Disclaimer: Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except for Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.
A/N: Some characters are being specifically changed for the sake of this story. Never fear, small things, not important things like personality. Thank you so much for your continued reading! :)
Chapter 24- Padfoot Returns
One of the best things about the aftermath of the second task is that everybody is very keen to hear details of what happened down in the lake, which means that Ron is getting to share Harry's limelight for once. I notice that Ron's version of events changes subtly with every retelling. At first, he gives what seems to be the truth; it tallies with Hermione's story, anyway — Dumbledore put all the hostages into a bewitched sleep in Professor McGonagall's office, first assuring them that they would be quite safe, and would awake when they were back above the water. One week later, however, Ron is telling a thrilling tale of kidnap in which he struggled single-handedly against fifty heavily armed merpeople who had to beat him into submission before tying him up.
Not a very likely story I assure you. "But I had my wand hidden up my sleeve," he assures Padma Patil, who seems to be a lot keener on Ron now that he is getting so much attention and is making a point of talking to him every time they pass in the corridors. "I could've taken those mer-idiots any time I wanted."
"Only in his dreams." I say conspiratorially to Harry, as we walk a few paces behind the pair. Harry snickers and rolls his eyes at the way that Ron is hamming his role in the whole ordeal up.
"What were you going to do, snore at them?" says Hermione waspishly. People have been teasing her so much about being the thing that Viktor Krum would most miss that she is in a rather tetchy mood. I have had to listen to so much ranting about the idiocy of people that I'm pretty sure that my ears are bleeding.
Ron's ears go red, and thereafter, he reverts to the bewitched sleep version of events.
As we enter March the weather becomes drier, but cruel winds skin our hands and faces every time we go out onto the grounds. There are delays in the post because the owls keep being blown off course. The brown owl that Harry sent to Sirius with the dates of the Hogsmeade weekend turns up at breakfast on Friday morning with half its feathers sticking up the wrong way; Harry has no sooner torn off Sirius's reply than it takes flight, clearly afraid it is going to be sent outside again.
Sirius's letter was almost as short as the previous one.
Be at stile at end of road out of Hogsmeade (past Dervish and Banges) at two o'clock on Saturday afternoon. Bring as much food as you can.
"He hasn't come back to Hogsmeade?" says Ron incredulously.
"Well he was locked up for a long time, not much can be said for his state of mental health I think." I say rubbing the palms of my hands over the pleats of my skirt. As much as I've grown to like the man, the memory of our first meeting still haunts my nightmares, and me so I'm not too keen to be going and meeting him.
"It looks like it, doesn't it?" says Hermione.
"I can't believe him," spits Harry tensely, "if he's caught . . ."
"Made it so far, though, hasn't he?" says Ron. "And it's not like the place is swarming with dementors anymore." On that final and cheery note, the four of us slip out of the benches, and make our way to our last class of the day, double potions with the Slytherins. Not something that I am looking forward to at all.
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle are standing in a huddle outside the classroom door with Pansy Parkinson's gang of Slytherin girls. All of them are looking at something I can't see and sniggering heartily. Pansy's pug-like face peers excitedly around Goyle's broad back as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I approach.
"There they are, there they are!" she giggles, and the knot of Slytherins breaks apart. Whenever Parkinson is happy about something, you know that it's not good. I see that Pansy has a magazine in her hands — Witch Weekly. The moving picture on the front shows a curly-haired witch who is smiling toothily and pointing at a large sponge cake with her wand. What a piece of garbage, I would never waste my time on that.
"You might find something to interest you in there, Granger!" Pansy says loudly, and she throws the magazine at Hermione, who catches it, looking startled. At that moment, the dungeon door opens, and Snape beckons us all inside. I raise my eyebrow at the retreating Slytherins' backs. I have a feeling that our day is about to be worse.
Hermione, Harry, Ron, and I head for a table at the back of the dungeon as usual. Once Snape has turned his back on us to write up the ingredients of today's potion on the blackboard, Hermione hastily rifles through the magazine under the desk. At last, in the center pages, Hermione finds what we are looking for. Harry, Ron, and I lean in closer. A color photograph of Harry heads a short piece entitled:
Harry Potter's Secret Heartache
A boy like no other, perhaps — yet a boy suffering all the usual pangs of adolescence, writes Rita Skeeter. Deprived of love since the tragic demise of his parents, fourteen-year-old Harry Potter thought he had found solace in his steady girlfriend at Hogwarts, Muggle-born Hermione Granger. Little did he know that he would shortly be suffering yet another emotional blow in a life already littered with personal loss.
Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to have a taste for famous wizards that Harry alone cannot satisfy. Since the arrival at Hogwarts of Viktor Krum, Bulgarian Seeker and hero of the last World Quidditch Cup, Miss Granger has been toying with both boys' affections. Krum, who is openly smitten with the devious Miss Granger, has already invited her to visit him in Bulgaria over the summer holidays, and insists that he has "never felt this way about any other girl." Harry meanwhile has taken up with good friend Jamie Pendragon to ease the pain of heartbreaking betrayal.
However, it might not be Miss Granger's doubtful natural charms that have captured these unfortunate boys' interest.
"She's really ugly," says Pansy Parkinson, a pretty and vivacious fourth-year student, "but she'd be well "up to making a Love Potion, she's quite brainy. I think that's how she's doing it."
Love Potions are, of course, banned at Hogwarts, and no doubt Albus Dumbledore will want to investigate these claims. In the meantime, Harry Potter's well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart on a worthier candidate.
By the time that I'm finished scanning the article my hands are clenched into fists. How dare she say that about my best friend! Pansy is going to pay for her ugly comment, and I'll make sure that Rita Skeeter never touches one of my friends again— ever.
"I told you!" Ron hisses at Hermione as she stares down at the article. "I told you not to annoy Rita Skeeter! She's made you out to be some sort of — of scarlet woman!"
Hermione stops looking astonished and snorts with laughter. "Scarlet woman?" she repeats, shaking with suppressed giggles as she looks around at Ron. I don't know why she isn't more upset. Everyone is going to see this article, and most people are stupid enough to read it and believe it. This won't end well mark my words.
"It's what my mum calls them," Ron mutters, his ears going red.
"If that's the best Rita can do, she's losing her touch," says Hermione, still giggling, as she throws Witch Weekly onto the floor. "What a pile of old rubbish."
She looks over at the Slytherins, who are all watching her and Harry closely across the room to see if they are upset by the article. Hermione gives them a sarcastic smile and a wave, and she, Harry, Ron, and I start unpacking the ingredients we will need for our Wit-Sharpening Potion.
"I'm going to seriously put a damper on that rat Parkinson's day." I mutter crossly, gripping my wand tightly, prepared to start some trouble. Hermione grips my hand tightly, and lowers my stealthily placed wand back to my side.
"None of that now Jamie. You seriously need to watch that temper of yours. I'm fine and everything will be okay." She tells me softly, as I take deep breaths to calm myself down. This isn't over. Mark my words, Pansy will be wishing that she had never laid eyes of Rita Skeeter by the time that I'm through with her.
"There's something funny, though," says Hermione ten minutes later, holding her pestle suspended over a bowl of scarab beetles. "How could Rita Skeeter have known . . . ?"
"Known what?" says Ron quickly. "You haven't been mixing up Love Potions, have you?"
"Don't be stupid," Hermione snaps, starting to pound up her beetles again. "No, it's just . . . how did she know Viktor asked me to visit him over the summer?"
Hermione blushes scarlet as she says this and determinedly avoids Ron's eyes. Well this relationship is definitely progressing fast, and she didn't even see fit to inform me of this.
"What?" says Ron, dropping his pestle with a loud clunk. I send a glare at her.
"I second that what. You didn't tell me about this!" I hiss.
"He asked me right after he'd pulled me out of the lake," Hermione mutters. "After he'd got rid of his shark's head. Madam Pomfrey gave us both blankets and then he sort of pulled me away from the judges so they wouldn't hear, and he said, if I wasn't doing anything over the summer, would I like to —"
"And what did you say?" says Ron, who has picked up his pestle and is grinding it on the desk, a good six inches from his bowl, because he is looking at Hermione.
"And he did say he'd never felt the same way about anyone else," Hermione goes on, going so red now that I can almost feel the heat coming from her, "but how could Rita Skeeter have heard him? She wasn't there . . . or was she? Maybe she has got an Invisibility Cloak; maybe she sneaked onto the grounds to watch the second task. . . ."
"And what did you say?" Ron repeats, pounding his pestle down so hard that it dents the desk. Well this will be another blow out fight, and this is definitely not the place to have it. I have a good feeling that Gryffindor will suddenly be down about fifty plus points very soon. Snape seems to have radar for these situations.
"Well, I was too busy seeing whether you and Harry were okay to —"
"Fascinating though your social life undoubtedly is, Miss Granger," says an icy voice right behind us, and all four of us jump, "I must ask you not to discuss it in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor."
Yep, he seems to have a sixth sense for these things. Snape has glided over to our desk while we are talking. The whole class is now looking around at us; Malfoy takes the opportunity to flash POTTER STINKS across the dungeon at Harry.
"Ah . . . reading magazines under the table as well?" Snape adds, snatching up the copy of Witch Weekly from the floor. Now he's really stooping low to find a reason to punish us. "A further ten points from Gryffindor . . . oh but of course . . ." Snape's black eyes glitter as they fall on Rita Skeeter's article. "Potter has to keep up with his press cuttings. . . ."
Oh this is really not good, mainly because I'm ninety percent sure that I'm going to blow my top off at the professor. The dungeon rings with the Slytherins' laughter, and an unpleasant smile curls Snape's thin mouth. To my fury, he begins to read the article aloud.
"'Harry Potter's Secret Heartache' . . . dear, dear, Potter, what's ailing you now? 'A boy like no other, perhaps . . .'" I watch my friends' mortification. Snape is pausing at the end of every sentence to allow the Slytherins a hearty laugh. The article sounds ten times worse when read by Snape. Even Hermione is blushing scarlet now.
"Excuse me 'professor' isn't it your job to actually be teaching this class, instead of indulging yourself in frivolous gossip. Not to mention that anyone at this table was actually reading the horrid article at the time. May I remind you that humiliating and embarrassing your students is frowned upon by Professor Dumbledore? So I kindly suggest professor, that you turn around, and go back to teaching the class, like you are supposedly paid to." I say deadly serious, staring into his ink black eyes without blinking.
I don't even know how I managed to stay so calm during that whole speech. Not to mention that this is probably going to get me expelled. Shocked gasps are ringing out throughout the class, while Snape and I are still locked in a heated stare. Slowly Snape bends down to my level so that our faces are inches apart. I truly don't care to look at his greasy hair up close.
Why couldn't he figure out the concept of shampoo yet? "Listen to me very carefully Pendragon. I do not care about your opinion. This is my class, and I may teach it anyway that I want. If it bothers you so much, then leave— no I insist that you leave. That will be ten points from Gryffindor for your insubordination. Pack up your bag. And. Get. Out." He hisses.
Without another word he swoops back to the front of the classroom. I don't bother looking at anyone as I pack up my stuff with shaking hands. I don't know what's getting over me, its like I have no control what so ever over my temper, and its starting to effect my body as well.
As soon as I manage to close my bag to the best of my ability, I'm flying out of the classroom and into the cool hallways. I seriously need to get a hold of myself, but its like the air is getting harder to breathe. I don't know what's going on, and it seems like this time something bad is actually going to happen to me.
My heart is beating wildly against my ribcage demanding to be let out of it confinement. Sweat starts dripping down my face at an accelerated rate. I stumble up the stone steps from the corridor, and almost trip on the top on into the entrance hall. My vision becomes spotty, and the world blurs around me. Is this what it feels like to die?
This is all that I have left to expect from my life? My feet trip over themselves again, but before I can fall, a pair of arms catch me around my waist, and hold my tight. "Jamie! Jamie… this is not good, you're burning up. Come on hospital wing with you." A slightly garbled voice says. I force my blurry eyes upward to comprehend who my timely savior is.
A flash of blurred blond and a gold insignia against black robes is all that I get. Instinctively though, I know that the young Dumbledore has hold of me, and will make things right, she's like a mini professor Dumbledore and that's scary in itself sometimes.
"Ariana… Jamie? What happened? What's wrong with her?" A panicked voice shouts. At first I think that its Madam Pomfrey but the voice is specifically male and once closer, I can make out the same golden brown locks that adorn my own head. Luka is here now.
"I don't know, but we have to get her to hospital wing." Ariana grits out. Luka slips under my other arm to support my weight between the two of them, and we finally make it to the infirmary. As soon as we're through the doors Ariana is shouting for Madam Pomfrey.
"You're going to be okay Jamie. You're supposed to stick around until we're old and grey together. Don't you want to yell at people to get off our lawns together?" Luka asks me, reminding me of a conversation we had last year. If I didn't feel like I was about to keel over, I would have smiled in recollection.
"Put her over there." Madam Pomfrey orders. I let out a weak groan at having to be moved again. Couldn't they just let me die in peace without moving me? I guess not. Seconds later I'm lying on one of the hospital beds, with a blurry Madam Pomfrey standing over me waving her wand. After a minute, I hear a sharp intake of breath.
"What is it?" Luka demands.
"What's wrong?" Ariana worries.
"I've got a tonic here somewhere which ought to help…" Madam Pomfrey deflects as she scurries away. I can just make out the worried faces of my friends over head. Ariana is holding onto my hand tightly, and Luka is giving me this pensive look that he gets every time I'm hurt, sick, or in trouble when he's not.
Suddenly the doors to the hospital wing burst open, and I see a blurry light blue shape swoop into the room. "Mr. Pendragon, Ariana, I must insist that you leave us now and return to your classes." The soft but strong voice of Dumbledore falls over the room.
"No!" Luka says.
"But Grandfather, Jamie's hurt!" Ariana argues. I can't tell the look that the two of them are receiving from Professor Dumbledore, but I can guess that it isn't pretty.
"Miss Pendragon needs proper care, and that care cannot be administered, with you two present for the procedure. So I'll say it again. Go to class, and tonight during visiting hours you may come and visit her again. I daresay that she be feeling a right lot better by then." Dumbledore says.
Slowly but surely my brother and Ariana make their way to the door, before they're gone with grumbled protests. With the pair of them gone though, that leaves me to the professor's scrutiny. "Well Jamie, it looks like you've gotten yourself worked up quite a bit." He says finally. What is he talking about?
"I guess that I should have known that it would be Professor Snape who would eventually set you off. The man does seem to singularly have a rather nasty talent at rubbing people the wrong way." He goes on. Suddenly there's hurried footsteps on the other side of me.
"I've found the tonic professor." Madam Pomfrey says, before helping me sit up, and putting the cool glass to my lips. "Drink up now. It will taste like horse piss, but it will make you feel worlds better."
At the description and taste, I choke, making my already labored breathing worse. The healing witch wouldn't take no for an answer though, forcing me to swallow every last drop of the foul tasting concoction. I sputter into a hacking cough, but my body is already starting to relax alongside my breathing.
Thankfully my vision is returning to me, and the professor comes into view. He is sitting at my bedside, and staring at me with those icy blue eyes of his. I feel like he is trying to look into my very soul. It's very off putting to tell you the least. Wait a minute, why is Professor Dumbledore even here in the first place?
"P-Professor?" I croak out sounding more like a bullfrog than a young girl. Dumbledore's eyes twinkle at the question.
"Well hello there Miss Pendragon. We seem to find ourselves meeting here in the hospital wing more times than not. I'm very glad to see that you are beginning to feel better. Now tell me Jamie, do you know what just occurred here?" He asks me. I pause and think back through everything that happened in the last hour or two.
"I dunno… I was in class then I— Snape…" I trail off. Dumbledore says nothing, not even to tell me off for not calling Snape by his proper title.
"You got very upset did you not Jamie?" He asks me. I startle a little wondering how he had come to that conclusion so quickly. I nod my head, for my voice suddenly has seemed to stop working. With a sigh, Dumbledore uncrosses his legs, and leans forward in the seat that he's taken at my bedside.
"You are a very extraordinarily special girl Jamie. The magic that you contain inside you in unlike any other that has come before you for a very long time. Now that magic is still developing, and is… unruly at times. I think that you've been able to tell that you've been growing angrier at certain times. This is a manifestation of your magic."
"Since you are still growing and learning how to harness your magical capabilities, this problem will be learnt how to be dealt with properly, but all in due time. Now the worrisome part about this very special form of magic, is that since you cannot express it, it will wreak havoc on your body until it is let out." He tells me. I feel my eyes widen, and my jaw drop just a little bit at what he's telling me, which is not a lot.
"When you do fins yourself becoming increasingly angry Jamie, you will need to remove yourself from the situation immediately. It matters not whether you are in class, dinner, dormitory, or back at home. Then you must focus on calming yourself after, so that you do not get this far off, and are forced to withstand another of those dreadful tonics. If that does not work one of the professors will contact me." He says, not bothering to explain what would happen after that.
"P-professor, is this magic dangerous? I-I don't think that there's anything special about me that could warrant such a thing." I finally manage to say. At that Professor Dumbledore smiles widely at me.
"No it is not Jamie. And at that last statement, only proves further that you are truly the one to wield such a gift." He says cryptically, before getting up to leave me to my rest. Well that only managed to make me even more confused, and give me a headache on top of everything else.
We leave the castle at noon the next day to find a weak silver sun shining down upon the grounds. The weather is milder than it has been all year, and by the time we arrive in Hogsmeade, all four of us have taken off our cloaks and thrown them over our shoulders. The food Sirius told us to bring is in Harry's bag; we sneaked a dozen chicken legs, a loaf of bread, and a flask of pumpkin juice from the lunch table.
We go into Gladrags Wizardwear to buy a present for Dobby, where we have fun selecting the most lurid socks we can find, including a pair patterned with flashing gold and silver stars, and another that screams loudly when the become too smelly. Then, at half past one, we make our way up the High Street, past Dervish and Banges, and out towards the edge of the village.
This is a nice change from yesterday where I spent the rest of the day on bed rest being annoyed by my friends and family. Everyone was happy that I was okay, but I didn't share the fact that I have a different kind of magic in me that can make me sick. I don't quite feel like turning into a pariah yet. Besides, Dumbledore said that it wasn't dangerous so I should be okay.
I make a promise to myself that if it gets out of hand again, I will tell them. Harry and I have never been in this direction before. The winding lane is leading us out into the wild countryside around Hogsmeade. The cottages are fewer here, and their gardens larger; they are walking towards the foot of the mountain in whose shadow Hogsmeade lay. Then we turn a corner and see a stile at the end of the lane. Waiting for us, its front paws on the topmost bar, is a very large, shaggy black dog, which is carrying some newspapers in its mouth and looking very familiar. . . .
"Hello, Sirius," says Harry when we reach him. I make sure to fall to the back of the group in order to put as much distance between that dog and me.
The black dog sniffs Harry's bag eagerly, wags its tail once, then turns and begins to trot away from us across the scrubby patch of ground that rises to meet the rocky foot of the mountain. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I climb over the stile and follow. Part of me is screaming not to follow the man who brandished a knife at me to the middle of nowhere. He's Harry's godfather though, and a good man under all the initial crazy to begin with.
Sometimes its hard to reconcile the two pictures though. Sirius leads us to the very foot of the mountain, where the ground is covered with boulders and rocks. It is easy for him, with his four paws, but Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I are soon out of breath. We follow Sirius higher, up onto the mountain itself. For nearly half an hour we climb a steep, winding, and stony path, following Sirius's wagging tail, sweating in the sun.
Then, at last, Sirius slips out of sight, and when we reach the place where he has vanished, we see a narrow fissure in the rock. We squeeze into it and find ourselves in a cool, dimly lit cave. Tethered at the end of it, one end of his rope around a large rock, is Buckbeak the hippogriff. Half gray horse, half giant eagle, Buckbeak's fierce orange eye flashes at the sight of us. All four of them bow low to him, and after regarding us imperiously for a moment, Buckbeak bends his scaly front knees and allows Hermione to rush forward and stroke his feathery neck. I join her after a moment. I'll take Buckbeak over Sirius Black any day. Harry, however, is looking at the black dog, which has just turned into his godfather.
Sirius is wearing ragged gray robes; the same ones he had been wearing when he left Azkaban. His black hair is longer than it had been when he appeared in the fire, and it is untidy and matted once more. He looks very thin.
"Chicken!" he says hoarsely after removing the old Daily Prophets from his mouth and throwing them down onto the cave floor. Harry pulls open his bag and hands over the bundle of chicken legs and bread.
"Thanks," says Sirius, opening it, grabbing a drumstick, sitting down on the cave floor, and tearing off a large chunk with his teeth. "I've been living off rats mostly. Can't steal too much food from Hogsmeade; I'd draw attention to myself." He grins up at Harry, but Harry returns the grin only reluctantly.
"What're you doing here, Sirius?" He asks.
"Fulfilling my duty as godfather," says Sirius, gnawing on the chicken bone in a very doglike way. "Don't worry about it, I'm pretending to be a lovable stray." I have to contain my snort at that. Even skinny and skeletal looking that dog is more like a giant hound, and people are bound to be afraid.
He is still grinning, but seeing the anxiety in Harry's face, says more seriously, "I want to be on the spot. Your last letter . . . well, let's just say things are getting fishier. I've been stealing the paper every time someone throws one out, and by the looks of things, I'm not the only one who's getting worried."
He nods at the yellowing Daily Prophets on the cave floor, and Ron picks them up and unfolds them. Harry, however, continues to stare at Sirius.
"What if they catch you? What if you're seen?"
"You four and Dumbledore are the only ones around here who know I'm an Animagus," says Sirius, shrugging, and continuing to devour the chicken leg.
Ron nudges Harry and I walk over to them to see as well. He passes us the Daily Prophets. There are two: The first bears the headline Mystery Illness of Bartemius Crouch, the second, Ministry Witch Still Missing — Minister of Magic Now Personally Involved.
I scan the story about Crouch. Phrases jump out at me: hasn't been seen in public since November . . . house appears deserted . . . St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries decline comment . . . Ministry refuses to confirm rumors of critical illness. . . .
"They're making it sound like he's dying," says Harry slowly. "But he can't be that ill if he managed to get up here. . . ."
"My brother's Crouch's personal assistant," Ron informs Sirius. "He says Crouch is suffering from overwork."
"Mind you, he did look ill, last time I saw him up close," I say slowly, still reading the story. "The night Harry's name came out of the goblet. . . ."
"Getting his comeuppance for sacking Winky, isn't he?" says Hermione, an edge to her voice. She is stroking Buckbeak, who is crunching up Sirius's chicken bones. "I bet he wishes he hadn't done it now — bet he feels the difference now she's not there to look after him."
"Hermione's obsessed with house-elves," Ron mutters to Sirius, casting Hermione a dark look. Sirius, however, looks interested.
"Crouch sacked his house-elf?"
"Yeah, at the Quidditch World Cup," says Harry, and he launches into the story of the Dark Mark's appearance, and Winky being found with Harry's wand clutched in her hand, and Mr. Crouch's fury. When Harry finishes, Sirius is on his feet again and starts pacing up and down the cave. I make sure to leave plenty room in between us.
"Let me get this straight," he says after a while, brandishing a fresh chicken leg. "You first saw the elf in the Top Box. She was saving Crouch a seat, right?"
"Right," says Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I together.
"But Crouch didn't turn up for the match?"
"No," says Harry. "I think he said he'd been too busy." Sirius paces all around the cave in silence. Then he says, "Harry, did you check your pockets for your wand after you'd left the Top Box?"
"Erm . . ." Harry thinks hard. "No," he says finally. "I didn't need to use it before we got in the forest. And then I put my hand in my pocket, and all that was in there were my Omnioculars." He stares at Sirius. "Are you saying whoever conjured the Mark stole my wand in the Top Box?"
"It's possible," says Sirius.
"Winky didn't steal that wand!" Hermione insists.
"The elf wasn't the only one in that box," says Sirius, his brow furrowed as he continues to pace. "Who else was sitting behind you?"
"Loads of people," I say. "Some Bulgarian ministers . . . Cornelius Fudge . . . the Malfoys . . ."
"The Malfoys!" says Ron suddenly, so loudly that his voice echoes all around the cave, and Buckbeak tosses his head nervously. "I bet it was Lucius Malfoy!" That very well could be, but it would be far too easy for that to be so.
"Anyone else?" says Sirius.
"No one," says Harry.
"Yes, there was, there was Ludo Bagman," Hermione reminds us.
"Oh yeah . . ."
"I don't know anything about Bagman except that he used to be Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps," says Sirius, still pacing. "What's he like?"
"He's okay," says Harry. "He keeps offering to help me with the Triwizard Tournament."
"Does he, now?" says Sirius, frowning more deeply. "I wonder why he'd do that?"
"Says he's taken a liking to me," explains Harry.
"Hmm," says Sirius, looking thoughtful.
"We saw him in the forest just before the Dark Mark appeared," Hermione tells Sirius. "Remember?" she says to Harry, Ron, and I.
"Yeah, but he didn't stay in the forest, did he?" counters Ron. "The moment we told him about the riot, he went off to the campsite.
"How d'you know?" Hermione shoots back. "How d'you know where he Disapparated to?" That is something very hard to prove indeed.
"Come off it," says Ron incredulously. "Are you saying you reckon Ludo Bagman conjured the Dark Mark?"
"It's more likely he did it than Winky," says Hermione stubbornly.
"Told you," groans Ron, looking meaningfully at Sirius, "told you she's obsessed with house —" But Sirius holds up a hand to silence Ron.
"When the Dark Mark had been conjured, and the elf had been discovered holding Harry's wand, what did Crouch do?"
"Went to look in the bushes," I recount, "but there wasn't anyone else there."
"Of course," Sirius mutters, pacing up and down, "of course, he'd want to pin it on anyone but his own elf . . . and then he sacked her?"
"Yes," says Hermione in a heated voice, "he sacked her, just because she hadn't stayed in her tent and let herself get trampled —"
"Hermione, will you give it a rest with the elf!" yells Ron.
Sirius shakes his head and says, "She's got the measure of Crouch better than you have, Ron. If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals." Okay my respect level for this man just went up another few levels.
He runs a hand over his unshaven face, evidently thinking hard. "All these absences of Barty Crouch's . . . he goes to the trouble of making sure his house-elf saves him a seat at the Quidditch World Cup, but doesn't bother to turn up and watch. He works very hard to reinstate the Triwizard Tournament, and then stops coming to that too. . . . It's not like Crouch. If he's ever taken a day off work because of illness before this, I'll eat Buckbeak."
"He hasn't if there's one thing that Pendragons know, even young Pendragons at that, it's the Ministry and the important people who work there. Crouch would rather die than miss work." I mutter.
"D'you know Crouch, then?" asks Harry. Sirius's face darkens. He suddenly looks as menacing as he had the night when I first met him, the night when we still believed Sirius to be a murderer
"Oh I know Crouch all right," he says quietly. "He was the one who gave the order for me to be sent to Azkaban — without a trial."
"What?" cry Ron, Hermione, and I together.
"You're kidding!" roars Harry.
"No, I'm not," says Sirius, taking another great bite of chicken. "Crouch used to be Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, didn't you know?"
Harry, Ron, and Hermione shake their heads, while I nod mine.
"He was tipped for the next Minister of Magic," says Sirius. "He's a great wizard, Barty Crouch, powerfully magical — and power-hungry. Oh never a Voldemort supporter," he says, reading the look on Harry's face. "No, Barty Crouch was always very outspoken against the Dark Side. But then a lot of people who were against the Dark Side . . . well, you wouldn't understand . . . you're too young. . . ."
"That's what my dad said at the World Cup," says Ron, with a trace of irritation in his voice. "Try us, why don't you?"
A grin flashes across Sirius's thin face.
"All right, I'll try you. . . ." He walks once up the cave, back again, and then says, "Imagine that Voldemort's powerful now. You don't know who his supporters are, you don't know who's working for him and who isn't; you know he can control people so that they do terrible things without being able to stop themselves. You're scared for yourself, and your family, and your friends. Every week, news comes of more deaths, more disappearances, more torturing . . . the Ministry of Magic's in disarray, they don't know what to do, they're trying to keep everything hidden from the Muggles, but meanwhile, Muggles are dying too. Terror everywhere . . . panic . . . confusion . . . that's how it used to be."
"Well, times like that bring out the best in some people and the worst in others. Crouch's principles might've been good in the beginning — I wouldn't know. He rose quickly through the Ministry, and he started ordering very harsh measures against Voldemort's supporters. The Aurors were given new powers — powers to kill rather than capture, for instance. And I wasn't the only one who was handed straight to the dementors without trial. Crouch fought violence with violence, and authorized the use of the Unforgivable Curses against suspects. I would say he became as ruthless and cruel as many on the Dark Side. He had his supporters, mind you — plenty of people thought he was going about things the right way, and there were a lot of witches and wizards clamoring for him to take over as Minister of Magic. When Voldemort disappeared, it looked like only a matter of time until Crouch got the top job. But then something rather unfortunate happened. . . ." Sirius smiles grimly. "Crouch's own son was caught with a group of Death Eaters who'd managed to talk their way out of Azkaban. Apparently they were trying to find Voldemort and return him to power."
"Crouch's son was caught?" gasps Hermione.
"Yep," says Sirius, throwing his chicken bone to Buckbeak, flinging himself back down on the ground besides the loaf of bread, and tearing it in half. "Nasty little shock for old Barty, I'd imagine. Should have spent a bit more time at home with his family, shouldn't he? Ought to have left the office early once in a while . . . gotten to know his own son."
He begins to wolf down large pieces of bread. "Was his son a Death Eater?" I ask. Sirius flicks his gaze to me for the first time, and I can see guilt wash over his face.
"No idea," replies Sirius, still stuffing down bread. "I was in Azkaban myself when he was brought in. This is mostly stuff I've found out since I got out. The boy was definitely caught in the company of people I'd bet my life were Death Eaters — but he might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like the house-elf."
"Did Crouch try and get his son off?" Hermione whispers.
Sirius lets out a laugh that is much more like a bark. "Crouch let his son off? I thought you had the measure of him, Hermione! Anything that threatened to tarnish his reputation had to go; he had dedicated his whole life to becoming Minister of Magic. You saw him dismiss a devoted house-elf because she associated him with the Dark Mark again — doesn't that tell you what he's like? Crouch's fatherly affection stretched just far enough to give his son a trial, and by all accounts, it wasn't much more than an excuse for Crouch to show how much he hated the boy . . . then he sent him straight to Azkaban."
"He gave his own son to the dementors?" asks Harry quietly.
"That's right," says Sirius, and he doesn't look remotely amused now. "I saw the dementors bringing him in, watched them through the bars in my cell door. He can't have been more than nineteen. They took him into a cell near mine. He was screaming for his mother by nightfall. He went quiet after a few days, though . . . they all went quiet in the end . . . except when they shrieked in their sleep. . . ."
I cringe thinking about what that must be like no matter the kind of person you are. It also brings back the unpleasant though of Augustus who is currently still residing in Azkeban. I shiver at the thought, and close my eyes for a second.
For a moment, the deadened look in Sirius's eyes becomes more pronounced than ever, as though shutters have closed behind them.
"So he's still in Azkaban?" Harry says.
"No," replies Sirius dully. "No, he's not in there anymore. He died about a year after they brought him in."
"He died?"
"He wasn't the only one," spits Sirius bitterly. "Most go mad in there, and plenty stop eating in the end. They lose the will to live. You could always tell when a death was coming, because the dementors could sense it, they got excited. That boy looked pretty sickly when he arrived. Crouch being an important Ministry member, he and his wife were allowed a deathbed visit. That was the last time I saw Barty Crouch, half carrying his wife past my cell. She died herself, apparently, shortly afterward. Grief. Wasted away just like the boy. Crouch never came for his son's body. The dementors buried him outside the fortress; I watched them do it."
What a horrible thing to have happen to you. I can see Hermione fighting back tears, and I reach out to take her hand, letting her know that we are here and not there.
Sirius throws aside the bread he has just lifted to his mouth and instead picks up the flask of pumpkin juice and drains it.
"So old Crouch lost it all, just when he thought he had it made," he continues, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "One moment, a hero, poised to become Minister of Magic . . . next, his son dead, his wife dead, the family name dishonored, and, so I've heard since I escaped, a big drop in popularity. Once the boy had died, people started feeling a bit more sympathetic toward the son and started asking how a nice young lad from a good family had gone so badly astray. The conclusion was that his father never cared much for him. So Cornelius Fudge got the top job, and Crouch was shunted sideways into the Department of International Magical Cooperation."
I remember hearing about that when I was younger, on one of the many nights that I couldn't sleep and I eavesdropped on some of Kingsley's conversations.
"Moody says Crouch is obsessed with catching Dark wizards," Harry tells Sirius.
"Yeah, I've heard it's become a bit of a mania with him," states Sirius, nodding. "If you ask me, he still thinks he can bring back the old popularity by catching one more Death Eater."
"And he sneaked up here to search Snape's office!" says Ron triumphantly, looking at Hermione.
"Yes, and that doesn't make sense at all," says Sirius.
"Yeah, it does!" says Ron excitedly, but Sirius shakes his head.
"Listen, if Crouch wants to investigate Snape, why hasn't he been coming to judge the tournament? It would be an ideal excuse to make regular visits to Hogwarts and keep an eye on him."
"So you think Snape could be up to something, then?" asks Harry, but Hermione breaks in.
"Look, I don't care what you say, Dumbledore trusts Snape —"
"Oh give it a rest, Hermione," says Ron impatiently. "I know Dumbledore's brilliant and everything, but that doesn't mean a really clever Dark wizard couldn't fool him —"
"Dumbledore is the smartest man this world has seen for a long time Ron. I highly doubt that a dark wizard could fool him." I state impatiently tired of Ron's ragging on Hermione.
"Why did Snape save Harry's life in the first year, then? Why didn't he just let him die?" Hermione shoots at Ron.
"I dunno — maybe he thought Dumbledore would kick him out —"
"What d'you think, Sirius?" Harry says loudly, and Ron and Hermione stop bickering to listen.
"I think they've both got a point," says Sirius, looking thoughtfully at Ron and Hermione. "Ever since I found out Snape was teaching here, I've wondered why Dumbledore hired him. Snape's always been fascinated by the Dark Arts, he was famous for it at school. Slimy, oily, greasy-haired kid, he was," Sirius adds, and Harry, Ron, and I grin at each other. "Snape knew more curses when he arrived at school than half the kids in seventh year, and he was part of a gang of Slytherins who nearly all turned out to be Death Eaters."
Sirius holds up his fingers and begins ticking off names. "Rosier and Wilkes — they were both killed by Aurors the year before Voldemort fell. Bellatrix Black, my oh so dear cousin— she's in Azkeban with her boyfriend. Avery — from what I've heard he wormed his way out of trouble by saying he'd been acting under the Imperius Curse — he's still at large. But as far as I know, Snape was never even accused of being a Death Eater — not that that means much. Plenty of them were never caught. And Snape's certainly clever and cunning enough to keep himself out of trouble."
"Snape knows Karkaroff pretty well, but he wants to keep that quiet," says Ron.
"Yeah, you should've seen Snape's face when Karkaroff turned up in Potions yesterday!" says Harry quickly. "Karkaroff wanted to talk to Snape, he says Snape's been avoiding him. Karkaroff looked really worried. He showed Snape something on his arm, but I couldn't see what it was." Wait, why didn't they tell me about all this. Okay maybe it was because they were worried about me in the hospital wing but still!
"He showed Snape something on his arm?" says Sirius, looking frankly bewildered. He runs his fingers distractedly through his filthy hair, then shrugs again. "Well, I've no idea what that's about . . . but if Karkaroff's genuinely worried, and he's going to Snape for answers . . ."
Sirius stares at the cave wall, then makes a grimace of frustration. "There's still the fact that Dumbledore trusts Snape, and I know Dumbledore trusts where a lot of other people wouldn't, but I just can't see him letting Snape teach at Hogwarts if he'd ever worked for Voldemort."
"Why are Moody and Crouch so keen to get into Snape's office then?" asks Ron stubbornly.
"Well," says Sirius slowly, "I wouldn't put it past Mad-Eye to have searched every single teacher's office when he got to Hogwarts. He takes his Defense Against the Dark Arts seriously, Moody. I'm not sure he trusts anyone at all, and after the things he's seen, it's not surprising. I'll say this for Moody, though, he never killed if he could help it. Always brought people in alive where possible. He was tough, but he never descended to the level of the Death Eaters. Crouch, though . . . he's a different matter . . . is he really ill? If he is, why did he make the effort to drag himself up to Snape's office? And if he's not . . . what's he up to? What was he doing at the World Cup that was so important he didn't turn up in the Top Box? What's he been doing while he should have been judging the tournament?"
Sirius lapses into silence, still staring at the cave wall. Buckbeak is ferreting around on the rocky floor, looking for bones he might have overlooked. Finally, Sirius looks up at Ron.
"You say your brother's Crouch's personal assistant? Any chance you could ask him if he's seen Crouch lately?"
"I can try," says Ron doubtfully. "Better not make it sound like I reckon Crouch is up to anything dodgy, though. Percy loves Crouch."
"And you might try and find out whether they've got any leads on Bertha Jorkins while you're at it," says Sirius, gesturing to the second copy of the Daily Prophet.
"Bagman told me they hadn't," says Harry.
"Yes, he's quoted in the article in there," says Sirius, nodding at the paper. "Blustering on about how bad Bertha's memory is. Well, maybe she's changed since I knew her, but the Bertha I knew wasn't forgetful at all — quite the reverse. She was a bit dim, but she had an excellent memory for gossip. It used to get her into a lot of trouble; she never knew when to keep her mouth shut. I can see her being a bit of a liability at the Ministry of Magic . . . maybe that's why Bagman didn't bother to look for her for so long. . . ." Sirius heaves an enormous sigh and rubs his shadowed eyes.
"What's the time?"
"It's half past three," says Hermione. Wow we've been here for quite some time. It seems like we're finally getting some answers, but with those answers just come more questions.
"You'd better get back to school," Sirius says, getting to his feet. "Now listen . . ." He looks particularly hard at Harry. "I don't want you lot sneaking out of school to see me, all right? Just send notes to me here. I still want to hear about anything odd. But you're not to go leaving Hogwarts without permission; it would be an ideal opportunity for someone to attack you."
"No one's tried to attack me so far, except a dragon and a couple of grindylows," Harry says, but Sirius scowls at him.
"I don't care . . . I'll breathe freely again when this tournament's over, and that's not until June. And don't forget, if you're talking about me among yourselves, call me Snuffles, okay?"
He hands Harry the empty napkin and flask and goes to pat Buckbeak good-bye. "I'll walk to the edge of the village with you," says Sirius, "see if I can scrounge another paper."
He transforms into the great black dog before we leave the cave, and we walk back down the mountainside with him, across the boulder-strewn ground, and back to the stile. Here he allows each of us to pat him on the head (I refrain), before turning and setting off at a run around the outskirts of the village. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I make our way back into Hogsmeade and up towards Hogwarts.
"Wonder if Percy knows all that stuff about Crouch?" Ron wonders as we walk up the drive to the castle. "But maybe he doesn't care . . . it'd probably just make him admire Crouch even more. Yeah, Percy loves rules. He'd just say Crouch was refusing to break them for his own son."
"Percy would never throw any of his family to the dementors," says Hermione severely.
"I don't know," says Ron. "If he thought we were standing in the way of his career . . . Percy's really ambitious, you know. . . ."
"Sometimes you can never really know with family." I say solemnly thinking about Augustus and how he killed most of mine.
We walk up the stone steps into the entrance hall, where the delicious smells of dinner wafts towards us from the Great Hall. With a heavy sigh we start for the table, and all I can think about is what sort of magic is growing inside me that can have physical symptoms on the outside. This year is just getting stranger every day.
A/N: So Bellatrix's marital status is changed. Rodolfus Lestrange does not exist in this world for my purposes. It is still my goal to change as little as possible from the original story, but I promise that this change will be very intriguing in the end.