with Barty Crouch's!"
"And what do you think happened to Barty Crouch, minister?" The Auror's self-control was now firmly back in place.
"I see two possibilities." Unconsciously, it seemed, Fudge started rolling up his scroll of parchment. "Either Crouch has finally cracked—more than likely, I'm sure you'll agree, given his personal history—lost his mind and gone wandering off somewhere—"
"He wandered extremely quickly if that is the case, Cornelius," Albus commented despite himself.
"Or else—well…"
The minister hesitated, and out of his lips came even more insinuations against Madame Maxime. One could have wagered he had resolved to arrest the French witch, just as he had attempted to blame the Goblet's confusion on Aurora. This was not the strangest part. Albus struggled to believe the initiative had originated with Umbridge: she was much too cunning and pragmatic to wish for a public scandal with the French Ministry. No, it had to be Fudge's personal endeavour.
Moody's brusque "Can we wrap up this discussion?" brought a wave of relief succeeded by astonishment. Someone was waiting behind the door. A pale, haggard Harry.
It was clear from his stunned appearance that he had overheard some of the official's declarations. The latter did not notice, for there was unfeigned cordiality to his greeting. At least one source of comfort this was: the knowledge that Harry was not yet in the direct line of fire. For now, while working on the minister, Umbridge had been targeting Albus alone.
"I didn't see Madame Maxime anywhere, though," the teenager asserted, looking up at them in turn, "and she'd have a job hiding, wouldn't she?"
With sheer willpower, the headmaster suppressed a chortle of mirth. Bless that brave, wonderful boy.
Fudge's jovial smile faltered. "Yes, well…" He fumbled with his bowler hat. "We're about to go for a short walk on the grounds, Harry, if you'll excuse us. Perhaps if you just go back to your class—"
"I wanted to talk to you, professor," came a sudden objection.
The green eyes sought out Albus, anxious and trusting in equal measure. All it took was the gentlest, most superficial bout of Legilimency to glimpse the thoughts of Voldemort lurking at the forefront of the boy's mind. All sense of amusement dissipated on the spot.
"Wait here for me, Harry. Our examination of the grounds will not take long."
There was no choice but to escort Fudge and Moody downstairs and lose more precious time.
"Did Harry look peaked to you, Dumbledore?" the minister mused. "Do you reckon he is still affected by what he saw? If so, I shudder to imagine what Karkaroff's champion must look like—you should have seen that complaint! Dolores had to fetch me a good strong tipple. Good thing our Norwegian colleagues are discreet and haven't leaked anything to the press."
The other two wizards exchanged exasperated glances. Only, the monologue was not over.
"Are you quite sure that French headmistress isn't behind it all? I mean… it would be convenient for her to get rid of the other champions. I'm ready to bet she scared Harry and Krum to half-death: a perfect scheme for elevating her incompetent champion."
"I am quite sure." Albus quickened his step. "Besides, neither Harry nor Alastor saw her even once that night. This way, Cornelius."
The patch of grass where Viktor Krum had been found unconscious was now deserted. The trees loomed tall and dark before them.
"Crouch was seen right here." The headmaster pointed towards the woods. "No one knows how he came here all the way from England."
As the politician peered around him and hmphed, Moody proposed,
"Would you like to go further, minister? We have traced the spot where Crouch disappeared all the way into the forest."
"Oh, you did? How?"
This was an unfortunate slip-up, and Alastor shot the headmaster a questioning look. The true answer was, Severus Snape and the large black dog had discovered the place. And there was no need for the Ministry to find out about their involvement.
A few seconds later, Fudge resolved the bind himself.
"Oh, never mind. It sounds rather deep in the forest…"
His gaze lingered on the ground and then on his feet. It had drizzled in the morning; the earth was soft and muddy. Absently, he started rubbing his shoes against the nearest tree trunk to clean them.
"Hagrid has a dog, a boarhound," Albus clarified. "It's with his help that we could track down the final spot."
"Oh, Hagrid." Fudge let out a chuckle. "Not surprised. You know, Dumbledore, he could as well be covering for that giantess—"
"MINISTER!"
The three of them spun around. Karkaroff was marching towards them, his posture intimidating. He had seen them from the ship.
"I vos expecting you sooner. Did you receive my letter?"
Hastily, the politician straightened himself.
"Why, yes, yes, naturally. Headmaster Karkaroff, I offer you my deepest apolo—"
"Apologies vill not cover it!" Karkaroff bellowed. "Do you have any idea vot poor Viktor has been through? Do you?! If it had been only me, I vouldn't have breathed a vord, but my students are under my protection, and it's my sacred duty to keep zem safe. And here zey are, exposed to trauma and abuse, iff not vorse. I'm not entirely convinced it vosn't a murder attempt!"
Fudge swallowed, all but stammering with shock.
"A murder—my dear man—now you calm down. I understand you are upset but—"
"Has Albus Dumbledore already told you how he ordered his pet giant to attack me vhen I tried to defend Viktor? Ask him!"
The portly wizard addressed Albus, his voice faint. "You… ordered that?"
The fact that this farce was truly taking place was difficult to comprehend. Without a word, Albus lifted his wand and produced the only piece of evidence that could make any difference: he extracted a memory and let it unfold in front of them all. It showed the brief yet complete sequence of events starting with Karkaroff's angry tirade and ending with him whisking Viktor Krum to the ship, his final words a threat, while Hagrid led Harry to the castle.
"Merlin's beard," Fudge breathed, utterly shocked by what he had witnessed. He drew a steadying breath. "Now, now, Headmaster Karkaroff, let us calm down. Dumbledore didn't give the order; you must have misunderstood. But Dumbledore—Merlin's beard—you actually let Hagrid stay here after this?"
Confronted with proof, Karkaroff backtracked.
"You are right, minister; it vos shock. Looking at ze memory now, ze order vos not direct. But as you point out, a monster is roaming zis school. Or haff you forgotten ze article zat appeared in your own press?"
"No, no, of course not," came a desperate reassurance. "Dumbledore, from what I can see, Hagrid must have felt… protective… and he interpreted Headmaster Karkaroff's anger as a personal insult, which I'm sure—"
"It vos a misunderstanding. My champion had been viciously attacked. In fact…"
Without letting anyone else put in a word, Karkaroff reached for his wand and produced sparks. Not an instant later, they heard footsteps and panting. A teenage boy reached them, as breathless as Harry had been after running to the Black Lake before the Second Task. He tried to bow but doubled over instead, clutching at the stitch in his side.
"Headmaster Karkaroff, you have summoned," he wheezed out.
"Dragomir, fetch Viktor at once and tell him it's urgent."
The boy broke into a run without a second's pause.
"Oh, surely, this isn't necessary," protested Fudge, having at last found his voice.
Silent through it all, Alastor Moody observed Karkaroff with pure contempt.
"It is necessary, minister," the Durmstrang headmaster cut in. "My champion vos attacked by a Trivizard judge; his injuries vere mildly serious—I called an independent expert to examine him ze same night—and instead of getting help for ze poor child, Albus Dumbledore preferred to summon his pet monster of a giant and—indirectly perhaps, yes—gave him ze order to attack me. Zat is not all. As I explained in my letter, before zis attack on me—which poor Viktor had to vitness after having been viciously attacked himself—ze Headmaster of Hogvarts didn't seem too bozered by the whole affair. He merely poked unconscious Viktor before I arrived. Vot help is zat? If it vosn't for your reputation of a fair man, minister, I vould suspect conspiracy!"
Fudge was becoming nearly as breathless with tension as Dragomir. "Well… I… Dumbledore, you… did provide help for the poor boy, I hope?"
Albus touched his temple again. While this new memory was even shorter, it left it plain that checking Viktor Krum's state, reviving him, and making sure he was in good health had been the Englishman's priority.
No sooner was the recollection placed back inside his mind than flesh-and-blood Viktor Krum came within their eyeshot, sprinting as fast as he could. Compared to Harry, who had given the impression of feeling poorly, this young athlete had never seemed healthier. Except Fudge did not notice: his eyes had widened in a sudden realisation.
"A giant attack," he breathed. "Dumbledore, my theory could be correct: it's the French headmistress! She is also a giant, and Hagrid was probably covering for her. How else did he come here so fast? Merlin's beard…"
"Zat, I don't know, minister," Karkaroff intervened. "I certainly agree on how violent ze Hogwarts giant is." He whipped about. "Here, Viktor, tell zem vot you told me: how you vere attacked and how your head hurt so much, how scared you vere. Yes, tell ze British minister."
Krum stared. Only seconds later did he catch himself, clearing his throat.
"I… it vos ze Trivizard judge—he crawled out of zere…" He pointed at the nearby trees. "I vos viz Harry Potter—"
"Zat is not relevant, Viktor," his headmaster interrupted. "I know you vere talking about zat girl; zat is not why I haff summoned you. Tell zem how it all affected you, how your head hurt, how afraid you vere."
The teenager blinked. Albus felt inexpressibly sorry for him.
"Yes… I vos very… afraid," he admitted wretchedly.
"Do you see, minister?" Karkaroff bore down on the portly wizard again. "Viktor is brave and strong and very modest, so he vill not confess it, but he vos afraid for his life. And vouldn't you be? Ze Hogvarts champion—vho shouldn't even be a champion, mind you—lured him out into ze voods, where ze British Ministry employee vos vaiting in the bushes to attack him. He is lucky to be alive!"
This, for once, was too much even for Fudge.
"Now, now, I'm sure it wasn't like that." He gave Krum a feeble smile. "Thank you, dear boy, you may go. I'm very sorry for all the emotional… for everything… Good lad. Let us talk things out."
The teenager hardly needed persuasion; his posture was imploring as he awaited Karkaroff's permission to leave.
"Yes, go, Viktor. But take your friends vith you. You must not be alone; ve are on ze enemy territory."
Sure enough, attracted by the sounds of the argument, two more Durmstrang students were now peeking from behind a pair of trees: Dragomir, the boy who had fetched Viktor, and Yyhely, the girl who had praised Aberforth's pub during the Yule Ball. At the sight of them, Krum's features went from pasty to scarlet. It was obvious he wished for nothing more than to hide under the ground and never show his face again.
"As you see, minister," Karkaroff gestured towards the three retreating teenagers, "even my ozer students know how much danger ve are in."
Fudge sighed, trying and failing to imbue his words with charismatic authority.
"No, no—my dear Headmaster Karkaroff—look, why don't we leave it behind us?"
"Minister, I vould like to, but Viktor's injuries and ze severe emotional damage… I don't know." The other man stroked his goatee, a calculating glint to his eye. "I haven't even mentioned my own ordeal to the press. If I vere to…"
He had hit the sore point.
"Dear headmaster, let us not involve any press, please." Fudge looked up at Albus. "I—Dumbledore, Hagrid will pay damages to Headmaster Karkaroff—a fine if you will. That is final."
Watching the fiasco unfurl, Albus reminded himself again and again Karkaroff's life was in mortal peril. Soon, he would go on a run. Should he succeed in avoiding death, he would end up living the way Wormtail had done for years. None of these conflicts mattered in the long run. If he craved gold so badly, he could have it.
"Very well, Cornelius." He held the minister's gaze. "I will only allow myself a word of caution: if you decide to press charges against Madame Maxime, the French Ministry representatives will be coming here. She is well-respected in France. If she is innocent, they will prove it in a wink… and that can never be kept out of the papers. I'm sure Miss Umbridge will agree. As for the fine, Hogwarts will be expecting your letter."
He had been correct: not only had Fudge failed to think of the consequences of his plan; he had not shared the idea with Dolores either.
"My dear man, you are right! Headmaster Karkaroff, please don't talk to the press. Let us… ah, let's discuss a settlement instead."
The Durmstrang headmaster heaved a dramatic sigh. "Zere have been so many vrongdoings, minister, if only you knew… Did you pay attention to vot I wrote about the discrimination against my students?" He did not wait for an answer. "Vell, I suppose it's somezing ve'll have to suffer in silence. Unlike ze beast vho tried to kill me, ze pub owner had enough sense to not attack my students. Zen again, he probably vould have done if it vosn't for ze vitnesses."
"Oh, headmaster, that's secondary," the politician returned. "Hagrid, at the very least, is guilty. Dumbledore, I agree with you: the French are very narrow-minded when it comes to dangerous creatures. This could indeed lead us into trouble."
But Karkaroff could not care less about the allegations involving Madame Maxime.
"You vere villing to talk about a settlement, minister?" he reminded. "I'll be more zan happy to invite you to my ship."
Fudge gave a nod. "Yes, yes. Well, Dumbledore, I'll be sending you a letter then. We'll talk some more about the French giant attacking Crouch—unless it was just one of Crouch's episodes—after I've delivered my findings to Dolores, shall we?"
With a laconic goodbye, Albus turned his back on the two wizards and sped towards the castle, Moody not far behind him. Too incensed to speak, they parted at the foot of the Grand Staircase, the headmaster's mind now fully focused on Harry, who was waiting in the office all alone.
They were running out of time. As of this day, nothing insignificant mattered.