Andrei's eyes were already spinning—how does one keep track of such a crowd? It would be nice to rely on Walburga, but she herself needed watching. Over at the Weasleys the two former Marauders were supposedly supervised, but when Sirius came home, things got considerably more complicated, and Regulus was no help in that department. Well, he was—but not always.
And then there was Dumbledore at the school. And the young Longbottom parents—Augusta as a mother-in-law was so particular that Andrei wouldn't have wished her on his worst enemy, still less on quiet, gentle Alice. And the godchildren. Severus's and his own. Because Severus still needed watching too, when not actively at work—the man still blamed himself for the Potters' deaths, no matter how many times it was hammered into him. Even though certain others were a great deal more to blame. And on top of all that, he was planning to take on the Crouches. No, something definitely needed to be sorted out, or one could simply go mad.
Well, if anyone was going to sort it out, it was Andrei. Snape was kept firmly occupied with a set task—Regulus appointed as his partner—the Mark-removal potion still wasn't finished, which was a disgrace, and needed pushing forward. But the young geniuses needed constant work supplied to them, to leave no time for soul-searching, self-flagellation, and other such nonsense. Fortunately Regulus was relatively normal and seemed to have hit it off with Snape—perhaps not a bosom friend yet, but at least a genuine one.
Walburga, at her younger son's request, was up to her ears in calculations—and thank goodness for that. Arthur Weasley and his two assistants had been given an assignment—a challenge, really: create artefacts to defend against Unforgivable Curses. Can't deflect them? What about diverting, bending, intercepting and inserting something in between, absorbing them outright? Basilisk skin absorbs magic, after all. They had samples. And the dragon hides! And troll leather! All hail the young troll-derived material!
Arthur's eyes had lit up with a kind of wild flame at these suggestions—wild enough that Andrei almost flinched—but the appearance of nursing mother Molly with her daughter in arms smoothed the effect over in the most magical way. Molly, however, caught on quickly too: protection of this level, properly patented in time, would bring in enough to keep the family comfortable even if the number of children doubled again. Hagrid wisely kept that thought to himself—the temperament of Molly, née Prewett, was as fiery as her hair and that of her entire family.
Andrei could now quite easily picture Mrs Weasley studying patent law and intellectual property without ever putting down her child. Well—it was a worthy pursuit. Useful to more than one member of their little team.
All that remained was to personally keep an eye on whatever was happening at the school, and finally to deal with the Crouches. And to check in on the Black family solicitor—Bullstrode, that was his name.
Though the occasional strange expression on Filch's face still nagged at him—something between anticipation and the satisfaction of a prank well executed. That wanted to look into. And it would be good to recruit the old man properly. Fortunately Sirius had already fitted the caretaker with a Legilimency protection amulet. And then there was that slippery business with Malfoy.
The Malfoy contract was eating up a great deal of time, required considerable effort, and knowledge that Andrei simply didn't have—for obvious reasons. So he felt entirely justified when he finally obtained the address and prepared to pay Crouch a visit in the guise of his assistant, Bertha Jorkins—having first, naturally, examined her memory with Snape's help. Snape's Legilimency was developing at a pace that defied comprehension. When did he sleep?
When Andrei wondered this aloud, it emerged the answer was simple—it really was without rest: brewing multiple potions simultaneously, and different ones at that, contributed significantly to "discipline of the mind," as Snape put it, looking slightly down at him despite being a head shorter, which made Andrei think the young man needed a bit of a talking-to before he got too big for his boots. There just wasn't time. On the bright side, Severus had reworked the Polyjuice base to the point where the potion now lasted an hour and a half to two hours—even for Hagrid. Provided it used an extract from Hagrid's own blood, naturally.
It was fortunate, incidentally, that they'd been thorough about Bertha's memories and attentive to details. Young Crouch and company were supposed to serve only a year—less, by now—so the whole operation of extracting him from Azkaban might turn out to be unnecessary. It was confirmed, however, that Mrs Crouch had borne her son's imprisonment very badly and had indeed taken to her bed. It appeared she loved the boy rather more than she loved her husband.
* * *
Hagrid planned to visit Crouch personally—he couldn't yet trust any of his circle with something like this. A routine work matter was to be his excuse; he'd work out the specifics on his feet. Throughout that time, Miss Jorkins was to sleep peacefully in one of the rooms at the Prince house.
And so the day arrived. Intercepting Bertha at the Ministry turned out to be the simplest thing imaginable. Sirius was sent to find her—he'd been in the same House, two years her junior, so he knew her well enough, and not much time had passed since school; she was certain to remember him.
Sirius, of course, was anything but "young and fresh" after Azkaban—his looks hadn't returned and weren't likely to—but he was presentable enough now, and thanks to his work with Arthur and Lupin, and possibly his ongoing skirmishes with Snape, there was at last a flicker of genuine interest in his eyes. He didn't attract women chasing after him—especially once it became known that Regulus would be the family heir—but they did look. So all he had to do was smile and wink, and Miss Jorkins came sailing toward him at full speed, having instantly decided that work could wait but the attentions of Sirius Black himself could not. She had questions for him!
As a result, of course, it was she who was questioned, after which Snape carefully decanted her memories into a Pensieve and put her to sleep—until Hagrid's return. Hagrid, meanwhile, reviewed the last few days of her memories twice, carefully, drank the Polyjuice, and headed to her desk—there were only about half an hour's worth of papers to shuffle, which he managed perfectly, and grew comfortable in the unfamiliar form in the process.
Crouch senior left work "on the bell," so Andrei—that is, "Bertha"—easily caught up with him at the fireplace, waving a document with some figures she'd helpfully smudged beforehand. He'd chosen something important enough to make Crouch take notice, but not so serious that it couldn't be sorted fairly quickly—just enough to draw things out a little without wasting too much time.
The chief frowned and gestured her in—Jorkins, judging from her memories, had visited Crouch's home before, strictly on business, naturally. Despite her general unfocusedness and insatiable curiosity, Bertha Jorkins was an extremely diligent employee.
* * *
The house—solid, not overly large, without any ostentation—stood under some particular concealment charm similar to the one on the Black house, and inside proved to be strict but quite cosy. A stroke of luck: Mrs Crouch called for her husband in a faint voice from upstairs, giving Andrei the opportunity to enquire after her health and receive the dry response that "Mrs Crouch is already recovering, nothing particular."
Andrei hadn't given this woman much thought before, but now he found he wasn't indifferent. People had been lavishing praise on Lily Evans—Lily Potter—but there was simply no comparison between dying by an Avada and spending even a few sick days inside Azkaban! Lily had gone out in the "deluxe" class—quickly and painlessly, sad only that she was so young, and they'd built her such a monument. But Mrs Crouch hadn't even received a proper burial! Where was the justice?
Had Andrei been a horse, he'd have felt the reins. As it was—he felt them anyway. A year. Only a year for her to hold on, even less! She needed to survive. To wait for her son. He wanted to punch her husband—repeatedly—but watching the man stop him with a gesture and rush upstairs at his wife's call… something wasn't right. There was something off about this. This buttoned-up official, this functionary—was genuinely prepared to do anything for his wife. Or nearly anything.
Crouch came back quickly, dealt with the smudged figures just as quickly, and showed "Miss Jorkins" to the fireplace.
Damn, Andrei thought, gripping the little bottle of very interesting Polyjuice in his cloak pocket. How to distract him?
He took a handful of Floo Powder, already preparing to somehow get himself stuck in the chimney, when something fell upstairs, Crouch spun around—nearly pushing him into the fireplace—and bolted back up. He didn't see Andrei sidestep, throw the powder, and immediately tip the Polyjuice into himself—fortunately a window draped with heavy curtains was close at hand.
No one noticed the tiny, fuzzy, purple-black figure with two pairs of arms and legs and hard, curved, beetle-bright wings that flickered in the folds of the dark blue velvet.
Andrei very quickly came to appreciate this form: he managed to inspect nearly the whole house, from the laboratory to Mrs Crouch's bedroom, draw his conclusions, get thoroughly absorbed in thought, and was just about to make his escape—when he was discovered.
"A Doxy! Stop it!"
"Where's the Doxycide, Winky, quickly! I don't want to see this sort of thing in my house again!"
Running from a house-elf armed with dangerous poison was quite the adventure. And apparently one of the side effects of the form was having a Doxy's instincts—because when they finally sprayed, or rather misted the Doxycide over him, Andrei felt nothing unpleasant whatsoever—just moisture. The house-elf, however, exclaimed in surprise. And sprayed again.
Well… let's try this, Andrei decided, made a sharp banking turn, braked abruptly, and dropped to the floor, folding all limbs—for all the world like a dead insect.
"Winky, why is it taking so long?"
"Master, sir, Winky must punish herself! The wretched Doxy only fell on the third try! Winky will iron her own ears…"
"Bring it here!"
Andrei found himself on a rather large male palm, doing his absolute best not to move and to breathe as imperceptibly as possible—but it didn't work.
"Well, well—still alive. Take it to the laboratory, I'll need to examine it. Most unusual resistance…"
Andrei felt all sounds grow distant and his consciousness cloud over with a strange grey fog.
* * *
Fortunately, the half-giant body's resistance was exceptional—he came round fairly quickly. In… a coffin?! He nearly panicked, but quickly felt around the boards, almost getting a splinter: he only slowly realised he still had two pairs of hands. So it wasn't a coffin—it was a box. Evidently a special one for small magical creatures. Could he get out? What if someone heard? He listened. Silence. To think—Crouch senior had a hobby: studying unusual magical creatures. Though more likely just paranoia.
He wondered how much time had passed—the Polyjuice would probably wear off soon. What a surprise that would make. Hello, Mr—um—have you seen a unicorn from the Forbidden Forest? I was chasing it, chasing it… Oh, where am I?
And drinking the spare vial with Jorkins's face wouldn't be much better—how would he explain that? Accidentally wandered into the boss's home laboratory, got lost? Blown in through the chimney, naturally.
Good heavens, Andrei got on all fours in the little box and strained. If I don't escape now, while I'm still in this form, it's all over. And it would also help to know where the exit is.
Fortunately the lid gave before long, and getting his bearings wasn't too complicated—he'd already been in the laboratory. Fleeing on all six limbs covered in short dark fur, Andrei mentally congratulated himself for not having rushed to eavesdrop on the Crouch family conversation, but first conducting a thorough reconnaissance.
He sensibly avoided trying to force the front door—only the back entrance, and just as he reached it, the Polyjuice wore off. At exactly the right moment, too—a half-giant's shoulder was considerably better suited to forcing a charm-sealed door than two pairs of Doxy arms. Before Apparating, he cleaned up the damage with a "Bombarda Minima"—the door should have been reduced to splinters; what had happened to the frame he didn't stay to see. Just as well.
He Apparated to Snape's—almost right to the house, where no Auror could track what was carefully sealed by charms and known to nobody—and finding the manor empty, passed quickly through the fireplace to his own cottage, where he lowered himself heavily onto a stool and was finally able to breathe.
No more escapades like that, he decided, putting the kettle on. I'll be dreaming of that little Doxy coffin! There should still be some Calming Draught somewhere…
Sipping the fragrant, slightly bitter tea, he gradually settled, and his thoughts sorted themselves into a strange picture.
What a soap opera, honestly. The husband adores the wife, she tolerates the husband but adores the son, and the son, in turn, idolises the father who all but despises him, and is merely indulgent toward the mother. What is that? Do they have some built-in limit, where the soul only stretches far enough for one person, and two is too many? Or… some curse? Interesting. Should ask Walburga—she ought to know. Pity it's late, otherwise I'd go right now.
Instead, Hagrid yawned with the full breadth of his considerable jaw—and not only because of the Calming Draught and one of his signature sedative teas of valerian, mint, motherwort, and liquorice. The day had been a hard one, and he'd spent a fair amount of both energy and nerves. The fur blanket on his bunk looked very inviting, and Andrei saw no reason to deny himself getting under it as quickly as possible.
* * *
In the morning he had to show up at the school, and it was well worth it—to see Filch materialise with a notebook in hand at precisely the moment when the Headmaster was already gesturing an invitation, apparently preparing to give his gamekeeper some assignment. Dumbledore's expression, as it curdled, vividly recalled biting a lemon—and something clicked in Andrei's head. He quickly passed through to the Great Hall, made a show of hurriedly eating breakfast—what else could one do in a couple of minutes—jumped up still chewing, and headed for the exit.
The Headmaster appeared to genuinely want something from him, but knowing the half-giant's table manners was enough, so Dumbledore said nothing. If he had asked, Hagrid would have answered—there were still a couple of half-chewed pieces of toast in his mouth.
"Come and see me when you have a moment," Albus said, keeping his distance. "No no, don't say anything, I can see how you're rushing! Off you go, wherever you need to be, my—" and stepped back again, because Hagrid had produced an indeterminate rumbling sound. But one so timed that Dumbledore caught the word "evening" and nodded in response—thereby ensuring himself a superior-free day. Albus had never cared whether it was Saturday or Sunday when he needed to load someone with work.
With enormous hurried strides, Hagrid set off toward his cottage, almost breaking into a run. A handful of Floo Powder, the password, and he was in the Black family fireplace room.
"You're alive!" Walburga said, by way of greeting—adding a couple of words that a lady theoretically ought not to know.
They very nearly knocked heads—apparently she had also been about to go somewhere via the fireplace.
As it later emerged—to the offices of the Daily Prophet. The newspaper itself was pressed into Hagrid's hands at once.
"Audacious break-in at Mr Crouch's home…"
"Intruders managed to escape… Mr Crouch's wife is gravely ill… Perpetrators destroyed the entire back entrance… Mr Crouch vows the burglars will not get away with it…"
"An empty threat," Hagrid sighed.
"Tell me," Lady Black said, in a dangerously pleasant voice. "And don't you dare leave anything out."
"I can do it in the Pensieve…"
"Oh, even better!" the Black brothers exclaimed together.
Severus was watching the half-giant in silence, and for some reason his expression struck Andrei as faintly wounded.
"Why so glum, what's troubling our Potions master?" Hagrid enquired, half-joking, half-curious.
"Do you think it might have occurred to you to let someone know everything had ended well? To drop a note in the fireplace—was that too much to ask? And what am I supposed to do with Jorkins? You can wake her up yourself and do all the explaining! Lucky it's a Sunday and she won't be missed at work."
"You could have… come yourself?"
"Because someone blocked the fireplace! Am I supposed to go scrambling over the school fence in the middle of the night, or trek through your snowdrifts and the Forbidden Forest? We were up all night!"
An apology was in order. Though the moment the Pensieve was ready, everyone present dove into it one after another—practically bumping heads—and Andrei was finally able to exhale. Yes, he'd been wrong. But last evening had been too much. He'd managed to seal everything behind him without even noticing. No—that wasn't good enough. Mindfulness, and mindfulness again. And vigilance, yes.
When the little action scene—featuring Hagrid-as-Doxy in the lead role—had been viewed in full, he was graciously forgiven.
"Something strange about the Crouches, don't you find?" he asked.
"In what way?"
"Their behaviour. I just—" he spread his hands; Walburga winced and Snape snorted. "No, I genuinely don't know—is it possible for a whole family to be cursed?"
"Cursed how?"
"To love only one single person. And devalue everyone else."
Snape went red, and Lady Black looked interested.
"Crouch has no shortage of enemies, so someone might have. But to what end?"
"Can you imagine living like that? In such—I don't even know how to put it. They're like puppets, can't you see it? Crouch can't breathe without his wife, the wife has no one more important than the son, and the son—didn't any of you go to school with him?"
Regulus nodded.
"So who did young Crouch love? Who was his model, the most important person in the world to him?"
"His father," said Reg. "Barty always dreamed of earning his approval."
"And how was he getting on with that?"
"He was the best graduate Hogwarts had seen in thirty years!"
"I mean—was the father pleased?"
"I… don't know. Didn't hear."
"Surely he'd have said? Could Barty have been quietly celebrating in a corner?"
Regulus laughed.
"No—of course not. Barty wasn't particularly open, not the life of the party, but he certainly wouldn't have hidden it. He was very proud of his father."
"And so instead of a normal family life, each of them gets their own private hell," Hagrid sighed.
A silence settled—everyone had something to think about.
"It could genuinely be the case," Lady Black said thoughtfully. "Especially if someone wanted revenge but couldn't cause Crouch direct harm…"
"But how?" Sirius asked, surprised. "A vow—"
"And is loving one's beloved wife harm?" There were condescending notes in the lady's voice. "That's practically a blessing. A thoroughly Slytherin move."
"You think we should be looking among them?"
"Not at all. Anyone pushed far enough into a corner can think of anything—if they're not an idiot. And Crouch pushed a great many people, in his time."
"Could we give them some of the… porridge?"
"There's very little left, and unicorns don't lactate in winter—not until spring, until the new foals arrive."
"Well… not necessarily," Snape said, and everyone turned to look at him. "What—has no one else given any thought to winter unicorn milking?"
After which Andrei learned, with some surprise, that the porridge had long been made with a substitute—the base being the latex of beneficial brosilia and dryad-enchanted spring water.
"Plus a few other things, minor details," Snape said, keeping the recipe to himself with characteristic indifference.
"You're genuinely a bloody genius," Sirius said, dumbfounded—and didn't even receive a clip from his dear mother. Presumably because she agreed entirely.
"But how exactly do you picture this working?" Lupin asked—he usually stayed quiet. "'Pizza delivery?'"
"Didn't order one," Regulus spread his hands.
"Too late, it's arrived, you'll have to eat it," Hagrid finished, noting that the Weasleys had progressed from merely being interested in Muggles to actually knowing things and even applying them. "No, of course, it can't be done that bluntly. Perhaps through a house-elf?"
"Any foodstuff can carry it," Snape informed them. "The main thing is getting it to the right place. And bear in mind—the 'cow-tree' milk isn't cheap and isn't exactly widely available. I source it through Malfoy."
"Why didn't you tell anyone?"
"The tests weren't all complete yet…"
"So we were running your tests? You were using us without telling us?" Sirius was growling and made a grab for Snape's collar.
"And how else do you get a reliable result, you idiot? Get off me!"
"Break!" Hagrid bellowed, causing both quarrellers to release each other and sit down sharply. "Or I'll decide it's time to administer a dose to both of you. Intravenously, and with an enema for good measure. There's a test that hasn't been run yet, Severus—isn't there?"
Snape swallowed and looked at the floor.
"And a certain person will be receiving it in two forms—in his own body and in his Animagus form. Double the pleasure! Right—everyone listen to my plan, discussion afterward. All ready?"
Andrei swept his gaze around those assembled, reserving a particularly stern look for Snape and the elder Black. The attentiveness he found was satisfactory.
"Infiltrating the Crouches is simple. Sirius has a conversation with Jorkins and casually mentions Snape as the Potions master who helped him recover so quickly. No Polyjuice, ordinary conversation, nothing criminal. I think it'll proceed from there on its own. And Severus—could you possibly make the base into some kind of sweet? Jelly sweets, say, lemon slices?"
"As if he couldn't?" Sirius said, surprised.
"Oh, so that's how you express your affection for him," Hagrid said, with a play of his eyebrows. "Wanting to get closer, are we?"
Both young men stared and leapt up as though stung.
"I didn't—" they exclaimed in unison.
"How remarkably in sync," Hagrid smiled, making no effort to conceal his amusement. "And for once—a shared opinion. Hmm. Now what could that mean? Ladies, would you mind keeping an eye on them?"
"How dare you—"
"A joke, Lady Black, only a joke," Andrei raised both palms.