Sirius Black's POV

Remus and I were sitting in his flat, trying to figure out what could have possibly happened in Crouch's house to leave it in such a state.

"It was creepy."

"Beyond creepy."

"But I don't understand. Crouch doesn't seem the type to be involved in anything nearly as disturbing as all that," Remus started, but I was already shaking my head.

"Crouch may have been law-abiding, but don't forget, it was in combination with his being power-hungry," I reminded Remus. "He followed the rules, all right, but only after he'd changed them to allow for convictions without trials, for Aurors to kill instead of capture, and for prison guards to Stun prisoners unconscious before being taken to Azkaban. It's easy to follow the laws when you can change them."

"Yes, but… but…" Remus struggled to say what he meant, but I understood. No matter how harsh Crouch was, what we'd seen and felt at his deserted house felt unexplainably dark.

Finally, I voiced what we'd been avoiding in our discussion. "I sensed Dark Magic."

Remus gazed at me with fright glimmering in his eyes for a brief moment. Then, he sighed. "Me too. It was everywhere. Traces of Dark Magic…"

"You know what this means, don't you?" I whispered, hating myself for saying it, but not wanting to shy away from the truth. "These disappearances, the Dark Mark, Dark Magic…"

Remus murmured hollowly, "Voldemort's on the rise again."

Just then, an owl tapped on Remus' window, making us both jump.

"It's Hedwig," I recognized. I got up to go open the window, but Remus pushed me back.

"Stay there," Remus said sharply. "Don't go near the window. You could be seen."

Remus crossed over himself and opened the window. After Remus took the letter from her, Hedwig managed to scootch in. I Summoned a cup of water for Hedwig and set it on the kitchen counter. She hooted thankfully as she sat atop the small kitchen counter and dipped her beak in water.

"It's for you, Pads," Remus confirmed, handing me the letter.

I opened it at once. Almost immediately, the blood left my face, leaving me looking quite pale, almost ghostly. I can't believe it. No, actually, I can believe it, and that makes it ten times more horrifying...

"Sirius, what -?"

"Crouch. He's dead. Killed on Hogwarts grounds."


Harry Potter's POV

I received a rather furious letter from Sirius (or "Snuffles," rather) that read:

Harry - what do you think you are playing at, walking off into the forest with Viktor Krum? I want you to swear, by return owl, that you are not going to go walking with anyone else at night. There is somebody highly dangerous at Hogwarts. It is clear to me that they wanted to stop Crouch from seeing Dumbledore and you were probably feet away from them in the dark. You could have been killed. Your name didn't get into the Goblet of Fire by accident. If someone's trying to attack you, they're on their last chance. Stay close to Ron and Hermione, do not leave Gryffindor Tower after hours, and arm yourself for the third task. Practice Stunning and Disarming. A few hexes wouldn't go amiss either. There's nothing you can do about Crouch. Keep your head down and look after yourself.

At the end, aggressively underlined at the end of the letter were the words: I'm waiting for your letter giving me your word you won't stray out-of-bounds again.

"Who's he, to lecture me about being out-of-bounds?" I remarked indignantly. "He and my dad and Lupin snuck out of the castle every month, at least!"

"He's worried about you!" Hermione pushed back. "Anyways, Sirius is right - you've got to get in training for the third task, straight away. And you make sure you write back to Sirius and promise him you're not going to go sneaking off alone again."

My eyes met Ron's, but Ron simply shrugged, which meant that he agreed with Hermione. I sighed, but I replied, "All right. Come on, then."


Professor Kingsley allowed us to use her classroom again. She sat her desk and graded papers, but every now and then, she'd make a quiet suggestion to me. Although she always made her suggestion sound very flippant ("Just lift your hand a little higher" or "Mmm, maybe don't think of it as a boundary"), her advice was always spot-on.

I had shown her Sirius' letter, and Professor Kingsley agreed with me that Stunning and Disarming were two foundational spells for any witch or wizard in a confrontation.

Hermione had raced to the library and then brought up a book that guided us through the Stunning Spell. It wasn't easy to master, however, and it required a sacrifice from my friends - namely, Ron and Hermione had to take turns being Stunned.

"Can't we kidnap Mrs. Norris?" Ron suggested, after waking up on the floor for the fifth time in a row. Sitting up, he rubbed his bum.

"Oh no." Professor Kingsley shuddered, without looking up from her papers. "Don't do that. She's scary."

"Well, it's because you keep missing the cushions!" Hermione berated Ron. "It won't hurt if you land back on the cushions!"

"Once you're Stunned, you can't really aim, Hermione!" Ron retorted.

Hermione huffed impatiently.

"Fine, then why don't you take a turn?" Ron asked her, standing up.

"Oh… Well, I think Harry's got it now, anyway," Hermione said quickly.

I looked over at Professor Kingsley, and though she had her head bent over her papers, I could still make out a grin appearing on her face.

"We ought to get started on learning some hexes," Hermione said smartly. She pulled out a list she'd made from her pocket. "Hm, how about the Impediment Curse? It says that it slows down anything that's trying to attack you. What do you think, Professor Kingsley?"

"I think that's an excellent spell to learn – but later," Professor Kingsley replied. She capped her ink and stood up from her desk. "You three need to get moving to your next class, or you'll be late."

"Oh!" Hermione looked up at the clock on the wall. "Right! Okay, see you later, Professor Kingsley, Harry, Ron!"

"What d'you think it is about classes that makes Hermione a human spring?" Ron wondered dully, as he lifted his bag up onto his shoulder.

"Dunno," I replied, as we left Professor Kingsley's classroom. "Maybe it's the fact that she doesn't have to take Divination."

"Good point," Ron replied. "I'm going to kill Fred and George for suggesting we take Divination. I reckon they knew exactly what they were signing us up for with Trelawney, the old fraud…"

I found that I couldn't quite agree. I couldn't be quite as dismissive as Ron, not since the prophecy I'd heard Trelawney make last year about Sirius' escape. She had could into a strange trance that was nothing at all like her usual, over-dramatic airs. Everything that she had said had been spot on- so far, for there was still the other part of her prophecy, about the Dark Lord rising once more, that was yet to be seen. I suddenly thought about what Crouch had said to me: "…the Dark Lord – He's growing stronger!"

"It's going to be boiling in Trelawney's room. She never puts out that fire," Ron grumbled as we climbed up the staircase to the Divination classroom.

"Yeah," I mumbled vaguely.


Ron was right. It was sweltering in the classroom. Seemingly to give us every possible incentive to fall asleep, Trelawney dimmed the lights and lit incense in the room mid-way through the class. As the heavy scents washed over me, I felt myself becoming drowsier by the second. I could hear something, an insect, humming somewhere. The buzzing of the insect began to lull me into the buzzing of my own mind…

I was riding on the back of Buckbeak, soaring over Hogwarts grounds… The crisp air washed over my face. Buckbeak kept climbing into the ground. I was ecstatic. I felt so free. I hadn't felt this way in a long time, perhaps not since I'd ridden the Firebolt that Sirius had bought me for the first time. Then, Buckbeak flew over the mountains, leaving Hogwarts entirely.

It took a long time for Buckbeak to grow tired, but finally, he did. He landed before a house, an old, ivy-covered house set high on a hillside. The house overlooked a small village. At once, Buckbeak took off again, leaving me in front of the house. Somehow, I knew I was to enter this house. I could feel it in my very bones, as if someone had embedded a compass into my brain. So, I did enter, and once inside, I knew to follow the stairs up to the highest floor. Then, I walked down a gloomy passageway, to a room at the very end of the long hall. As I approached this room, I began to hear voices.

"You are in luck, Wormtail. You are very fortunate indeed. Your blunder has not ruined everything. For he is dead."

"My Lord, I am - I am so pleased, and so sorry…"

"Nagini, you are out of luck. I will not be feeding Wormtail to you, after all. But never mind, never mind. There is still Harry Potter."

"Ssssahys…"

"Now. Wormtail. Perhaps you require another little reminder why I will not tolerate another blunder from you."

"My Lord, no! I b-beg you! No!"

"It's for your own good, Wormtail. After all, do you not want your master to succeed? I am simply reminding you of why mistakes cannot be tolerated. I will train you never to make a mistake again. You should accept it gratefully."

"B-But, my Lord, please-! Please, no -!"

"Crucio!"

"Ahhhhhh!"

"Crucio!"

"Ahhhhhhhh!"

"- hhhh!"

"Harry! Harry!"

My eyes flashed open. Sweat was pouring down my face. My scar was burning so badly that my eyes were watering. My glasses had slipped off my sweaty face, as I'd fallen from my pouf straight onto the floor.

Ron was kneeling besides me. "Harry! Harry, are you all right?"

Trelawney then zoomed into view above me. Her spectacles gawked down at me as she said shrilly, "Potter! What was it? A premonition? An apparition? What did you see?"

"Nothing," I lied at once. Though I was still shaking, I pushed myself up. My heart was thundering quite loudly in my chest. Even though I was in a classroom with thirty other students, I couldn't bring myself to look at the shadowy corners of the dark classroom, for fear that Voldemort would be there, wand raised to torture me…

"But you were rolling on the floor, clutching your scar!" Trelawney said loudly. "My dear, you were undoubtedly stimulated by the extraordinary clairvoyant vibrations of my room. Come now. Tell me what you saw!"

"It was a bad headache, Professor," I muttered, getting up. The room immediately spun around me and my instinct was to grab onto the table besides me, but I didn't grab it, not wanting to draw any more attention to myself.

Too late for that, anyways, I thought grimly, as I saw everyone starting at me as though I were some sort of freak.

"My boy, now tell me!" Trelawney pressed me, getting impatient. "Allow me to help you, and you may be able to see the future! Imagine that!"

"I don't want to see anything except a headache cure," I replied firmly. I packed away my textbook, gave Ron a look to see me later, and then I made my way out of the room as quickly as possible.


The first person I thought of going to was Professor Kingsley, but I realized that she'd still be teaching her class. Instead, I made my way to Dumbledore's office. I remembered Dumbledore giving instructions to Professor Kingsley about how to get into his office.

"Cockroach Cluster," I said, hoping the password would still be same. To my relief, the gargoyle turned, accepting the passwords. I stepped onto the moving steps and allowed it to take me up to the Headmaster's door.

However, right as I raised my hand to knock, I heard raised voices.

"Dumbledore, I'm afraid I don't see the connection between Bertha and Barty, don't see it at all!"

"So, then, what do you think happened to Barty Crouch, Minister? You must have some theory, if you're denying a connection."

"Oh, well, we all know Crouch was about to crack. I'm sure you'll agree! Think about his personal history. I'm sure he lost his mind, and went wandering off -"

"He wandered extremely quickly, if that is the case, Cornelius."

"Oh, well…"

"Gentlemen! It may interest you to know that this conversation is no longer private!"

The door opened before me, though I had not knocked. With my hand still awkwardly raised to knock, I suddenly found myself staring at Dumbledore, Moody, and the Minister of Magic. I slowly lowered my hand.

"Harry!" Fudge greeted me jovially. "Hello, hello."

"Hello, Minister..."

After giving me another nod, Fudge turned back to Dumbledore. "Well, shall we go for an examination of the grounds, then, Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore nodded. Turning to me, he said, "Harry, wait for me here, will you? I won't be long."

"Yes, Professor." I stepped inside of Dumbledore's office and moved to the side of the doorway.

Dumbledore, Fudge, and Moody all trooped out past me, with Dumbledore closing the door after the others.

I took the opportunity to gaze around Dumbledore's office. It was such an interesting place, full of interesting magical objects and knick knacks. I spotted a bowl of Licorice Snaps (magical candy) on a stand near me, and up above, on the Headmaster's desk, there was a glass jar filled with lemon drops. I let out a quick breath. Simply being here made me feel calmer.

I walked forward into the middle of the office and was still gazing around at different things, when I noticed a patch of silvery light in the far corner, shimmering against the wall. I paused. Strange. Where's that light coming from?

I looked around to see that not too far from the dancing light on the wall, there was a slightly opened cabinet door. It was only open a sliver, but that was enough for the light to shine out.

I walked over and pulled open the cabinet door. Behind the doors and inside the cabinet, I discovered a shallow stone basin, propped up in an impressive-looking black stand that had odd carvings around the edge. After staring at them a bit dumbly for a moment, I concluded that they were Runic symbols. Not for the first time, I wished I'd taken Runes with Professor Kingsley.

But there was no time to try to ponder the Runes, for the bright silvery contents of the stone basin were the truly mesmerizing feature. The silvery light had been coming from this substance in the stone bowl, I was sure of it. Is it liquid or gas? I couldn't be sure, for the silvery white substance moved both like clouds and like water at the same time.

I tried to peer into the silvery stuff without touching it. To my surprise, up close, I found that the substance looked transparent, rather like glass. In fact, it was reflecting something golden. I looked up, but I saw nothing except the black ceiling of the cabinet in which the stone basin rested.

Frowning, I looked back down. This time, I peered closer. All right, no where is the gold coming from? What's it reflecting?

My eyes widened as I realized that actually, it wasn't reflecting anything. Rather, the gold color was coming from within, for the substance, in turning to a glass-like color up-close, now portrayed a massive room just underneath the surface of the mysterious substance. Whoa, I thought, what am I looking into?

It was as though I was perched on the ceiling of a room and was looking down at it. I could see a dimly lit, circular room. Interestingly, the room had no windows, merely torches in brackets lining the entirety of the circular room. In this room, I saw that rows and rows of people were seated. All of them were looking towards one thing – an empty chair in the very center of the room.

Why are they looking at the chair? I don't see anyone in it, I thought. Frowning, I peered closer, wondering if I was missing something. Surely, all of these people aren't just staring at an empty chair…

As I leaned forward, my nose accidentally touched the mysterious silver substance.

"Ah!" I cried out, for all at once, it was like a hand had reached out of the basin, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, and then yanked me forward. I shut my eyes tightly and waited to clunk the top of my head against the bottom of the stone basin – but I didn't.

Tentatively, I opened my eyes. To my utter astonishment, I found myself sitting on a bench inside the room I'd just seen in the stone basin. I immediately looked up, only to find an actual ceiling instead of the silvery-white substance which I could swear I'd just fallen through.

Confusion made my mind ring. Am I stuck here now? Where is here, anyways?

As my eyes scanned the room, with a jolt, I recognized a face in the crowd – Professor Kingsley! She looked very different – both younger and older. She was frightfully thin, and her eyes had a horrible blankness in them, as though there was a dementor inside of soul, draining away all happiness within her. Yet, she was clearer younger than she was now.

I started to race towards her, but I nearly knocked into the witch I was sitting next to.

"Sor -!" I began, but then, I saw my foot pass through her leg. My mouth fell open. What is going on? How can my foot pass through her, and how come she isn't noticing me? Even now, the witch still didn't even seem to notice me basically standing on top of her.

I reached out and put my hand in front of her face. She stared in front of her, clearly not noticing me at all. I pushed my hand a little further. Her nose went right through my palm. What the hell -? What is…?

Slowly, my mind began to put it together. Professor Kingsley looks older – and younger… I see. This is a memory of some kind.

Suddenly, a loud voice barked out, "Bring in the prisoner!"

Everyone hushed up at once. I hastily sat back down in my seat, even though I knew I would not be seen. Even though I was, for all intents and purposes, invisible, the atmosphere in here was so tense that it made me want to sit down and be silent.

The door at the corner of the dungeon opened, and two dementors brought in a prisoner. The crowd nearest to the floor shrank back, fearful of the dementors' presence. I shuddered myself, remembering their horrible effect on me…

The prisoner was brought to the chair in the middle of the room. The magical chains on the chair immediately sprung up and wrapped themselves around the prisoner, yanking him back and forcing him to sit down.

A curt voice rang out loudly in the now-silent chamber. "Igor Karkaroff."

Did he just say 'Karkaroff'? I looked closer, peering down, and saw, to my astonishment, that it was recognizably Karkaroff. He, like Professor Kingsley, looked physically younger, but emotionally more weary. His hair was a vibrant black, not the grey speckled with silver color it was now. However, his face was extremely gaunt and bony, and he was dressed in ragged robes. I've seen those robes before… on Sirius. So, the dementors must have brought Karkaroff out from Azkaban for this hearing, I realized.

"Igor Karkaroff," the voice said again. I looked up and with a slight shock, I found myself staring at a younger Barty Crouch. I paused, and the image of his dead body on the forest floor floated up in my mind's eye. It felt very strange and unsettling to be looking at a memory of Crouch, when I already knew how his life would end. I swallowed.

But this Crouch, in the memory, was intent on speaking to Karkaroff. He announced, "You have been brought to this trial at your own request."

"Yes, sir," Karkaroff answered feebly.

"What is the evidence you wished to present?"

"I-I have names, sir," Karkaroff muttered.

"Yes?" Crouch said impatiently.

"There was Rosier- Evan Rosier," Karkaroff offered.

Crouch's secretary pulled a paper out of a pile of papers and gave it to Crouch. Crouch shook the paper open. He glanced down at it, before saying shortly, "Rosier is dead."

"Dead? I didn't know!" Karkaroff's eyes flashed with desperation.

Crouch frowned deeply. "If that is all the witness has to offer-"

"No!" Karkaroff yelled, doing his utmost to seize this chance to escape Azkaban. "There was a-an Augustus Rookwood!"

Crouch paused, clearly taken aback by the pronounced name. "Augustus Rookwood?" he said thinly. "From the Department of Mysteries?"

"Yes, the very same!" Karkaroff responded eagerly. "He passed information to You-Know-Who from inside the Ministry himself."

Crouch sat back in his judge's chair. "Very well… Council shall deliberate. In the meantime, witness will return back to Azkaban-"

"No, please! Please!" Karkaroff twisted in chair, crying out. "What about Snape? Severus Snape!?"

A tall figure, wearing robes of deep purple, stood up from the very front row and spoke out, "As this Council is well aware, I have presented testimony on this matter. Severus Snape is no more a Death Eater than I am."

My heart leapt when I realized that that was Dumbledore speaking. Dumbledore, protecting Snape… when Snape was a Death Eater? Wait, Snape was a Death Eater? An actual Death Eater? Not just an unpleasant man from Slytherin, but a genuine Death Eater, employed in the service of Voldemort -?

"It's a LIE!" Karkaroff yelled so loudly that his voice interrupted the many thoughts chasing themselves around in my mind. "Severus Snape continues to serve the Dark Lord!"

"Enough! Silence!" Crouch shouted, shouting down Karkaroff. "This session is now OVER!"

"Oh no." Karkaroff's voice changed into a calmer tone that was unsettling, almost menacing. "No, no, no. There are others."

"Others?" Crouch barked out, confused by Karkaroff's sudden change in demeanor.

"You will let me go after you have heard these names," Karkaroff said, closing his eyes and falling back into his chair. He took a long shuddering breath. "You see, I know who tortured the Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom. And I know where they are."

"Give me the names!" Crouch shouted, his voice suddenly stretched with tension.

"You will secure my freedom after this…"

"The names! Give me the wretched names!"

Karkaroff opened his eyes. Then, he recited knowingly, "Rodolphus, Rabastan, and Bellatrix Lestrange, and Bartemius Crouch-"

There was a collective, loud gasp from the entire audience.

"-Junior," Karkaroff finished and grinned evilly at Crouch.

Crouch stared back at him, dumbstruck for the first time in his life.

Another woman, dressed in formal robes, stood up from besides Crouch. She spoke hesitantly, "Aurors, gather your team. You will bring those four mentioned Death Eaters to trial here."

"No," Crouch snapped icily. "I will handle my son."

Nobody dared to disagree. Instead, I watched as Professor Kingsley, along with a line of Aurors (I recognized Moody among them, already sporting his magical eye and wooden leg, but with far less scars on his face) quickly filtered out of the room. Even from across the room, I couldn't help but notice the slump in Professor Kingsley's shoulders, and how thin her hair seemed to be. Why does she look so exhausted, when she's clearly younger in this memory? A part of me wanted to chase after her. I started to rise in my seat.

"Harry, it is time to return to my office."

I started, as a quiet voice entered my ear. Turning around, I saw Dumbledore sitting next to me. My head whipped around, almost comically, as I quickly confirmed that there was a Dumbledore sitting down, besides Crouch, and another Dumbledore sitting up here, with me.

The Dumbledore sitting next to me smiled gently at my confusion. He held out his arm for me. "Come. Take my arm."

Realizing that this was the Dumbledore of the "present," from my own timeline, I grasped his arm. A moment later, I felt myself rising in the air. The scene dissolved around me, and for a moment, all was darkness.


I landed on my feet, back in Dumbledore's office. I looked up at Dumbledore, and the reality of the situation suddenly hit me. "Professor, I'm sorry! I know I shouldn't have – I mean, the cabinet door was open, but I didn't mean to -"

Dumbledore held up his hand as he said gently, "I understand, Harry."

I stared back at the stone basin. "What is it?"

"It's a Pensieve," Dumbledore replied. "I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind."

"Oh…" I said awkwardly. I've – er – never had quite that issue before.

"At such times, I use the Pensieve to sort through my thoughts."

"Sort?"

"Yes. One simply siphons the excess thoughts from one's mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at one's leisure. It becomes easier to spot patterns and links, you understand, when they are in this form."

"So, those are your thoughts?" I said, struggling to understand specifically what Dumbledore was saying.

Dumbledore nodded. "I can show you." He brought his wand tip up to his temple. Closing his eyes, he focused for a long moment. Then, when he drew his wand tip away, a silvery thread seemed to come out of his head. The thread followed the wand and into the stone basin, where it mixed with the rest of the silvery-white substance.

Upon receiving the new memory, a silvery, ghostly figure rose out of the basin. The figure's feet still remained planted in the basin, and the figure revolved slowly in the air. It looked to be a plump, scowling girl of about sixteen. She opened her mouth and began to justify herself. "He put a hex on me, Professor Dumbledore, and I was only teasing him, sir, I only said I'd seen him kissing Florence behind the greenhouses last Thursday…"

"But why, Bertha?" Dumbledore murmured sadly, half to her and half to himself. "Why did you have to follow him in the first place?"

Bertha? I looked up at Dumbledore. "Bertha Jorkins?"

"Yes," Dumbledore replied quietly. "That was Bertha as I remember her at school."

Dumbledore lifted his wand and the cabinet doors shut, closing off the Pensieve from view.

"Well, Harry," Dumbledore said, walking around his desk and sitting down in his chair, "I believe that before you got lost in my thoughts, you wished to tell me something. Is that correct?"

"Oh, yes, Professor." I suddenly remembered why I had come here in the first place. "Erm, I fell asleep in Divination…" I looked up at Dumbledore a bit guiltily, wondering if he was about to tell me off for not paying attention in class.

Dumbledore smiled. Lifting his hand, he motioned at me to continue my story, indicating that he was not about to reprimand me.

"… And well, I had a dream." I tried hard to remember everything about my dream. "It was a dream about Lord Voldemort."

Dumbledore's eyes flickered up to my face at once, but he kept his expression as calm as ever.

"He was torturing Peter Pettigrew for having messed up something. Only, Voldemort said that Pettigrew's blunder had been repaired. Then, he spoke to Nagini and said that instead of feeding Pettigrew to her, she would be eating… me."

I paused.

Dumbledore's eyes were blazing brightly, but he merely said, "Is there anything else you wish to tell me about this dream?"

"When Voldemort tortured Peter, he used the Cruciatus Curse and… it hurt me, too. What I mean is that – er – my scar hurt as Peter was tortured. My scar hurt so badly that it woke me up."

Dumbledore nodded. "Very well. And has your scar hurt at any other time this year?"

"Once, over the summer," I replied.

"And did you have this dream?"

"It was… similar," I answered. "There was a third figure in the room, but I didn't recognize the man. They were plotting to kill me." My throat closed off. I fell silent, grappling with the feeling of fear blooming in my stomach. After seeing Crouch's dead body, I suddenly felt like death was much more real to me. It wasn't just an absence to me, the way my parents' deaths were, but a physical presence – that is, a corpse.

"Professor," I blurted out, before I could help myself, "do you think these dreams are real? I mean, are they truly happening?"

I felt foolish for asking, but it also seemed foolish not to ask. After all, I supposed I should care about whether it was true that these three men were plotting to kill me and that my scar wasn't hurting randomly.

"Perhaps, Harry, perhaps..."

I reached up and touched my scar a bit absent-mindedly. Dumbledore still had his gaze on me.

Dumbledore could see that now that I'd pushed the front of my hair aside with my fingers, the scar on my forehead was quite bright, almost standing out against my skin. "Harry, have you told anyone else about these dreams?"

"I told Professor Kingsley about my first dream over the summer, but it was weeks after I'd dreamt it."

Dumbledore nodded. "I see," he said quietly. "During these dreams, have you seen Voldemort's appearance?"

I shook my head. "I just heard his voice coming from the back of a chair. I saw his wand, too, as he tortured Pettigrew." I paused, as a thought just occurred to me. Slowly, I wondered aloud, "But I don't understand how he could have held a wand. I mean, Voldemort doesn't have a body, does he? That's why he used Quirrell and the diary…"

"Indeed," Dumbledore said softly.

For a moment, there was only a low, thrumming silence.

Finally, I asked the question that had been gnawing on my mind ever since I'd spoken to Sirius in the fireplace. The worry driving this question had increased drastically based on what Crouch had said to me before he died, as well as what I'd seen in my dream. "Professor, do you really think Voldemort is growing stronger?"

Dumbledore sighed. He put his hands together, his long fingers meeting at their fingertips. "Harry, I can only give you my suspicions."

I waited patiently.

"The years of Voldemort's ascent to power were marked with disappearances and unexplained deaths. Thus, to see so many disappearances occurring now is extremely concerning."

"You mean, Bertha and Mr. Crouch?"

"Yes, and then, there is a third death that concerns me. The death of a Muggle, Frank Bryce…" Dumbledore's voice trailed off.

I blinked. What does the death of a Muggle have to do with Voldemort?

But before I could ask, Dumbledore suddenly turned his head up and a bit to the side. He was staring at a portrait whose subject seemed to be sleeping. Dumbledore stood up and strode up to the portrait.

"Professor?" I said uncertainly, as Dumbledore examined the portrait most carefully. I peeked around Dumbledore to see that the portrait was labeled "Joseph Everard."

Dumbledore turned around to face me. "I'm sorry, Harry. Was there something else on your mind?"

"Just… Just one other thing." I hesitated, not sure how to ask Dumbledore my question without offending him. "After seeing the memory in the Pensieve, I couldn't help but wonder…"

"Yes?" Dumbledore prompted, looking down at me.

"Snape -"

"Professor Snape, Harry," he corrected me.

"Yes, Professor Snape. In that memory, Karkaroff said that Snape was a Death Eater."

Dumbledore seemed to sigh internally. But externally, he merely nodded. "Yes, that is correct."

A tumult of complicated emotions arose within me, churning in my stomach like dark waves. I trust Dumbledore the most out of everyone, but why does he insist on defending Snape when there is nothing redeeming about him? Snape has made my life miserable at every turn...

"Professor, what made you think he'd really stopped supporting Voldemort?"

Dumbledore's light blue eyes glimmered as he held my gaze. "That, Harry, is a matter between Professor Snape and myself."

I wanted to press on the issue, but there was a tone of finality in Dumbledore's tone. It might be the softest warning that I'd ever heard, but it was still a warning.

I didn't respond. I knew it would be polite to nod, but I didn't want to accept that answer. Finally, I murmured, "I'll be on my way, then, Professor."

Dumbledore said nothing to stop me as I turned away and walked towards the office door. It was only when I'd reached out to open the door that Dumbledore said, "Harry."

I turned around. Dumbledore was still standing besides his desk. The stand where Fawkes usually stood was empty. For one moment, I saw Dumbledore as he was – not as the Headmaster of Hogwarts or as one of the greatest wizards to have ever lived or even as the discoverer of the uses of dragon's blood – but as an old, old man, standing by himself, lost in the overwhelming maze of his own thoughts.

I cleared my throat. "Yes, Professor?"

"Good luck with the third task."

I nodded my thanks, and opening the door, I stepped out. Class had just ended, and as I joined the stream of students heading to their next class, it felt like I was pulling my head out of a bubble and diving back into the loud, clamorous stream of reality.


Albus Dumbledore's POV

Once Harry left, I returned to Everard's portrait.

"Everard," I said softly.

He opened one eye.

"Good afternoon," I told him.

Everard gave a little sigh. Then, he sat up in his portrait and said, "Yes, Dumbledore. I'm sorry. I seem to have lost your goblet."

"Oh? And has it disappeared in the depths of your portrait?"

"As if." Phineas Nigellus Black's snide voice entered our conversation.

"Oh, pipe down, Phineas," Dilys remarked sharply. "The Headmaster already knows. He's just having his fun."

"Indeed," I replied. "But I am curious as to why you would allow Professor Kingsley to take the Goblet, when I had entrusted it to your care."

"I am sorry, Dumbledore," Everard repeated. "It's simply that I liked the way she looked up at me."

"What kind of answer is that?" Phineas asked scathingly.

"Yes. Speak clearly, man," Armando Dippet said, looking up from his portrait to gaze at Everard. "You had a duty to Dumbledore. You must be upfront about why you chose to breach that duty."

"I don't think I did, frankly," Everard replied, looking back down at Armando. "Elsewise, as we all know very well, I wouldn't have been able to do it. We are all, each and every one of us, honor-bound to the present Headmaster."

"So…" I said quietly, "why?"

"The girl was looking at the book on destroying Horcruxes," Everard revealed to me, nodding his head towards my bookcase. "She only read from it briefly, but it was clear to me what her mission was: She desires to be able to destroy a Horcrux without maiming its container."

"Indeed," I acknowledged. I recalled how devastated she had been when she learned, after Harry's triumph in the Chamber of Secrets, that Harry himself was one of Voldemort's Horcruxes. I murmured, "I imagine that that is her goal, and she clings to it very dearly. I would think that there are few in this world that are as afraid of losing a loved one as she is."

"Defeating a Horcrux is bound to be even more difficult than defeating the Goblet of Fire," Everard said smartly, pulling me out of my thoughts on Raylynx Kingsley and her motivations. "While the Goblet possess immense magical powers, it is not sentient in the way a Horcrux, which contains a piece of soul, is."

I nodded, to show that I followed Everard's reasoning.

"But both are types of contract magic," Everard continued. "The Horcrux is a contract between the container and the creator – well, the creator's soul, namely, while the Goblet is a contract between itself and the Champion."

"So, you believe that it is necessary for her to figure out how to destroy the link between the Goblet and the Champion if she wishes to eventually destroy the link between Voldemort and Harry, as his Horcrux," I realized.

Everard paused. "Yes, I think that was generally what I felt, Dumbledore. But I didn't think it out the way you just did. After all, I don't know enough about Voldemort and Harry, or about Professor Kingsley, frankly. I simply saw that she was trying to salvage something from the destruction wreaked by abuse of Dark Magic, and I thought it would be worthwhile to help her."

"Everard, it's dangerous," Armando said wisely. "We don't know what other contracts rely on the type of contract magic that the Goblet upholds. What if, by destroying the Goblet, other contracts come unbound?"

Everard sighed. "I'm afraid I don't know about that. You could be right, Armando. But you know me, I choose to decide based on what I know, not on all possibilities. For who could know such a thing?"

"No, no one could know such a thing. That is the risk one takes when they delve into ancient magic…" I replied. I paused, thinking through what the prior Heads had said before voicing my own opinion. "I agree with Armando. But, Everard, you were the one I saw fit to entrust the Goblet to, and so, if you decided to help Raylynx Kingsley, then I suppose, in a way, I have authorized it."

"I'm sorry, Dumbledore," Everard said sincerely, for the third time.

"No, no…" I said, shaking my head lightly. "When I say that I disagree with you, it's not that I disagree with your reasoning. Everything you said was right in terms of breaking contract magic and of salvation amidst Dark Magic. However, what I worry about is not the outcome of contract magic or even of Dark Magic, but of whether Raylynx Kingsley herself will survive that outcome. That is what concerns me most."

At this, Everard's eyes widened. Then, he quietly bowed his head.

I turned away from his portrait, pondering all of the many events in motion. After a moment, I sighed, feeling suffocated with too many thoughts, for it felt like a hundred different threads of thought all clamoring and merging with each other to produce thousands of different consequences. I walked once more to the Pensieve and lifted my wand to my temple...


Raylynx's POV

"You'll be happy to know that I thought of the answer to your last riddle," I told the sphynx, who was sitting patiently before me in the forest. "I thought of it right as Professor Binns floated through me in the staffroom."

I shuddered at the memory. "I hate it when he does that. Do you know what it feels like to have a ghost walk through you? It feels like somebody pouring a bucket of ice water on you…"

The sphynx merely smiled at me, still waiting.

I stopped pacing in front of her and turned to face her. "The riddle you gave me was:

What has no eyes but always tells

Not the full truth, but parts of parts?

What has no voice but always sings

Not the full tale, but lines on lines?

What has no limbs, but always kills

Not the full breed, but heroes of heroes?

What has no future, but all of the past

Not to tell time, but to create circles?"

The sphynx nodded. Her tail swished in the air as she murmured, "Yes, that is correct. Your answer?"

"My answer is: History."

The sphynx's eyes narrowed and her smile deepened, becoming even more elusive. "Do explain," she purred at me.

"Well, history has no eyes and no voice. It never tells the complete truth or the full tale, only parts of parts or lines on lines – that is, pieces of stories, made up of single perspectives and single events. It has no limbs, and it never kills off all of its witnesses, for then, no one would live to tell that history. So, history keeps the scribes, the witnesses, but it kills the heroes of heroes – the glorified martyrs in the epics who never actually live to tell the tale. Finally, history has no future; it is comprised, by definition, only of everything past. And, as they say, history moves in circles, always coming back to us, so that progress and the sense of time moving forward is lost in the reoccurring themes of humanity – violence, liberation, light, darkness, power, and so on…"

The sphynx's wings opened magnificently in the air, causing the leaves to rustle up on either side of me.

For a moment, I gripped my wand hard, thinking I had gotten it wrong and she was about to attack me.

But then, she told me, "Well done. You are correct. The answer is, as you say: history."

I sighed with relief as I sank down on the floor.

The sphynx let out a light laugh when she saw my reaction. "Was it so hard, child?"

"It was," I replied, looking up at her. "I'm not like you. I don't see concepts the way you do, nor do I usually think of them in such fluid and descriptive ways..."

"That is true. Humans prefer static concepts," the sphynx acknowledged. "Humans think that the more specific a pattern is, the more knowledge it brings. It is a disease of the mind, to think that way, but humans have decided that because it leads to power, then so be it. Madness is only madness when you've lost the war. Keep the war going, and you never lose, never have to admit your own insanity. Thus, history begets history begets history. The human legacy is one of war, I think, driven by a supposed love of glory, which is actually a fear of mortality."

"See?" I said, smiling wearily at her. "I didn't follow a single thing you said."

"Hmpfh," the sphynx sighed out, unimpressed. "So be it. I can't expect too much from you, after all. You are just a toy."

I wondered, "Are you going to ask such difficult riddles of the TriWizard Champions?"

"No," she replied. "Your Headmaster has asked me to select riddles of a… let's say, milder, difficulty."

"Good," I said. "I'm sure Harry could figure it out, but I'd rather he doesn't have any more difficulty than he's already bound to have."

The sphynx cocked her head at me. "What's a 'Harry'?" she asked me curiously.

"Oh… A young boy. He's my godson," I replied. "He's a TriWizard Champion."

"Is he, now? If he's your 'godson,' does he look like you?" the sphynx wondered, her eyes luminous, almost dazzling, in her curiosity.

"I don't suppose so, though I've never considered it before," I answered thoughtfully. "I'm not his real parent, you know. Godmother simply means a guardian, for when someone's parents are absent."

"Like me, then."

"Hm?"

"I am also a guardian. In my youth, I was a guardian of the old tombs in Egypt. Now, I am a guardian of secrets and of myth…"

I paused, not sure what to make of this. Finally, I asked, a bit hesitantly, "Do you look like your parents?"

"I am not sure," she answered. "I was not 'born,' as you humans say. I was created – from sandstone and legend and the essence of the fiercest creatures on this earth."

"Ah." I suddenly understood why the concept of 'godmother' might seem very strange to her, if 'mother' might mean something entirely different to her.

"I think of mother as 'blue' – the endless sky, the glimmering ocean, the star-gemmed fabric of space-time, the swirling clouds in which myths are spun out of," the sphynx replied in a very straightforward tone. "Father, I suppose, is 'deep gold' – the glittering sand, the dazzling sun, the enchanting glint of autumn on tree leaves, the forgotten hum of legend which runs throughout the earth under our feet…"

My mouth had fallen open, but no words came out. I simply listened to her, absolutely enchanted by the world that she was describing to me. She lives in a song, I thought to myself, a beautiful, beautiful song...


Jasper Riley's POV

"Well, looks like you won't be going to Albania after all," Shacklebolt announced, approaching me. Savage and Dawlish came in behind him.

I looked up from my desk. I'd been poring over maps of Albania. "What?" I said, surprised. "Why?"

"Because," Shacklebolt told me grimly, "Crouch is dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes. He turned up at Hogwarts, apparently, and died there. Well, more accurately, he was murdered, and we don't know by who yet," Shacklebolt informed me. "We've been assigned to search everywhere he's been recently. Ahmed is searching Crouch's office as we speak. Fudge himself went to go speak with Dumbledore and do a search of the grounds. And now, the four of us are to examine his vacation home and his mansion immediately."

"Let's look at his vacation home first," Dawlish suggested. "It's further from here."

"Does it matter?" Savage grunted. "When we can Apparate?"

Dawlish shrugged. "I don't know. Just seems more logical to hit the closer target on our way back."

"S'pse so," Savage replied.

"Let's go," Shacklebolt said shortly, shutting them both up.


As it was, Crouch's vacation home looked to be empty and undisturbed. We still scanned the place, but finding nothing, we quickly moved on from there to his permanent residence - a mansion not too far from the Ministry building. It was located in quite a handsome place, but it was surrounded by the woods, offering the resident privacy from his neighbors.

In this case, it seemed to have backfired, for the house was looking incredibly ragged. Upon seeing the state of the mansion and the heavy darkness present at each of its windows, an eerie feeling washed over us all.

"Shacklebolt, you feel that?" Dawlish murmured.

"Yes. Wands out."

We approached the house cautiously.

"Shit, door's already been op- " Dawlish began.

"Sh," I whispered quietly. "Don't want to be ambushed."

Wands at the ready, we entered the house together.

I muttered under my breath, "Homenum Revelio."

There was only silence.

We let out a collective breath.

"This mansion is fucking huge," Savage said, looking down the long, dark hallways. "You're telling me he lived here all by himself?"

"Dawlish, with me," Shacklebolt said, ignoring Savage's commentary, per usual. "We'll take the west side of the house."

Opposite of Shacklebolt and Dawlish, Savage and I turned right. The first room we came upon seemed to be a dining room of sorts.

"Dark as hell. Can't see a thing," Savage murmured. He raised his wand. "Lumos Maxima."

The horrific sight of an absolutely destroyed living room appeared before our eyes.

"Well," Savage said heavily, "this looks incredibly grim."

"I don't recall any reports of Crouch being in danger," I remarked, thinking hard. "He didn't have any restraining orders on anyone and he wasn't involved in anything on the records."

Savage snorted. "Of course not. Old Barty would never let anything appear on the records. Didn't you know him at all? Reputation was everything to him."

"But then, what is all this?" I wondered, my eyes running over the china and glass littering the table and chairs. "I mean, this can't have happened for no reason. What could have led such violence to happen in Crouch's mansion, where Crouch lived alone?"

"Dunno," Savage replied bluntly. "All right, let's get looking."

I nodded. I started to move forward, towards the table and chairs, but I had only walked forward a few steps when a soft, but quite gritty crunch rang out underneath my foot.

"Careful," Savage warned. "Some of these glass shards look to go right through our boots."

"Right," I said. I looked down, picking up my foot to make sure none of the huge glass shards had wedged its way into the sole of my boot. As I looked down at my boot, my eyes suddenly fell on the table leg, which bore heavy marks of being rubbed at and scratched at. Are those chain marks on the table leg?

Carefully, without letting my knee touch the glass littering the floor, I bent down to examine the marks. However, my gaze flickered further under the shadows below the table, where I spotted a strange beige patch of color amidst the dark green carpet.

Is that a piece of paper? I reached out and gingerly picked it up from the floor. Although it looked a bit worn around the edges, there was no glass or china on it. It must have fallen recently, my mind instantly recognized.

There was but a single paragraph of writing crammed in at the very bottom of the paper. I lifted my wand and produced my own light to read it. Bringing the paper up to my face, I read silently: "Death reported in writing and anonymously by "Damocles" in 1979. After period of time where Black was not seen, death certificate finally signed off by: Bartemius Crouch Senior, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in 1981. No investigation occurred, as Black's relatives are all also dead or in prison."

I frowned. I suppose this is one of Crouch's papers. But why is it out all by itself, under the table? And it's from when Crouch was still Head of Law Enforcement. 1979 and 1981… That's a fairly long time ago. Why would he be looking at something like this when he had much more pressing papers to sign – for instance, my permission form for international travel by Portkey so I could start my mission in Albania?

"What've you got there?" Savage asked, noticing me kneeling down with the piece of paper in my hand.

I shrugged as I stood back up. "I don't know," I said honestly, flipping over the piece of paper in my hand.

I abruptly froze as the words "DECEASED – AGE 18; 1979," stamped over the name "Regulus Arcturus Black" jumped off the page at me.


Sirius Black's POV

After receiving Harry's letter and reading the Daily Prophet, which reported on Crouch's death in a somewhat muted fashion (as it was produced by the Ministry of Magic, who wanted to keep things hush-hush), Remus and I spent nearly every waking moment trying to figure out who had killed Crouch. Well, actually, I spent every waking moment thinking about it, and I forced Remus to listen to my theories. I knew that Remus was thinking about it endlessly, too, but he didn't like to talk about it so explicitly. However, Remus had slipped up, which made him more willing to listen to me go on for hours on end.

"Moony," I'd said to him, "how did you track me down to Crouch's mansion, anyways?"

Remus avoided my eyes as he replied, "I saw the document you left on the floor. Your brother's…" His voice trailed off, as he didn't want to say aloud the words "death certificate."

"Oh, you saw it, huh?" I looked down at the floor, approximately where I thought I'd dropped it, but it wasn't there anymore. "Where'd you put the paper, Moons?"

"I have it here, in my pocket," Remus replied, reaching into his pocket. A moment later, he paused. Then, he began to fumble furiously around in his pocket. A second later, he stood up and feverishly checked all of his pockets. His face became bloodless as he kept rummaging fruitlessly in all of his pockets. Finally, he sat down, staring down at his hands.

"Moons?" I called to him worriedly.

"I can't – I can't seem to find your document," Remus admitted, almost wincing. "Sirius, I may have lost it. Merlin, I'm so sorry."

Leaning forward, he hit himself on his head with his hands. "Idiot," he berated himself.

"Never mind," I said heavily, patting his shoulder. I did risk my life to get that piece of paper, but… I suppose, I got all of the information out of it that I could, since Crouch was a dead end. Besides, I think it was emotionally draining for me to always be carrying that paper around. Maybe this will eventually feel like the lifting of a weight. Anyways, Moony didn't mean to lose it. If anything, it was on me. I shouldn't have thrown it on the ground like that.

Remus, feeling my hand on his shoulder, looked up at me to see me lost in my own thoughts. Finally, in a small voice, he said, "I'm so sorry about your brother, Pads."

My hand instinctively seized up on his shoulder, gripping hard for a moment.

Calm down, I warned myself. Taking a deep breath, I wrenched my hand loose from Remus' shoulder. I turned around quickly to hide my expression from Remus.

I know it's probably pathetic, but I still can't bring myself to talk about Regulus to Remus or Raylynx. It's not them, either. Of course they'd be more than willing to listen to what I had to say. The thing is, whenever I look at anyone I love - Remus, Raylynx, Harry - I wonder why I couldn't have loved Regulus the same way. Even at Hogwarts, it was like James was my brother. It was like Regulus never existed. And now, to admit that his death is crippling me... It sounds self-serving, almost. I don't deserve to grieve for my little brother.

All right, I told myself sternly in my head. Stop thinking about Regulus now.

After a moment, I remarked, in a completely different tone, "I can't believe Harry was probably standing mere feet away from whoever got their wand on Krum and Crouch…"

I paused, waiting for Remus' sigh that I was on this topic again. But he was silent, listening to me. So, I took my opportunity, and I continued. I started to pace the tiny room again. "Here's what it looks like," I said, for the hundredth time. "Crouch had imprisoned someone who got loose, or else he was imprisoned in his own house by someone. Either way, the prisoner escaped. According to Harry's account, Crouch made his way all the way to Dumbledore to then try to warn Dumbledore about his escaped prisoner or captor. Either that person, or someone who was in league with them, attacked Krum and killed Crouch."

"We can't know that for sure," Remus pointed out. "After all, you were the one who told me that Crouch made a lot of enemies for himself while trying to grab power during the First War. How do we know that the person who used Dark Magic in Crouch's house is also the person who killed him?"

"Because the timing of it is too perfect," I responded. "No, it's definitely linked."

Remus sighed. "We can keep going over this if you want, Sirius, but we already know what the real question is…"

I looked over at Remus.

A haunted look arise in Remus' weary eyes as he murmured quietly, "The real question is whether this is all connected to Voldemort."


Jasper Riley's POV

"Look." I brandished the paper in front of Shacklebolt's face again. "This is Regulus Black's death certificate. Who else would be interested in this except Sirius Black? And you know what's on the back of this document? Information that says that Crouch signed off on this without any investigation whatsoever."

"What's your point, Riley?" Shacklebolt asked me, as grounded as ever.

My eyes flashed fiercely as I replied, "My point? My point is that this is evidence that Sirius Black was the one who killed Crouch. Listen, we both know that Crouch was the one who ordered Black to go to Azkaban without a trial. Black hardly needed any further reason to go after Crouch. But he found further reasons, anyways. Somehow, Black managed to get his hands on this document and now he knows that Crouch was the one who let his little brother's death pass without any investigation. It must have motivates him to come out of hiding and kill Crouch."

"From what I remember, the two Black brothers weren't even close," Shacklebolt said. "Why would the death of Regulus affect Sirius in any way, let alone get him into such a passion that he decided to run out and hunt down Crouch, while knowing full well that the entire British Auror force is looking for him?"

I hesitated, thinking of my own sister, Roslyn. Roslyn and I certainly weren't "close." Often, years went by without our speaking to each other. And yet, when it came down to it, she did not have the heart to expose my true identity to the world and here I was, protecting her involvement in the black market with everything I had, even putting my hard-won career on the line. Family… is complicated, I thought.

Shacklebolt studied me for a long moment, watching the shadows flickering in the depth of my eyes. He'd never seen me so worked up about something before.

Finally, he stated, "Riley. You will not be involved with our mission to hunt down Sirius Black anymore."

I blinked. "What?"

"I'm pulling you off the hunt."

"Pulling me off...?"

"There's too many personal factors for you here. I don't know what they are, and I don't demand to know, but I can tell it's making you unstable."

"No, that's not true," I protested. "Shacklebolt, I'm not unstable. You know that everything I'm saying is true."

"Maybe," Shacklebolt relented. "You are one of our sharpest minds. I don't take any of your suggestions light, Riley. But it doesn't change the fact that this is affecting you. So, I'm pulling you off the case."

Brushing past me, he started to walk out of my office.

"But I could catch him!" I said, spinning around to address Shacklebolt, to persuade him before he left. "You know I could."

"Most likely," Shacklebolt acquiesced again, without turning around.

As he opened the door to leave my office, he looked over his shoulder and said, "But at what cost? I'm afraid you would give up your life to capture Black at this point, and I can't have that on my conscience."

"Shacklebolt, you're making a mistake," I told him. My voice was still as formal as usual, but the fervor in my tone was impossible to miss. "I can capture Sirius Black. I'm so close. I know I am. I can feel it. Just give me a little bit more ti -"

"No. You're off the mission, Riley. Please respect my order." With that, Shacklebolt left my office, leaving me standing in a room strewn about with maps of Albania, but with me still clutching Regulus Black's death certificate.