Bartemius Crouch Senior

Previous Chapters:

Chapter 1: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003585181

Chapter 2: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003585386

Chapter 3: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003589099

Chapter 4: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003589999

Chapter 5: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003590737

Chapter 6: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003592048

Chapter 7: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003593450

Chapter 8: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003594715

Chapter 9: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003595876

Chapter 10: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003596713

Chapter 11: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003597502

Chapter 12: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003598647

Chapter 13: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003600597

Chapter 14: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003602821

Chapter 15: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003605031

Chapter 16: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003605690

Chapter 17: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003607525

Chapter 18: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003607955

Chapter 19: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003608845

Chapter 20: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003609937

Chapter 21: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003612000

Chapter 22: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003613068

Chapter 23: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003613747

Chapter 24: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003614871

Chapter 25: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003617641

Chapter 26: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003618022

Tags: @MeowTasticCat @Bellatrisblack @Diantha Angelina Black @CatsAndRoblox @Kakaonut @Potatopanda2121

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Pensieve

The door of the office opened.

‘Hello, Potter,’ said Moody. ‘Come in, then.’

Harry walked inside. He had been inside Dumbledore’s office once before; it was a very beautiful, circular room, lined with pictures of previous headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts, all of whom were fast asleep, their chests rising and falling gently.

Cornelius Fudge was standing beside Dumbledore’s desk, wearing his usual pinstriped cloak and holding his lime-green bowler hat.

‘Harry!’ said Fudge jovially, moving forward. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine,’ Harry lied.

‘We were just talking about the night when Mr Crouch turned up on the grounds,’ said Fudge. ‘It was you who found him, was it not?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry. Then, feeling it was pointless to pretend that he hadn’t overheard what they had been saying, he added, ‘I didn’t see Madame Maxime anywhere, though, and she’d have a job hiding, wouldn’t she?’

Dumbledore smiled at Harry behind Fudge’s back, his eyes twinkling.

‘Yes, well,’ said Fudge, looking embarrassed, ‘we’re about to go for a short walk on the grounds, Harry, if you’ll excuse us...perhaps if you just go back to your class—‘

‘I wanted to talk to you, Professor,’ Harry said quickly, looking at Dumbledore, who gave him a swift, searching look.

‘Wait here for me, Harry,’ he said. ‘Our examination of the grounds will not take long.’

They trooped out in silence past him and closed the door. After a minute or so, Harry heard the clunks of Moody’s wooden leg growing fainter in the corridor below. He looked around.

‘Hello, Fawkes,’ he said.

Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore’s phoenix, was standing on his golden perch beside the door. The size of a swan, with magnificent scarlet-and-gold plumage, he swished his long tail and blinked benignly at Harry. He stared fondly at the bird, remembering how it had come to his aid when he had thought all hope was lost, absorbing Harry's Fiendfyre then healing him back in second year.

Harry sat down in a chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk. For several minutes, he sat and watched the old headmasters and headmistresses snoozing in their frames, thinking about what he had just heard, and running his fingers over his scar. It had stopped hurting now.

He felt much calmer, somehow, now that he was in Dumbledore’s office, knowing he would shortly be telling him about the dream. Harry looked up at the walls behind the desk. The patched and ragged Sorting Hat was standing on a shelf. A glass case next to it held a magnificent silver sword with large rubies set into the hilt, Harry wondered what it was.

His attention was taken away from the sword when he noticed a patch of silvery light, dancing and shimmering on the glass case. He looked around for the source of the light and saw a sliver of silver-white shining brightly from within a black cabinet behind him, whose door had not been closed properly. Harry hesitated, glanced at Fawkes, then got up, walked across the office, and pulled open the cabinet door.

A shallow stone basin lay there, with odd carvings around the edge: runes and symbols that Harry did not recognize. The silvery light was coming from the basin’s contents, which were like nothing Harry had ever seen before. He could not tell whether the substance was liquid or gas. It was a bright, whitish silver, and it was moving ceaselessly; the surface of it became ruffled like water beneath wind, and then, like clouds, separated and swirled smoothly. It looked like light made liquid— or like wind made solid—Harry couldn’t make up his mind.

He wanted to touch it, to find out what it felt like, but nearly four years’ experience of the magic lessons told him that sticking his hand into a bowl full of some unknown substance was a very stupid thing to do. He therefore pulled his wand out of the inside of his robes, cast a nervous look around the office, looked back at the contents of the basin, and prodded them.

The surface of the silvery stuff inside the basin began to swirl very fast.

Harry bent closer, his head right inside the cabinet. The silvery substance had become transparent; it looked like glass. He looked down into it, expecting to see the stone bottom of the basin—and saw instead an enormous room below the surface of the mysterious substance, a room into which he seemed to be looking through a circular window in the ceiling.

The room was dimly lit; he thought it might even be underground, for there were no windows, merely torches in brackets such as the ones that illuminated the walls of Hogwarts. Lowering his face so that his nose was a mere inch away from the glassy substance, Harry saw that rows and rows of witches and wizards were seated around every wall on what seemed to be benches rising in levels. An empty chair stood in the very center of the room. There was something about the chair that gave Harry an ominous feeling. Chains encircled the arms of it, as though its occupants were usually tied to it.

Where was this place? It surely wasn’t Hogwarts; he had never seen a room like that here in the castle. Moreover, the crowd in the mysterious room at the bottom of the basin was comprised of adults, and Harry knew there were not nearly that many teachers at Hogwarts. They seemed, he thought, to be waiting for something; even though he could only see the tops of their hats, all of their faces seemed to be pointing in one direction, and none of them were talking to one another.

The basin being circular, and the room he was observing square, Harry could not make out what was going on in the corners of it. He leaned even closer, tilting his head, trying to see...

The tip of his nose touched the strange substance into which he was staring.

Dumbledore’s office gave an almighty lurch—Harry was thrown forward and pitched headfirst into the substance inside the basin—But his head did not hit the stone bottom. He was falling through something icy-cold and black; it was like being sucked into a dark whirlpool—

And suddenly, Harry found himself sitting on a bench at the end of the room inside the basin, a bench raised high above the others. He looked up at the high stone ceiling, expecting to see the circular window through which he had just been staring, but there was nothing there but dark, solid stone.

Breathing hard and fast, Harry looked around him. Not one of the witches and wizards in the room (and there were at least two hundred of them) was looking at him. Not one of them seemed to have noticed that a fourteen-year-old boy had just dropped from the ceiling into their midst. Harry turned to the wizard next to him on the bench and uttered a loud cry of surprise that reverberated around the silent room.

He was sitting right next to Albus Dumbledore.

‘Professor!’ Harry said in a kind of strangled whisper. ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I was just looking at that basin in your cabinet—I—where are we?’

But Dumbledore didn’t move or speak. He ignored Harry completely. Like every other wizard on the benches, he was staring into the far corner of the room, where there was a door.

Harry gazed, nonplussed, at Dumbledore, then around at the silently watchful crowd, then back at Dumbledore. And then it dawned on him...

Once before, Harry had found himself somewhere that nobody could see or hear him. That time, he had fallen through a page in an enchanted diary, right into somebody else’s memory...and unless he was very much mistaken, something of the sort had happened again...

Harry raised his right hand, hesitated, and then waved it energetically in front of Dumbledore’s face. Dumbledore did not blink, look around at Harry, or indeed move at all. And that, in Harry’s opinion, settled the matter. Dumbledore wouldn’t ignore him like that. He was inside a memory, and this was not the present-day Dumbledore. Yet it couldn’t be that long ago...the Dumbledore sitting next to him now was silver-haired, just like the present-day Dumbledore. But what was this place? What were all these wizards waiting for?

Harry looked around more carefully. The room, as he had suspected when observing it from above, was almost certainly underground—more of a dungeon than a room, he thought. There was a bleak and forbidding air about the place; there were no pictures on the walls, no decorations at all; just these serried rows of benches, rising in levels all around the room, all positioned so that they had a clear view of that chair with the chains on its arms.

Before Harry could reach any conclusions about the place in which they were, he heard footsteps. The door in the corner of the dungeon opened and three people entered—or at least one man, flanked by two dementors.

Harry’s insides went cold. The dementors—tall, hooded creatures whose faces were concealed—were gliding slowly toward the chair in the center of the room, each grasping one of the man’s arms with their dead and rotten-looking hands. The man between them looked as though he was about to faint, and Harry couldn’t blame him...he knew the dementors could not touch him inside a memory, but he remembered their power only too well. The watching crowd recoiled slightly as the dementors placed the man in the chained chair and glided back out of the room. The door swung shut behind them.

Harry looked down at the man now sitting in the chair and saw that it was Karkaroff.

Unlike Dumbledore, Karkaroff looked much younger; his hair and goatee were black. He was not dressed in sleek furs, but in thin and ragged robes. He was shaking. Even as Harry watched, the chains on the arms of the chair glowed suddenly gold and snaked their way up Karkaroff ’s arms, binding him there.

‘Igor Karkaroff,’ said a curt voice to Harry’s left. Harry looked around and saw Mr Crouch standing up in the middle of the bench beside him. Crouch’s hair was dark, his face was much less lined, he looked fit and alert. ‘You have been brought from Azkaban to present evidence to the Ministry of Magic. You have given us to understand that you have important information for us.’

Karkaroff straightened himself as best he could, tightly bound to the chair.

‘I have, sir,’ he said, and although his voice was very scared, Harry could still hear the familiar unctuous note in it. ‘I wish to be of use to the Ministry. I wish to help. I—I know that the Ministry is trying to—to round up the last of the Dark Lord’s supporters. I am eager to assist in any way I can...’

There was a murmur around the benches. Some of the wizards and witches were surveying Karkaroff with interest, others with pronounced mistrust. Then Harry heard, quite distinctly, from Dumbledore’s other side, a familiar, growling voice saying, ‘Filth.’

Harry leaned forward so that he could see past Dumbledore. Mad-Eye Moody was sitting there—except that there was a very noticeable difference in his appearance. He did not have his magical eye, but two normal ones. Both were looking down upon Karkaroff, and both were narrowed in intense dislike.

‘Crouch is going to let him out,’ Moody breathed quietly to Dumbledore. ‘He’s done a deal with him. Took me six months to track him down, and Crouch is going to let him go if he’s got enough new names. Let’s hear his information, I say, and throw him straight back to the dementors.’

Dumbledore made a small noise of dissent through his long, crooked nose.

‘Ah, I was forgetting...you don’t like the dementors, do you, Albus?’ said Moody with a sardonic smile.

‘No,’ said Dumbledore calmly, ‘I’m afraid I don’t. I have long felt the Ministry is wrong to ally itself with such creatures.’

‘But for filth like this...’ Moody said softly.

‘You say you have names for us, Karkaroff,’ said Mr Crouch. ‘Let us hear them, please.’

‘You must understand,’ said Karkaroff hurriedly, ‘that He-Who- Must-Not-Be-Named operated always in the greatest secrecy...He preferred that we—I mean to say, his supporters—and I regret now, very deeply, that I ever counted myself among them—‘

‘Get on with it,’ sneered Moody.

‘—we never knew the names of every one of our fellows—He alone knew exactly who we all were—‘

‘Which was a wise move, wasn’t it, as it prevented someone like you, Karkaroff, from turning all of them in,’ muttered Moody.

‘Yet you say you have some names for us?’ said Mr Crouch.

‘I—I do,’ said Karkaroff breathlessly. ‘And these were important supporters, mark you. People I saw with my own eyes doing his bidding. I give this information as a sign that I fully and totally renounce him, and am filled with a remorse so deep I can barely—‘

‘These names are?’ said Mr Crouch sharply.

Karkaroff drew a deep breath.

‘There was Antonin Dolohov,’ he said. ‘I—I saw him torture countless Muggles and—and non-supporters of the Dark Lord.’

‘And helped him do it,’ murmured Moody.

‘We have already apprehended Dolohov,’ said Crouch. ‘He was caught shortly after yourself.’

‘Indeed?’ said Karkaroff, his eyes widening. ‘I—I am delighted to hear it!’

But he didn’t look it. Harry could tell that this news had come as a real blow to him. One of his names was worthless.

‘Any others?’ said Crouch coldly.

‘Why, yes...there was Rosier,’ said Karkaroff hurriedly. ‘Evan Rosier.’

‘Rosier is dead,’ said Crouch. ‘He was caught shortly after you were too. He preferred to fight rather than come quietly and was killed in the struggle.’

‘Took a bit of me with him, though,’ whispered Moody to Harry’s right. Harry looked around at him once more, and saw him indicating the large chunk out of his nose to Dumbledore.

‘No—no more than Rosier deserved!’ said Karkaroff, a real note of panic in his voice now. Harry could see that he was starting to worry that none of his information would be of any use to the Ministry. Karkaroff’s eyes darted toward the door in the corner, behind which the dementors undoubtedly still stood, waiting.

‘Any more?’ said Crouch.

‘Yes!’ said Karkaroff. ‘There was Travers—he helped murder the McKinnons! Mulciber—he specialized in the Imperius Curse, forced countless people to do horrific things! Rookwood, who was a spy, and passed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named useful information from inside the Ministry itself!’

Harry could tell that, this time, Karkaroff had struck gold. The watching crowd was all murmuring together.

‘Rookwood?’ said Mr Crouch, nodding to a witch sitting in front of him, who began scribbling upon her piece of parchment. ‘Augustus Rookwood of the Department of Mysteries?’

‘The very same,m said Karkaroff eagerly. ‘I believe he used a network of well-placed wizards, both inside the Ministry and out, to collect information—‘

‘But Travers and Mulciber we have,’ said Mr Crouch. ‘Very well, Karkaroff, if that is all, you will be returned to Azkaban while we decide—‘

‘Not yet!’ cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate. ‘Wait, I have more!’

Harry could see him sweating in the torchlight, his white skin contrasting strongly with the black of his hair and beard.

‘Snape!’ he shouted. ‘Severus Snape!’

‘Snape has been cleared by this council,’ said Crouch disdainfully. ‘He has been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore.’

‘No!’ shouted Karkaroff, straining at the chains that bound him to the chair. ‘I assure you! Severus Snape is a Death Eater!’

Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. ‘I have given evidence already on this matter,’ he said calmly. ‘Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. However, he rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort’s downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk. He is now no more a Death Eater than I am.’

This was news to Harry. He had long suspected Snape to have a dark past, but he didn’t think he was a deatheater. His parents repeatedly warned him about Karkaroff for being a deatheater, and yet despite hating Snape they never once mentioned him being one.

Harry turned to look at Mad-Eye Moody. He was wearing a look of deep skepticism behind Dumbledore’s back.

‘Very well, Karkaroff,’ Crouch said coldly, ‘you have been of assistance. I shall review your case. You will return to Azkaban in the meantime...’

Mr Crouch’s voice faded. Harry looked around; the dungeon was dissolving as though it were made of smoke; everything was fading; he could see only his own body—all else was swirling darkness...

And then, the dungeon returned. Harry was sitting in a different seat, still on the highest bench, but now to the left side of Mr Crouch. The atmosphere seemed quite different: relaxed, even cheerful. The witches and wizards all around the walls were talking to one another, almost as though they were at some sort of sporting event. Harry noticed a witch halfway up the rows of benches opposite. She had short blonde hair, was wearing magenta robes, and was sucking the end of an acid-green quill. It was, unmistakably, a younger Rita Skeeter. Harry looked around; Dumbledore was sitting beside him again, wearing different robes. Mr Crouch looked more tired and somehow fiercer, gaunter...Harry understood. It was a different memory, a different day...a different trial.

Previous Chapters:

Chapter 1: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003585181

Chapter 2: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003585386

Chapter 3: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003589099

Chapter 4: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003589999

Chapter 5: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003590737

Chapter 6: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003592048

Chapter 7: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003593450

Chapter 8: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003594715

Chapter 9: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003595876

Chapter 10: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003596713

Chapter 11: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003597502

Chapter 12: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003598647

Chapter 13: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003600597

Chapter 14: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003602821

Chapter 15: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003605031

Chapter 16: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003605690

Chapter 17: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003607525

Chapter 18: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003607955

Chapter 19: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003608845

Chapter 20: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003609937

Chapter 21: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003612000

Chapter 22: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003613068

Chapter 23: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003613747

Chapter 24: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003614871

Tags: @MeowTasticCat (love the new profile pic) @Bellatrisblack @Diantha Angelina Black @CatsAndRoblox @Kakaonut @Potatopanda2121

(So I have been on a trip these past few days, and I wrote the entire time, so I have several chapters finished. I'll try and spread them out but expect a lot of uploads. DO NOT FEEL PRESSURED TO READ THEM RIGHT AWAY.)

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Madness of Mr Crouch

After the information Harry had learned he had been in quite a mood, but on Sunday morning he was in a bit better spirt as he headed towards the kitchen with Theodore, Allison, and Tracey. Harry couldn’t wait to give Dobby his new socks.

The house-elves gave them a very cheery welcome, bowing and curtsying and bustling around making tea again. Dobby was ecstatic about his present.

‘Harry Potter is too good to Dobby!’ he squeaked, wiping large tears out of his enormous eyes.

‘You saved my life with that gillyweed, Dobby, you deserve it. Also Allison here helped pick them out,’ said Harry.

‘Dobby is grateful to Miss Runcorn too.’

‘You are quite welcome,’ said Allison in a rare smile.

He switched the miss-matched pair he was wearing with two others from Harry’s present.

After a moment Harry noticed that something was missing from the kitchen, or more appropriately someone.

‘Dobby, where is Winky?’

‘Winky is over there by the fire, sir,’ said Dobby quietly, his ears drooping slightly.

‘Poor thing,’ said Tracey as she spotted Winky.

Harry looked over at the fireplace too. Winky was sitting on the same stool as last time, but she had allowed herself to become so filthy that she was not immediately distinguishable from the smoke-blackened brick behind her. Her clothes were ragged and unwashed. She was clutching a bottle of butterbeer and swaying slightly on her stool, staring into the fire. As they watched her, she gave an enormous hiccup.

‘Winky is getting through six bottles a day now,’ Dobby whispered to Harry.

‘Well, it’s not strong, that stuff,’ Harry said.

But Dobby shook his head. ‘’Tis strong for a house-elf, sir,’ he said.

Winky hiccuped again. The elves who had brought the group some sweets gave her disapproving looks as they returned to work.

‘Winky is pining, Harry Potter,’ Dobby whispered sadly. ‘Winky wants to go home. Winky still thinks Mr Crouch is her master, sir, and nothing Dobby says will persuade her that Professor Dumbledore is her master now.’

‘Hey, Winky,’ said Harry, struck by a sudden inspiration, walking over to her, and bending down, ‘you don’t know what Mr Crouch might be up to, do you? Because he’s stopped turning up to judge the Triwizard Tournament.’

Winky’s eyes flickered. Her enormous pupils focused on Harry. She swayed slightly again and then said, ‘M—Master is stopped—hic—coming?’

‘Yeah,’ said Harry, ‘we haven’t seen him since the first task. The Daily Prophet’s saying he’s ill.’

Winky swayed some more, staring blurrily at Harry. ‘Master—hic—ill?’

Her bottom lip began to tremble.

‘Maybe,’ said Theodore quickly, ‘we have reason to believe he might be faking.’

‘Master is needing his—hic—Winky!’ whimpered the elf. ‘Master cannot—hic—manage—hic—all by himself...’

‘Well, I think he’s able to take care of himself, it’s just that he-‘ began Harry before being interrupted.

‘Winky—hic—is not only—hic—taking care of Mr Crouch!’ Winky squeaked indignantly, swaying worse than ever and slopping butterbeer down her already heavily stained blouse. ‘Master is—hic—trusting Winky with—hic—the most important—hic—the most secret—‘

‘What?’ said Harry.

But Winky shook her head very hard, spilling more butterbeer down herself.

‘Winky keeps—hic—her master’s secrets,’ she said mutinously, swaying very heavily now, frowning up at Harry with her eyes crossed. ‘You is—hic—nosing, you is.’

‘Winky must not talk like that to Harry Potter!’ said Dobby angrily. ‘Harry Potter is brave and noble and Harry Potter is not nosy!’

‘He is nosing—hic—into my master’s—hic—private and secret—hic—Winky is a good house-elf—hic—Winky keeps her silence—hic—people trying to—hic—pry and poke—hic—‘

Winky’s eyelids drooped and suddenly, without warning, she slid off her stool into the hearth, snoring loudly. The empty bottle of butterbeer rolled away across the stone-flagged floor. Half a dozen house-elves came hurrying forward, looking disgusted. One of them picked up the bottle; the others covered Winky with a large checked tablecloth and tucked the ends in neatly, hiding her from view.

‘We is sorry you had to see that, sirs and misses!’ squeaked a nearby elf, shaking his head and looking very ashamed. ‘We is hoping you will not judge us all by Winky, sirs and misses!’

‘Will she be ok?’ asked Tracey.

‘We don’t know, miss,’ said another elf. ‘House-elf’s who spend their entire life under one master almost never take being fired well, but most are usually better by now.’

The atmosphere in the kitchen had changed, the elves clearly did not like the group seeing Winky in her current state or anyone taking about being fired. Not wishing to cause trouble Harry and his friends soon headed for the exit.

‘Thank you for the socks, Harry Potter!’ Dobby called miserably from the hearth, where he was standing next to the lumpy tablecloth that was Winky.

‘You’re very much welcome,’ said Harry as he exited.

‘That was very interesting,’ said Theodore as they headed back towards the dungeon. ‘Winky implied someone else was living with Crouch, but his wife and son are both dead. Who could she mean?’

Harry thought for a second, ‘It’s been over thirteen years since his wife died, maybe he found somebody else? However she was really drunk, she might have old memories confused for newer ones and was talking about Crouch’s wife and son.’

Despite how their conversation with Winky had ended, the four of them were quite chipper by the following morning. They all ate with Terence until they were full from the delicious spread on the table. As always the post owls arrived halfway through the morning meal, however unlike normal Tracey received far more mail than normal.

‘Tracey, you’re birthday was six months ago, wasn’t it?’ said Harry, seizing Tracey’s goblet before it was knocked over by the cluster of owls, all of whom were jostling close to her, trying to deliver their own letter first. Allison also received a couple letters apposed to her regular one from her mother.

‘It’s not, I don’t understand—?’ Tracey said, taking the letter from a gray owl, opening it, and starting to read. ‘My goodness!’ she sputtered, going rather pink in the ears.

‘What does it say?’ Asked Terence, concerned.

‘They’re hate mail,’ said Allison plainly after reading hers.

‘They’re quite childish, I must say,’ said Tracey. She thrust the letter at Harry, who saw that it was not handwritten, but composed from pasted letters that seemed to have been cut out of the Daily Prophet.

“You are a WickEd giRL. HarRy PotTER desErves BeTteR. HOpe your NeW mAN DUmps youR UgLY half-BLooD arsE.”

‘Mine says I’m a back stabbing...well, it gets kind of immature,’ said Allison.

‘Each one is about the same,’ said Tracey, opening each letter. ‘All saying how I don’t deserve you Harry, some insulting my father, and others are just making fun of—‘

‘Tracey! Stop!’ said Allison in alarm, she was pointing at the black envelope Tracey was currently holding. ‘Accio black letter.’

The letter zipped into her hand, before any of them could question what she was doing, Allison sniffed the letter and her nose scrunched up. Harry then noticed a small amount of yellowish-green liquid was oozing from a corner of the letter.

‘Smells like petrol, I think this letter is filled with Undiluted bubotuber pus!’ she then raised her wand at it again. ‘Insendio.’

The letter burnt in an instant and only a tiny pile of ashes remained.

‘Thanks Alli. I think we should burn all of these, but maybe not at the table,’ said Tracey, looking at the surrounding students who had noticed the short fiery explosion.

History of Magic was as boring as usual. But it wasn’t that class Harry was worried about as it had a strict no talking policy. The following Care of Magical Creatures class would open Pansy and her gang to torment Tracey about the owl tornado of hate.

As Harry and his friends left the Ravenclaws behind and started making their way towards their Care of Magical Creatures class, they were closely followed by Pansy, Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle, all whispering and giggling behind them.

‘Trouble in paradise, Potter?’ Pansy mocked. ‘It looked like one of your exes tried to set you on fire.’

Harry ignored her; Tracey’s advice from Friday was right, just ignore as none of the things in the Witch Weekly article was true or had any effect on what truly mattered.

Hagrid, who had told them last lesson that they had finished with unicorns, was waiting for them outside his cabin with a fresh supply of open crates at his feet. Harry’s heart sank at the sight of the crates—surely not another skrewt hatching?—but when he got near enough to see inside, he found himself looking at a number of fluffy black creatures with long snouts. Their front paws were curiously flat, like spades, and they were blinking up at the class, looking politely puzzled at all the attention.

‘These’re nifflers,’ said Hagrid, when the class had gathered around. ‘Yeh find ’em down mines mostly. They like sparkly stuff...There yeh go, look.’

One of the nifflers had suddenly leapt up and attempted to bite Pansy Parkinson’s watch off her wrist. She shrieked and jumped backward.

‘Useful little treasure detectors,’ said Hagrid happily. ‘Thought we’d have some fun with ’em today. See over there?’ He pointed at the large patch of freshly turned earth not far from the hut. ‘I’ve buried some gold coins. I’ve got a prize fer whoever picks the niffler that digs up most. Jus’ take off all yer valuables, an’ choose a niffler, an’ get ready ter set ’em loose.’

Harry took off his watch, which he was only wearing out of habit, as it didn’t work anymore, and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he picked up a niffler. It put its long snout in Harry’s ear and sniffed enthusiastically. It was really quite cuddly.

It was easily the most fun they had ever had in Care of Magical Creatures. The nifflers dived in and out of the patch of earth as though it were water, each scurrying back to the student who had released it and spitting gold into their hands. Ron Weasley’s was particularly efficient; it had soon filled his lap with coins.

‘Can you buy these as pets, Hagrid?’ he asked excitedly as his niffler dived back into the soil, splattering his robes.

‘Yer mum wouldn’ be happy, Ron,’ said Hagrid, grinning. ‘They wreck houses, nifflers. I reckon they’ve nearly got the lot, now,’ he added, pacing around the patch of earth while the nifflers continued to dive. “I on’y buried a hundred coins. Well, let’s check how yeh’ve all done! Count yer coins! An’ there’s no point tryin’ ter steal any, Goyle,’ he added, his beetle-black eyes narrowed. ‘It’s leprechaun gold. Vanishes after a few hours.’

Goyle emptied his pockets, looking extremely sulky. It turned out that Ron’s niffler had been most successful, so Hagrid gave him an enormous slab of Honeydukes chocolate for a prize. The bell rang across the grounds for lunch; the rest of the class set off back to the castle, but Harry, Tracey, Allison, and Theodore stayed behind to help Hagrid put the nifflers back in their boxes. Harry noticed Madame Maxime watching them out of her carriage window.

‘Why was Parkinson’s lookin’ extra smug today?’ said Hagrid, looking curious.

Allison told him about the hate mail she and Tracey had received that morning because of Rita’s article, and the envelope full of bubotuber pus that she had to burn away.

‘Aaah, don’ worry,’ said Hagrid gently, looking down at the two girls. ‘I got some o’ those letters an’ all, after Rita Skeeter wrote abou’ me mum. ‘Yeh’re a monster an’ yeh should be put down.’ ‘Yer mother killed innocent people an’ if you had any decency you’d jump in a lake.’

‘That is awful!’ said Tracey, looking shocked.

‘Yeah,’ said Hagrid, heaving the niffler crates over by his cabin wall. ‘They’re jus’ nutters. Don’ open ’em if yeh get any more, you two. Chuck ’em straigh’ in the fire.’

‘I think we really needed a pick-me-up like that after the week we’ve had,’ Harry said as they headed back toward the castle. ‘They’re good, nifflers, aren’t they, Ron?”

But the girls weren’t in as good a mood as Harry, they were still rather put out by the mornings incident and Allison specifically was still quite mad at Rita Skeeter.

‘If I wasn’t planning my revenge on Skeeter before, I am now,’ she said at lunch. Tracey looked at her concerned, but Allison reassured her. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll use my head instead of my fury.’

Hate mail continued to arrive for Tracey and Allison over the following week, and although they followed Hagrid’s advice and stopped opening it, several of their ill-wishers sent Howlers, which exploded at the Slytherin table and shrieked insults at them for the whole Hall to hear. Even those people who didn’t read Witch Weekly knew all about the supposed Tracey-Harry-Allison triangle now. Harry was getting sick of telling people that neither of them were his girlfriend.

‘It should die down soon, though,’ he told Allison, ‘if we just ignore it...People got bored with that stuff she wrote about me last time—‘

‘I don’t really care about the gossip anymore,’ said Allison calmly. ‘What I care about is learning how Skeeter has been sneaking around the grounds without being caught. How she’s getting all this information while banned.’

Allison hung back in their next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson to ask Professor Moody something. The rest of the class was very eager to leave; Moody had given them such a rigorous test of hex-deflection that many of them were nursing small injuries. Harry had such a bad case of Twitchy Ears, he had to hold his hands clamped over them as he walked away from the class.

‘Well, the invisibility cloak theory is now out,’ Allison panted five minutes later, catching up with Harry, Tracey, and Theodore in the entrance hall and pulling Harry’s hand away from one of his wiggling ears so that he could hear her. ‘Moody told me he didn’t see anyone using one near the judges’ table or the lake during the second task.’

‘Allison,’ Tracey said trying to sound as calm as possible. ‘I love how you are putting your frustration into detective work instead of outbursts, but there is a point where what you are doing becomes an obsession instead of just an output.’

‘I’m fine,’ Allison said stubbornly. ‘This isn’t just for me, I want to know how she gets her information so I can stop her from ruining more lives. If she can’t use whatever method she is using she’ll have to collect information the regular way, through interviews, and that way the people she talks to have more control over what she knows about them.’

‘Well if she isn’t using an invisibility cloak,’ said Harry, ‘what other method could she be using?’

‘Likely not a legal one,’ said Allison with a devilish smile. ‘Which actually gives me an idea.’

And she then she took off towards the direction of the owlery. Harry had a sneaking suspicion she might be sending and owl to her father.

‘Do you think she’ll be able to do it?’ said Theodore. ‘Find out how Rita Skeeter is collecting information and stopping her?’

None of them were sure, but they had to admit it was nice seeing her have a passion this year. Something to distract her from her mother’s health.

Leading up to the Easter Holidays their workload was mounting ever higher. Harry frankly marveled at the fact that Allison could research magical methods of eavesdropping as well as her Runes class and everything else they had to do. He was working flat-out just to get through all their homework, but tried to find time to hang out with Canini. He also wrote short notes home every couple days, telling his parents that nothing out of the ordinary had been happening.

When Easter break finally arrived Harry was very relieved. Even though he still had a lot of homework it was nice to be away from the drama of Hogwarts Castle. On Easter Sunday Harry, his parents, Canini, Theodore, Nymphadora and her parents all had Easter supper together. Theodore recounted how Harry had handled the first two tasks, while Canini also talked about Cedric.

The start of the summer term would normally have meant that Harry and Allison were training hard for the last Quidditch match of the season. This year, however, it was the third and final task in the Triwizard Tournament for which he needed to prepare, but he still didn’t know what he would have to do. Finally, in the last week of May, Professor McGonagall held him back in Transfiguration.

‘You are to go down to the Quidditch field tonight at nine o’clock, Potter,’ she told him. ‘Mr Bagman will be there to tell the champions about the third task.’

So at half past eight that night, Harry left his friends in Slytherin Dungeon and went upstairs. As he crossed the entrance hall, Cedric came up from the Hufflepuff common room.

‘What d’you reckon it’s going to be?’ he asked Harry as they went together down the stone steps, out into the cloudy night. ‘Fleur keeps going on about underground tunnels; she reckons we’ve got to find treasure.’

‘That wouldn’t be too bad,’ said Harry, thinking that he would simply ask Hagrid for a niftier to do the job for him.

They walked down the dark lawn to the Quidditch stadium, turned through a gap in the stands, and walked out onto the field. ‘What’ve they done to it?’ Cedric said indignantly, stopping dead.

The Quidditch field was no longer smooth and flat. It looked as though somebody had been building long, low walls all over it that twisted and crisscrossed in every direction.

‘They’re hedges!’ said Harry, bending to examine the nearest one.

‘Hello there!’ called a cheery voice.

Ludo Bagman was standing in the middle of the field with Krum and Fleur. Harry and Cedric made their way toward them, climbing over the hedges. Fleur beamed at Harry as he came nearer. Her attitude toward him had changed completely since he had saved her sister from the lake.

‘Well, what d’you think?’ said Bagman happily as Harry and Cedric climbed over the last hedge. ‘Growing nicely, aren’t they? Give them a month and Hagrid’ll have them twenty feet high. Don’t worry,’ he added, grinning, spotting the less-than-happy expressions on Harry’s and Cedric’s faces, ‘you’ll have your Quidditch field back to normal once the task is over! Now, I imagine you can guess what we’re making here?’

No one spoke for a moment. Then—

‘Maze,’ grunted Krum.

‘That’s right!’ said Bagman. ‘A maze. The third task’s really very straightforward. The Triwizard Cup will be placed in the center of the maze. The first champion to touch it will receive full marks.’

‘We seemply ’ave to get through the maze?’ said Fleur.

‘There will be obstacles,’ said Bagman happily, bouncing on the balls of his feet. ‘Hagrid is providing a number of creatures...then there will be spells that must be broken...all that sort of thing, you know. Now, the champions who are leading on points will get a head start into the maze.’ Bagman grinned at Harry and Cedric. ‘Then Mr Krum will enter...then Miss Delacour. But you’ll all be in with a fighting chance, depending how well you get past the obstacles. Should be fun, eh?’

Harry, who knew only too well the kind of creatures that Hagrid was likely to provide for an event like this, thought it was unlikely to be any fun at all. However, he nodded politely like the other champions.

‘Very well...if you haven’t got any questions, we’ll go back up to the castle, shall we, it’s a bit chilly...’

Bagman hurried alongside Harry as they began to wend their way out of the growing maze. Harry had the feeling that Bagman was going to start offering to help him again, so Harry held himself back by a few feet.

Just as Harry exited the stadium he felt a tap on his shoulder, he turned to see a familiar face.

‘Terence, what are you doing here?’ Harry asked.

I followed you from the Dungeon. I was hoping we could talk.’

‘Yeah, all right,’ said Harry, slightly surprised.

‘Let’s walk and talk, it’s getting cold.’

‘Okay,’ said Harry curiously.

Bagman looked slightly perturbed. ‘I’ll wait for you, Harry, shall I?’

‘No, it’s okay, Mr Bagman,’ said Harry, suppressing a smile, ‘I think I can find the castle on my own, thanks.’

Previous Chapters:

Chapter 1: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003585181

Chapter 2: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003585386

Chapter 3: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003589099

Chapter 4: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003589999

Chapter 5: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003590737

Chapter 6: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003592048

Chapter 7: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003593450

Chapter 8: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003594715

Chapter 9: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003595876

Chapter 10: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003596713

Chapter 11: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003597502

Chapter 12: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003598647

Chapter 13: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003600597

Chapter 14: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003602821

Chapter 15: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003605031

Chapter 16: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003605690

Chapter 17: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003607525

Chapter 18: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003607955

Chapter 19: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003608845

Chapter 20: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003609937

Chapter 21: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003612000

Chapter 22: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003613068

Chapter 23: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003613747

Tags: @MeowTasticCat @Bellatrisblack @Diantha Angelina Black @CatsAndRoblox @Kakaonut @Potatopanda2121

Chapter Twenty-Four: Magazines and Meetings

One of the best things about the aftermath of the second task was that everybody was very keen to hear details of what had happened down in the lake, which meant that Tracey was getting to share Harry’s limelight for once. Harry noticed that Tracey’s version of events changed subtly with every retelling. At first, she gave what seemed to be the truth, Dumbledore had put all the hostages into a bewitched sleep after assuring them that they would be quite safe, and would awake when they were back above the water. One week later, however, Tracey was telling a thrilling tale of the merpeople kidnapping her when she was walking near the lake the day before the challenge.

‘I thought about fighting them off, but I realized that if they thought I was powerless than I could take them by surprise later when I inevitably escape their slimy grasp.’

Niall Urquhart, who had been getting quite annoyed with Tracey leading up to the second task, now wouldn’t leave her side.

‘You could have died. You were so brave Davy.’

But behind the people who were really impressed with her and kept asking her about what happened, there were more laughing behind her back. People were taking the whole “thing that Harry would most miss” out of context, like the rest of the song it was just an exaggeration to motivate the champions and Tracey was just Harry’s close friend, but many were saying that Tracey was cheating on Urquhart with Harry.

As they entered March the weather became drier, but cruel winds skinned their hands and faces every time they went out onto the grounds. There were delays in the post because the owls kept being blown off course. It took Hedwig days to get Sirius and Remus the Hogsmeade date and fly back, it was the breakfast the day before the Hogsmeade Saturday that she finally returned.

“Meet us at the tea shop at two o’clock. Theodore and your friends can come to if they want.”

Harry was really happy at this news, he had survived his second task, and now he was going to spend an afternoon with his family. He half considered smuggling Canini out of the castle but she might be recognized as a second year.

With the next day to look forward to Harry actually entered his double Potions feeling considerably more cheerful than he usually did heading to that class.

Pansy, Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing in a huddle outside the classroom door. All of them were looking at something Harry couldn’t see and sniggering heartily. Pansy’s pug-like face peered excitedly around Goyle’s broad back as Harry, Theodore, Allison, and Tracey approached.

‘There they are, there they are!’ she giggled, and the knot of Slytherins broke apart. Harry saw that Pansy had a magazine in her hands—Witch Weekly. The moving picture on the front showed a witch with short tight curls and showed her when she was upset with Terence at the Yule Ball.

‘You might find something to interest you in there, Davis! You too Runcorn.’ Pansy said loudly, and she threw the magazine at Tracey, who caught it, looking startled. At that moment, the dungeon door opened, and Snape beckoned them all inside.

Tracey, Harry, Theodore, and Allison headed for a table at the back of the dungeon as usual. Once Snape had turned his back on them to write up the ingredients of today’s potion on the blackboard, Tracey hastily rifled through the magazine under the desk. At last, in the center pages, Tracey found what they were looking for. Harry, Allison, and Allison leaned in closer. A color photograph of Harry headed 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 and strained relationship of his adoptive parents, fourteen-year-old Harry Potter thought he had found solace in his steady girlfriend at Hogwarts, Half-born Tracey Davis. Little did he know that he would shortly be suffering yet another emotional blow in a life already littered with personal loss.

Miss Davis, a pretty but rebellious girl, seems to not have the stomach for the spotlight that comes with dating a famous wizard. She left Potter on the dance floor at the Triwizard Tournament’s Yule Ball for another boy and Harry Potter in heartbreak ever since. This betrayal not only split up the couple, but also their shared friend group, as instead of staying by her friend Tracey Davis’ side, Quidditch brute Allison Runcorn chose the boy who lived as the two were seen on a date in Hogsmeade not long later.

This new love did not help Harry’s heartache over Tracey however, as his second task for the Triwizard Tournament involved the person each champion loved the most being kidnapped, and to Allison Runcorn’s disbelief it was not her but Tracey Davis who was kidnapped. Once done rescuing his Tracey, Harry proclaimed his love once more for Miss Davis, but yet again he was harshly rejected, and Runcorn has subsequently dumped him, leaving him utterly alone.

But sources say these rejections might be for the best.

‘Tracey is a rule breaker and has commitment issues,’ says Pansy Parkinson, a pretty and vivacious fourth-year student, ‘while Runcorn has severe anger management issues.’

Others have said Allison Runcorn has a violent streak and if she doesn’t improve upon herself she might have a cell in Azkaban waiting for her. In the meantime, Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart on a worthier candidate than these two harpies.”

‘She’s dead!’ Allison hissed venomously as she finished reading over Tracey’s shoulder. ‘I thought she’d come for me through my father, but she instead made you like a heartbreaker and that I abandoned you for bloody Harry. No offence Harry.’

‘No offence taken, she made Tracey out to be a philanderer, and you a backstabbing bully.’

Tracey let out a small giggle, ‘Philanderer, that’s hilarious.’

Allison’s jaw dropped, ‘How are you laughing at this, she is ruining your reputation. She needs her shins busted.’

Tracey closed the magazine and took it away from Allison. ‘Alli, I want you to listen to me. The people that actually know me, that matter, already know this isn’t true and doesn’t reflect who I really am. If you put all your anger out into violence than she wins, everyone will see you as just the hotheaded bully she says you are, but if you try and channel your anger to something else it might be you who has the last laugh instead of her.’

Allison took a couple breaths and that calmed her down. The four of them then looked over at Pansy and Blaise, who were watching Tracey, Allison, and Harry closely across the room to see if they had been upset by the article. Allison gave them a sarcastic smile and a wave, and she, Tracey, Harry, and Theodore started unpacking the ingredients they would need for their Wit-Sharpening Potion.

‘I do wonder one thing, though,’ said Theodore ten minutes later, holding his pestle suspended over a bowl of scarab beetles. ‘How did Rita Skeeter know if she was banned from the grounds...?’

‘How did she know what?’ asked Harry.

‘Colin gets the Daily Prophet and sometimes reads to me exciting articles. The article on the second task has a copy of the merpeople’s clue and how each champion completed the task. I don’t think it mentioned the thing stolen from each champion was a person, and I know that it didn’t mention the names of the hostages.’

‘Well maybe there was a different paper that mentioned it?’ Tracey suggested.

‘There wasn’t,’ responded Theodore, ‘Dumbledore doesn’t trust newspapers, he only allowed the Prophet because Bagman insisted.’

‘Than how could she have known,’ said Harry, ‘maybe you were right from New Years that she’s using an invisibility cloak, Theodore.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Allison, ‘I think there is more going on than meets the eye.’

‘I don’t know what you four are scheming this time, Miss Runcorn,’ said an icy voice right behind them, and all four of them jumped, ‘but I must ask you not to discuss it in my class. Five points from Slytherin.’

Snape had glided over to their desk while they were talking. The whole class was now looking around at them; Pansy, her goon, and Malfoy’s group were all looking at them with disgust for loosing them points.

‘Ah...reading magazines under the table as well?’ Snape added, snatching up the copy of Witch Weekly. ‘A further five points from Slytherin...oh but of course...’

Snape’s black eyes glittered as they fell on Rita Skeeter’s article. ‘Potter has to keep up with his press cuttings...’

The dungeon rang with the laughter of Pansy and her friends, and an unpleasant smile curled Snape’s thin mouth. To Harry’s fury, he began to read the article aloud.

‘‘Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache...dear, dear, Potter, what’s ailing you now? ‘A boy like no other, perhaps...’’

Harry could feel his face burning. Snape was pausing at the end of every sentence to allow Pansy and her goons, and now some of Malfoy’s group, a hearty laugh. The article sounded ten times worse when read by Snape. Even Tracey was blushing scarlet now.

‘’...Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart upon a worthier candidate than these two harpies.’ How very touching,’ sneered Snape, rolling up the magazine to continued gales of laughter from nearly every Slytherin other than Daphne, and now half the Gryffindors too. ‘Well, I think I had better separate the four of you, so you can keep your minds on your potions rather than on your tangled love lives. Nott, only one not in this love triangle, you stay there. Miss Runcorn, over there, beside Miss Parkinson. Davis, you’ll move to be with Mr Finnigan. you sit next to Mr Potter—that table in front of my desk. Move. Now.’

Furious, Harry threw his ingredients and his bag into his cauldron and dragged it up to the front of the dungeon to the empty table. Snape followed, sat down at his desk and watched Harry unload his cauldron. Determined not to look at Snape, Harry resumed the mashing of his scarab beetles, imagining each one to have Snape’s face. The only cold comfort was that Snape had yet to give him detention, so he could still see his parents tomorrow.

‘All this press attention seems to have inflated your already over-large head, Potter,’ said Snape quietly, once the rest of the class had settled down again. Harry didn’t answer. He knew Snape was trying to provoke him; he had done this before. No doubt he was hoping for an excuse to take Harry’s free weekend away.

‘You might be laboring under the delusion that the entire wizarding world is impressed with you,’ Snape went on, so quietly that no one else could hear him (Harry continued to pound his scarab beetles, even though he had already reduced them to a very fine powder), ‘but I don’t care how many times your picture appears in the papers. To me, Potter, you are nothing but a nasty little boy who considers rules to be beneath him.’

Harry tipped the powdered beetles into his cauldron and started cutting up his ginger roots. His hands were shaking slightly out of anger, but he kept his eyes down, as though he couldn’t hear what Snape was saying to him.

‘So I give you fair warning, Potter,’ Snape continued in a softer and more dangerous voice, ‘pint-sized celebrity or not—if I catch you breaking into my office one more time—‘

‘I haven’t been anywhere near your office!’ said Harry angrily, forgetting his feigned deafness.

‘Don’t lie to me,’ Snape hissed, his fathomless black eyes boring into Harry’s. ‘Boomslang skin. Gillyweed. Both come from my private stores, and I know who stole them.’

Harry stared back at Snape, determined not to blink or to look guilty. In truth, he hadn’t stolen either of these things from Snape. Tracey had taken the boomslang skin back in their second year—they had needed it for the Polyjuice Potion—and while Snape had suspected Harry at the time, he had never been able to prove it. Dobby, of course, had stolen the gillyweed.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Harry lied coldly. He was starting to realize that with Snape’s current fury level there was far worse than detention on the table.

‘You were out of bed on the night my office was broken into!’ Snape hissed. ‘I know it, Potter! Now, Mad-Eye Moody might have joined your fan club, but I will not tolerate your behavior! One more nighttime stroll into my office, Potter, and you will pay!’

‘Right,’ said Harry coolly, turning back to his ginger roots. ‘I’ll bear that in mind if I ever get the urge to go in there.’

Snape’s eyes flashed. He plunged a hand into the inside of his black robes. For one wild moment, Harry thought Snape was about to pull out his wand and curse him—then he saw that Snape had drawn out a small crystal bottle of a completely clear potion. Harry stared at it.

‘Do you know what this is, Potter?’ Snape said, his eyes glittering dangerously again.

‘No,’ said Harry, with complete honesty this time.

‘It is Veritaserum—a Truth Potion so powerful that three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear,’ said Snape viciously. ‘Now, the use of this potion is controlled by very strict Ministry guidelines. But unless you watch your step, you might just find that my hand slips’—he shook the crystal bottle slightly—‘right over your evening pumpkin juice. And then, Potter...then we’ll find out whether you’ve been in my office or not.’

Harry said nothing. He turned back to his ginger roots once more, picked up his knife, and started slicing them again. He didn’t like the sound of that Truth Potion at all, nor would he put it past Snape to slip him some. He repressed a shudder at the thought of what might come spilling out of his mouth in public if Snape did it...quite apart from landing a whole lot of people in trouble—Tracey and Dobby for a start—Canini’s curse—how he felt about Cho...He tipped his ginger roots into the cauldron too, and wondered whether he ought to take a leaf out of Moody’s book and start drinking only from a private hip flask.

There was a knock on the dungeon door.

‘Enter,’ said Snape in his usual voice.

The class looked around as the door opened. Professor Karkaroff came in. Everyone watched him as he walked up toward Snape’s desk. He was twisting his finger around his goatee and looking agitated.

‘We need to talk,’ said Karkaroff abruptly when he had reached Snape. He seemed so determined that nobody should hear what he was saying that he was barely opening his lips; it was as though he were a rather poor ventriloquist.

Harry kept his eyes on his ginger roots, listening hard.

‘I’ll talk to you after my lesson, Karkaroff,’ Snape muttered, but Karkaroff interrupted him.

‘I want to talk now, while you can’t slip off, Severus. You’ve been avoiding me.’

‘After the lesson,’ Snape snapped.

Under the pretext of holding up a measuring cup to see if he’d poured out enough armadillo bile, Harry sneaked a sidelong glance at the pair of them. Karkaroff looked extremely worried, and Snape looked angry.

Karkaroff hovered behind Snape’s desk for the rest of the double period. He seemed intent on preventing Snape from slipping away at the end of class. Keen to hear what Karkaroff wanted to say, Harry deliberately knocked over his bottle of armadillo bile with two minutes to go to the bell, which gave him an excuse to duck down behind his cauldron and mop up while the rest of the class moved noisily toward the door.

‘What’s so urgent?’ he heard Snape hiss at Karkaroff.

‘This,’ said Karkaroff, and Harry, peering around the edge of his cauldron, saw Karkaroff pull up the left-hand sleeve of his robe and show Snape something on his inner forearm.

‘Well?’ said Karkaroff, still making every effort not to move his lips. ‘Do you see? It’s never been this clear, never since—‘

‘Put it away!’ snarled Snape, his black eyes sweeping the classroom.

‘But you must have noticed—‘ Karkaroff began in an agitated voice.

‘We can talk later, Karkaroff!’ spat Snape. ‘Potter! What are you doing?’

‘Clearing up my armadillo bile, Professor,’ said Harry innocently, straightening up and showing Snape the sodden rag he was holding.

Karkaroff turned on his heel and strode out of the dungeon. He looked both worried and angry. Not wanting to remain alone with an exceptionally angry Snape, Harry threw his books and ingredients back into his bag and left at top speed to tell his friends what he had just witnessed.

All his friends had decided to go to Hogsmeade the next day, including Terence, but only he and Allison were joining Harry to see his parents as the others both had dates.

They left the castle at noon and found a weak silver sun shining down upon the grounds. The weather was milder than it had been all year, and by the time they arrived in Hogsmeade, all of them had taken off their cloaks and thrown them over their shoulders.

Previous Chapters:

Chapter 1: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003585181

Chapter 2: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003585386

Chapter 3: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003589099

Chapter 4: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003589999

Chapter 5: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003590737

Chapter 6: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003592048

Tags: @MeowTasticCat @Bellatrisblack @Diantha Angelina Black @CatsAndRoblox

Previous Chapters:

Chapter 1: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003585181

Chapter 2: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003585386

Chapter 3: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003589099

Chapter 4: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003589999

Tags: @MeowTasticCat @Bellatrisblack @Diantha Angelina Black @CatsAndRoblox

Chapter Five: Bagman and Crouch

Harry disentangled himself from Ron and got to his feet. They had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them was a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom was holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho.

‘Morning, Basil,’ said Mr Weasley, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who threw it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; Harry could see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can, and a punctured football.

‘Hello there, Arthur,’ said Basil wearily. ‘Not on duty, eh? It’s all right for some...We’ve been here all night...You’d better get out of the way, we’ve got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at seven. Hang on, I’ll find your campsite...Weasley...Weasley...’

He consulted his parchment list. ‘About a quarter of a mile’s walk over there, first field you come to. Site manager’s called Mr Roberts. Diggory...second field...ask for Mr Payne. Lupin-Black...also first field, about a dozen tents further than the Weasley’s.’

‘Thanks, Basil,’ said Mr Weasley, and he beckoned everyone to follow him.

Sirius also stated his gratitude, ‘Good day Mr Basil.’

They set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam into view. Beyond it, Harry could just make out the ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field toward a dark wood on the horizon. They said good-bye to the Diggorys and approached the cottage door.

A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. Harry knew at a glance that this was the only real Muggle for several acres. When he heard their footsteps, he turned his head to look at them.

‘Morning!’ said Mr Weasley brightly.

‘Morning,’ said the Muggle.

‘Would you be Mr Roberts?’

‘Aye, I would,’ said Mr Roberts. ‘And who’re you?’

‘Weasley—two tents, booked a couple of days ago?’

‘And Lupin-Black-one tent, booked around the same time,’ said Remus.

‘Aye,’ said Mr Roberts, consulting a list tacked to the door.

‘Weasley, you’ve got a space up by the wood there. Just the one night?’

‘That’s it,’ said Mr Weasley.

‘And Lupin-Black, your close to their, just eleven spots further. You’ll both be paying now, then?’ said Mr Roberts.

Ah—right—certainly—‘ said Mr Weasley. He retreated a short distance from the cottage while Remus handed Mr Roberts their fee.

While Remus paid, Mr Weasley beckoned Harry toward him. ‘Help me, Harry,’ he muttered, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. ‘This one’s a—a—a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number on it now...So this is a five?’

‘A twenty,’ Harry corrected him in an undertone, uncomfortably aware of Mr Roberts trying to catch every word.

‘Ah yes, so it is...I don’t know, these little bits of paper...’

‘You foreign?’ said Mr Roberts as Mr Weasley returned with the correct notes.

‘Foreign?’ repeated Mr Weasley, puzzled.

‘You’re not the first one who’s had trouble with money,’ said Mr Roberts, scrutinizing Mr Weasley closely. ‘I had two try and pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago.’

‘Did you really?’ said Mr Weasley nervously.

Mr Roberts rummaged around in a tin for some change.

‘Never been this crowded,’ he said suddenly, looking out over the misty field again. ‘Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up...’

‘Is that right?’ said Mr Weasley, his hand held out for his change, but Mr Roberts didn’t give it to him.

‘Aye,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘People from all over. Loads of foreigners. And not just foreigners. Weirdos, you know? There’s a bloke walking ’round in a kilt and a poncho.’

‘Shouldn’t he?’ said Mr. Weasley anxiously.

‘It’s like some sort of...I dunno...like some sort of rally,’ said Mr Roberts. ‘They all seem to know each other. Like a big party.’

At that moment, a wizard in plus-fours appeared out of thin air next to Mr Roberts’s front door.

‘Obliviate!’ he said sharply, pointing his wand at Mr Roberts. Instantly, Mr Roberts’s eyes slid out of focus, his brows unknitted, and a look of dreamy unconcern fell over his face. Harry recognized the symptoms of one who had just had his memory modified.

‘A map of the campsite for you,’ Mr Roberts said placidly to Mr Weasley. ‘And your change.’

‘Thanks very much,’ said Mr Weasley.

The wizard in plus-fours accompanied the eleven of them toward the gate to the campsite. He looked exhausted: His chin was blue with stubble and there were deep purple shadows under his eyes. Once out of earshot of Mr Roberts, he muttered to Mr Weasley, ‘Been having a lot of trouble with him. Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him happy. And Ludo Bagman’s not helping. Trotting around talking about Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his voice, not a worry about anti-Muggle security. Blimey, I’ll be glad when this is over. See you later, Arthur.’

The man then disapparated.

Mr Weasley looked disappointedly at Sirius and Remus.

‘Mr Bagman should know better than to be talking about wizarding matters in front of muggles at his high rank.'

Remus patted him on the back, 'It has been my experience that wizards that are at the very top enjoy enforcing rules onto everyone but themselves.'

'That sadly is often the case,' Mr Weasley agreed. 'And Ludo’s always been a bit...well...lax about security. You couldn’t wish for a more enthusiastic head of the sports department though. He played Quidditch for England himself, you know. And he was the best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had.'

They all trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most looked almost ordinary; their owners had clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible, but had slipped up by adding chimneys, or bellpulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that Harry could hardly be surprised that Mr Roberts was getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on they passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial, and fountain.

'Always the same,' said Mr. Weasley, smiling. 'We can’t resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us.' They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and here was an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that read weezly.

'Couldn’t have a better spot!' said Mr Weasley happily. 'We'll start setting up our tent, we'll meet up with you all once we are all done pitching the tents.'

'Agreed, we'll see you in an hour or two, Arthur,' Sirius said with a smile.

They continued on just a bit further towards their site, unlike the Weasley's however they did not need a sign to know which spot was theirs. Surrounding the sign that said Lupin-Black was dozens of dog treats. Remus sighed and turned to Harry, 'Collect all the dog biscuits, you can give them to Fang when you return to Hogwarts.'

After being outed as a werewolf at the beginning of the summer, Remus decided there was no longer a reason to wait to publish his book "Where For The Werewolf". The was experiencing some positive outcomes which made it worth it, but the more common outcome was that anyone who didn't already know Remus was a werewolf in June did know now. They had received a lot of hate mail, almost no wizard had come to the cafe, and now their site was covered in dog treats.

Sirius tried to lighten the situation by changing the subject. 'Did you all know the game field is right on the other side of the wood there, we’re right next to where the game will take place.' He hoisted his backpack from his shoulders. 'Well,' he said hesitantly, 'we best get to work, there is no magic allowed with muggles watching, so we’ll be putting the tent up by hand.' No one but Sirius had ever pitched a tent, so they all followed his lead. With Sirius' instruction, a bit of logic, and a great deal of hard work they got the poles and pegs where they should be, and raised a half decent tent.

All of them stood back to admire their handiwork. Nobody looking at their tent would guess it belonged to wizards, Harry thought. Although another thought then occurred to him, there was five of them, and this tent looked as though it only had room to comfortably fit two people, and two of them would be transforming tonight.

'Um, Sirius, did we get the right size muggle tent?'

'Muggle? Oh, this is no muggle tent, its just meant to loo like that on the outside. Come see.'

Harry bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and felt his jaw drop. He had walked into what looked like an eighties, three-room flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. Two of the bedrooms looked ordinary enough, while the third looked like it was more sturdy and had a small amount of sound proofing.

'This was originally my tent for when I go on adventures across the country side, but I altered the spell yesterday to fit all of us and give a safe space for Remus ad Canini tonight.'

Remus brought in the box containing their food. He pulled out a couple empty two litre water containers. 'I'll need you kids to go fetch some water.'

'Where do we get water?' Harry asked.

'I think I saw something on the map the muggle man gave us, not to long of a walk.' said Theodore.

'Then it is settled, you four will go fill up these containers while me and Remus start a fire,' said Sirius excitedly.

'Fire?' said Canini, 'Why do we need a fire, we have a stove right there.'

'When muggles camp they use out side fires to roast their food and that sounds really fun. Don't worry, anything that can't be cooked right with a fire we'll just sneak back inside and use the stove. Now off you all go.'

As they headed out they passed the Weasley's two tents, where Ron, Fred, and George were also sent out to fetch water. Canini decided to stay behind to hang out with the girls, leaving the six boys venturing out to find the spigot on the map.

Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, they could see the city of tents that stretched in every direction. They made their way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. It was only just dawning on Harry how many witches and wizards there must be in the world; he had never been surrounded by so many magical folk, let along magical folk from so many different countries and cultures.

Their fellow campers were starting to wake up. First to stir were the families with small children; Harry rarely got to see witches and wizards this young before. A tiny boy no older than two was crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which was swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As they drew level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the tent.

'How many times, Kevin? You don’t—touch—Daddy’s—wand—yecchh!'

She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them on the still air, mingling with the little boy’s yells—'You bust slug! You bust slug!'

A short way farther on, they saw two little witches, barely older than Kevin, who were riding toy broomsticks that rose only high enough for the girls’ toes to skim the dewy grass, Harry vaguely remembered owning a similar one when he was little. A Ministry wizard had already spotted them; as he hurried past Harry, Ron, Theodore, Terence, and the Weasley’s he muttered distractedly, 'In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose—'

Here and there adult wizards and witches were emerging from their tents and starting to cook breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, conjured fires with their wands; others were striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure this couldn’t work. Three African wizards sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that read: the salem witches’ institute. Harry caught snatches of conversation in foreign languages from the inside of tents they passed, and though he couldn’t understand a word, the tone of every single voice was excited.

'Er—is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?' said Ron.

'Aye, your eyes do not deceive you, Weasley,' Terence said excitedly.

They had walked into a patch of tents that were all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, so that it looked as though small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces could be seen under those that had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, Harry heard someone call the Weasley's names.

'Ron! Fred! George!'

It was Seamus Finnigan, a fourth year Gryffindor. He was sitting in front of his own shamrock-covered tent, with a sandy-haired woman who had to be his mother, and his best friend, Dean Thomas, also of Gryffindor.

'Like the decorations?' said Seamus, grinning. 'The Ministry’s not too happy.'

The mother looked like she was about to speak, but Terence beat her too it, 'Like it? These tents are incredibly quare! I have never seen so many fellow Irish wizards. Its practically lashing pride!'

'Aye, why shouldn’t we show our colours?' said Mrs Finnigan happily. 'You should see what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents. You’ll be supporting Ireland, of course?' she added, eyeing Harry, Theodore, and the Weasleys beadily. When they had assured her that they were indeed supporting Ireland, they set off again, though, as Ron said, 'Like we’d say anything else surrounded by that lot.'

'We are going to win,' said Terence, 'The Irish are the best of the best this year.'

'Mrs Finnigan mentioned the Bulgarian tents were just as prideful.' said Theodore.

'Let’s go and have a look,' said Harry, they said goodbye to the Weasley's and made their way to a large patch of tents upheld, where the Bulgarian flag—white, green, and red—was fluttering in the breeze.

The tents here had not been bedecked with plant life, but each and every one of them had the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy black eyebrows. The picture was, of course, moving, but all it did was blink and scowl.

'Viktor Krum,' said Theodore quietly.

'That's what he looks like?' said Terence.

'Yes,' said Harry, 'one of the youngest Seekers to ever play in the World Cup.' Krum!” said Ron.

“He doesn't look very happy,” said Terence, looking around at the many Krums blinking and scowling at them.

'He is just stone faced' Theodore raised his eyes to the heavens. 'I sure he smiles when he catches the Snitch, which he has done dozens of times. You will see this afternoon.'

There was already a small queue for the tap in the corner of the field. Harry, Theodore, and Terence joined it, right behind a pair of men who were having a heated argument. One of them was a very old wizard who was wearing a long flowery nightgown. The other was clearly a Ministry wizard; he was holding out a pair of pin-striped trousers and almost crying with exasperation.

'Just put them on, Archie, there’s a good chap. You can’t walk around like that, the Muggle at the gate’s already getting suspicious—'

'I bought this in a Muggle shop,' said the old wizard stubbornly. 'Muggles wear them.'

'Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these,' said the Ministry wizard, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers.

'I’m not putting them on,' said old Archie in indignation. 'I like a healthy breeze ’round my privates, thanks.'

The conversation was getting awkward fast, Harry was trying to think of an excuse to run back to their tent when Archie had collected his water and moved away.

Walking more slowly now, because of the weight of the water, they made their way back through the campsite. Here and there, they saw more familiar faces: other Hogwarts students with their families. Lucian Bole, a Beater of Harry and Terence's Quidditch team, who was about to start his final year, dragged Harry over to his parents’ tent to introduce him, and told him about the summer he was having, he also mentioned he had seen Allison Runcorn about an hour earlier. Next they were hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year Harry was friendly with, and a little farther on they saw Cho Chang, a very pretty girl who played Seeker on the Ravenclaw team. She waved and smiled at Harry, who slopped quite a lot of water down his front as he waved back. More to stop Terence from smirking than anything, Harry hurriedly pointed out a large group of teenagers whom he had never seen before.

'Who d’you reckon they are?' he said. 'They don’t go to Hogwarts, do they?'

'They must be from different magic schools world wide,' said Theodore curiously. 'If I had to take a guess I would say they are from Durmstrang, but they could be from other schools as well.'

They finally arrived back at there camp, where they were greeted with a roaring fire. The three boys were heading towards the tent to drop off the containers, but Harry was so focused on the water that he tripped and the entire container spilled onto the fire. Harry was mortified, but Sirius assured him it was alright. Remus packed up their food and they made their way to the Weasley’s camp. Their fire wasn’t lit yet but it was at least dry.

‘Hello Arthur,’ said Sirius chipperly, ‘we had a bit of an indecent with our fire. May we share with you?’

‘Course,’ said Mr Weasley, ‘but I think I might need some help getting it started.’

Splintered matches littered the ground around him, but Mr Weasley looked as though he was having the time of his life.

‘Oops!’ he said as he managed to light a match and promptly dropped it in surprise.

‘I can help, Arthur,’ said Remus kindly, taking the box from him, and showing him how to do it properly.

At last they got the fire lit, though it was at least another hour before it was hot enough to cook anything. There was plenty to watch while they waited, however. The Weasley’s tent seemed to be pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr Weasley cordially as they passed. Mr Weasley kept up a running commentary, mainly for Harry’s family’s benefit; his own children knew too much about the Ministry to be greatly interested.

‘That was Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office...Here comes Gilbert Wimple; he’s with the Committee on Experimental Charms; he’s had those horns for a while now...Hello, Arnie...Arnold Peasegood, he’s an Obliviator—member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, you know...and that’s Bode and Croaker...they’re Unspeakables...’

‘They’re what?’ asked Harry.

‘Unspeakable work in the Department of Mysteries,’ Remus explained. ‘Their work is strictly top secret, even during my time as an auror I never learned a single thing about their work.’

At last, the fire was ready, and they had just started cooking eggs and sausages when Bill, Charlie, and Percy came strolling out of the woods toward them just before noon.

'Just Apparated, Dad,’ said Percy loudly. ‘Ah, excellent, lunch!’

They were halfway through their plates of eggs and sausages when Mr Weasley jumped to his feet, waving and grinning at a man who was striding toward them. 'Aha!' he said. 'The man of the moment! Ludo!'

Ludo Bagman was easily the most noticeable person Harry had seen so far, even including old Archie in his flowered nightdress. He was wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes were stretched tightly across a large belly he surely had not had in the days when he had played Quidditch for England. His nose was squashed (probably broken by a stray Bludger, Harry thought), but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion made him look like a very overgrown schoolboy.

'Ahoy there!' Bagman called happily. He was walking as though he had springs attached to the balls of his feet and was plainly in a state of wild excitement.

'Arthur, old man,' he puffed as he reached the campfire, 'what a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless day...and hardly a hiccough in the arrangements...Not much for me to do!'

Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry wizards rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of a magical fire that was sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air.

Percy hurried forward with his hand outstretched. Apparently his disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman ran his department did not prevent him from wanting to make a good impression.

'Ah—yes,' said Mr Weasley, grinning, 'this is my son Percy. He’s just started at the Ministry—and this is Fred—no, George, sorry—that’s Fred—Bill, Charlie, Ron—my daughter, Ginny—and these are some friends of mine, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin and their kids Canini Howling, Theodore Nott, Harry Potter, and Harry's friend Terence Higgs.'

Bagman did the smallest of double takes when he heard Harry’s name, and his eyes performed the familiar flick upward to the scar on Harry’s forehead.

'Everyone,' Mr Weasley continued, 'this is Ludo Bagman, you know who he is, it’s thanks to him we’ve got such good tickets—' Bagman beamed and waved his hand as if to say it had been nothing.

'Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?' he said eagerly, jingling what seemed to be a large amount of gold in the pockets of his yellow-and-black robes. 'I’ve already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria will score first—I offered him nice odds, considering Ireland’s front three are the strongest I’ve seen in years—and little Agatha Timms has put up half shares in her eel farm on a week-long match.'

'Oh...go on then,' said Mr Weasley. 'Let’s see...a Galleon on Ireland to win?'

'A Galleon?' Ludo Bagman looked slightly disappointed, but recovered himself. 'Very well, very well...any other takers?'

'They’re a bit young to be gambling,' said Mr. Weasley. ;Molly wouldn’t like—'

'We’ll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts,' said Fred as he and George quickly pooled all their money, 'that Ireland wins—but Viktor Krum gets the Snitch. Oh and we’ll throw in a fake wand.'

'You don’t want to go showing Mr Bagman rubbish like that—' Percy hissed, but Bagman didn’t seem to think the wand was rubbish at all; on the contrary, his boyish face shone with excitement as he took it from Fred, and when the wand gave a loud squawk and turned into a rubber chicken, Bagman roared with laughter.

'Excellent! I haven’t seen one that convincing in years! I’d pay five Galleons for that!'

Percy froze in an attitude of stunned disapproval.

'Boys,' said Mr Weasley under his breath, 'I don’t want you betting...That’s all your savings...Your mother—'

'Don’t be a spoilsport, Arthur!' boomed Ludo Bagman, rattling his pockets excitedly. 'They’re old enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland will win but Krum’ll get the Snitch? Not a chance, boys, not a chance...I’ll give you excellent odds on that one...We’ll add five Galleons for the funny wand, then, shall we...'

Mr Weasley looked on helpless as Ludo Bagman whipped out a notebook and quill and began jotting down the twins’ names.

'Cheers,' said George, taking the slip of parchment Bagman handed him and tucking it away carefully.

'And I will take that Ireland will win for two Galleon,' Terence called out.

'Who might you be young man?' Bagman asked, seemingly interested in making two more Galleons in profit.

'Terence Higgs sir, Bertie Higgs nephew.'

'Alright, Two Galleons that Ireland wins for Mr Higgs.' Bagman then turned most cheerfully back to Mr Weasley.

'Couldn’t do me a brew, I suppose? I’m keeping an eye out for Barty Crouch. My Bulgarian opposite number’s making difficulties, and I can’t understand a word he’s saying. Barty’ll be able to sort it out. He speaks about a hundred and fifty languages.'

'Mr Crouch? said Percy, suddenly abandoning his look of poker-stiff disapproval and positively writhing with excitement. 'He speaks over two hundred! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll...'

'Anyone can speak Troll,' said Fred dismissively. 'All you have to do is point and grunt.'

Percy threw Fred an extremely nasty look and stoked the fire vigorously to bring the kettle back to the boil.

'Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?' Mr Weasley asked as Bagman settled himself down on the grass beside them all.

'Not a dicky bird,' said Bagman comfortably. 'But she’ll turn up. Poor old Bertha...memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my word for it. She’ll wander back into the office sometime in October, thinking it’s still July.'

Sirius turned to the kids, 'We should probably get going, only a few hours until the game starts. Finish your eggs.'

Mr Weasley continued as Percy handed Bagman his tea, 'You don’t think it might be time to send someone?'

'Barty Crouch keeps saying that,' said Bagman, his round eyes widening innocently, 'but we really can’t spare anyone at the moment. Oh—talk of the devil! Barty!'

A wizard had just Apparated at their fireside, and he could not have made more of a contrast with Ludo Bagman, sprawled on the grass in his old Wasp robes. Barty Crouch was a stiff, upright, elderly man, dressed in an impeccably crisp suit and tie. The parting in his short gray hair was almost unnaturally straight, and his narrow toothbrush mustache looked as though he trimmed it using a slide rule. His shoes were very highly polished. Harry could see at once why Percy idolized him. Percy was a great believer in rigidly following rules, and Mr Crouch had complied with the rule about Muggle dressing so thoroughly that he could have passed for a bank manager; Harry doubted even Uncle Vernon would have spotted him for what he really was.

'Pull up a bit of grass, Barty,' said Ludo brightly, patting the ground beside him.

No thank you, Ludo,' said Crouch, and there was a bite of impatience in his voice. 'I’ve been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box.'

'Oh is that what they’re after?' said Bagman. 'I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent.'

'Mr Crouch!' said Percy breathlessly, sunk into a kind of half-bow that made him look like a hunchback.

'Would you like a cup of tea?'

'Oh,' said Mr Crouch, looking over at Percy in mild surprise. 'Yes—thank you, Weatherby.'

Fred and George choked into their own cups. Percy, very pink around the ears, busied himself with the kettle.

'Oh and I’ve been wanting a word with you too, Arthur,' said Mr Crouch, his sharp eyes falling upon Mr Weasley. 'Ali Bashir’s on the warpath. He wants a word with you about your embargo on flying carpets.'

Mr. Weasley heaved a deep sigh.

'I sent him an owl about that just last week. If I’ve told him once I’ve told him a hundred times: Carpets are defined as a Muggle Artifact by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he listen?'

'I doubt it,' said Mr. Crouch, accepting a cup from Percy. 'He’s desperate to export here.'

'Well, they’ll never replace brooms in Britain, will they?' said Bagman.

Remus had risen, as if to say it was time for them to leave, but Sirius grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down.

'Ali thinks there’s a niche in the market for a family vehicle,' said Mr Crouch. 'I remember my grandfather had an Axminster that could seat twelve—but that was before carpets were banned, of course.'

He spoke as though he wanted to leave nobody in any doubt that all his ancestors had abided strictly by the law.

'So, been keeping busy, Barty?' said Bagman breezily.

'Fairly,' said Mr Crouch dryly. 'Organizing Portkeys across five continents is no mean feat, Ludo.'

'I expect you’ll both be glad when this is over?' said Mr Weasley.

Ludo Bagman looked shocked.

'Glad! Don’t know when I’ve had more fun...Still, it’s not as though we haven’t got anything to look forward to, eh, Barty? Eh? Plenty left to organize, eh?'

Mr Crouch raised his eyebrows at Bagman.

'We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details—'

'Oh details!' said Bagman, waving the word away like a cloud of midges. 'They’ve signed, haven’t they? They’ve agreed, haven’t they? I bet you anything these kids’ll know soon enough anyway. I mean, it’s happening at Hogwarts—'

'Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know,' said Mr. Crouch sharply, cutting Bagman’s remarks short. 'Thank you for the tea, Weatherby.'

He pushed his undrunk tea back at Percy and waited for Ludo to rise; Bagman struggled to his feet, swigging down the last of his tea, the gold in his pockets chinking merrily.

'See you all later!' he said. 'You’ll be up in the Top Box with me—I’m commentating!' He waved, Barty Crouch nodded curtly, and both of them Disapparated.

'What’s happening at Hogwarts, Dad?' said Fred at once. 'What were they talking about?'

'You’ll find out soon enough,' said Mr Weasley, smiling.

'Well,' said Remus, 'it is past time we get back to our own tent. Much we have to do before the game starts. Thank you Arthur for letting us share your fire.'

As all five of them headed back, Remus elbowed Sirius, 'What was that all about, we should have left over half an hour ago.'

Sirius, rubbing his ribs, had a mischievous smile, 'Sorry Moons, the drama was getting to good, I had to see where it leaded. Speaking of Moons we should probably get you and Canini your potions before we head to the game.'

Harry was still thinking about one of the last things Bagman had said, 'Sirius, what is happening at Hogwarts this year?'

'I am not actually sure Harry, must be very big if both Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman are involved. You will probably learn once you are back at school.'

A sense of excitement rose like a palpable cloud over the campsite as the afternoon wore on. By two the days heat was at its peak, however the angle of the sun was allowing some shade. For the thousands of waiting wizards, the last of their restraint had depleted: the Ministry seemed to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic now breaking out everywhere.

Salesmen were Apparating every few feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There were luminous rosettes—green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria—which were squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adorned with lions that really roared, flags from both countries that played their national anthems as they were waved; there were tiny models of Firebolts that really flew, and collectible figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.

'This is absolutely the best day of my life,' Terence told Harry as they all strolled through the salesmen, buying souvenirs. Terence bought as many Irish souvenirs as his pocket money would allow, Harry and the others each bought a dancing shamrock hat, while Theodore also bought a small figure of Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker. The miniature Krum walked backward and forward over Theodore’s hand, scowling up at the green rosette above him.

'Wow, look at those omnioculars!' said Harry, hurrying over to a cart piled high with what looked somewhat like muggle binoculars, except that they were covered with brass and all sorts of weird knobs and dials.

'Ever use omnioculars before?' asked the saleswizard eagerly. 'You can replay action...slow everything down...and they flash up a play-by-play breakdown if you need it. Bargain—ten Galleons each.'

'I'll take one,' said a familiar voice.

Harry turned around to see his good friend Allison Runcorn. 'Allison, I had heard you were here, but couldn't find the Runcorn tent.'

'That is because my father is actually working, our tent is with the rest of the people who put this event together.

Harry picked up and paid for his own omnioculars. 'Where are you sitting?'

'I was going to sit close to wherever my father is stationed to guard, but now I will just come and find you. Being the daughter of a high ranking auror has its advantages.'

'Ok then. I got to go, but I'll see you soon.'

His money bag considerably lighter, he went back to meet up with his family and the Weasleys. Bill, Charlie, and Ginny were all sporting green rosettes, both Mr Weasley and Terence were carrying an Irish flag, and Remus had his cookies and fresh bread ready. Fred and George had no souvenirs as they had given Bagman all their gold.

And then a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blazed into life in the trees, lighting a path through the brief woods.

'It’s time!' said Mr Weasley, looking as excited as any of them. 'Come on, let’s go!'

'Everyone better have everything,' said Sirius, 'because it is game time and there is no going back!'

I will give a blurred pic, and you have to guess who?

If you want to PING TO THE NEXT GAME, tell me!

Rules:

Do not cheat!

You have to tell your answer with your house.

Off-topic is not allowed.

I will give you one hint about this character.

You only have ONE GUESS!

I will give hint after 5 guesses by you people.

You can only Guess Thrice in a Week

House:

Ravenclaw: 4

Slytherin: 3

Hufflepuff:

Gryffindor:

Pings: @CitrineSnowFlake , @IiTruePeacii , @Brystal Granger , @Vtyt98, @TsundereGrl , @Ddlcpotteeheadforever , @Hpfan1561 , @Ljp7 , @Da Chubba Bunnah , @Misswisteriapoison , @A gifted festive bee .

Pic:

Answer: Bartemius Crouch Sn.

TRIGGER WARNING FOR TRANSPHOBIA, HOMOPHOBIA, MENTIONS OF SUICIDE AND VIOLENCE

"Remember," the boy's father said, giving him a stern look, "wizards can be horrible. They'll say all sorts of things to you, make all sorts of nasty comments. Just don't listen to them, alright Nick? Please don't listen to them."

Nick rolls his eyes, but smiles at his father none-the-less. "I'm sure I'll be fine," he says, always optimistic. "Things have changed since you were at school, father. The whole wizarding world is more open-minded."

His father shakes his head, clearly not agreeing with Nick. However, the train whistle sounds, and Nick attempts to dance out of the hug he is suddenly enveloped in. "See you at Christmas!" he tells his father before breaking free of the hug. "I love you!"

The eleven-year-old boy disappears into the train, leaving his father shaking his head on the platform. Although Nick is quite aware that he will miss his parent later, he is too excited to finally be attending Hogwarts to bother finding a window to wave through.

The train doors slam closed, and the train whistle sounds again. Nick grins widely as the Hogwarts Express begins to move, and shuts his eyes as if to savour the moment. He doesn't want to forget the feeling of elation that flows through him.

His dark brown eyes then flash open, and he begins to drag his trunk along the train, searching for a free compartment. He finds one almost at once - the only occupant is a short boy with painfully messy black hair.

Nick slides the compartment door open, smiling weakly at the occupant. "May I sit here?" he asks timidly, although there is a hopeful note to his voice.

The scruffy boy looks up, his dark brown eyes wide. "Of course!" he says quickly, seeming startled to find someone willing to share a compartment with him. He watches as Nick sits down, an aura of surprise still wrapped around him.

"I'm Shinji," he says, a rather awkward smile flashing across his face.

Nick returns the smile. "Nicholas - I mean, you know, I'm Nicholas. Or Nick. I'm not just saying 'Nicholas'. That'd be a weird thing to do. And I'm not weird at all... mostly."

Shinji grins, feeling far better about sitting with a stranger now. "Do you prefer Nicholas or Nick?" he asks.

Nick frowns slightly, thinking. "Nicholas," he says after a while, clearly uncertain. "It sounds less like... oh, never mind. I don't know what I'm saying."

His companion nods, face suddenly serious. "Nicholas it is," he says solemnly, before looking out of the window. Nick glances out of it as well, and is shocked to see they have already left London.

As the day wears on, Nick and Shinji slowly become more comfortable in each other's presence. Both awkward young boys eager to learn to control the wands they had purchased at Ollivanders, the conversation falls upon tricky subjects.

"You know," Nick says as he scans the sky for odd cloud formations, "my father actually debated not sending me to Hogwarts. He thought that he could just continue homeschooling me. But my papa refused. He said I had to get a proper education."

Shinji nods, gazing out of the window as well. "My parents aren't magic," he announces solemnly, "and were against my coming to Hogwarts. But - oh, look! That one looks like a dragon!" He points out the cloud in question.

"I quite like dragons," says Nick, smiling slightly. "They can be whatever they want."

* * *

Nick stares up at the old frayed hat, fidgeting with his hands. He is afraid, for despite what he said to his father, he is not ready to attend Hogwarts. No - Hogwarts isn't ready for him to attend. There is a difference.

The boy knows that he will be the last to be called - with the last name 'Zhang', how could he be anything else? He watches helplessly as the girl standing beside him is called towards the hat.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat roars, and the girl skips off to join what Nick supposes is her twin brother - the two share similar features and a last name.

Nick bites his lip, waiting apprehensively for the professor to call his name. Or, as he fears, a name that he no longer can call his own.

"Zhang, Nicole!" the professor reads out, then glances down at Nick from the elevated section of the hall reserved for teachers.

Instead of running forwards, Nick doesn't move. He stands, staring the professor in the eye, but doesn't make a single move. He isn't going to listen to them. His name is not Nicole - if he was to be sorted, it would be under the name Nicholas.

The professor gives Nick a searching look, then repeats himself. "Zhang, Nicole!"

Nick turns to look behind him, pretending to check if the professor is talking to someone behind him. Instead, he glances at Shinji, who is giving him a thumbs-up from the Ravenclaw table. Nick smiles slightly: he has Shinji's approval. This means a lot to him.

The professor frowns slightly, running one hand through his auburn beard and staring at Nick with brilliantly blue eyes. "Zhang, Nicole," he repeats once more.

Nick straightens, looking the professor right in the eye as he answers, "That isn't my name, sir."

At these words, the auburn haired professor glances at the headmaster, a white-bearded man going bald. Nick rocks on the balls of his feet, biting his lip nervously and watching. To Nick, it seems like they are communicating telepathically, despite knowing that it is impossible.

"You are not Nicole Zhang?" the headmaster croaks from the teachers' table. When Nick nods, the headmaster lets out a squeak of surprise. "Who are you, then?" Without waiting for Nick to answer him, the headmaster continues. "Dumbledore, who is this?"

The professor, or Dumbledore as the headmaster called him, turns to survey Nick. The eleven-year-old boy gets the impression that Dumbledore can read his mind - although this is, of course, ridiculous. However, something about the piercing quality of the professor's eyes doesn't seem natural.

The frown that has been creasing Dumbledore's brow disappears, and the professor lets out a small laugh. "This is Zhang," he says, turning back to the headmaster. "Although not the Nicole we were expecting."

The headmaster frowns, then leans over the table towards Nick. "What is your name?" he asks, not unkindly.

Nick squares his shoulders before answering, "Nicholas Zhang, sir. My name is Nicholas."

The headmaster's frown deepens. "Then where is Nicole?" he mutters, more to himself then Nick or Dumbledore.

"I'm afraid Nicole is dead, sir," Nicholas says gravely, "in fact, some would say that she never existed at all. My name is Nicholas."

Comprehension dawns in the headmaster's eyes, and he lets out a sigh. "I'm afraid we do not refer to students by their nicknames, Nicole. Now, I believe our students have waited long enough to eat - please take a seat." He gestures to the stool where the Sorting Hat sits.

Dumbledore nods, confirming this, and Nick, trembling, makes his way towards the stool. He doesn't want to cry, but tears seem inevitable. Perhaps his father had been right. Hogwarts was still just as close-minded as it had been when his father had attended.

The auburn haired professor lifts the hat off the stool, allowing Nick to sit down, then places the hat on the boy's head, murmuring, "There you go, Nicholas," as he does so. Nick feels something leap inside him - Dumbledore seems to disagree with the headmaster.

"How interesting," something inside Nick's mind says. It is, Nick knows the hat. "Many think that Slytherin and Gryffindor are opposites, you know, but you are equally suited for both of them. You have the bravery to stand up for yourself, and the ambition to change the world. To open the wizard world's eyes."

Nick blinks, surprised. He is brave? And ambitious? The hat continues to speak. "No, this is not going to be an easy sorting... but it had better be GRYFFINDOR!" Nick can tell that the last word has been shouted, and a smattering of applause greets his ears.

Smiling weakly, the boy removes the hat from his head and heads towards the Gryffindor table. To his disappointment, he is not in the same house as Shinji, but he knows that his friendship with the boy will not be broken by their sorting results.

The headmaster gets up and says a few words, then sits back down. Food appears on the golden plates before Nick, and he heaps potatoes onto his plate, trying to forget the look in the headmaster's eyes as he had dismissed everything Nick said.

***

"And here's the portrait hole," the Prefect says with a flourish, gesturing to a painting of a large woman in a pink dress. "To get into the Gryffindor common room," she says, marching towards the large woman, "just tell the Fat Lady the password. Patentibus!"

The Fat Lady nods curtly before swinging open, revealing a wide passageway. Nick watches as his fellow Gryffindor first-years scramble into the portrait hole, then follows them, finding himself in a large yet comfortable room full of squashy armchairs.

The Prefect clambers in after Nick, and the portrait hole swings shut. She smiles at the first-years, then gestures to the two staircases in the corner of the room. "Girls on the right, boys on the left," she says, beaming around at them all. "You'll find all of your things in your room."

Nick yawns loudly, then heads towards the left staircase. However, a hand grips his shoulder before he can take more then a few paces. "Nicole? Why are you going that way?" It is the Prefect, her caramel features twisted in confusion.

"My name isn't Nicole," Nick hisses, but is ignored by the Prefect, who pushes him after the four first-year Gryffindor girls.

"Come on now, Nicole," she says, her falsely bright smile back on her face. "Go join the other girls."

Nick pulls free of her grip, giving her a fierce look. "I told you," he hisses angrily, "my name is not Nicole and I am not a girl." He can't believe that he has to explain this. He has been so clearly male since he could first speak; why does he have to fight to be called what he wants to be called, fight to be referred to as male?

The girl's eyes harden, and she grips Nick's shoulder once again, steering him towards the staircase on the right. "You don't belong in the boys' dormitory, Nicole, and there is not a bed waiting for you in there."

Nick feels a sinking sensation in his stomach. There is no bed waiting for him in the boys' dormitory? Why did he not expect this? Lowering his head, Nick stumbles towards the girls' staircase. There is no point fighting.

However, as he climbs up the stairs, something strange happens. The stairs meld together, forming a slide, and Nick whizzes back down. The Prefect stares at him in disbelief, seeming shocked. "What?" she mutters. "Why did that happen?"

As Nick watches, the stairs reform. He gets to his feet uncertainty, giving the staircase a wary look.

"What are you waiting for?" the prefect snaps. "Get up those stairs."

Nick places a foot on the first step, and once again, it becomes smooth. He looks up it, then smiles. "I can't get in. The castle won't let me."

The portrait hole opens once again, and Nick glances towards it, starting when he sees who is clambering into the room. It is Dumbledore, his piercing blue eyes twinkling kindly behind his spectacles.

"Ah, yes. Miss Ellis, Mr Zhang. I thought this might happen." The professor gazes curiously at the staircase, which is forming stairs once again. "Miss Ellis, I ask you that you please go to bed."

The Prefect nods, and marches up the girls' staircase at once, leaving Nick and Dumbledore alone. Dumbledore watches her leave, then turns to Nick. "I want to apologize to you to the behaviour of both Professor Dippet and Miss Ellis."

Nick stares into his eyes, and whispers, "Why does Hogwarts hate me?"

Something hard glints in Dumbledore's eyes as he answers, "It does not. As you can see, the castle itself knows the truth." He gestures to the staircase. "However, I cannot deny that the inhabitants of the castle can be quite close-minded. But do not worry - you will not have to sleep in the girls' dormitories."

The auburn haired professor waves his wand, and a bed zooms down the girls' staircase and up the boys' one. "Now, I believe it's time for bed. Up you go." He gestures for Nick to ascend the boys' staircase, and the eleven-year-old does so with a grin on his face.

***

Nick walks with his shoulders slumped, staring at the ground. The only lesson he enjoys whole-heartedly is Transfiguration - partly because Professor Dumbledore is the only person in the school, apart from Shinji and a few kind classmates, who refer to him as he likes, and partly because he likes the subject.

He opens the Defense Against the Dark Arts room, and, to his shock, Professor Dumbledore is sitting at the teacher's desk. He looks up when Nick enters, and a smile crosses his face. "Ah, Nicholas. I had thought you might not join us."

Nick smiles rather sheepishly. "I'm sorry sir - I lost track of time."

"No matter," Dumbledore says with a smile. "You're here now, which is all that matters. Please sit."

The thirteen-year-old nods, face rather red, and slinks towards the nearest free desk. Dumbledore smiles at him once more before continuing with what he had been saying.

"Now, as I was saying, I am taking the class today as Professor Tyrhitt has taken ill, and Professor Dippet has asked me to take the class today. I believe Charles - that is, to say, Professor Tyrhitt - has taught you a fair about curses and hexes. Well, today I thought we would try dealing with fear."

"Fear, sir?" a wix interrupts him, a quizzical expression on their face. "How can we deal with fear? Is there a curse that leaves you shaking in fear?"

Dumbledore smiles pleasantly, not seeming to mind being interrupted. "I'm sure there are many," he says mildly. "But, Mx Smith, we will not be dealing with any of those. Are you familiar with a Boggart?"

The wix who had spoken shakes their head, eyes wide. "No, sir."

"Then, I'm afraid, you will grow rather accustomed with them after today. A Boggart is a shape-shifting creature that will assume the form of whatever most frightens the person who encounters it. I believe that knowing what your worst fear is can help you fight the Dark Arts, and will therefore be showing you it in the form of a Boggart."

Dumbledore is looking rather grave - it is clear that he himself does not wish to approach it, which worries Nick. It is common knowledge that Dumbledore is the best wizard in the world - if he is afraid to face the Boggart... Nick didn't want to think about how horrible it must be.

"As your worst fear is quite personal," Dumbledore continues, "you will face the Boggart with only me for company. I assure you that I will not tell a single soul of the form your Boggart takes. We will do this in roll order."

Nick sighs, staring at his desk. He will be last. He doesn't want to wait this long. However, he is forced to. He watches as his fellow Gryffindors leave the classroom with Dumbledore and return white-faced. Finally, it is his turn.

"This way, Mr Zhang," Dumbledore finally announces, and Nick gets to his feet. He has waited for a long time, and his mind is racing with frightening ideas. He is ready to get it over and done with.

Dumbledore leads Nick to a small, underused classroom. The only piece of furniture within it is a quivering wardrobe. Nick can hear claws raking the sides of it, and he shudders. "Is... is the Boggart in there?" he asks Dumbledore. He receives a nod in return.

"Now," the auburn haired wizard instructs him, "wand out. On the count of three, I will open the door. The Boggart will assume the shape of whatever fears you most. I will deal with it once I have decided you understand yourself enough."

Nick nods, quivering. He does not feel like a Gryffindor student, not brave in the slightest. But he is still curious, despite his fear. What scares him most?

"One," Dumbledore begins, and Nick grips his wand tighter.

"Two," continues Dumbledore, and Nick closes his eyes, steeling himself.

"Three," finishes Dumbledore, and the door of the wardrobe springs open. Standing within it is Shinji, the short boy's face strangely blank.

Nick blinks - this is not what he was expecting. "Shinji?" he asks cautiously.

Shinji turns to face him, and something flickers in the boy's dark eyes. "You're a fool for believing you will ever be accepted," he hisses, stepping out of the wardrobe and beginning to circle Nick. His voice rings in Nick's ears.

"Do you really believe people will believe you? Will accept that you are not what you were born? You are wrong." Shinji's voice is low, something snake-like to it. Nick backs away, and a cruel smile flashes over Shinji's mouth.

"Do you really think I care about you, Nicole?" he purrs. "Well, you were wrong, weren't you? I despise you. We all despise you. You, Nicole, are a freak."

"Make it stop!" Nick yells, scrambling away from Boggart-Shinji. "Stop it, professor! I've had enough, please!"

Dumbledore steps in at once, and the Boggart shifts shape. Now a pretty young girl with golden-brown hair, the Boggart raises a finger to point at Dumbledore. "It's your fault," she whispers, but before she can continue, Dumbledore flicks his wand and the Boggart zooms back into the cupboard, the door closing behind it.

Nick continues to shiver, and Dumbledore approaches him, clearly concerned. "Nicholas? Are you quite alright?"

The thirteen-year-old boy bites his lip, then gets to his feet, trembling less now. "No, professor," he whispers, meeting Dumbledore's eye, "but that's nothing new."

***

"As you can see," the Care of Magical Creatures professor says proudly, gesturing to the pure white unicorn standing proudly in the paddock, "I have successfully captured a unicorn for today's lesson."

A chorus of 'ooooo's and 'ahhhhh's ring out. Nick rolls his eyes - he doesn't like unicorns very much. Dragons are still his favourite - he has struck up a friendship with the gamekeeper because of a mutual interest in them.

"They're not remotely interesting," Nick mutters to Shinji. Gryffindor shares Care of Magical Creatures with Ravenclaw fellow fourth-years, which is the main reason Nick chose the elective. He knew the creatures they would be studying would be like this: boring.

Shinji shakes his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I disagree with you there, Nicholas. What's interesting about them is how interesting everyone else seems to find them."

Nick laughs, earning himself a sharp look from the professor taking the lesson. "Miss Zhang! Mr Liu! I am taking a lesson here, thank you very much!"

Instead of listening to him, Nick continues to laugh. He has long since stopped responding to 'Miss Zhang'.

Letting out a hrumph of disapproval, the Care of Magical Teachers professor begins addressing the class once again. "Unicorns are not fond of boys, so I think only the girls should have a closer look. Come on now!"

He gestures for the girls to climb over the fence and into the paddock, which all of them do. He nods, then his eyes fall upon Nick. "Miss Zhang! Please join the other girls in the paddock. Surely you've been flirting with Mr Liu long enough?"

Nick's face goes red - how dare the teacher mock him so? "I haven't been flirting with him," Nick mutters, but marches towards the fence despite his words. The professor wants him in the paddock? Fine. He'd go to the paddock.

He clambers over the fence and faces the unicorn. Approaching slowly, he extends a hand to lay a hand on it's pearly white muzzle. However, before he can get closer enough, the unicorn rears on it's hind legs, bucking repeatedly.

Nick stops moving, flashes a smug smile back at the professor, then climbs back over the fence. "Ever see a unicorn act like that around a girl?" he asks in a satisfied tone.

***

Nick leans against the sink, sighing. The clouds are particularly beautiful today - he can see a unicorn dancing among them. He smiles ever-so-slightly - he likes unicorns more now. They helped him prove a point, something he won't ever forget.

Shinji enters the kitchen, two letters in his hands. "Hogwarts letters came," he says with a smile. "Would you like yours?" he holds it out, and Nick takes it, returning the smile.

"Thanks Shinji," says Nick, opening the letter and peering inside.

His oldest friend's smile widens. "Don't thank me - I should be the one thanking you. The Quidditch World Cup was amazing - thank you for taking me, Nicholas."

Nick shrugs. "I thought you deserved a break. Oh, and, uh - you can call me Nick, if you like. It's what my family calls me. And you're like a brother to me." More then a brother, something in his brain adds unhelpfully, but Nick brushes it aside. Perhaps he wouldn't of done if he knew Shinji was thinking along the same lines.

"Thank you... Nick," says his friend, trying out the words and finding he likes them.

Nick, who isn't quite listening, lets out an exclamation. "Oh, look!" he shows Shinji the shiny Prefects badge that has come out of his envelope. "I'm a Prefect now? How did that happen?"

He glances at the short note attached to the badge, and a smile breaks over his face. "Listen here, Shinji!" he practically shouts, his excitement making him forget what an acceptable 'inside voice' was.

"Professor Dippet resigned his position of headmaster!" Nick continues excitedly. "Professor Dumbledore is the new headmaster - this really is wonderful!"

He glances at Shinji, who has been listening to him alertly. "Open your letter!" he says eagerly. "I hope you received Prefect as well!"

Shinji looks startled at the very idea of him receiving the tile of 'Prefect', and lets out a small squeak of surprise when a badge of his own falls into his lap. He picks it up, then glances at Nick, a wide smile breaking out across his face.

"Professor Dumbledore as headmaster... surely the school won't be so close-minded now. People will stop calling you 'Miss Zhang', won't they?" Shinji doesn't seem thrilled about his Prefect badge - Nick can tell that he is just happy that life will improve for him. For Nick.

And he hugs his best friend.

"Thank you."

***

Nick cheers loudly as he watches Shinji block a fantastic shot from a Gryffindor chaser. The only Gryffindor laden with blue, Nick is painfully aware of how much he stands out, but he doesn't care. He isn't the biggest fan of Quidditch, and only attends the matches because they give him an excuse to either be with Shinji or cheer on him.

Shinji makes yet another amazing save, and Nick screams his approval once again. He hopes that Shinji might just become the captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team - he knows his friend has been working towards it since he got into the team, and hopes that he will see his dream accomplished.

Nick waved the flag he had made himself harder, hoping that Shinji could see the glistening words he had spent hours enchanting to glow different shades of blue and bronze. Shinji for Minister, the flag read, and Nick was quite proud of it.

From high up, Nick sees Shinji look towards him, sees him see the flag. Although he can't make out Shinji's face, he knows that the fifteen-year-old is smiling. And Nick cannot help but burst into a wide grin of his own.

***

"I'm never going to manage this," Nick groans, staring at his revision cards in dismay. "I'm going to fail my OWLs for sure! It's going to happen!"

Shinji snorts and playfully punches Nick. "Don't be stupid," he says, smirking. "You're pretty smart! That is, you know, for a Gryffindor." He smirks.

Nick rolls his eyes. "No need to flex being a Ravenclaw - don't worry, I know you're smarter then me. You don't need to say it."

This makes Shinji snort again. "You're making it sound like I'm only a little smarter then you," he tells Nick, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth again. "Come on, if you're going to complain about your mental capability, you might as well make it clear that I'm far more intelligent then you could ever dream of being."

"Yeah, right," Nick says, grinning. The grin fades when he glances down at his revision notes, and he puts his quill down, his fingers beginning to drum on the table. "But really, Shinji, I'm almost certain I'm going to fail. You know I don't have a great memory, and studying for hours has never been my style of learning."

Shinji frowns, and it is clear to Nick that his friend is concerned for him. "I just can't concentrate after reading, like, one paragraph," Nick sighs. "I wish I had your brains." There is a slightly bitter note to his voice.

"No," Shinji says, taking Nick's hands in his and staring into his eyes, "don't speak like that. Be proud of who you are, Nick. You're an amazing wizard. An amazing person. An amazing friend. Be proud of who you are."

Nick cannot break eye-contact with Shinji - it is like he has been petrified, just like the victims of the Basilisk the the older students speak of. Slowly, Nick begins to move. But not his hands, not his feet. He leans closer towards Shinji, and Shinji leans closer to him.

Something wakes in Nick, something stirs in hi s chest. Shinji is so close, and getting closer, slowly, slowly, slowly. But before anything more can happen between them, a shrill voice snaps, "Out! No kissing in the library, not on my watch!" It is Madam Pince, the librarian.

Nick draws away from Shinji, disappointed, face red with embarrassment. Shinji looks rather sheepish. The two quickly collect their bags and books and leave the library, Madam Pince's beady gaze following them.

But the moment they are out, the moment the library doors shut, Nick finds himself in Shinji's arms once more.

***

Nick rips open his OWL results with anticipation. As he passed? He somehow doubts it. To his surprise, however, he has only failed Astronomy, managing to scrape passes for everything else, even earning himself 'E's in Potions, Charms and History of Magic and, somehow, an 'O' in Transfiguration.

He glances over at Shinji, who is smiling weakly. "Well, I didn't do too bad. O's in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Herbology and Charms. I got E's on the rest. What about you?"

Nick rolls his eyes. "That's amazing, Shinji. Don't undersell yourself."

"I could of done better," Shinji protests. Nick has known him for five long years, and knows fully well that his boyfriend tends to be rather hard on himself.

He hands Shinji his own results. "Read these if you'd like to feel a little better about your own results. Really, you did great."

Shinji sighs, scanning Nick's results, then hands them back. "I'm sorry if I'm being annoying," he says, "I don't mean to be."

"You can never annoy me," Nick whispers, laying a hand on one of Shinji's and smiling at him. "Believe me."

***

Nick stares in disbelief at the deceased spider, well and truly shocked. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had thought it a good time to show his sixth-year class what the Unforgivable Curses looked like. Nick had disagreed with her, and for good reason. He had not enjoyed watching a spider drown itself, another writhe in pain, and, finally, one collapse dead.

"Does anyone have any questions?" Professor Tyrhitt says, seeming satisfied with herself. Why is she so delighted? Does she only feel content at the end of the day if she has successfully startled a class of NEWT students?

Nick raises a hand, and the professor looks to him, still smiling in a self-satisfied manner. "Yes, Miss Zhang?" she says.

Nick frowns. "It's Mr Zhang, actually," he tells her, his annoyance plain. "Next time, please address me as such." What makes him speak to a teacher so sharply, Nick isn't quite sure, but he likes the startled expression that flits across the professor's face.

"Yes, of course," she says after a moment's hesitation. "I'm sorry, Mr Zhang. My tongue slipped. Now, please. What was your question?"

Nick gives her a look that fully conveys his anger, then speaks. "I was just wondering something, professor. Why is it illegal to preform those curses on human beings?"

Tyrhitt gives a start, clearly appalled by Nick's words. "Am I hearing you correctly?" she says rather shrilly. "After witnessing my demonstration, you ask why it is illegal to perform these?"

"Yes," Nick answers her simply. "I do. Surely the Imperius Curse would be immensely useful if you were to attempt to take in a Dark Wizard? And the Cruciatus Curse a good punishment if someone committed a dreadful crime? And if dueling, wouldn't the fastest way to get rid of a Dark Wizard in a quick, clean way be to use to the Killing Curse?"

Professor Tyrhitt relaxes slightly. "I understand what you are saying, Zhang, but I disagree. To use them would be to stoop to the same level as those we persecute."

Nick frowns, but nods. "Yes ma'am."

***

"I'm so sick of it," Nick tells Shinji, leaning against him. They are sitting outside, sheltered from the sun by a tall tree. "I'm so sick of all the looks we get whenever we go anywhere together. The looks I get when I go up to Madam Pomfrey for more testosterone. The looks everyone like you and me get."

Shinji sighs, putting his DAtDA homework down. "I know," he agrees, "people are stupid. But we have to ignore them. Just be proud of who we are. In fact... I pity them."

Nick shifts around to give his boyfriend a strange look. "Really? Why would you pity them? They control every aspect of our lives. People like us can't get married, for goodness sake. I expect I'll spend my entire life correcting people when they refer to me as 'miss' or 'Nicole'."

Shinji nods. "I know. Believe me Nick, I know. I pity them because they're close-minded. Because they can't tell what love truly is. Because they think so poorly about themselves that they have to try to make our lives miserable, just so that they can boost their self-esteem."

"And we need to pity them for that?" Nick asks, his disbelief clear. "Shinji, you know what happened to Jay Smith. They didn't go by the typical pronouns, slept in the common room instead of going up to a gender-assigned dormitory. You know what they endured every single day, all the bullying and hate they received."

He turns away, furious at Shinji. Why can't his boyfriend see that the bigoted people of the world were to be despised, not pitied? "I was one of Jay's only friends, Shinji," he mutters, staring at the ground. "And I know how much all of it affected them. Those bigoted people made them throw themself nto the lake."

Shinji shudders, then lies a reassuring hand on Nick's shoulder. "It's horrible," he agrees, "and we're going to fight for our rights when we leave. We're out of school in less then a year, Nick, and we can show the entire wizarding world how stupid they are. We're going to change things."

Nick sighs, then smiles weakly at his boyfriend. "I'm just so sick of it," he whispers, blinking hard to stop himself from crying. He is sitting in the sunlight with a boyfriend who loves him - he doesn't wan to cry. But he can't stop himself, and soon large tears are rolling down his face. "I don't want anyone else to die. I don't want anyone else to endure what my parents did, what I've endured, what you've endured."

"Don't worry," Shinji says, pulling Nick closer, "we're going to change it. We are going to change things, Nick, and everyone will see how strong we are. You and I - we will rewrite the world."

***

Nick reads the newspaper, a slight frown creasing his forehead. Finishing the article, he curses loudly. Then again. Before long, he is screaming his anger. And then his brief fit of rage is over, and Nick is panting, leaning against the kitchen bench.

Shinji enters the room, concern written all over his face. "Nick? What's wrong?" He is holding the black cat the two adopted together in both arms, stroking it, but he puts it down when he sees the look on his partner's face. "Nick?"

Nick licks his lips, then hands the newspaper article to Shinji. "Read that and tell me what's wrong," he says, teeth gritted. "You told me we'd change thing, Shinji, now that we're out of Hogwarts. But look at that. Things are only getting worse."

Shinji reads the article, his eyes widening as he does so. When he looks up at Nick, it is clear he is shocked. "They can't possibly do this," he says, horrified. "I thought it was bad enough, with us being forbidden to marry and all. But... this is something else. If this passes, it'll be hard to find a job."

The eighteen-year-old nods. "Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know." He runs his hands through his scruffy hair, chewing his lip. "We need to stop it from being passed. Otherwise, trans people, gay people - we be treated like we're Voldemort's supports. That's what the author wrote, that many of the Death Eaters are suspected to be gay, and that it seems many of the trans, gay, ace, aro community end up Dark Wizards. It's rubbish! Complete and utter rubbish. Being gay, being ace - it doesn't make you evil. What kind of stupid theory is that?"

"Who wrote the thing?" Shinji asks, scanning the article again and answering himself. "Ah, Bartemius Crouch. I should of known."

Nick raises an eyebrow, glancing at his partner. "Oh? Who is this 'Bartemius Crouch' person? I've never heard of him before."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Shinji can not help but smile. "Ah, but you wouldn't. You generally don't read the Prophet, do you?" He frowns. "Why did you do so today?"

Nick shrugs. "This is yesterday's," he murmurs, "my Dads sent it. You know my father is in the Ministry - he's afraid he'll lose his job, and I can't blame him. Him and papa aren't wealthy, and with father being the only one of them working... I can't believe how messed up our world is."

The cat begins to wrap itself around Shinji's legs, and he picks it up, sighing. "It's ridiculous," he agrees. "But we'll change it."

"You keep on saying that!" Nick yells, whipping around to glare at him. "But we never do a single thing! Never!"

Shinji meets Nick's eye, nodding. "I know," he murmurs, "and I'm sorry. You're right. Let's get an audience with the Ministry, let's persuade them they're wrong. Let's do this, Nick. Let's do something."

Nick seems to deflate, staring at the ground. Eventually, he nods. "It's time to stand up for ourselves."

***

Nick reads through the letter, smiling to himself. He is proud of his work - he has been working on this letter for the better part of the day, and now it is complete. He has phrased it correctly. Although he knows his partner, Shinji, is attempting to get them an audience with Bartemius Crouch or one of his associates, Nick doubts he will manage it, and has written a letter addressed to the man who was proposing a law that would make his life hell.

Mister Bartemius Crouch, Nick reads. My name is Nicholas Zhang, and I am writing to you about your new law proposal. You claim that all transgender and homosexual wizards, witches and wixen should be registered, and that background checks should be run on any of them attempting to apply for a job. Mister Crouch, I implore you to drop this nonsense idea. Being transgender, being homosexual - they don't make you a Dark Wizard. Yes, I know Grindlewald was gay, but so is Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of all time. Creating this law will only create more anger in the gay and trans community, which might lead to the creation of more Dark Users. Open your eyes. We are not the threat here.

He nods to himself, then glances up at the horned owl that is waiting for him to finish the letter. "There you go," Nick says, tying the letter to the owl's legs and stroking it's feathers. "I've heard Crouch has a young son - this is to go to Bartemius Crouch Senior, alright Aldore?"

The owl, Aldore, hoots in response and spreads it's wings, taking off and knocking Nick's bottle of ink over in the process. Instead of getting angry, he laughs, and watches as Aldore flies away, a light sensation in his stomach. He's changing things, just one letter at a time, and it excites him.

***

"What does he mean no?!" Nick hisses, staring at the letter Aldore has brought him in disbelief. "He can't do this, he just can't!"

Shinji looks up from the Daily Prophet, a curious expression on his face. "What are you talking about, Nick? Who said no?" He then frowns. "Don't tell me you wrote to Crouch about the possibility of that law being passed?"

Nick frowns as well. "I had to," he mumbles, staring at the letter. "There's no way we're going to get an interview with him - this was the only way to ensure he at least sees what we've got to say. But his letter is practically laughing in my face."

Shinji gets up from the armchair he has been sitting in and lies a reassuring hand on Nick's shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me you were writing to Crouch?" he asks softly, then shakes his head. "No, that doesn't matter. Just... don't stress about this. I've got an appointment with Dumbledore - he can reach out to the Ministry for us."

***

"It's good to see you again, Shinji, Nicholas," the headmaster says, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "I assume this isn't a visit without purpose? What do you wish to see me about?"

Nick smiles rather awkwardly; despite Dumbledore's kindly nature, the now silver-bearded wizard has always unnerved him. He has always nursed the ridiculous idea that the wizard's piercing gaze can actually pierce his mind.

Shinji nods. "Yes, professor," he says. "I'm afraid we aren't here to pay you a causal visit." He falls silent after that, glancing at Nick.

Dumbledore smiles pleasantly nodding. "I thought as much. Mint humbug, either of you?" he offers them a striped sweet. Shinji takes one, popping it in his mouth then glancing at Nick. It occurs to Nick that his partner might of taken a humbug for the sole purpose of having an excuse not to talk.

Clearly sensing the awkwardness in the air, Dumbledore speaks once again. "Are you here to discuss Crouch's proposal?" There is something in his eyes that suggests great distaste for the proposal - this loosens Nick's tongue.

"Yes," he answers his old teacher, "it can't be passed, it just can't. Surely you agree with me, Dumbledore?" There is desperation in Nick's voice.

Dumbledore sighs, turning to stroke the red-and-gold bird that sat on the perch beside his desk. "I was afraid you might want to talk about it." He looks up at Nick and Shinji, something self-hating in his eyes. "Sadly, I cannot help you. I've already talked to the Ministry about it. I can be quite persuasive at times, but I was ignored. I have disliked the Ministry for reasons like this."

Nick stares blankly at Dumbledore, then gets to his feet abruptly, leaving the room. If Dumbledore cannot help him, no-one can. It is time to take matters into his own hands.

***

Nick turns his wand over and over in his hands. It is ash, eleven inches long, dragon heartstring. He has been its master for eight years, and knows it as well as the back of his hand. Every bump in it, the patches of rather grainy wood, the length - he knows everything about it.

He has been mulling over his conversation with Dumbledore for a week, and a plan is forming in hi head. His thoughts keep on returning to the Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson he took place in during his sixth year. The reaction of each of the spiders to the Unforgiveable Curses... is it really so wrong to use one on another human being?

Nick isn't fond of the idea of using the Killing Curse - although he is desperate, he can hardly see what the purpose of killing Crouch would be. If he was caught in the scene of the crime, it would only make the wizarding world believe the law is necessary, which Nick knows must not happen.

The Cruciatus Curse, on the other hand, seems like a viable option. If he can torture Crouch, perhaps the Ministry man will drop the idea of rounding up all transgender and homosexual people, perhaps he will not pass the law. But still, something tells Nick that the man will not respond well to threats.

That left the Imperious Curse. Nick is almost certain that this is the best way to about things. Surely it cannot be too difficult to do perform the curse - Nick remembers the words and wand movements Professor Tyrhitt used when she performed the curse on the spider two years ago.

He gets to his feet, his mind made up, wand clutched tight in one hand. Nick is going to do it. He has to do it. Walking out of the house, Nick turns before closing the door. "Just going to go get some milk!" he calls through the house, trusting that Shinji will hear him. Smiling to himself, he closes the door and disapparates.

***

Nick stares at the wizard, breathing hard. Infiltrating the Ministry was surprisingly easy, and his target is in sight. Bartemius Crouch. The wizard is surprisingly young - Nick thinks he must only be thirty or so.

The wizards turns to look at him, frowning. "What is it?" he snaps. "Has He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named killed another prominent wizard?"

Nick lips his lips, then nods. "No," he says, then curses himself mentally. Why had he nodded and answered 'no' at the same time? It was idiotic.

"What do you mean?" Crouch asks, using much the same tone.

Nick struggles to find an answer, and is saved by the arrival of Dumbledore. He stares at the silver-bearded figure, wondering what his old headmaster is doing there. Has he come to persuade Crouch, just like he has?

Nick remembers that Dumbledore was just as anti Crouch's new law as he is, and grips his wand. The room he stands in is deserted - save, of course, him, Crouch and Dumbledore. Surely Dumbledore will not interfere if he stops Crouch?

"Imper-" Nick begins, raising his wand, but his voice falters almost at once, his arms snapping to his sides. Before he understands what has happened to him, he has hit the floor. Pain runs through him at once, but he can not wince. In fact, Nick cannot even blink, despite needing to greatly.

Dumbledore's face enters his line of vision. There is disappointment etched in every feature, and Nick realizes that his headmaster must of preformed the Body-Binding curse he knows he has been put under. "You fool," his headmaster mutters, shaking his head.

"What was that?" Crouch asks. Nick imagines the Ministry official is glancing between him and Dumbledore, attempting to figure out what has happened.

Dumbledore's head disappears, and Nick is treated to a first-class view of the roof. "I'm afraid Mr Zhang decided it would be wise to attempt to cast an Unforgivable Curse upon you, Barty."

"An Unforgivable Curse?" Crouch asks, his voice sharp. "Are you telling me this boy is a Death Eater? I didn't know He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was recruiting them so young."

Nick feels anger flare within him. Him, a Death Eater? He begins to strain against the Body Binding curse, despite knowing that it's unlikely he will be able to break free. The caster was, after all, the greatest wizard of all time.

"No, Barty," Dumbledore says firmly. "Mr Zhang is not a Death Eater, nor a Dark Wizard. Only desperate. And desperate wizards feel forced to do desperate things. Such as attempting to take control of you."

"I'm going to stun him," Crouch says, and Nick hears the swish of robes. He assumes the wizard is drawing his wand. "I'm sure the Minister will be glad to hear we've caught a Dark Wizard."

The last thing Nick sees is a flash of red light. Although he knows he has been caught, although he suspects he will be shipped off to Azkaban, Nick feels proud of himself, for one of the first times he has for a long time. Azkaban will not change who he is, and it's about time he feels proud of himself. It's just a matter of pride.

[Mod edit: Removing profanity]

Btw the notes are chapter 29 the dream and for me it is page 503

@Steine7326 and @HeirsOfTheNightSuperfan Hope you like it! Luna HC will be added ASAP! meanwhile~ enjoy this HC where Rabastan is an absolute bada**.

— — —

The Trial of Rabastan Lestrange at the Ministry of Magic.

Crouch: Are you Rabastan Lestrange, son of Reinhard Lestrange?

Rabastan: I don’t know, am I?

Ministry officials: OOOOOOOOHHHHH.

Crouch: Lestrange, this is not helping your case.

Rabastan: Yeah, I’m aware of that. Maybe you should have recommended that to your son before he vaulted the flipping BANISTER.

Ministry officials: OOOOOOOOHHHHH.

Crouch: SILENCE!

Crouch: He is no son of mine, and who are you to despise my parenting methods?

Rabastan: Rabastan Lestrange, son of Reinhard Lestrange, that’s what you said earlier, innit?

Ministry officials: OOOOOOOOHHHHH.

Crouch: *heavy breathing*

Crouch: You are here today because you participated in the torturing of the Aurors Frank and Anne Longbottom. What have you brought for your defense?

Rabastan: Your ego. That should be big enough proof.

Ministry officials: OOOOOOOOHHHHH.

Crouch *ignoring him*: So, how do you plead?

Rabastan: I don’t, actually, your stupid Aurors captured me and brought me here against my will. Ask them.

Ministry officials: OOOOOOOOHHHHH.

Crouch: You cheeky little-

Amelia Bones: Alright, M. Crouch, it is clear that you are implicated emotionally in this case so I will be taking over.

Crouch: What! No, this insolent little-

Bones: thaNK YOU. Now, Lestrange, do you admit that you took part in the torturing of the Aurors Frank and Anne Longbottom, along with your sister in law Bellatrix Lestrange, your brother Rodolphus Lestrange, and Barty Crouch Jr., all of which have already admitted to this crime?

Rabastan: I don’t know, did I?

Ministry officials: OOOOOOOOHHHHH.

Bones *sighs*: You will be ruled guilty on account of uncooperation. You are sentenced to life in Azkaban Prison. This court ruling is now adjourned.

Rabastan: Niceeeee. At least I pissed off Crouch. Now I understand what Bella meant when she said to go out on my own terms.

Crouch: OKAY LISTEN HERE YOU LITTLE SH-

Bones: -itake mushroom.

During the First Wizarding War Barty Crouch Sr made it legal for Aurors to use the Unforgivable Curses against Death Eaters. So Crouch Junior wasn't exactly blowing his cover as Moody when he was teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts and using those curses. Harry was the only one to resist the Imperius Curse which shows a strong mind.