March 30, 1982

Barty stepped from the fireplace in a flash of green flames. He had just come off another long day at the Ministry, working as the head of the Department of Law Enforcement. His last day. Barty shook his head, still hardly able to believe his demotion.

Barty placed his cloak on the armchair, along with the Evening Prophet he had picked up before leaving the office.

"Trista?" he called out. Her name seemed to bounce off the high ceilings before fading away into deep silence. He walked into the kitchen, but there was no one there. On the counter was an empty cup; a spoon and soggy teabag were resting on a saucer. Barty walked back into the sitting room, also empty.

"Trista?" he called again. "Winky?"

The house-elf appeared, bowing and scraping. "Yes, master?"

"Where is my wife?"

"Please, sir, she is getting ready for dinner," Winky said. "She asks if you will go to the dining room, she will be down soon."

Barty narrowed his eyes at Winky. Her voice was squeaking even higher than normal and she was twisting her hands in agitation. Even for Winky, this was unusual; something was wrong.

"Is my wife okay?" he asked, suspicious.

Winky trembled. "Mistress is…Mistress asked Winky to prepare special dinner for her family tonight."

"What's the occasion?"

Winky shook her head, causing her bat-like ears to flap from side-to-side. "Please, Master, ask poor Winky no more questions. Mistress will be down soon. Winky must serve dinner."

With some trepidation, Barty left the house-elf and walked into the formal dining room. It hadn't been used in months.

At first, the room looked normal. It had obviously been cleaned and prepared for a special dinner. Fresh candles in the chandelier cast a warm glow; the silverware and plates gleamed in the yellow light. The painting of Great-Uncle William was snoozing in his polished frame, and the carpet was dust-free. Even the salads were already served. Three chilled salad plates sat in front of three wineglasses…

What?

Barty blinked and looked again. He counted carefully. Again, he saw three places set for dinner- one at the head of the table, and one to the left and right.

"Barty, you're home!"

Barty turned around to see Trista and his confusion increased. As of late Trista had taken to wearing her house robe all day, with no makeup and hair lank. But tonight, she was wearing pale-blue dress robes, her hair was up in an elegant bun, and her pale cheeks had a healthy looking blush. She looked ready for a business party, like they used to attend.

"Uh, dear?" Barty said cautiously.

"Yes?" Trista asked, smiling slightly and walking to the chair right of the head chair. As she walked by, Barty caught the faint smell of perfume. It was familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

"What's…the occasion?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing special, really," she said casually. "I just realized this morning how long it's been since we've had a proper sit-down meal." She smiled. "I thought it would make for a nice change."

Barty stared at her, then at the third plate. He didn't want to ask about that plate. It scared him. He really, really, didn't want to know, didn't want to ask. So he didn't.

He smiled at his wife, sat down, and ate his salad. The seat to his left remained empty.

April 18, 1982

Two weeks later, and the third plate hadn't disappeared. Every night Barty came home to a cooked meal and a smiling wife. Every night Trista was dressed up, maybe not as much as that first night, but still fresh and proper-looking. Every night Winky served her master's dinner in the polished dining room. And every night, a third plate was set.

Winky was slowly adjusting to this strange routine. The first night it had happened, Mistress Crouch had given the house-elf very specific instructions.

"Winky, tonight dinner is going to be different," she had said. Mistress was sitting in front of her vanity in her bedroom, staring at her pale complexion in the mirror. An array of foundation, blush, lipstick, eye shadow, and powder was set in front of her. Mistress was wrapped in her flimsy bed robe, open at the neck. Winky could see her chest bones pressing against the skin.

"I want to have a real meal," Mistress continued. "I want a salad, a main entrée, and a dessert served. I want the main entrée to have a meat, two vegetables, and two varieties of bread. I want a different wine for each course, to compliment the food. Is that clear?"

"Yes, mistress," Winky had said, bowing and turning to leave to prepare the meal.

"Oh, and Winky."

"Yes, mistress?"

"Be sure you make enough."

Winky was slightly puzzled as to why Mistress was reminding her, but she bowed anyway. "Of course mistress."

"I want my boys to be well-fed tonight."

Winky froze. "Mistress?"

For the first time, Mistress turned to look at Winky. "You heard me."

"Yes mistress," Winky said quickly, bowing again. "So Winky should make enough food for h-how many, then?" Her words faltered under her mistress' gaze.

"For three, of course."

"Of course," Winky repeated. Quickly she left. But before she could get downstairs, she heard her mistress laugh. Stopping on the first step, Winky listened hard. Again she laughed, and this time Winky could hear mistress talking.

Wondering if mistress was calling for Winky again, she walked back to the partially closed door. She was about to walk in when mistress spoke.

"No, dear," she was saying in that same laughing voice Winky had heard before. "Perfume is only for ladies, not little boys."

Slowly, Winky pressed her eye to the crack. Her knees were knocking with fear, but she was too scared to leave (what if mistress needed her help?) and too scared to enter the room. Torn, she could only stand there as mistress talked to thin air.

"No, don't play with that…it's very expensive…this is Daddy's favorite…he bought it for me when you were born…" Mistress was spraying perfume onto her wrist and neck, talking animatedly with her reflection in the mirror. It was apparent, however, she wasn't talking to herself.

Winky backed away quietly, watching the door. When she felt she was a safe distance away, she turned and flew down the stairs.

Since then, every night had been the same. Mistress would call Winky into her bedroom about mid-afternoon to give her the evening's menu, always for three. And once Winky left, she could hear her mistress laughing and talking to…

…But Winky didn't dare finish that thought.

Barty ate the last bite of his trifle, placing his fork on the plate delicately so as not to break the silence. Trista was still playing with her dessert. Her face was a closed book, not even her eyes, once so readable, showed the thoughts behind them. Barty watched her, concerned.

"Do you not want your dessert, Trista?" Barty finally ventured to say. She jumped slightly, looking up startled. She gave him a wide-eyed stare. Then she shook her head.

"Oh- I suppose I'm not very hungry tonight."

"Why not?"

Trista tried to smile, but it came out as a facial twitch. "It's just…he's not here."

A cloud came over Barty's face. "Who?" he asked, his voice oddly constricted.

"Barty." Trista's husband said nothing, but the cloud darkened. Trista, who had her eyes fixed straight ahead, didn't notice. "I thought if I set his place at the table, he would come back."

"Trista-" the harshness of Barty's voice snapped her attention to his face. His eyes were dark and angry, he was sitting rigid in his chair, and the premature lines of his face seemed somehow more pronounced than usual.

"He can't come back, you know that," he said. Trista felt the tears well up, and she tried vainly to blink them away.

"I know," she said, her voice growing fainter with every word. "I just thought if I could pretend-"

"Pretend what?" Barty's voice, unlike Trista's, was becoming stronger, his words spitting from his mouth like bullets from a gun. Trista couldn't look in his face, instead choosing to stare at the limp salad still sitting in the seat opposite of her.

"Pretend like he was still here, you know, a child…" The tears were crawling down her cheeks. "I tried to ignore what had happened, go back to when he was little…was such an affectionate little boy…"

Barty's face softened, just a fraction. "Did it work?"

Trista shook her head. Her tears were falling on her plate now. "When I talked to him, I could hear him. I could even see him…but I couldn't hold him." She started to rock, just slightly. "I hold out my arms, waiting for him to come…but when he did, I couldn't touch him…"Her voice was cracking. "He would start crying, because he couldn't climb in my lap…but I just- I couldn't hold him…I couldn't feel my little boy…"

Barty sighed, worry replacing anger. "Trista…" he searched for the right words, the right phrase that would help his wife. "I'm sorry."

Trista sniffed and wiped the tears of her cheeks, but said nothing.

"Maybe…maybe the best thing is just to forget him." Now Trista reacted.

"Forget him? Forget Barty, our only child…like he never existed?" Trista stood, scraping her chair against the wood floor. "No!"

Barty stood too, at a loss. "I just mean…don't torture yourself like this, brining back a time that's dead."

Trista stared at him, her mouth set. "How can I forget Barty?" Her bottom lip gave a bit, trembling. "He's the only thing I ever think about."

There followed a very deep silence. Then Trista left without another word, leaving Barty alone. He could hear her stalk up the stairs, closing a door (probably of her bedroom) with a heavy hand. He stood there for several minutes before finally speaking.

"Winky?"

The house-elf appeared. "Yes, Master Crouch?"

"From now on, prepare dinner for two, unless I say differently."

so...whatcha think?