"Barty! Barty, over here!"
Of course, his parents would forgive him. Barty had no fears on finding himself at the station, happy and confident in the knowledge that he had parents who would love him and help him no matter what he did.
Even if he betrayed them - twice over. Even if his betrayal caused their deaths.
His mother almost flew across the station to him, hugging him tightly. He bore the tearful embrace patiently, much the same way he had the last time that they had discovered they betrayed them. Parents could get so emotional sometimes.
His father was not quite so quick to follow, and for a moment Barty thought the old fool might actually be holding a grudge about the way things had turned out. That seemed unfair - it was hardly his fault he had needed to kill him, after all. If he'd stopped trying to interfere all the time, stopped getting in the way of things that had to be done, he could have been allowed to live.
Of course, none of that could be said out loud. Instead he turned woeful eyes on his father, using a repentant expression that had worked for decades. "Dad? Aren't you pleased to see me?"
"Not so much," his father admitted. The older man's hand was resting lightly on his wand, and Barty eyed it with slight unease. "I don't seem to remember us parting on the best of terms, Bartemius. You killed me. And it was murder not an accident – I should know I was there at the time."
Barty resisted the urge to reach for his own wand. That would not take the conversation the way he needed it to go - not if he ever wanted to get on a train. If he wanted that, he would have to appear to be appropriately guilty, and apologetic and sorrowful.
Just as he had been the first time.
"I'm sorry, Dad," he said, letting his voice tremble a little, a slight whine entering into it. "It wasn't my fault. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named - he made me!"
"Just as he did last time," his father nodded, his expression cold. "So I understand. Amazing how much autonomy you seemed to have while apparently under the control of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. You forget, I had intimate knowledge of how someone behaves under imperio thanks to you."
Barty resisted the urge to snarl at him. He could do this. It was only play-acting, and he had play-acted for months as Mad-Eye. How hard could a few minutes be? He stared at the pavement like a naughty schoolboy, shuffling his feet. "I'm really sorry," he said again, meekly.
"I'm sure he won't do it again, Bartemius." It was his mother who pleaded for him, just as she had the first time, her arms wrapped tightly around Barty as she looked at her husband. "Please, we've all died, and all this quarrelling isn't going to help anyone. I'm sure he's learnt his lesson. Can't we just forget it and move on?"
Forget it and move on. Barty resisted the urge to smirk. Whether it was a broken vase, the torture of innocents, or the murder of his own father, his mother was always quick to disregard any crime of her son's in the sake of family harmony. It could be very convenient sometimes.
There was a pause. Barty could feel his father's eyes on him, feel the hard gaze studying him, and kept his own eyes firmly fixed on the floor. If anyone could get around the rigid righteousness of his father, it was Mother. Mother had always known his soft spots...
"Bartemius," his mother added softly, "remember that eternity is a very long time to spend without your son." She hesitated for a second, and then Barty felt her arms tighten around him. "And without me too, if you wish to choose it that way."
That made his father pause for a moment. "Almathea," he started, and already Barty could hear his voice start to soften, "I know you love him, but the fact remains, your son has done some very bad things..."
"Our son, Bartemius," she corrected fiercely, "...and if he did bad things, it's because we taught him them. We're responsible as much as he is. We can't just leave him."
"Taught him them?" his father echoed, tone incredulous. "Torturing people to death, committing horrible acts of murder and violence? I never taught him such things."
Barty thought of Azkabhan, wondering silently just how many people his father had sentenced there, and stifled a snort. Of course his father never involved himself in torture or murder. He had Dementors to do that for him.
"Please, Bartemius," Almathea asked again. "For love of me, if for nothing else, don't split our family up again. Not when we've only just found each other."
Barty allowed himself to look up then, forcing his face into as repentant expression as he could manage. "Please, Dad," he said, adding his own pleading to his mother's, "I'm really sorry about... you know. Things got confused, and I did things wrong. I see that now."
"I see," his father looked at him hard, as though trying to read him. "Well, I hope your time with a Dementor really has taught you a lesson, young man, because I simply will not tolerate further occurrences of this behaviour."
Taught him a lesson? For a moment, the memory was clear in Barty's mind, the feeling of being trapped, and utterly alone and slowly drained of everything that was good or kind. It wasn't pain, because pain was too small a word for it, in the same way that "cold" was too small a word to describe the Arctic.
As if such an experience could teach anyone anything other than to hate the people who subjected you to it. It was harder this time to control his expression and tone, but he made himself nod again. "I'm sorry, Dad," he repeated.
"There now, he's apologised, let's let that be an end to it, shall we?" his mother urged, looking from one to the other. "Come on now, let's get the train and we'll say no more of the matter. It'll be leaving shortly."
After a moment his father nodded, and it was only with a great effort that Barty stopped himself from smirking as he followed his parents towards the arriving train. Yet again his mother's soft heart had kept him out of trouble.
Or so he thought.
The crowd waiting for the train was a large one, and Barty glanced about as he joined them, noting a few familiar faces. He saw too those lingering at the edge of the crowd, and smiled to himself, understanding why they were afraid to get on and slightly smug that he did not have to suffer the same fear. Of course if you were afraid of where the train would take you, the best solution was to get on with somebody you knew to be truly good. What kind of train would take his mother anywhere bad just in order to punish him? He had no doubt that his mother could pass any test of morality and purity that might be demanded, and so by following her he ensured his own safety.
Not that he intended on telling any of those waiting that of course. No, they could stay here forever or work it out for themselves, it mattered little either way to him.
There was the train, and the crowd surged forward as the doors opened, the platform slowly emptying. Barty followed, making sure to keep his parents in sight.
He did not expect a bony hand to land on his shoulder before he could set foot onto the train.
EXCUSE ME, SIR, the Guard spoke politely but sternly, towering over him. MIGHT I SEE YOUR TICKET PLEASE?
"Ticket?" Barty repeated, glancing after the other passengers. "You never asked for any of their tickets!"
I CAN ASSURE YOU THAT WHETHER I ASKED OR NOT, I SAW THEIR TICKETS. the Guard replied calmly. DO YOU HAVE A TICKET? I AM AFRAID THAT IF YOU HAVEN'T GOT A TICKET, YOU CAN NOT BOARD THE TRAIN.
His mother understood before he did, stepping back onto the platform to rest a protective hand on her son's arm. "He lost his ticket," she said softly, "but he can have mine."
"Almathea, no!" his father looked appalled by the idea. "You've given too much for the young fool already. He made his bed, he'll have to lie on it for once."
I AM SORRY. And indeed the Guard did look regretful - or at least as regretful as a six foot skeleton could look. TICKETS ARE NONTRANSFERABLE. IT IS ONE OF THE TERMS OF BUYING AN ADVANCE TICKET.
No ticket? It took a moment for Barty's mind to process what that actually meant, to understand what had been taken from him in that moment when the Dementor had pressed its mouth to his. They said the Dementors took your soul. He had never thought they actually meant it - at least not like this. He didn't feel different. What was the point of a soul if you couldn't tell if it was gone? How could he be here and talking if his soul was lost and what use was it anyway? Mind and thought were more important, that much was obvious because he was functioning and fine, if dead, which he admitted was a big if, but even so. It was a trivial thing then and easily replaceable.
"Well, couldn't I buy another?" he asked after a minute's thought. "On the platform, or on the train?"
NOT AT THIS STATION, the Guard answered firmly. EXCUSE ME. I HAVE TO SEE THIS TRAIN OFF, OR IT WILL BE LATE. He paused for a moment, as though considering that thought, OR AT LEAST, IT WILL BE LATER THAN USUAL.
"Almathea, come on," his father said impatiently. "Leave the boy to sort out his own mess. You have a ticket, and so do I. We don't need to get involved in this."
For a moment, the thought that his mother might do just as his father said clutched a cold hand around Barty's heart. It wouldn't matter if he could get a ticket somehow - buy one, beg one, steal one if he had to - if he had no-one left to board with. If he dared to board without his mother's love and protection, who knew where the train would take him?
He was fortunate that that same love and protection kept Almathea on the platform. "I'm not going anywhere," she said stubbornly. "Not without my son."
An old man's head poked out of the window at the front of the train, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. "Here, Master, what's the hold-up?" he demanded.
SORRY ALBERT, THESE PEOPLE ARE JUST DECIDING WHETHER OR NOT THEY WISH TO BOARD THE TRAIN. the Guard apologised, before glancing at the cigarette, YOU KNOW, I AM SURE YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO SMOKE THAT ON THE TRAIN ANY MORE. THERE ARE PUBLIC HEALTH REGULATIONS.
"Yeah, well, begging your pardon, Master but when the bleedin' public health board can prove it causes lung cancer or asthma here, then I'll give up the smoking." the driver answered. "Until then, the bloody train smokes more than I do, so I can't see it's a problem." He eyed the pair on the platform sourly. "Are you coming or not? We get enough problems running this thing on time with all the leaves on the line without passengers starting to go and get indecisive about it all."
Passengers, in Albert's opinion, might well be the worst thing about driving a passenger train. In his opinion, the train and indeed the station might do much better without them.
"Don't be ridiculous, man, how can there be leaves on the line here?" Barty demanded, his temper finally starting to get the better of him. There were only a certain amount of hold-ups and obstacles a man might be expected to stand. It was a ridiculous excuse in the living world for trains being late, and doubly so here in a waystation to the afterlife. "It isn't as if there are any trees!"
"That's abuse, that is," Albert said mildly. "You aren't meant to abuse the driver. There's posters around the station and everything saying not to." He took a long draw from his cigarette, flicking the ash out the window, watching it drift in unusual shapes. "And it's him isn't it? Scattering leaves on the rails every night, so that they're there. The things he'll do in the name of realism. It'll be snow next, you'll see."
The Guard almost looked embarrassed, I DO NOT!
"Yes you do, Master. I've seen you, with your little dustpan and brush and everything.," Albert insisted. "Anyway, it's a dead giveaway when you make them black. Everyone knows it's you then. They're a bugger to spot on the black rails as well." He smirked to himself, and looked again at the waiting passengers. "Well? Are you coming?"
"No, we're not," Almathea said staunchly, still gripping her son's arm tightly. "Come along, Bartemius. We'll find a way off this platform together, or not at all."
His father looked as though he wanted to argue, but reluctantly joined them back on the platform, glaring at Barty as he did so.
The driver nodded, pulling his head back through the window; the train doors closed and the Guard gave one long blow on his whistle.
The three watched from the platform as the train left without them.
"I hope you're happy, young man," his father commented sourly once the train had left and the three turned to trudge drearily back towards the benches. "First you get me and your mother killed, then as if that weren't enough we can't even get to the afterlife because we have to wait for you. The trouble your bad behaviour causes this family…"
It was the sort of lecture Barty was used to, and usually didn't bother to respond to. Mostly, it was easier to get his own way if he didn't tell people just how stupid he thought they were. But the shock of discovering he had no ticket was almost too much to bear by itself without having to be scolded about it in addition.
"Yes, well, if you'd taken the time when you had the power to actually get rid of the Dementors rather than deciding that anyone who disagreed with you needed to be dumped on an island with them, maybe I would still have a soul and we wouldn't have this problem!" he said sharply.
His father drew himself up haughtily, and oh, Barty remembered that expression from too many youthful indiscretions – an expression of outrage that said he had no idea how he could have ended up with such a bad son, certainly it could not be due to anything he had done. "Don't you dare talk to me in that insolent tone! That you've reached this state is no-one's fault but your own – certainly you were given more than enough chances!"
"Because if I do, you'll do what? Find a train to take me home so you can send me to my room?" Barty demanded. "I'm sure you were always a man for giving second chances, Dad. That was why you told Aurors to kill people without a trial, wasn't it? That was why you stood up in court and told the world that you thought I should be send to Azkabhan because there was no way you I could ever be redeemable. Yeah, you were all about giving chances."
"How many other boys were pulled out of Azkabhan once they were there?" his father snapped. "Your mother gave her life to give you that chance, and you wasted it…"
"Because being invisible and stuck under Imperius for the rest of your life is just a terrific life to live, isn't it?" Barty asked angrily. "Sure it's better than having your memories sucked out by Dementors, but give it a few years and Azkabhan almost starts looking good again. You helped me exactly as far as you felt Mother's wishes obliged you to, and never an inch further!"
"What did you do to deserve more than that, Bartemius? Tell me, what did you ever do to earn all the leniency you expected?"
"Stop it, both of you." Almathea was a patient woman, but eventually anyone would get tired of the constant squabbling those two put her through. "We're going to find a way off this platform, and we're going to do it together. Quarrelling about whose fault it is won't help anyone."
"And how do you propose to do that when the boy hasn't got a ticket?" his father asked. "It's not as though we have an invisibility cloak here to sneak him onto the train with."
"We simply have to find another way, that's all." She shook her head at the two men. "You two, both of you, are far too used to having everything done your own way. There's always another way."
"Quite right, dear," an approving voice spoke up from a nearby bench, and the three turned as one to find they were being watched with interest by a small group of witches and wizards. "There is always another way. There's the bus for a start."
"There's a bus?" Almathea brightened instantly at the advice. Barty and his father, a little more cautious of strange witches who offered help, stayed back.
"The Rail Replacement Bus, dear," the witch nodded happily. "It takes a little longer than the train of course, but it gets you off the platform at least."
"A little longer?" the other witch laughed. "Rowena's understating it a little there. Twice as long, more like and you'll have to wait out in the rain for it to get here. And then when you get on it, there'll be some little devil sitting behind you, kicking you in the back the whole way."
"We would have thought ourselves lucky to have a bus when I was a boy," one of the wizards mused, his voice deep and mournful. "Horse and cart was all we had then. And you were lucky if the horse didn't get tired halfway there, and everyone had to wait until it had had a bit of a snack and a rest."
"Yes, well, some of us…" the second wizard started.
"Yes, we know," Rowena cut him off before he could get any further, the weary note in her voice indicating that this was an argument she had heard one time too many. "In the North you were too poor to have horse-and-carts, so you had to walk across a desert. We all know, Salazar."
"On our own, too," the old man grumbled unabashed, giving Barty a piercing look. "None of this dragging our parents along to look after us. We stood on our own feet in those days."
Barty squirmed, feeling a little self-conscious under that sharp gaze. Rowena smiled at him kindly.
"Yes, well, the point is…" she went on, raising her voice a little, "that nowadays due to the glory of modern technology no-one has to walk across a desert anymore. Archetypes migrate into the metaphysical plain with predictable ease. I have no doubt when that the next transport revolution occurs we will find this place shifts and alters to the patterns of the mind again. Now however, people can get on a bus and just wait until they're driven to their destination. Isn't that easier than a desert?"
"It was probably quicker when you were walking across the desert," the other witch murmured under her breath. "More reliable too, but that's public transport for you."
"Hush, Helga," Rowena scolded gently. "It hardly matters how long the journey takes as long as they get there in the end."
While they might all have their faults, none of the Crouch family were known for being particularly stupid, and it hardly took a genius to work out that the four people sniping and grumbling in front of them were no other than the first founders of Hogwarts themselves. Almathea had been following the conversation, a little awed by being in the presence of such people, and now she asked nervously, "But where does it go?"
The four founders answered as one. "To the next station!"
"And I could buy a ticket there?" Despite his distrust, it was hard for Barty to not let a little hope enter his voice.
"Perhaps," Rowena shrugged. "That's up to you. Tickets have to be earned, and they do not come cheaply. When you have reached the point where you are ready to pay for a new ticket, then you may buy one."
"Well, that's the boy sorted out then," his father said quickly, his voice gaining a fake cheerful tone. "He can get on the bus and sort himself out with his ticket – or not, as he pleases. There's certainly no need for us to wait around for him."
"Wait," Almathea shook his hand off her arm, unable to be satisfied just yet. "They said he'd have to pay something for it…"
"Well, of course he'll have to pay something for it – did you expect them to let him off for free after all he did?" his father said impatiently. "He tortured people, and killed his own father – I hardly think they're going to slap his hand lightly and tell him not to do it again. There'll be horrible torments most likely – the point is they're his to suffer, and not ours. He can get a ticket once they're over – that's what you wanted, wasn't it?"
It was a speech that drew Salazar Slytherin's attention, and he looked up, his sharp grey eyes focusing on the older Crouch half his act of crotchety old man, slipping away. "Ah, a man who believes in an eye for an eye, I see," he drawled.
"If you mean I don't think people should just be allowed to get away with things like that, you're right," his father agreed. "When people have done something wrong, they should have to pay for what they're done."
He seem to didn't notice the way the other Founders stiffened a touch, nor the warning glance Godric shot his fellow wizard.
"Salazar, you old snake…"
"Easy, Godric, we're only talking," Salazar said calmly. "I'm interested in the man, that's all – nothing wrong with being interested in a person. You seem like an honest sort of man, sir, someone who believes in sticking to the straight and narrow. Life has to have its rules after all, doesn't it?"
"Well, obviously," Barty Crouch Senior agreed, blustering a little. "Otherwise there would be chaos. Justice, that's the important thing."
"Reparations have to be made for the sake of the victims," Salazar went on, his voice smooth. "It's only right that if someone has caused suffering to another, he should be made to suffer himself, isn't that right?"
"Salazar…" Godric warned again.
"It's a simple enough question – there's hardly any harm in asking!" Salazar protested. "And I'm sure the gentleman agrees with me, don't you, Mr Crouch? Isn't that what you spent your life on – ensuring that if somebody had hurt another he was justly and thoroughly punished for it?" He glanced at Barty, and added, "Even if that person was family."
"There's no place for prejudice towards family in a courtroom," He scowled at his son, as though only just reminded of his presence. "Besides, didn't I know better than anyone that the boy had no excuse? He'd been looked after, well brought up, given every opportunity… the shame he brought on us all with his bad behaviour was awful. Cost me my job in fact. But of course he never took the time to consider that."
Barty grimaced. "No, Dad, I'm afraid that while Dementors were engaged in sucking out all my happiest memories, the thought of how embarrassed you must have been about it all quite slipped my mind," he said sharply, "I simply can't imagine how that could have happened, but I must have been distracted."
"The boy had to be punished for hurting innocents, just as anyone else did." Salazar nodded, ignoring Barty's interjection. He let that rest for a heartbeat before adding, "…even, maybe especially, those in power."
"Well, of course!" Still, it seemed Barty's father did not see the trap that was being laid for him.
His wife was a little quicker on the uptake. Almathea tugged frantically on her husbands arm. "Bartemius, dearest, shut up!"
Salazar smiled at her benignly before he went on, his voice taking on an almost dreamy note. "I wonder what suitable reparations would be for a Ministry official who condemned innocents to death and to torture." He raised his head to stare up towards the roof of the station as though contemplating. "I'm not sure. Godric, what do you think?"
The larger wizard sighed, and looked at the older Crouch accusingly. "You know, I tried to warn you."
Barty was smirking, delighted at the sudden turnaround of events. "I told you, Dad. All my best habits I learnt from you."
His father gaped for a moment, struggling to find words. "I never tortured anyone!"
"But you allowed others to do it for you," Salazar said smoothly. "You allowed people to be sent away, knowing the evidence against them was scanty at best. You gave people powers to use Unforgivable Curses with no measures to control who they might end up using them on…"
"I gave the orders that were best for everyone," Mr Crouch tried to defend himself still. "I can't be held responsible for any others."
"Really?" Salazar raised his eyebrows and his eyes glittered. "So the person giving the orders is less responsible than the one carrying them out? That's an interesting point of view. Does that mean you would prefer that your boy here to have been Voldemort rather than one of his Death Eaters? At least then most of the murders would only have been done in his name rather than his own hand."
Almathea gasped at that, and even Barty paled a little, glancing about as though expecting the Dark Lord to appear. "You're not meant to say his name," he cautioned nervously.
Salazar shrugged the warning off easily. "Really, young man, don't you think it's a little late for that kind of care once you reach this place? If a man cannot succeed with his own name and must adopt some posturing teenage pseudonym to be taken seriously then he is as much of a fool as those who believe him. You make the name, the name does not make you. Besides, do you really think even your "Voldemort" could stand against me?
Barty hesitated. The truth was that at first glance Salazar looked like nothing more than a little old man – not very powerful at all. There was something about the way the other Founders stood about him however, seeming to keep a safe distance between him and themselves that spoke volumes. Hadn't the Dark Lord himself turned up in some deceptively weak seeming forms over the years?
"Perhaps not," he conceded after a moment.
The answer earned him a single sharp smile from Salazar before he turned back to Barty's father. "Well?" he challenged. "Do you view it as morally better to be the puppet-master than the one who allows his strings to be pulled?"
"You can't seriously be comparing me to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" the man protested, alarmed.
"Why not?" Salazar asked mildly, watching his discomfort with what appeared to be amusement.
"Because… because, well, I'm a good person!"
There it was, the difference in Barty Crouch Senior's mind that marked the line between what he did, and what anybody else did. What he did was excusable, was necessary, because he was on the side of right and surely that made all the difference… didn't it?
His son snorted quietly, holding rather a different view of affairs.
"Are you?" Salazar's eyes narrowed, as though trying to examine the man more closely. "Certain of that, are you?"
"Yes!" But he was sweating now, and sounding a little less sure with every answer he gave.
"You know," Salazar said softly, "…you're trying very hard to get your wife to come with you to get on a train. A train you have a ticket for, unlike your son, but you have no control over where that ticket will take you. If you ask the Guard, he'll tell you that train takes you to only one destination, but he'll never tell you what that destination is. Where have you bought your ticket for, Mr Crouch? How certain are you that the train will see your life the same way you do?"
The man hesitated, looking to his wife as though for help. Almathea took his hand, holding it tightly. "He's not a bad person," she told Salazar defensively, as though her opinion alone could shield him from any harm that might come to. "Neither of them are. They're not bad people, not deep-down bad."
"Perhaps not," Salazar agreed, turning that same sharp inquisitorial look on her until she shrank back. "But are they good people?"
"Salazar, be nice," Helga warned quietly. "She's done no harm."
"No harm but standing by and allowing them to!" Salazar retorted, "No harm but failing to stop them!"
"That was done out of love," Helga answered. "And we all make mistakes out of love now and then, even if that mistake is only loving someone too much to see in time when you ought to tell someone "No"." She looked at Salazar steadily until he shifted a little, dropping his gaze, seeming discomforted for some reason.
Barty meanwhile was smirking at his father, unable to resist a little jibe. "Not in so much of a hurry to get the train now then, Dad?" he asked. "What was it you were saying about horrible torments again?"
"Now, we'll have none of that," Rowena said quickly. "There's no need for anyone to be suffering any horrible torments."
"We're on a railway platform," Godric pointed out dryly. "Some people might consider it unavoidable."
Rowena ignored him, smiling kindly at Barty's father as though to soothe him. "Perhaps it would be beneficial if you all went on the bus together," she suggested gently. "Keep the family together as it were, and give you all a chance to clear your minds a little before you get the train."
It might have been just a nicer way of phrasing than simply saying "give you some time to think about what you've done" but Almathea gave her a grateful look for the family part. "That sounds like a good idea," she said, relieved.
The looks Barty and his father gave each other seemed to indicate they were less happy with the idea.
"It'll give you a little time to prepare for the journey ahead," Helga nodded, agreeing with the idea. "Souls are a little like livers. They can sometimes repair themselves as long as you stop abusing them."
Barty glanced at his father. As much as he enjoyed seeing the man uncomfortable, the idea of what sounded to be a fairly long bus-ride with him was not a happy one. Buses were even more cramped than trains, with nowhere to escape to when your family got to be too much. "Just how long is this bus ride?" he demanded.
The four Founders looked at each other, as though searching for an answer.
"Well, that depends on traffic conditions…" Helga started.
"… the weather, the time of day, whether you get stuck in the middle of rush-hour…" Godric agreed.
"Really, it would be fairest to say that you're on there for… well. As long as it takes." Rowena said tactfully. "Just as long as it takes to get there."
Salazar smirked at them, not bothering with tact. "A long time," he translated. "People say the trains are late? Huh. They don't even bother with a proper timetable for the Rail Replacement buses. And if they arrive within an hour or so of the expected time it still counts as being on time."
"It's not as though we have much choice, dear," Almathea pointed out gently, touching his arm. "Not if we want to get you on the train, and your father… well…" She glanced at her husband who was still looking a little unnerved by the turn things had taken. "Let's just go make sure we don't miss the bus, shall we? It hardly matters how long the journey takes as long as we get there in the end."
By the time they reached the small area outside the platform where the bus waited, Barty and his father were already arguing again, voices rising as they debated just who was the most responsible in seeing that they had to get the bus at all.
Helga waited until the pair had boarded the bus before she drew Almathea back, stopping her from stepping on.
"You know, you don't have to get this with them," she said softly. "Your ticket is clean. You could get the train right now if you wanted."
Almathea shook her head. "Thank you, but no," she said firmly sure of one thing at least. "It's not worth going anywhere if it means leaving them behind." She glanced into the bus, to where her husband and son were already sitting. She did have the choice in one way, but in another she wouldn't be who she was if she didn't go with them. No one was forcing her, but in the end would she be the person she believed herself to be if she didn't share their fate? Probably not. "Besides, I'm not sure your Salazar isn't at least a little right. If I had told them both they were wrong sooner, and a little more firmly, perhaps things would have been different. I may not be as responsible as they are, but I'm still responsible."
"That's a good attitude to have," Helga nodded at that. "Good luck to you then."
Almathea hesitated though, a question suddenly springing to her mind. "If you don't mind me asking… why are you four still on the platform?" she asked shyly. "Surely you can all get the train if you wanted?"
Helga laughed at the question, and shook her head. "A part of Rowena is still waiting for her daughter," she explained. "And the rest of us… old grudges and arguments can be harder to settle than you might think. We're not willing to go without Salazar, but we've not quite yet forgiven him yet either. Or ourselves for that matter. We're waiting it out until one of us is prepared to admit that they were wrong. We've made a lot of progress - it shouldn't take more than another five hundred years or so, I shouldn't think."
Five hundred years seemed an awfully long time to Almathea, and she glanced up at the bus again, a little more nervously this time. "Don't you get tired of it?" she asked. "All the arguments, and the fuss and everything?"
"Well, the first few centuries were pretty bad," Helga admitted. "At least until we all worked out that Unforgivable Curses didn't work here. Then we shouted for a while, and then we talked which is sometimes just shouting at a lower volume…"
She smiled again, and looked back towards the other founders. Already, they seemed to be engaged in a debate of some sort. Godric had flushed with anger, and even from a distance, it was fairly easy to hear Salazar's raised voice. "…and if we hadn't had to transport everyone from the South because someone thought it was more convenient for a school that was in Scotland of all places, things might have been a little different!"
"I'll tell you a secret," she said quickly, seeing Almathea's anxious expression. "You've heard the saying, I expect, that Hell is other people?"
Almathea nodded warily, her mind already imagining just how bad her husband and son could make a bus-ride if they put their minds to it, all of the little torments and insults they could inflict on each other. A bus ride that could go on and on and on…
"So is Heaven." Helga said seriously. "And when they've worked that out… you'll know you've arrived."