"Natasha?"
The name, spoken so casually by Scrimgeour, struck Barty Crouch like a distant echo. A faint ripple passed through the gathered Ministry of Magic employees. Some whispered, some glanced sideways with concealed disdain. The conference hall's polished stone walls reflected every murmur, magnifying the tension.
Scrimgeour, already simmering, felt a wave of indignation surge inside him. Their whispers weren't even subtle anymore. Their malice and disgust filled the air like smoke.
He snapped.
"Barty Crouch!" Scrimgeour's voice boomed across the hall. "You were the one who ordered the Aurors to eliminate Natasha back then!"
For a moment, silence—the kind that falls when a truth too big to ignore hangs between people.
Barty Crouch did not flinch. He didn't even blink. He simply nodded, folding his hands behind his back with the composure of someone used to the scrutiny of power.
"That's right," he replied evenly. "I gave the order."
A few gasps rippled through the hall. Crouch continued, his tone calm, almost instructional.
"At that time, I received a report from Cornelius Fudge claiming that Natasha had stolen sensitive Ministry of Magic documents. I consulted the then Minister for Magic, Ms. Millicent Bagnold. Her advice was that, considering Natasha's many years of loyal service, he should not be imprisoned. Instead, his memories of Ministry secrets should merely be erased."
He turned his sharp gaze to Scrimgeour and added pointedly:
"Rufus Scrimgeour, was the order I gave at the time to erase Natasha's memories of the secrets he saw?"
Scrimgeour opened his mouth—then closed it again.
The truth was, painfully, indisputably simple.
Barty Crouch had not ordered Natasha's death. He hadn't even requested anything harsh. He had merely assigned Scrimgeour to perform a Memory Charm. And the tragedy that followed—the overuse, the permanent damage—had been caused by Scrimgeour's frustration and his men's heavy-handed execution.
Scrimgeour's silence confirmed everything.
Crouch shook his head in theatrical disappointment.
"Rufus," he said, voice low but audible, "with your reckless personality, imagine how much loss our British wizarding world would suffer if you ever became Minister of Magic."
The words landed like a blow. Scrimgeour sagged, shoulders heavy, expression drained. He had expected political combat—but not this. Not a public evisceration.
Barty Crouch walked forward, stopping at Scrimgeour's side. He leaned close, so only Rufus could hear.
"And one more thing," he whispered. "Natasha was Elisa's husband."
Scrimgeour's pupils constricted sharply. His gaze snapped toward Elisa, seated beside Count Dantes—composed, dignified, unreadable. Despair swelled in his chest. He suddenly felt small, hollow.
He rose without a word and left the hall.
Behind him, Barty Crouch returned to the podium, arms raised triumphantly as applause erupted. He smiled with the arrogance of a man who believed victory was not only deserved but inevitable. Watching Scrimgeour's retreating back, Crouch's expression hardened into the confident grin of a victor.
Scrimgeour closed the doors behind him. The applause spilled through the cracks like salt in an open wound. He exhaled slowly, lifting his head toward the dimly lit corridor.
"How," he muttered, "could the father of a Death Eater win against me? It was his order back then…"
"Mr. Scrimgeour."
He turned sharply.
A young Chinese wizard approached—Maoli, one of the Hit Wizards newly recruited after the establishment of the Ministry of Magic Development Fund. Scrimgeour recognized him. Brave, disciplined, unshakable during the Fire Serpent Party's assault on Merlin City. Maoli's performance had been so outstanding that fast-track promotion had already been arranged.
"Maoli," Scrimgeour said wearily. "If it's nothing urgent, leave me be. I'm in no mood for conversation."
Maoli stopped in front of him, smiling faintly.
"Director, I received a report just now—apparently, Barty Crouch had private contact with Leonard Vanber, the Fire Serpent Party's leader, just days before Merlin City was robbed."
Scrimgeour froze.
"…Do you have evidence?"
Maoli reached into his pocket and withdrew a slender crystal vial. Inside it, shimmering threads of memory swirled, glowing with silver light.
Scrimgeour took the vial carefully, almost reverently.
He could not win the Ministerial election—Crouch had made sure of that. The guilt over Natasha would forever shadow him, no matter how he justified it.
But Crouch…
Crouch might fall.
If I can't be Minister, Scrimgeour thought, tightening his grip on the vial, then you will not rise unchallenged either.
Turning sharply, he strode down the corridor—not toward the hall, but toward the Department of Mysteries.
He needed the Ministry's Pensieve.
He needed the truth.
And once he had it…
Barty Crouch Sr. would regret underestimating Rufus Scrimgeour.
Meanwhile…
Far from the political storm brewing at the British Ministry of Magic, Ollivander Avery was blissfully unaware of everything.
Two thoughts dominated his mind:
Winning money.
Winning the heart of a beautiful woman.
And in truth, these two ambitions had become one. Because Takyiana Petrova—radiant, cunning, mesmerizing—had proven time and again that she brought him both luck and companionship. Her presence turned the flow of fortune itself. With her beside him, cards favored him, dice fell kindly, and the roulette wheel spun like a devoted ally.
What use was befriending wealthy families when Takyiana herself was a doorway to both affection and prosperity? If he could win her heart, the Avery family—once prestigious, now fading—might rise again.
He was not even seventy yet. If fate allowed, he might even father new heirs.
At this rate, his grandson Gai Avery barely crossed his mind.
"Olymbos, what are you thinking?"
Takyiana's soft, teasing voice broke through his thoughts.
Old Avery turned to her, heart warming. Her little hand rested lightly on his arm, warm and delicate. He patted it gently.
"I was thinking," he said with a smile, "where we should go for a drink after we're done tonight."
She rolled her eyes slightly—recently, she'd become playfully bold with him. And that intimacy made him feel youthful again.
"If you don't pay attention to the cards, you'll lose," she scolded lightly.
He chuckled. "Yes, yes, you're right. But let's win a hundred thousand Galleons first."
The other gamblers stiffened. Who was this old man, daring to boast so brazenly?
Yet no matter how much they wished to wipe that smug smile off Avery's face, Lady Luck hovered over him like a loyal guardian. Time after time, his hands won. His bets landed. His pile of chips grew until it dwarfed the stacks of those around him.
Eventually, he rose to his feet, tossing a chip to the dealer with practiced nonchalance. Supported by Takyiana's arm, he sauntered away, ignoring the glares of the wealthy guests he had just embarrassed.
He had the right to be arrogant.
In fifteen days, he had won 1.2 million Galleons.
Enough to buy property in Cairo. Enough to restart his family's legacy.
But he wasn't satisfied—not when fortune was smiling so generously.
A sudden announcement echoed through the VIP lounge.
"Ladies and gentlemen—Mr. Noayer has forfeited Ludmila's Time-Turner, previously mortgaged at our auction house. We are now placing this exquisite piece up for immediate bidding."
The wealthy guests paused their games. All eyes turned to the manager carrying a velvet-lined tray. Upon it sat the shimmering hourglass—a Time-Turner of delicate craftsmanship, radiating faint magical energy.
Old Avery paused mid-step, frowning.
He leaned close to Takyiana and whispered, "Aren't auctions supposed to send invitations ahead of time? Why such a sudden sale?"
Takyiana giggled softly, the sound like bells brushing against velvet.
"This isn't a formal auction," she explained. "Everything auctioned upstairs is just leftover stock. The real treasures—the valuable ones—are offered right here, straight to VIP guests like us."
Avery nodded slowly. Of course. Anyone wealthy enough to gamble in this lounge could buy rare artifacts without hesitation. An impromptu auction suited them perfectly.
Takyiana's gaze fixed on the Time-Turner. She leaned close—so close he could feel her warm breath on his ear.
"Olymbos," she murmured, voice melting into seduction, "I really like that hourglass. Can you buy it for me?"
Her breath sent a shiver from his ear to his spine. He turned to meet her pleading, glistening eyes. They sparkled with fragile longing.
He melted instantly.
"Of course," he whispered. "Anything for you."
Her eyes softened with adoration. A blush warmed her cheeks. To Avery, he felt like the most charming man alive—young again, desirable, important.
When the bidding ended, the Time-Turner sold for eighty-nine thousand Galleons.
It stung. Yes.
But when Takyiana pressed a grateful kiss to his cheek, the pain evaporated like morning mist.
What was money, anyway?
Hadn't she helped him win all this wealth?
Giving some back to her was nothing—an investment, even. If she married him someday, everything he won would become the foundation of a prosperous new Avery lineage.
Old Avery straightened his back, pleased with his own wisdom.
Tonight, fortune favored him.
And with Takyiana on his arm, he felt truly invincible.
For more chapters
patreon.com/Liamlivingstone