The school year did not start very well. The fourth years Gryffindors' first class was Herbology, where they spent the hour by pushing pus out of some weird new plant. Parvati looked like she was going to vomit, and even Seamus was so disgusted he couldn't keep it off his face. Only Neville, predictably enough, found it exciting.
At least the weather had improved somewhat, so they didn't have to deal with any more rain as they trotted down to the edge of the forest, where Professor Grubbly-Plank was waiting for them.
"Good morning," she said cheerfully, "and welcome in the new year! I hope you had a good holiday. Now, I'm sure many of you went to the Quidditch World Cup, and so in light of this, I have prepared something that might be of interest to you. I have convinced a few leprechauns to assist me in this class. I do not doubt they intend to cause some mischief, so watch out. Now, what can you tell me about them?"
Ron volunteered the information about leprechaun gold disappearing after a time, something that he had discovered to his frustration and was still angry about, giving the creatures an unfriendly look. Draco, after some though and some jokes at Ron's expense the Professor had to cut off, speculated about their intelligence, considering how they reacted on the Quidditch Pitch. Seamus then said a little about where they usually lived. They each received five points, and the Professor added a few other tidbits before bringing forth the leprechauns.
It was interesting seeing them from up close. They were really very small, no more than a little over ten inches, and entirely green, wearing only leaves. There were three of them, and they stared up at the class with mischievous looks.
"So," one of them asked in a high-pitched voice, "do we get to talk to them?"
"Of course, feel free," the Professor said with a wave of her hand.
"Anyone wants to speak to me, then?" The same leprechaun asked impatiently.
Harry hurried to him and then stood, a little indecisive. "Just give me your hand, doofus," the leprechaun said, and so Harry did and the tiny creature climbed into it. Harry and the other Gryffindors stepped aside, while the Slytherins went to take a different one.
"Go a little further," the leprechaun said, and so they did.
"So," he started when they were far enough, "any of you got laid yet?"
Harry's mouth dropped open, and Dean began to choke.
It went downhill from there.
That class was an experience, to say the least. After giving up on trying to get them to share their sexual experiences, the leprechaun then asked them about getting drunk, and proceeded to recommend them the best whiskey, and the best way to smuggle it to Hogwarts, Seamus bemoaning how they were 'giving Ireland a bad name' all the while. When Professor Grubbly-Plank approached to hear what they were talking about, though, the leprechaun launched into a detailed description of his lifestyle in Ireland.
"It's strange," the Professor said at the end of the class, "they didn't even make any mischief. Perhaps I misjudged them. I might owe them an apology..."
"After this," Harry muttered once they were headed back towards the castle, "I almost fear to step in the Runes class in the afternoon..."
His fear had not been entirely unjustified. Nothing particularly terrible happened, but it turned out they would be learning another alphabet this year, Ogham. Professor Babbling, too, made a reference to the Irish winning the Cup as she mentioned it. Apparently, the Quidditch stayed more prominent in minds of most people that the riots afterwards.
Not all, though. Snape was in as dark a mood as last year when Lupin had started, and Harry was convinced it was because of the approaching return of Riddle. If he was known to be a traitor, he had good reason to fear, probably.
During the week, various rumours about the Defence classes with Moody reached them. Apparently, he was an ex-Auror and used his work experience heavily to inform his teaching. Harry was curious, and excited. Dumbledore clearly knew what was going on this year, and wanted them to be prepared. That was good news.
Harry's good feeling about the class, however, started to evaporate as soon as Moody began to Imperius a spider to illustrate the effects. Harry knew the Unforgivable Curses. He'd covered them with Alduin ages ago. What he wondered was, did Moody intend to show all of them live?
When Moody asked for another curse, Neville raised his hand, a determined expression on his face. Harry gave him a worried look.
"The Cruciatus Curse," Neville said firmly.
Moody gave him an intent look with both eyes.
"Your name's Longbottom?" he asked. Neville only nodded, and Moody turned back to the class, pulling out another spider and enlarging it.
"Don't look," Harry whispered furiously.
Neville shook his head. "I need to see," he said. And he watched, even as the spider writhed in pain. Neville was shaking slightly, but his lips were pressed firmly together, and he refused to look away until Moody ended the curse.
When Moody asked for the last Unforgivable, Harry felt compelled to raise his hand and answer that one.
He had known about the curse for years, but he had never seen it until now, and it was disquieting.
Very disquieting.
When the class finally ended, he was very happy to get out.
"Potter, Longbottom, wait a moment," Moody called after them.
"Yes, Professor?" Harry asked, a tad impatiently.
"Are you all right?"
They both nodded.
"Are you sure? Don't you want to have a cup of tea?"
They shook their heads.
"Very well, then, run to dinner!"
They did.
On Sunday, at the first training class with Snape, Harry asked him to teach him as much about the Unforgivables as he could.
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Alduin was about to make a speech in front of the Wizengamot.
It wasn't what he usually did. There were others for this sort of thing – Mr. McMillan, for example, loved it. Alduin far preferred making backroom deals. But now, he judged the right time has come to make an exception.
"I speak to you today," he said when the time came, "as someone who has the war in more recent memory, owing to my years of coma. As such, I feel the need to say something that is perhaps obvious, but bears stating aloud all the same: none of us want, or should want, another war.
"Regardless of what side you stood on, what side your family stood on, you shouldn't want another war. You shouldn't want to fear for your family again. You shouldn't want to fear you'll have to face friends and relatives on the battlefield again. You shouldn't want to be forced to do things you'd really much rather not do again. You shouldn't want to have to put your life on the line again.
"The wizarding community is small, has always been small. All of our children fit into one school, great as it may be. We are not Muggles, who can sometimes afford to spend millions of lives on their wars. We do not have millions. We do not even have hundreds of thousands. Our strength has never been in our numbers. Our strength is in the individual members of our community, every single one of them. Every single one of them is precious, and even one life sacrificed for our unwillingness to step in and prevent a war is one life too much.
"There is someone now who is either trying to bring He Who Must Not Be Named back, or pretending to. You shouldn't want them to succeed. If it is a genuine attempt with any chance of success, it will bring back all I have just described. If it is a pretender...
"It is not a joke. Casting that mark at the Cup wasn't a joke, because the mark was never a joke. Everyone on both sides knew that. To learn to cast it meant you were serious. Whoever this pretender is, they might not convince as many talented witches and wizards to join him as He Who Must Not Be Named Did – after all, that took some very special talents. But he might still convince many weaker ones, and many magical creatures to boot. Perhaps it would not be as bad as the last war, but if we allow him to work unchecked, it will still cost lives, precious wizarding lives.
And if it is a pretender, it shouldn't be hard to take them down. Let us make sure we do.
We're a society divided in many things now. Let us be united in this one thing: we do not want a war."
The speech was printed verbatim in next day's Prophet, and he was peppered by demands for interviews. He did his best to milk the public sympathy he had, posing for pictures with his children as he delivered firm statements about not giving whoever wanted to bring the war back a chance.
It worked. Kingsley got the chance to prolong most of the security measures indefinitely.
Alduin breathed a sigh of relief, and got back to what he actually felt he did well.
Not everyone was entirely happy with him and the speech he made, of course. Nathan gave him an exasperated look as soon as he'd returned to his seat in Wizengamot, for all that he had voted for the measures, naturally, and when they dined at the Ollivanders a few days afterwards, Mercurius frowned at him over the port and asked: "Did there really have to be so much mentioning of precious wizarding blood in your speech?"
Alduin sighed. "Yes," he replied simply. "I don't need to convince the convinced."
It was a tight rope to walk, he knew. The last thing he wanted was to stir up too many sentiments about wizarding superiority, since that could only help Riddle in the long run. He had discarded countless drafts of his speech that leaned too heavily in that direction. Especially with the events at the cup, it left a bad taste in his mouth.
But, unfortunately, he knew his audience. He had considered, briefly, appealing to the wizarding sense of superiority in a different way, claiming that 'we were not barbarians' and that the acts at the Cup were barbaric, but he knew that wasn't the right note to play, and he had to work with what he had.
This matter settled for now, and him being unable to do any more in it, he turned to the Institute and his plans there. Horrid as it was, he knew that the riots at the Cup would make it leagues easier to actually get the person responsible for the abominable Ministry treatment of Mr. Roberts. And so he spent a day instructing the Institute's workers on what to do and whom to contact and which avenues to explore.
"You're turning into quite a champion of Muggle rights," Lucius commented to him dryly when they met at a Ministry party a few days later.
Alduin rolled his eyes. "It was damned idiotic," he said. "You have to concede it was."
"Oh, I do," he agreed, "but idiocy is not punishable by law, unfortunately."
Alduin shrugged. "No, but it offends me personally, so I'm going to explore every possibility to make sure it never happens again."
Lucius gave him a long, silent look. "I'm never quite sure with you," he said then, "if you're just phrasing things the way that would be more acceptable to me, or if you're actually honest."
Alduin shrugged. "Of course I was scandalized. But if there was an actual, legitimate need for the repeated Memory charms, I wouldn't have batted an eye. As it was, however...they exposed several Muggles to extreme mental strain, and to danger as well, with what end goal? Forcing the biggest international gathering of wizards to pretend they were Muggles. It's outrageous. It must have been Bagman who planned this. There is nothing about this that is not offensive, to any political persuasion." After the riots, Alduin had had very little emotional space left to be enraged about this, but it was there, in the back of his mind, the frustration and anger, and he had no trouble tapping into it now.
Lucius tilted his head in agreement. "You are right in that, but given the angle of attack you chose, I can hardly give you my support."
Alduin shrugged again, his emotions receding. "Like I said, it's the only viable one."
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"So," Kingsley said as they met at one of the last garden parties of the season, "I assume you've heard about that little incident with Bartemius Crouch's personal elf?"
"I have," Alduin confirmed. Finding his elf with the wand that cast the Dark Mark, after what happened with Barty, was suspicious to say the lest. Alduin would never believe Mr. Bartemius was a Death Eater, but still, he couldn't quite believe it was an accident.
Clearly Kingsley didn't either, as he said: "Well, Bartemius gave her clothes, obviously, and as you've started such a nice tradition with Dobby of making our elves the refuge for the suddenly unattached, I thought I'd ask them if they'd take her in..."
"Did they?" Alduin asked, extremely curious now.
Kingsley nodded. "Thankfully, yes. But it took them some time to decide, and then to find her, and all in all she only got to the Hall a few days ago. And the elves tell me she's in a state, and that it's going to take a while until she's able to tell me anything at all."
"So you got nothing so far?" Alduin tried not to be too disappointed.
"Not quite nothing, but...well. From what she said, apparently, she used to be more of Barty's personal elf than Bartemius'."
Alduin froze. "Ah," he said then, elaborately.
"Precisely," Kingsley said with a sharp nod. "I have no idea what it means – could house elves even cast the Dark Mark?"
Alduin thought about it for a moment. "I doubt it. I have it on good authority that you need to bear it to cast it."
"Yes, but then again, elf magic works differently," Kingsley pointed out. "But I'm not exactly keen to do research on that, so...anyway, it seems unlikely, but what other options are there? There has to be a connection."
Alduin quite agreed. But neither of them was able to figure out what it was at the moment, so Alduin changed the topic. "How's running the Aurors treating you so far?" He asked.
"It's a mixed bag," Kingsley replied. "Amelia is an amazing boss, much better than Scrimgeour ever was. Working with her is a true pleasure. But some of the people in the department..." he shook his head. "It's hard, especially as we still don't know who our mole is. I want to just say fuck it and give everything sensitive to Giacomo, but I know it wouldn't be fair, just because he's a personal friend. Plus he'd fight me every step of the way. Would you believe he actually suggested, after the suspicions with Pettigrew started, that he'd take some time off to spend with his new nephew?"
Alduin blinked. "But Luis was only born a few weeks ago."
"Precisely. Apparently he wanted me to buy that he was so overcome with desire to spend time with his unborn nephew that he needed to take several months of leave immediately."
Kingsley rolled his eyes, and Alduin laughed. "Well," he said, "I haven't seen Luis Proudfoot yet, but he must be the most charming baby in the entire world."
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AN: Luis Proudfoot was named in honour of one of the victims of the 2016 Orlando shooting, Luis S. Vielma, who was an avid Harry Potter fan, worked at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, and who was born in 1994, just like the baby in this story. Back when it happened I thought I'd get to this part of the story a bit sooner than five damn years later.