Fudge's house was quite middling, like himself. Blythe was unsure if that was an opinion she really held of their esteemed Minister, or one she had dutifully swallowed and regurgitated from her father.

It didn't really matter: she had decided that the Fudge estate, at the very least, was indeed middling. Though spacious enough to host tonight's dinner party, of course. She was no happier than her father that their invitations to such events now included her name on the envelope, as if she had passed into the world of 'utterly boring and old' after her fifteen birthday. Not to say that there was nothing pleasant to look at; Cedric Diggory was here with his father, a rather excitable-looking man, and his mother, who was stealthily inspecting the silvers.

Did Cedric Diggory know she existed? He smiled, and gave a small wave that managed to not look awkward at all, so it was possible. Hogwarts was a large school, but not that large. Still, he was entering his seventh year. And he was Cedric Diggory.

Finding another floating tray of flutes, she replaced her empty one and considered that at the very least she had found something good to stare at.

"Blythe," her father called. Perhaps he was watching her frequent refreshments. She wasn't going to embarrass him, but she couldn't fault him for being careful. "Say hello to Quirke, you remember her daughter, don't you?" A very tall woman, with pin-straight orange hair and heavily freckled skin, was holding a hand behind a young girl's back.

"Yes, I do," she said, feeling awkwardly young even with the champagne flute in hand. Like dress-up. "Hello Arminta, how are you?" The girl stared up at her with owl eyes.

"I'm starting Hogwarts this year," she told her. "How old are you now?"

"I'm," she cleared her throat. "I'm going into my fifth year, so I'll be taking O.W.L examinations soon."

"Cool," Arminta said. "Mum said you're in Slytherin."

"I am," Blythe said, hating this entire awkward encounter. "Do you know what house you want to be in?"

"Hufflepuff," she said solemnly. "By the kitchens, isn't it?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Best house by far," came a vaguely familiar voice. "What a very smart choice from a very clever girl."

Blythe nearly smiled against her will. Diggory had a talent for it, with just about everyone. "This is Cedric Diggory, he's going to be Head Boy this year, and he's in Hufflepuff."

"So if you've any questions..." he trailed off with a warm crinkle of his eyes.

Arminta, it seemed, was awed into silence.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mister Diggory," Her mother, Mica Quirke held her hand out for it to be kissed. "You'd be Amos' boy, wouldn't you? His pride and joy."

"My father is too kind, and I strive to be just whatever it is he sees in me. Brings out my best, I find." She laughed, as if he had said something terribly witty, but that was the effect of Cedric. Blythe caught her father's eye and they both raised an eyebrow at the single mother's hand now upon the Head Boy's arm. Her father pressed his lips together as if to contain a snort (he was fond of doing so). Miss Quirke was a lovely lady, and her daughter was nice if quiet. But the woman had her tastes for handsome young men and nothing particularly serious. She had never married, and didn't seem keen to. It was because of these decisions that her father had been able to strike up a relationship with her - he was too old for her, and not nearly handsome enough. Though Blythe told him often, that he was quite handsome indeed.

Usually when she wanted something, but still.

The rest of the night was as uneventful as she had dreaded, although there had been a surprise guest at the dinner itself. Lucius and his wife Narcissa Malfoy had made it, and the entire seating arrangement had been changed for them because Fudge couldn't bear being apart from the elusive man.

Though she might have imagined it, she though she saw distaste at the rearrangement in the curve of Narcissa Malfoy's mouth. But besides from these additional, and quiet, dinner guests, nothing else happened at all.

Of course, what Blythe didn't know is that the lack of something else, someone else, was a very big deal indeed. Barty Crouch Senior was sat at home tonight, nursing a warm scotch, after being 'forgotten' yet again. Excluded from such gatherings. It was no longer gradual; with the elections coming up again, despite Crouch not even being in the running, Fudge had rather iced him out.

Idiot.

He'd instead busied Crouch's life and schedule with the fucking Department of Magical Games and Sport - as if the Tournament upcoming didn't need, at most, a minimal Auror security detail. The Minister for Magic had instead thrust the entire job onto Crouch - perhaps it wasn't an entirely thoughtless decision, after all Ludo Bagman (the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sport) was as useful in his position as a limp noodle. But all the same, it could've been any other competent wizard or witch in the Ministry. No. It had to be Crouch, because still, still he was being punished. Fudge knew Crouch deserved the job, is what Crouch thought. But he wasn't smart enough to realise that such opportunity was long beyond him.

After all, he'd given up years and years ago. He was just stuck, planning a Tournament he'd rather die than attend, with the shell of his son in the attic. The only remainder of Cynthia, her dying wish, his internal regret. How many nights did he stand over the boy and wonder if it was just better to kill him then and there? So often he wondered why he didn't, and he really couldn't say. Perhaps it was Cynthia, and her soft heart, still living beside him.

He hated his son so dearly. He had, after all, killed his wife. He killed the best woman in the world, out of teenage rebellion. He tore their entire world apart and had the audacity to beg -

Crouch sighed and stood. He needed some sleep, for tomorrow he had Ludo Bagman in his office at around eight, sure to be talking excitably about Hippogriffian levels of shit.