22nd March 1995, the Care of Magical Creatures paddock, 2:14 PM
The paddock had been laid out, by Hagrid's careful preparation that morning, with seven small wooden enclosures arranged in a wide ring along the flat ground at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Each enclosure contained a low mound of fresh-turned earth that smelt, in the cool damp air of late March, of leaf-mould and earthworm and the slow waking of spring.
Hagrid stood at the centre of the ring with seven small wriggling parcels in his enormous arms—the Nifflers, by Harry's first glance, in their precise restless eager state of small black-snouted fluffy creatures who had registered that digging was about to be permitted and were, by every visible signal, desperate for it.
Harry smiled seeing Hagrid back at his post in his enormous red Christmas coat. Hagrid had been teaching for the past seven weeks. The lessons had been good. The students had been happy. The storm of January was, by every visible measure, over.
Draco and Ron stood beside them.
Though, Hermione was not yet present.
"Right then!" Hagrid boomed in his cheerful early-afternoon voice. "Nifflers! Today's lesson! These little fellas are partic'lar fond o' shiny things, an' I've buried a number o' precise small— a number o' gold coins around this paddock for 'em to dig up. The one whose Niffler finds the most, gets a small Honeydukes prize at the end."
A small ginger blur arrived along the path from the castle.
Hermione.
She walked, in the small careful resumption of her ordinary life, returning to her Care of Magical Creatures class as if she had merely been at the Hospital Wing for a head cold. Her brown eyes were bright. Her brown hair was, by Harry's first observation, freshly washed.
She had, in the four days since Viktor's library declaration, come back.
She arrived at Harry's side and gave him a hug.
"Hermione."
"Harry."
"Welcome back."
"Thank you."
Hagrid, registering her arrival, beamed. He set his Nifflers down. He crossed to her.
"Hermione, lass. You all right?"
"Yes, Hagrid. Better. Thank you."
"Them letters—"
"I am going to find out how Rita Skeeter is doing this, Hagrid. I have decided. The last four days have been for making the decision. The next several weeks are for doing it."
Hagrid's enormous beetle-black eyes were fill gentleness.
"Lass. When that woman did her piece on me, I got two hundred an' fourteen letters in three weeks. I read the first one. I burned the rest. Yeh learn to laugh at 'em, lass. Yeh learn to. Or else they win."
Hermione's smile cracked into the genuine warm smile of a girl who had been needing exactly this conversation.
"Two hundred and fourteen, Hagrid?"
"An' five Howlers."
"Hagrid."
"Six if yeh count the one me brother Grawp sent, but I think Grawp meant well by it."
Hermione laughed. Hagrid laughed. The whole class, by the simultaneous warm registration, laughed.
22nd March 1995, the Room of Requirement, 5:42 PM
The Room had arranged itself, by Hermione's quiet request after class, into a small careful research-chamber with a long oak table, six comfortable chairs, a fire in a stone hearth at the far end, and the small set of references on press-law and concealment-magic that Hermione had been quietly cross-listing in her mind for the past four weeks.
Hermione spread her hands on the table.
"I am going to find out how she does it. I have decided. Today."
"Today?" Ron asked, who was sprawled face-down on the floor mat after his third duelling round against Harry that afternoon, in which he had been knocked across half the Room of Requirement by a Stupefy he had not been prepared for.
"Today, Ron. The starting day. Not the finishing day."
"Right, mate. Right."
"I do not know yet how," Hermione continued, "but I have a working theory. Skeeter cannot enter Hogwarts grounds—she is banned. Yet she has obtained information from conversations that have only occurred on Hogwarts grounds. Hagrid and Madame Maxime by the lake at Yule. My conversation with Viktor on the shore in January. Your conversations, Harry, throughout the autumn that have appeared in her articles. The conclusion is that she has some way of being present at those conversations while remaining undetected."
"A Disillusionment Charm?" Draco offered.
"Possible. But Disillusionment is detectable by the standard ward-screening at the gates, and Filch checks for it every morning. She would have been caught."
"An Invisibility Cloak?"
"More expensive than her Daily Prophet salary should permit, and again, detectable at the gate-wards with the Hogwarts charms."
"Polyjuice?" Luna asked serenely.
"Possible. But Polyjuice would require a precise rotating host of insiders, and the source-pattern of the articles does not suggest a precise human informant. The information she has obtained is too specific to too many simultaneous locations."
Luna nodded, with the bright pleased attention of a girl whose theories were always welcomed, even when overridden, by Hermione.
"Then she is something small."
"Something small?"
"Something not human, perhaps."
Hermione's quill paused.
"Luna. That is interesting."
"I am only thinking, Hermione. A beetle, perhaps. Or a moth. Or a small bird."
"A beetle," Hermione repeated, with the slow careful attention of a girl whose research-mind had just been handed a starting thread.
"A small green-shelled beetle, perhaps," Luna said. "With distinctive markings. I have noticed one on the windowsill of the library on three occasions when I had been doing my own reading. It is possibly nothing. But it had small precise markings that reminded me of the markings on Rita Skeeter's reading-spectacles."
Hermione's quill, in the slow startled deliberate motion of a girl who had just received a startlingly useful piece of evidence, wrote.
"Luna."
"Hm?"
"You are extraordinary."
Luna beamed.
Draco, watching this from his chair, said quietly: "An unregistered Animagus is a serious crime, Hermione. Five years in Azkaban under the Wizarding Codes Act of 1925. If you can prove this, you do not just stop her. You break her."
Hermione's composed face did the steady cold steel thing.
"Five years," she repeated softly. "Very well."
Ron, still face-down on the floor mat, gave a single muffled cheer of approval into the mat.
Harry, watching Hermione across the table, smiled.
The hate-mail did not, by the precise inconvenient measure of Skeeter's enduring readership, stop. Letters continued to arrive at breakfast. But Hermione had decided to not look at them. She picked them up. She handed them, unopened, to Viktor, who—seated beside her now at most meals—took out his wand with a grin and burned them into green-and-gold sparks above the porridge.
By the second week of this, the daily sparking-of-letters had become a minor entertainment at the Gryffindor breakfast table.
By the third, Viktor was helping Hermione with her broom-flying in the afternoons after lessons, for Hermione to properly fly a broom this time not floating slowly in the air.
Ron also officiated as the unofficial Snitch-thrower for their practice catches.
Hermione was, by honest measurement, getting visible progress.
8th April 1995, the Great Hall, breakfast, 8:14 AM
Percy's reply arrived on Easter Sunday morning, attached by Hermes-the-screech-owl to a small wrapped parcel of Mrs Weasley's hand-painted Easter eggs.
Ron opened both at the table.
The eggs were excellent— hand-painted gold-leaf Snitches on a deep red background, with Mrs Weasley's careful note that Mr Esther had given her the gold leaf at Christmas and she had been saving it for exactly this purpose.
Ron, registering the gold-leaf reference with a bright smile as he set the eggs aside carefully.
He unfolded Percy's letter.
He read.
His face, by visible reading, frown for it was exactly the kind of bureaucratic loyalty Ron had been fearing.
"Right then. Percy says—" Ron cleared his throat, "—Dear Ronald, your question regarding Mr Crouch's current status is, as you must understand, a matter of considerable sensitivity. Mr Crouch is in fact unwell and is recovering at home. The owl-delivery arrangement is standard and well within Ministry protocols. There is no cause for alarm. I should add that I find your interest in his whereabouts somewhat suspicious and would ask, in the strongest terms, that you cease this line of inquiry and focus on your own studies."
"..."
"Suspicious," Hermione repeated.
"The strongest terms," Ron echoed.
"Percy is being—" Hermione paused, choosing her words, "—Percy."
"Magnificently."
Ron's mouth pulled, despite itself, into the small dry brother-smile of a boy who had been managing Percy's pomposity for fifteen years.
"He's covering for Crouch, isn't he."
"He is doing exactly that, Ron."
"Without realising he is, probably."
"Probably."
"..."
"Right. I'll write to Bill. He's at Gringott and won't be as easily fobbed off."
"Good idea, Ron."
24th May 1995, the Quidditch pitch, 8:47 PM
The pitch had been transformed, by the careful late-spring undertaking of the Tournament's construction-team over the past three weeks, into something Harry had not seen on a Quidditch pitch in his four years at Hogwarts.
Hedges.
The clean turf of the pitch had been laid down with foundations of an enormous maze.
Hedges, perhaps three feet high at this stage of their construction, ran in complicated lines of what would, by Harry's reading of the layout-stakes still visible at the precise pitch boundary, become a twenty-foot-high maze by June. The hedges were, by every visible measure, growing as he watched—The magical horticulture of Professor Sprout and a team of three magical-plants specialists from the Ministry was extending them at visible rate of approximately an inch per minute.
Ludo Bagman stood at the centre of the pitch in his enormous yellow-and-black Wasps cloak. The six Champions—Harry, Cedric, Fleur, Viktor, Robert, Adaeze—assembled in front of him in evening light of May.
"Champions," Bagman announced with a theatrical pleasure of a man whose Tournament moment had now arrived. "The Third and Final Task. As you can see, our maze is growing. By the twenty-fourth of June, these hedges will be precisely twenty feet high, and the maze itself will fill the entire pitch. Your job, my brave Champions, is to navigate the maze, reach its centre, and touch the Triwizard Cup that will be waiting for you there. The first Champion to do so wins the Tournament."
"Wonderful, Ludo," Cedric said politely. "And... what is in the maze."
Bagman's mouth curved into a wide grin.
"Things, Mr Diggory. Things that move. Anyway, the obstacles will be brought into the maze as it nears completion. The judges have selected them. They have been carefully calibrated for difficulty. I cannot, by the Tournament Charter, disclose them. But I can say that you will need every spell you have learned this year. And, I dare say, several you have not.""
A chill went through the six Champions.
Bagman, with the eager attention of a man who had been waiting for the precise moment to corner Harry alone, turned to him.
"Harry, my boy, a word, if I may—"
"Mr Bagman, my apologies, but Viktor and I had agreed to walk back together this evening to... discuss the maze."
Viktor, noticing Harry's lie with the appreciation of a young man who had been waiting for exactly this kind of friendly rescue, nodded.
"Yes. We are speaking now."
Bagman's small face fell.
"Ah. Yes. Of course. Another time, then."
Harry and Viktor turned. They walked.
The path back to the castle ran along the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The soft spring-evening light had fallen to a low gold of an English May twilight, and the dark trees of the Forest at the path's right-hand edge rose in their tall silent attention.
"Harry. About Witch Weekly."
"Yeah?"
"According to Rita Skeeter, you and I are now... are now sworn enemies, fighting in a... magical duel of the hearts over Hermin-ee-nee."
"Pfft! Right."
"I propose we do not fight a magical duel."
"I agree."
"Instead, both win the Tournament. And Hermin-ee-nee shall have us both as her friends. And Rita Skeeter shall, eventually, be brought to justice ."
Harry chuckled at Viktor's sudden 'heroic speech'.
They walked on. Harry was about to comment on Viktor's improving English when a dark figure stumbled out of the trees ahead of them.
Both boys stopped.
The figure was Bartemius Crouch.
But not, by Harry's first horrified registration, the Bartemius Crouch he remembered from the Yule Ball or any of his Ministry photographs.
This Crouch was wrecked—his clothes filthy, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, his eyes wild and unfocused. His hands trembled. His thin grey hair stood up at angles. He was muttering to himself in a fast tumbling whisper of a man whose mind had, by every visible measure, broken.
He noticed Harry and Viktor.
He lunged forward.
"Dumbledore. Dumbledore. I must see Dumbledore. I must see him at once. I have done a terrible thing—I have done a terrible thing—Weatherby, where is Weatherby—my son, my son, he is here, in the castle, he is here, he was—"
Harry caught his elbow gently.
"M-Mr Crouch. Sir. Please. I-I will fetch Dumbledore. Stay with Viktor. Sit. S-sit here."
"Bertha is dead. Bertha Jorkins is dead. He killed her. I am responsible. I have done a terrible thing. The Dark Lord is rising again. He is stronger now. He is in the castle, my son, he is here, I gave him— I gave him—"
A deep chill ran the length of Harry's spine.
"Mr Crouch. Stay here. I will run. Viktor will stay with you."
He turned to Viktor.
"Viktor. Do not leave him. Wand out. Be ready for anything."
"Go." Viktor nodded
Harry ran.
He covered the quarter-mile back up to the castle in approximately three minutes, bursted into the Entrance Hall, and bolted for the gargoyle.
The gargoyle, registering Harry's urgency, did not require the password. It opened.
Harry took the spiral staircase three at a time.
Dumbledore was at his desk.
"Headmaster. Mr Crouch. In the Forbidden Forest. Now. He is not well. He says terrible things. Viktor is with him."
Dumbledore's flashed with contemplation behind his half-moon glasses.
"Show me."
They ran.
The evening twilight had deepened into a thin spring darkness by the time they reached the path. The section of the Forest where Harry had left Viktor and Crouch was, registering first glance—
—empty of Crouch.
Viktor was lying face-down on the forest path.
He was not moving.
Harry's heart almost skipped a beat.
He fell to his knees beside Viktor. He turned him over.
Viktor was breathing—slow, steady, but unconscious. A clear scorch-mark of a Stupefy impact glowed faintly on his temple. Stunned.
"Headmaster, he has been—"
"I see, Harry. Stand back, please."
Dumbledore knelt. He laid a long careful hand on Viktor's forehead. He cast a soft careful diagnostic charm. He frowned.
"A strong Stunning Charm. From a wand that knew its business. Viktor is fine."
"And Crouch—"
"Gone."
Then, there was a crash of footsteps along the path.
Karkaroff and Hagrid, having clearly been alerted by the commotion of Harry's run through the Entrance Hall, were arriving from the castle direction.
Karkaroff, noticing Viktor unconscious on the path, his face turned white.
"Dumbledore! Dumbledore! My student. What has happened. What has happened to my—"
"Igor. Calm yourself."
"Calm myself? Calm myself! My Champion has been attacked on Hogwarts grounds, and you stand here with the Potter boy beside you, and tell me to calm myself—"
Hagrid took one enormous step toward Karkaroff. His enormous fist was clenched.
"Igor. Enough."
"I will not—"
"Hagrid." Dumbledore's voice was still gentle. "Please. Hagrid, take Harry back to the castle. To Gryffindor Tower. He is to rest. Igor, you and I bring Viktor to Madam Pomfrey. Hagrid, please."
Hagrid, reluctantly, lowered his fist. He laid an enormous hand on Harry's shoulder.
"Come on, Harry. Up to the castle, lad."
They went.
25th May 1995, the Room of Requirement, 10:17 AM
The Room had arranged itself, this morning, into a sitting-room with five comfortable chairs around a fire, two pots of strong tea, and a plate of buttered toast that Dobby, who passed by to deliver Ethan's letter, had clearly arranged in advance.
Harry had been telling them the entire sequence of the previous evening's events. Luna sat beside him with his hand in hers. Ron and Draco were on the precise opposite couch.
Hermione had just arrived from the Hospital Wing.
She sat down. Her face was slightly pale.
"He is recovering well. He is awake. Madam Pomfrey says he can leave the wing this afternoon."
"What did he see?" Harry asked.
"Almost nothing. He says Crouch was about to tell him something—something specific—when Viktor heard a movement behind him. He turned. Then he was hit by a Stunning Spell from fifteen feet away. He did not see the caster. Whoever it was, was well hidden."
"..."
"Then it is clear," Hermione continued. "Crouch was trying to reach Dumbledore. Someone did not want Crouch to reach Dumbledore. That someone was near them in the dark, close enough to hear, close enough to strike, and willing to take Crouch away under our noses."
"And Crouch said—" Harry repeated quietly, "—that Voldemort was rising again. That he was stronger. That Bertha Jorkins is dead. And that his son—"
Draco's face dropped hearing this. Draco had, by every visible measure, been processing this since Harry first said the name Voldemort this morning.
Ron, beside him, laid a hand on his shoulder without looking. Draco accepted it without comment.
"His son died in Azkaban," Hermione said softly. "Sirius told us that. In nineteen-eighty-two."
"Then what did Crouch mean."
"..."
Ron, in a careful manner of a boy who had decided to lighten the mood deliberately, cleared his throat.
"Anyway, I overheard Fred and George at the Owlery yesterday. They were talking about blackmailing somebody."
"Blackmailing." Hermione's eyebrows rose.
"Yeah. I went in to send my owl to Bill. They didn't see me at the back. They were saying if he won't pay up the proper way, we'll find another way. We've tried to reason with him. We've tried to be civil. Now we're going to be uncivil. I coughed. They saw me. They claimed they were joking... They were not joking."
"Bagman," Hermione said immediately.
"Bagman," Draco agreed.
"Yeah. Probably. Anyway, they're serious about the joke shop now, you know. They've got one more year, and they've been writing letters. I saw two of them on Fred's bedside table over Easter. One was to Percy with paperwork for a business registration. The other was to Atid Stella."
Harry's head came up.
"Atid Stella?"
"For a partnership, mate. The twins want Atid Stella's brand-and-distribution arm for their joke shop. Verrona had given them her card at their tour of the offices back then. She'd told them come back when you're serious, boys. They're serious."
Hermione leaned back in her chair.
"Your father really did make an impression on them, Harry."
"Apparently so."
25th May 1995, the seventh-floor corridor, 4:48 PM
Harry and Luna were walking back from an afternoon in the library, where Luna had been quietly working on her own Easter assignment and Harry had been re-reading the section of his impression of his Runic Expelliarmus as well as other spell that work on dangerous magical beasts, when an unmistakable uneven thump of a wooden leg sounded behind them.
Moody.
He came up beside them at a deliberate pace. His magical eye was rolling in its assessing motion. His good eye fixed on Harry.
"Potter."
"Professor."
"Heard about last night."
"Yes, sir."
"I've spent the morning at the section of the Forest where you saw him. Crouch. He's gone. There's no trail. The wards along the south boundary registered nothing in or out. He has either been carried deep into the forest, out of the Anti-Disapparated by the attacker, or he has been moved by means I cannot detect."
Harry registered this.
"Sir. He said Voldemort was—"
"I know what he said, Potter. You have given the full account to the Headmaster. The Ministry is now formally investigating. There is nothing you can do about Crouch. Do you understand me? Nothing. The matter is out of your hands."
"Sir—"
"Potter. Listen carefully." Moody's good eye fixed on Harry with the cold attention of an ex-Auror. "Your job, between now and the twenty-fourth of June, is to prepare for the Third Task. That is your only job. Crouch, Karkaroff, Bertha Jorkins, the rest of it: not your problem. The adults are handling it. You handle the maze. Do you understand me."
"Right sir."
"Good."
Moody's magical eye did one more rotating sweep of the corridor. His wooden leg thumped once. He turned, and walked away, and the steady uneven thump of his progress faded along the corridor.
Harry and Luna watched him go.
Luna's small soft hand tightened on Harry's.
"Hah-ree."
"Yes, Luna."
"There is something strange about that man. It is... ominous."
"I felt it too"
"But what he said is also true. You must focus on the Task."
"True."
She squeezed his hand.
They walked on.