Chapter Text
The classroom had been chosen because it was large enough to hold sixteen injured students, twelve increasingly furious members of staff, an expanding collection of summoned parents, and whatever remained of Albus Dumbledore’s patience.
It was not, however, large enough to hold all of that comfortably.
The desks had been pushed into three uneven rows facing the front. The students had been separated with the sort of careful precision normally reserved for volatile potion ingredients.
James Potter sat on the far left of the first row.
Sirius Black sat on the far right of the third.
Barty Crouch Jr. had been placed between Lily Evans and Frank Longbottom, presumably because Professor McGonagall had decided that one prefect and one boy built like a young oak tree might be sufficient to stop him launching himself across the room.
They were not.
Barty had already tried twice.
Regulus Black sat alone beside the windows, not because he had been deemed dangerous, but because there had been nowhere else to put him without placing him beside someone who had either punched him accidentally, fallen on him, or attempted to use him as leverage during the brawl.
He had his arms crossed.
A pale strip of bandage ran across one cheekbone. His lower lip was split. One sleeve of his robes had been torn from shoulder to cuff, and there was a darkening bruise beneath his jaw where someone’s elbow had caught him while he was trying to get out of the corridor.
He looked calmer than anyone else in the room.
He also looked as though he would rather be dead.
James had a swollen eye and three fingers strapped together.
Sirius had a bandage wrapped around his forehead and dried blood at one nostril.
Peter’s left arm hung in a sling, though he had already confessed twice that the sling was “mostly precautionary” and once that it made him look “tragic in a dignified sort of way.”
Remus had a split eyebrow, a bruised throat and the exhausted expression of a man who had witnessed the collapse of civilisation and been asked to write a report about it.
Lily had a plaster over her nose and a bite mark on her wrist.
No one had admitted to biting her.
Barty kept looking suspiciously pleased with himself.
Mary Macdonald had one shoe missing.
Marlene McKinnon had a black eye, a cracked knuckle and the unapologetic posture of someone who considered the entire incident an excellent use of her afternoon.
Alice Fortescue had a bandage around her head, a bruised elbow and a piece of somebody else’s tie still clenched in one hand.
Frank’s shirt had been torn almost entirely down the front.
Fabian Prewett had a swollen lip.
Gideon Prewett had an ice pack balanced on top of his head and had spent the last ten minutes insisting that his twin had attacked him deliberately.
“I was aiming for Rosier,” Fabian hissed.
“You hit me with a chair.”
“Rosier moved.”
“I was standing behind you!”
“Then you moved as well.”
“That is not how standing works.”
“Silence,” Professor McGonagall said.
Fabian and Gideon fell silent.
For nearly four seconds.
Across the aisle, Evan Rosier sat with his ankle propped on an overturned wastepaper basket. He had a cut beneath one eye and a bruise blooming along the side of his neck. Pandora, beside him, had her right hand bandaged and several strands of silver-blonde hair singed at the ends.
Dorcas Meadowes had a bruise across her cheek, one eyebrow split and a look of such concentrated fury that Professor Sprout had quietly moved a glass vase out of her reach.
Barty was the worst.
Not physically.
Physically, he had escaped with a bloodied nose, a torn collar and one ugly bruise around his wrist.
Emotionally, he was still vibrating.
His knee bounced. His fingers twitched against his thighs. Every few seconds, his mouth pulled back from his teeth as though he were remembering someone he had not yet managed to bite.
Regulus watched him from beside the window.
Barty noticed.
His expression softened for half a heartbeat.
Then James whispered something to Sirius from across the room, and Barty’s head snapped around so quickly that Frank put a warning hand against his shoulder.
“Don’t,” Frank murmured.
“He’s speaking.”
“Yes.”
“He’s doing it smugly.”
“He always does that.”
“I can hear you,” James said.
“You’re meant to,” Barty replied.
“Mr Crouch,” McGonagall warned.
Barty leaned back in his chair and smiled at her with every one of his teeth.
At the front of the classroom, Dumbledore sat behind the teacher’s desk with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. McGonagall stood on his right, rigid with outrage. Professors Flitwick, Sprout and Slughorn occupied a row of chairs against the wall. Madam Pomfrey stood near the door, arms folded, appearing personally offended that any of her patients had been allowed to leave the hospital wing.
Professor Sinistra had come because three of the combatants were in her advanced Astronomy class.
Professor Vector had come because a suit of armour had been thrown through her classroom door.
Professor Kettleburn had come because no one had told him not to.
He sat in the corner with his remaining hand curled around the top of his cane, looking delighted.
“Best corridor fight I’ve seen since nineteen forty-nine,” he had announced upon entering.
McGonagall had nearly thrown him out.
The room had since fallen into an uneasy silence.
It was the sort of silence that did not indicate peace so much as sixteen separate arguments temporarily waiting for adult supervision to weaken.
Dumbledore glanced down at the parchment before him.
“The incident,” he said at last, “appears to have begun at approximately eleven minutes past three.”
“It began at nine minutes past,” Lily corrected.
Dumbledore looked at her over his spectacles.
Lily straightened.
“Professor.”
“Thank you, Miss Evans.”
“It also did not begin with us.”
Marlene scoffed. “Oh, don’t start that.”
“I’m not starting anything. I’m clarifying.”
“You shoved me into a wall.”
“You threw Mary’s shoe at my head.”
“It was already off.”
Mary looked down at her single stockinged foot. “I still don’t know where the other one is.”
Peter raised his good hand.
“It went through a window.”
Everyone turned towards him.
Peter lowered his hand slowly.
“A small window.”
“Mr Pettigrew,” McGonagall said, each word clipped, “how do you know that?”
“I saw it.”
“From where?”
Peter glanced at his sling.
“Floor level.”
Sirius made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh.
McGonagall turned on him.
“Something amusing, Mr Black?”
“No, Professor.”
“You appear amused.”
“I’m in terrible pain.”
“You were not in terrible pain thirty seconds ago.”
“It comes in waves.”
“It will come in detention if you continue.”
Sirius shut his mouth.
Dumbledore looked back down at the parchment.
“The corridor outside the Charms classrooms has sustained substantial damage. Four windows are broken. Nine portraits have requested temporary relocation. Two suits of armour are no longer recognisable as suits of armour. A tapestry depicting the 1423 Goblin Reconciliation Banquet is presently smouldering in the courtyard.”
“It was an ugly tapestry,” Barty said.
His voice was loud in the quiet room.
Slughorn sighed and covered his face.
Dumbledore continued as though Barty had not spoken.
“One classroom door has been removed from its hinges. Seven wands were discovered beneath the wreckage. One was lodged in the ceiling.”
Fabian nudged Gideon.
“That was yours.”
“It was not.”
“It had bite marks on it.”
Gideon’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you know what my wand’s bite marks look like?”
“Because I watched Crouch bite it.”
Barty glanced over.
“You put it too close to my mouth.”
“I was trying to hex you!”
“And you failed.”
“You ate my wand!”
“I did not eat it. I bit it.”
“That is not better!”
“Silence,” McGonagall snapped again.
Gideon pointed accusingly at Barty before reluctantly facing forward.
Dumbledore’s gaze travelled over the assembled students.
“Before anyone’s parents arrive, I should like to offer you all one final opportunity to explain how sixteen students from four different years and three different houses became involved in what Professor Flitwick described as—”
Flitwick cleared his throat.
Dumbledore glanced at him.
“—a catastrophic display of magical and physical idiocy.”
“Accurate,” Flitwick said gravely.
Sixteen faces stared back at them.
No one spoke.
Dumbledore waited.
A clock ticked above the blackboard.
Somewhere in the corridor outside, one of the damaged suits of armour collapsed with a distant metallic crash.
Regulus slowly tilted his head back against the stone wall and closed his eyes.
He had not thrown a punch.
He had not cast a spell.
He had not insulted anyone.
He had not even known there was going to be a fight until Marlene McKinnon had come hurtling backwards through a crowd of students and knocked him into a windowsill.
After that, someone had stepped on his foot, Fabian had fallen over him, James had attempted to pull Fabian upright and had accidentally elbowed Regulus in the mouth, Pandora had dragged Regulus beneath an overturned bench for protection, and the bench had promptly been struck by three different curses and a flying shoe.
Regulus had spent most of the brawl crouched beneath a piece of furniture while everyone around him attempted to murder one another.
Professor McGonagall had still given him detention.
Apparently being present while other people destroyed a hallway was sufficient evidence of moral failure.
“Regulus did nothing,” Pandora said suddenly.
Everyone looked at her.
Pandora was examining the frayed end of her bandage.
“He was under the bench with me. He said the floor was filthy and asked whether he could leave.”
“I tried to leave before that,” Regulus said, eyes still closed.
James looked at him with his one visible eye.
“You kicked me.”
“You were kneeling on my hand.”
“I didn’t know it was your hand.”
“I told you.”
“You said, ‘Remove your grotesque body from my person.’”
“Yes.”
“I thought you meant generally.”
“I did not.”
Marlene snorted.
McGonagall gave her a sharp look.
“Miss McKinnon.”
“Sorry, Professor.”
She did not sound sorry.
Dumbledore folded his hands.
“Then perhaps Mr Black’s involvement may be considered separately.”
Sirius frowned from the opposite side of the room.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Regulus said without opening his eyes, “that I am not being punished for your collective inability to behave like people.”
“You called me a feral dog.”
“You were biting Rosier.”
“He had my hair.”
“You had his throat.”
Evan raised one finger. “For the record, I had his hair because he had my throat.”
Sirius turned in his seat.
“You tripped James.”
“James tried to tackle Barty.”
“Because Barty hit Peter!”
“Because Peter hit Pandora!”
Peter stared at him.
“I fell into Pandora.”
“You brought her down with you.”
“I was unconscious!”
“You were apologising.”
“I apologise when I’m unconscious. It’s polite.”
Pandora turned to Peter with gentle interest.
“You did apologise.”
“Thank you.”
“Then you called the floor a bastard.”
Peter looked offended. “Well, it was.”
Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly.
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose.
Madam Pomfrey muttered something about sedatives.
The first parents arrived six minutes later.
The door opened so forcefully that it struck the wall.
Euphemia Potter swept into the classroom in a dark travelling cloak, Fleamont immediately behind her. Both looked as though they had come directly from somewhere important and had spent the journey discussing which of their sons to throttle first.
James sank lower in his chair.
Sirius sat up straighter.
Euphemia stopped in the doorway.
Her eyes moved over the room.
They found James’s swollen face.
Then Sirius’s bandaged head.
The expression that crossed her face was one of pure maternal horror.
“Oh, my babies.”
James’s mouth fell open.
“Mum—”
She crossed the room at once, gathering James’s face between her hands and turning it carefully towards the light.
“What happened to your eye?”
“Nothing.”
“You have one eye.”
“I’ve still got the other one.”
“That is not an acceptable answer.”
Fleamont moved straight to Sirius, crouching in front of him and reaching for the edge of his bandage.
Sirius jerked away on instinct.
Fleamont stopped.
“May I?”
Sirius went still.
Then, quietly, “Yeah.”
Fleamont peeled back enough of the bandage to inspect the bruising beneath.
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“No.”
“He did,” Remus said.
Sirius twisted around. “Traitor.”
“For six seconds,” Remus continued.
“Five.”
“Eight,” Mary said.
“Why was everyone counting?”
“Because you went down very dramatically,” Marlene replied.
“I was struck with a shield.”
“You tripped over Alice.”
Alice lifted her chin. “He did.”
Euphemia rounded on James.
“Did you strike your brother with a shield?”
“No!”
“He did,” Fabian said.
“It wasn’t intentional!”
“You shouted, ‘Catch this, Black!’”
“I meant the spell!”
“The shield caught him first.”
Euphemia straightened slowly.
James swallowed.
“Mum.”
“James Fleamont Potter.”
“Oh, no.”
“You threw a shield at your brother?”
“He is not my—”
Sirius stopped.
The entire room seemed to pause with him.
Fleamont’s hand settled gently on his shoulder.
Sirius’s jaw tightened.
Then he looked away and muttered, “He wasn’t aiming at me.”
Euphemia’s expression softened for less than a second.
Then she looked at both boys.
“You are both in more trouble than language can adequately express.”
“Mia,” Fleamont said mildly, “perhaps we should hear what happened first.”
“I know what happened. They were idiots.”
“That is broadly accurate,” McGonagall said.
James stared at her in betrayal.
“You’re supposed to be impartial.”
“I am your head of house, Mr Potter, not your defence barrister.”
Peter’s mother arrived next, breathless and red-cheeked, carrying a handbag large enough to conceal several weapons.
“Peter!”
Peter’s face crumpled with immediate guilt.
“Hello, Mum.”
She hurried over, dropped her bag, knocked Fabian’s ice pack off his head, apologised to Fabian, retrieved the ice pack, apologised again and then seized Peter’s face.
“My darling, what have they done to you?”
“Mum, I’m fine.”
“You’re in a sling!”
“It’s mostly decorative.”
Madam Pomfrey bristled.
“It is not decorative.”
“Precautionary,” Peter corrected quickly.
Mrs Pettigrew examined him from head to toe, then looked towards James and Sirius with narrowed eyes.
“Was this your idea?”
James pointed at himself.
“Why does everyone keep assuming things are my idea?”
There was a long silence.
James looked around the room.
“Fine. Usually. But not this time.”
“It was no one’s idea,” Lily said. “It escalated.”
Marlene gave a short laugh.
“It exploded.”
“Because you threw the first punch.”
“I did not throw the first punch.”
“You swung at Dorcas.”
“I was aiming at Barty.”
“That’s your excuse for everything,” Dorcas said.
Marlene twisted around. “You kicked me down a staircase.”
“There were three steps.”
“It was still a staircase!”
“You landed on your feet.”
“Because I’m athletic!”
Mrs Pettigrew stared between them.
“What sort of school is this?”
“Usually less physical,” Flitwick offered.
Kettleburn coughed into his fist.
No one looked at him.
Hope Lupin entered holding Lyall’s hand so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.
Remus visibly wilted.
His parents stopped when they saw him.
Hope’s face drained of colour.
“Oh, Remus.”
“I’m all right, Mum.”
She crossed to him, knelt and pressed both hands against his cheeks.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It dried.”
“That does not improve it.”
Lyall stood behind her, his face grim as he took in the bruises around his son’s throat.
“Who did that?”
Remus hesitated.
Everyone else in the room abruptly found something else to look at.
Lyall’s eyes narrowed.
“Remus.”
“It was a sleeve.”
“A sleeve.”
“Yes.”
“Whose sleeve?”
Remus looked towards Sirius.
Sirius looked towards Evan.
Evan looked towards Fabian.
Fabian looked towards Gideon.
Gideon pointed at James.
James spluttered.
“It wasn’t mine!”
“It had a Gryffindor cuff.”
“So do six people in this room!”
“Seven,” Lily corrected.
“No, Peter’s ripped off.”
Peter looked down at his robes.
“When did that happen?”
His mother made a horrified noise.
Hope glanced at the other students, then back at Remus.
“Were you fighting?”
“I was attempting to stop the fighting.”
“Did you hit anyone?”
Remus rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“With my hand?”
Lyall’s expression darkened.
“With anything.”
Remus glanced at the damaged leg of a chair lying near the teacher’s desk.
Hope followed his gaze.
“Remus John Lupin.”
“It was defensive.”
“You hit someone with a chair?”
“It was already broken.”
“That is not the important part!”
“It felt important at the time.”
Marlene’s uncle arrived wearing work robes dusted with pale grey powder and an expression of exhausted resignation.
He took one look at Marlene’s face.
“No.”
Marlene blinked.
“Hello to you too.”
“No. Absolutely not. Your mother said, and I quote, ‘If she’s broken another child’s nose, don’t bring her home until it’s fixed.’”
“I didn’t break anyone’s nose.”
Barty raised his hand.
Marlene rounded on him.
“Yours was already bleeding!”
“You improved it.”
Her uncle closed his eyes.
“Marlene.”
“He deserved it.”
“Why?”
“He was being Barty.”
Barty smiled.
Marlene’s uncle looked at him, considered the wild eyes, bloodied collar and unnaturally pleased expression, then looked back at his niece.
“That is not a legal defence.”
“It should be.”
Mary’s father arrived next, still wearing his heavy coat and looking as though he had travelled through half of Scotland without stopping.
Mary perked up.
“Dad!”
He found her immediately.
His eyes dropped to her stockinged foot.
“Where is your shoe?”
“Peter says it went through a window.”
Peter raised his good hand apologetically.
Mary’s father stared at him.
Peter lowered it.
“Why,” Mary’s father asked slowly, “did your shoe go through a window?”
“I took it off.”
“I gathered that.”
“I was going to throw it.”
“At whom?”
Mary considered.
“I don’t remember.”
“Me,” Lily said.
Mary looked at her.
“Oh, yes.”
Her father’s eyebrows rose.
“Why were you throwing a shoe at Lily?”
“She ducked.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It became everyone’s problem after that.”
“It became the window’s problem,” Peter murmured.
His mother squeezed his knee.
“Not helping, darling.”
Augusta Longbottom entered with the measured force of an approaching storm.
She wore dark green robes, a high collar and a hat adorned with what looked like an entire dead bird. The room seemed to become more orderly merely because she had walked into it.
Frank saw her and sat up so quickly that the wastepaper basket beneath Evan’s ankle rattled.
“Mum.”
Augusta’s gaze travelled over her son.
She took in the torn shirt, bruised cheek and blood on his cuff.
Then she looked at Dumbledore.
“Headmaster.”
“Mrs Longbottom.”
“I was informed that my son had participated in a riot.”
Frank winced.
“It wasn’t a riot.”
Augusta looked down at him.
“What would you call it?”
“A disagreement.”
Fabian made a choking sound.
Frank frowned at him.
Augusta’s eyes sharpened.
“A disagreement does not generally result in structural damage.”
“It got out of hand.”
“Your shirt is missing.”
Frank looked down.
Most of the buttons had been ripped away.
“It’s still here.”
“Barely.”
“I wasn’t the one who started it.”
“Were you the one who ended it?”
Frank hesitated.
“No.”
Augusta looked disappointed.
Frank’s shoulders drooped.
Alice’s grandparents arrived together.
Her grandmother entered first, a tiny woman in a lavender cloak who moved with astonishing speed. Her grandfather followed with a walking stick and a stern expression that vanished the instant he saw Alice’s bandaged head.
“My girl!”
Alice barely had time to stand before her grandmother wrapped both arms around her.
“Careful, Gran.”
“Your head!”
“It’s fine.”
“It is wrapped like a Christmas parcel!”
Her grandfather stared at the tie in Alice’s fist.
“Whose is that?”
Alice looked down.
“Oh.”
She opened her hand.
The torn strip was green and silver.
Every Gryffindor turned towards the Slytherins.
Every Slytherin looked at Barty.
Barty looked offended.
“Mine is still on.”
It was hanging from one side of his neck in two separate pieces.
Alice studied the fabric.
“I think it’s Evan’s.”
Evan checked his collar.
His tie was gone.
“Give that back.”
Alice clutched it to her chest.
“No.”
“It is mine.”
“It was wrapped around my ankle.”
“Because you tripped me.”
“You dragged me six feet.”
“You would not let go.”
“You had my shoe!”
“Why was everyone removing their shoes?” Mary’s father demanded.
No one answered.
Alice’s grandmother patted her cheek.
“Did you win?”
“Marriane,” Alice’s grandfather said.
“What? Look at them.”
Alice glanced around the room.
“I think the corridor lost.”
Her grandmother nodded approvingly.
Lily’s parents arrived looking completely overwhelmed.
The door opened hesitantly, and Mr Evans stepped in first, clutching a folded piece of parchment in one hand. Mrs Evans followed close behind, staring up at the enchanted ceiling visible through the corridor outside.
A moving staircase passed the doorway behind them.
Mrs Evans stopped.
The staircase continued upwards without her.
She stared after it.
“It moved.”
Mr Evans looked back. “What moved?”
“The stairs.”
“Yes, love, they warned us about that.”
“They warned us the stairs moved. They did not explain that the stairs actually moved.”
A portrait beside the classroom door leaned out of its frame.
“First time?”
Mrs Evans screamed.
The portrait screamed back.
Mr Evans nearly dropped the parchment.
Inside the room, sixteen students stared.
McGonagall swept towards the doorway.
“Mr and Mrs Evans, welcome. Please come inside.”
“The painting spoke,” Mrs Evans whispered.
“Yes.”
“It asked me a question.”
“They can be rather sociable.”
The portrait sniffed. “Not with manners like hers.”
McGonagall slammed the classroom door in its face.
Lily had gone crimson.
“Mum. Dad.”
Her parents found her and hurried over.
Mrs Evans touched the plaster on Lily’s nose.
“What happened?”
“It looks worse than it is.”
“That sentence has never reassured anyone.”
Mr Evans looked around at the robed teachers, injured children and general atmosphere of impending doom.
“Are all of these children involved?”
“Yes,” Lily said.
“No,” Regulus said at the same time.
Everyone looked towards him.
Regulus opened his eyes.
“I was collateral damage.”
Mr Evans blinked.
Lily sighed.
“Regulus wasn’t really involved.”
“Thank you,” Regulus said.
“He was hiding under a bench,” James added.
“I was seeking shelter.”
“You complained about dust.”
“There was dust.”
Mr Evans frowned. “Why was there a bench in the corridor?”
“It came out of a classroom,” Peter explained.
“How?”
Silence.
Mr Evans slowly folded the parchment smaller.
Mrs Evans looked at Lily.
“You promised us Hogwarts was safe.”
“It is.”
A chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling at the back of the classroom.
Everyone looked up.
Lily shut her eyes.
“It usually is.”
Fabian and Gideon’s family arrived in a burst of red hair, loud voices and blankets.
Their mother came first.
She was a broad, formidable woman with rolled-up sleeves and the expression of someone who had already been told there were two injured Prewetts and expected to discover that one had caused the other.
Molly followed her, a young woman with the same red hair gathered into a thick braid. She had a baby balanced against her shoulder, wrapped snugly in a blue blanket.
The baby was asleep.
He remained asleep for nearly three seconds.
Then Fabian and Gideon spoke at once.
“Mum, it was his fault—”
“He hit me with furniture—”
The baby startled awake and began to cry.
Molly bounced him gently.
“Oh, Bill, sweetheart, it’s all right.”
Their mother pointed at both twins.
“Quiet.”
Fabian and Gideon stopped.
Molly examined them while rubbing Bill’s back.
“You both look dreadful.”
“He looks worse,” Fabian said.
Gideon turned on him. “We have the same face.”
“Not currently.”
“You gave me this lump!”
“You ducked into it.”
“That is not how being hit works!”
Their mother marched over, seized each twin by an ear and pulled them closer.
Both yelped.
“Mum!”
“You are seventeen years old!”
“Nearly,” Fabian protested.
“That makes it worse.”
Molly peered at Gideon’s head.
“What hit you?”
“A chair.”
She looked at Fabian.
Fabian looked away.
“It was not intentional.”
“You shouted, ‘Think fast.’”
“I was warning him.”
“You threw it before you warned me.”
“Your reflexes need work.”
Their mother twisted their ears harder.
Bill continued crying.
Molly gave the twins a flat look.
“You woke the baby.”
Both of them immediately looked guilty.
“Sorry, Bill,” Gideon muttered.
Fabian leaned towards the bundle.
“We didn’t mean it.”
Bill responded by screaming louder.
Molly sighed.
“Excellent apology.”
Dorcas’s parents arrived in matching expressions of controlled alarm.
Her mother was tall and elegantly dressed, her face composed until she spotted the blood dried along Dorcas’s eyebrow. Her father followed a step behind, broad-shouldered and silent, his gaze sweeping the room like he was memorising every potential threat.
Dorcas straightened.
“Mum. Dad.”
Her mother crossed to her.
“Who struck you?”
Dorcas pointed at Marlene.
Marlene pointed back.
“She struck me first.”
Dorcas’s father looked at Marlene.
Marlene’s uncle raised both hands.
“I’ve only just arrived.”
Dorcas’s mother touched the edge of the bandage.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Yes, it does,” Evan said.
Dorcas shot him a murderous look.
Her mother looked between them.
“You told me it didn’t.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Dorcas’s posture softened by the smallest degree.
Her father crouched beside her and inspected her knuckles.
“Did you hit back?”
“Repeatedly.”
He nodded once.
Her mother gave him a look.
“What?”
“You are not supposed to encourage her.”
“I asked a question.”
“You nodded.”
“I acknowledged the answer.”
Dorcas’s mouth twitched.
Marlene stared at her.
“Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You kicked me down stairs and now you’re laughing.”
“Three steps,” Dorcas repeated.
Barty’s mother and father arrived next.
The difference in their entrance was immediate.
Mrs Crouch entered quietly, almost nervously, her hands already clasped together at her waist. She was pale and delicate, her anxious gaze darting through the room until it found her son.
The relief on her face was so naked that even Barty went still.
“Bartemius.”
His knee stopped bouncing.
“Mum.”
She crossed towards him quickly.
Her husband followed at a slower pace.
Bartemius Crouch Sr. did not look frightened.
He looked offended.
Not worried that his son had been injured.
Not relieved that he was conscious.
Offended that he had been summoned.
His robes were immaculate. His posture was rigid. His mouth was pressed into a thin line of public disapproval.
He stopped behind his wife and looked down at Barty as though he had discovered mud on an expensive carpet.
Barty’s expression changed.
It was slight enough that most people might not have noticed.
His shoulders lowered.
His smile disappeared.
His hands, which had spent the last half hour twitching for violence, became very still against his thighs.
Regulus noticed.
Dorcas noticed.
Evan and Pandora noticed.
All four of them watched Mr Crouch.
Mrs Crouch crouched beside her son.
“Oh, darling.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Not much.”
She reached towards his face, hesitated, then gently brushed his hair away from the cut on his forehead.
Barty leaned into her hand before he seemed to realise what he was doing.
His father made a contemptuous sound.
Barty immediately straightened.
Mrs Crouch’s hand fell.
Crouch Sr. looked towards Dumbledore.
“I trust this will not take long.”
Dumbledore’s eyes sharpened faintly.
“There are several matters to discuss.”
“My son’s behaviour is not a matter for lengthy discussion. It is a matter for correction.”
Barty stared at the floor.
Regulus’s crossed arms tightened.
Evan’s jaw clenched.
Pandora stopped picking at her bandage.
Dorcas’s father glanced towards Crouch Sr., his expression hardening.
Evan and Pandora’s parents arrived before anything more could be said.
Their mother swept into the room in dark blue robes, silver hair arranged neatly at the nape of her neck. Their father followed, carrying himself with the quiet arrogance of an old pure-blood family accustomed to being obeyed.
Pandora rose at once.
“Mama.”
Her mother took one look at the bandaged hand and pulled Pandora close.
“What happened?”
“A suit of armour attempted to bite me.”
Her father frowned. “Suits of armour do not bite.”
“This one did.”
Evan shifted in his seat.
“It was Crouch.”
Barty looked up. “The helmet was already open.”
“You put it on her arm.”
“She said she wanted to know if it would close.”
Pandora’s mother looked down at her daughter.
Pandora smiled serenely.
“I did.”
Her mother closed her eyes.
Their father moved to Evan and inspected his bruised face.
“Ankle?”
“Twisted.”
“Wand arm?”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
Evan’s eyes flicked towards Barty.
Then to Barty’s father.
Their father followed the look.
His expression became unreadable.
The last parents to arrive before the Blacks were now all present—every student now accounted for except Regulus.
At least, that was how Professor McGonagall phrased it.
“We are still waiting for Mr Black’s parents.”
Sirius looked towards Regulus.
Regulus did not move.
The classroom had become crowded. Parents stood behind chairs or along walls. The students were surrounded now—by hands on shoulders, quiet examinations of bruises, whispered questions, stern looks and badly concealed relief.
James had Euphemia’s hand resting against the back of his neck.
Fleamont stood behind Sirius, one steady palm on his shoulder.
Peter’s mother kept adjusting his sling.
Hope sat beside Remus and held his hand while Lyall stood guard behind them.
Marlene’s uncle had given her his coat.
Mary’s father had found a spare slipper somewhere and placed it beneath her bare foot.
Augusta stood behind Frank with her hand on the top of his chair.
Alice’s grandmother was plaiting a loose section of her hair while her grandfather interrogated her about the bite mark on Lily’s wrist.
Lily’s parents stood close on either side of her, still occasionally glancing suspiciously at the door in case the portrait attempted another conversation.
Fabian and Gideon’s mother stood between them to prevent further argument while Molly paced gently with Bill.
Dorcas’s parents flanked her.
Evan and Pandora’s parents stood behind their children.
Mrs Crouch remained close to Barty, one hand hovering near his shoulder without quite touching him.
Regulus sat alone beside the window.
No one stood behind him.
No one fussed over his split lip.
No one demanded to know how he had been hurt.
No one had brought a coat for him, or offered him a hand, or checked whether the bandage on his cheek had begun to bleed through.
He seemed entirely untroubled by it.
His arms remained crossed.
His face remained blank.
He glanced at the clock once.
Then at the door.
Then back towards the window.
Sirius watched him.
For a moment, Sirius looked as though he might say something.
Regulus saw him looking.
“What?”
Sirius’s mouth tightened.
“Nothing.”
“Then stop staring.”
Euphemia looked between them.
Her expression shifted.
“Will your parents know where to come?” she asked carefully.
Regulus stared at her.
The room quieted in small pieces.
“They received the same owl as everyone else,” he said.
“But will they come?”
“I have no idea.”
His tone was not bitter.
That made it worse.
McGonagall glanced towards Dumbledore.
Dumbledore’s expression had gone grave.
Regulus looked back out of the window.
“They probably forgot.”
Sirius flinched.
Regulus did not appear to notice.
“Regulus,” Sirius said.
“Don’t.”
“I was only—”
“I know what you were only doing. Don’t.”
Sirius looked down.
Fleamont’s hand tightened on his shoulder.
Euphemia looked at Regulus’s empty space, then at the bandage across his cheek.
She opened her mouth.
Crouch Sr. spoke first.
“This delay is absurd.”
Mrs Crouch looked up at him.
“Bartemius—”
“I have work waiting. Unlike some, I cannot abandon my responsibilities every time a child decides to disgrace himself.”
Barty’s face emptied.
His mother’s eyes lowered.
Dumbledore rose slightly in his chair.
“Mr Crouch, no one is preventing you from conducting yourself with civility.”
Crouch Sr.’s nostrils flared.
“My conduct is not under examination.”
“Not yet,” Kettleburn muttered.
McGonagall shot him a warning look.
Crouch Sr. stepped around his wife and stood in front of his son.
“Stand up.”
Barty did not move.
His father’s voice sharpened.
“I said stand.”
Barty rose.
The change in him was disturbing.
The boy who had spent the afternoon snarling, laughing, threatening and lunging now stood perfectly straight with his arms at his sides.
His face had gone pale beneath the blood.
His eyes remained fixed somewhere over his father’s shoulder.
Crouch Sr. looked him over.
“Look at you.”
Barty said nothing.
“Torn robes. Blood on your face. Summoned before the headmaster like a common delinquent.”
Still nothing.
“You have humiliated me.”
Mrs Crouch stood.
“He’s hurt.”
Her husband turned his head.
“Stay out of this.”
She recoiled.
Barty’s eyes flicked towards her.
It happened for less than a second, but Regulus saw the panic there.
Not for himself.
For her.
Crouch Sr. turned back to his son.
“You will answer me.”
“Yes, Father.”
The words were quiet.
James’s eyebrows rose.
Marlene stopped scowling.
Even Sirius stared.
Barty never spoke quietly.
Crouch Sr. stepped closer.
“What possessed you?”
Barty’s jaw tightened.
“I was involved in a disagreement.”
“A disagreement.”
“Yes, Father.”
His father slapped him.
The sound cracked across the classroom.
For one stunned moment, no one moved.
Barty’s head snapped to the side.
Mrs Crouch gasped.
Several students surged upright at once.
Dorcas’s chair scraped violently against the floor.
Evan shoved his wastepaper basket away and tried to stand despite his ankle.
Pandora’s mother caught both her shoulders before she could cross the room.
Dorcas’s father seized his daughter around the upper arms.
Evan’s father planted a hand against his chest.
“Sit.”
“He hit him,” Evan snarled.
“I saw.”
“Then let go of me.”
“No.”
Barty slowly turned his face back.
A red mark had appeared across his cheek.
His eyes shone with something furious and frightened.
He did not raise his hands.
He did not speak.
Crouch Sr. grabbed the front of his torn robes.
“You will not embarrass me in front of the Wizengamot, the Ministry or this school. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Louder.”
“Yes, Father.”
Mrs Crouch reached towards her husband.
“Please, he understands—”
“I told you to stay out of it!”
Barty flinched harder at the shout directed towards her than he had at the slap.
Regulus uncrossed his arms.
Dumbledore stood.
“Mr Crouch, release your son.”
Crouch Sr. ignored him.
His fist tightened in Barty’s collar.
“You think this is amusing, do you?”
“No, Father.”
“You have spent years behaving like an animal. Shouting, fighting, disgracing our name—”
His hand went to Barty’s hair.
He caught a fistful and yanked his head backwards.
Barty’s breath caught.
Mrs Crouch made a broken sound.
“Stop it!”
Crouch Sr. rounded on her while still gripping Barty.
“Be silent!”
Barty’s hands curled into fists.
His whole body shook.
He could have attacked.
Everyone in the room knew it.
Barty had thrown himself at boys twice his size in the hallway. He had bitten Gideon’s wand. He had tried to claw his way over Frank’s shoulder because James had laughed at him.
But now he stood restrained by nothing except fear.
Fear of the man holding his hair.
Fear of what might happen to his mother if he fought back.
Dorcas struggled against her father’s grip.
“Let me go.”
“No.”
“He’s hurting him.”
“I know.”
“Then let me go!”
Pandora twisted beneath her mother’s hands.
“Mama.”
“No.”
“Mama, please.”
“No, Pandora.”
Evan shoved at his father’s arm.
“Get off me.”
“You will worsen this.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
Barty’s father shook him hard enough that his teeth clicked together.
“You will answer for this.”
Barty stared straight ahead.
His breathing had gone shallow.
His mother covered her mouth.
Regulus rose.
His chair shot backwards and struck the floor with a deafening clatter.
Every head turned.
Regulus was already moving.
He crossed the space between the window and Barty with long, furious strides.
He was the shortest person in the classroom.
He looked small beside the gathered adults.
Small beside Barty’s father.
Small beside Barty himself.
It did not matter.
Crouch Sr. barely had time to look around before Regulus struck him sharply across the back of the head.
The classroom erupted.
James made a noise like someone had stepped on him.
Sirius shot to his feet.
Marlene shouted, “Holy shit!”
Lily’s mother gasped.
McGonagall barked, “Mr Black!”
Regulus planted himself beside Barty.
“Get the fuck off him!”
Silence crashed down after the shout.
Regulus’s voice was not loud by nature.
He rarely raised it.
Now it cracked through the room with enough force to make several adults step back.
Crouch Sr. released Barty’s hair.
Not because Regulus had hurt him badly.
Because he had recognised who had hit him.
His face changed.
The fury remained, but something else appeared beneath it.
Uncertainty.
Fear.
“Lord Black,” he said stiffly.
Regulus’s eyes narrowed.
He was not technically Lord Black yet.
But he was the Black heir.
The eldest remaining son under his family roof.
A member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
The future head of a family older, wealthier and considerably more dangerous than the Crouches.
Crouch Sr. knew it.
Everyone from the old families knew it.
Regulus stepped between him and Barty.
“I said get away from him.”
Crouch Sr. straightened his robes.
“This is a family matter.”
“You were beating him in front of me.”
“My son requires discipline.”
“You require a muzzle.”
Fabian’s mouth dropped open.
Gideon gripped his brother’s sleeve.
Molly stopped pacing.
Even Bill had quietened, his small face turned towards the shouting.
Crouch Sr.’s eyes flicked around the room.
He was aware of the witnesses now.
Aware of Dumbledore standing behind the desk.
Aware of the professors.
Aware of the pure-blood families watching him.
His voice lowered.
“Lord Black, you are young. You do not understand—”
“I understand that you hit him.”
“He is my son.”
“That does not make him your property.”
“It gives me the authority to correct his behaviour.”
Regulus took another step forward.
Crouch Sr. took one backwards before catching himself.
Sirius stared.
He had seen Regulus angry before.
Cold anger.
Silent anger.
The sharp, vicious irritation their parents had cultivated in both of them.
He had never seen this.
Regulus’s whole body was taut. His fists were clenched at his sides. His lip had begun bleeding again where his teeth pressed into the cut.
Crouch Sr. drew himself up.
“You will show me respect.”
Regulus laughed once.
There was no humour in it.
“Why?”
The question seemed to strike harder than the slap had.
Crouch Sr.’s face flushed.
“You are speaking to a senior Ministry official.”
“I’m speaking to a coward who waits until his son is too frightened to fight back before laying hands on him.”
Barty’s breath caught behind him.
Regulus did not look back.
Crouch Sr. glanced towards the Rosiers.
Towards Dorcas’s parents.
Towards Augusta Longbottom.
Perhaps he expected someone to support him.
No one did.
Augusta’s expression had become glacial.
Mrs Rosier held Pandora close, but her eyes were fixed on Crouch Sr. with unmistakable disgust.
Mr Rosier’s hand remained against Evan’s chest, though his attention had shifted completely to the confrontation.
Dorcas’s father still restrained his daughter, but he had moved half a step forwards.
Fleamont Potter had left Sirius’s side.
He stood just behind Regulus now.
Not touching him.
Close enough to intervene.
Euphemia had one arm extended in front of James, preventing him from joining.
Crouch Sr. looked towards Dumbledore.
“Headmaster, control your student.”
Dumbledore’s expression was unreadable.
“Mr Black,” he said calmly, “step away.”
Regulus did not move.
Crouch Sr.’s mouth tightened with satisfaction.
“You see? Even Dumbledore understands—”
“I did not say that,” Dumbledore interrupted.
Crouch Sr. stopped.
Dumbledore’s eyes hardened behind his half-moon spectacles.
“I asked Mr Black to step away because he is an injured student standing between an angry adult and another child.”
“Another child?” Crouch Sr. repeated. “That boy is nearly of age.”
“He is your son,” Dumbledore said. “And you struck him under my roof.”
Crouch Sr.’s face darkened.
“This school will not tell me how to raise my child.”
Regulus moved before anyone could stop him.
His right hand came up cleanly from his side.
No wild swing.
No warning.
He planted his foot, turned through his hips and drove his fist squarely into Crouch Sr.’s face.
The punch cracked through the room.
Crouch Sr.’s head snapped sideways.
His feet went out from beneath him.
He hit the stone floor with a heavy thud.
For one impossible second, no one made a sound.
Regulus stood over him with his fist still clenched.
His breathing was hard.
A strand of dark hair had fallen across his face.
Blood shone at the corner of his mouth.
Barty stared at him.
James stared at him.
Sirius stared at him.
Every Gryffindor in the classroom stared at him.
Regulus Black, who had spent the entire hallway brawl beneath a bench complaining about dust, had just knocked a fully grown man onto his back with one punch.
Marlene was the first to recover.
“Fucking hell!”
The room exploded.
James shouted, “REGULUS!”
Peter yelped so loudly that his mother jumped.
Fabian slapped both hands over his mouth.
Gideon screamed, “DID YOU SEE THAT?”
“I HAVE EYES!”
“HE DROPPED HIM!”
“I SAW!”
Mary clutched her father’s sleeve and shrieked.
Alice’s grandmother shouted, “Good form!”
Her grandfather turned to her. “Do not encourage him!”
“He turned his hips!”
Lily’s father stared at Regulus with open disbelief.
Lily’s mother said, “Is that the quiet one?”
“Yes,” Lily breathed.
“The one under the bench?”
“Yes.”
“Good heavens.”
Remus’s eyebrows had vanished beneath his hair.
Hope gripped his hand.
Lyall muttered, “That was a professional right hook.”
“It absolutely was not,” Hope whispered.
“It was very clean.”
“Lyall.”
“I’m not approving. I’m observing.”
Evan had gone completely still in his father’s grip.
Pandora’s mouth had fallen open.
Dorcas stopped struggling.
Their parents loosened their hold by sheer surprise.
Barty remained behind Regulus, trembling from head to toe.
Crouch Sr. groaned on the floor.
Regulus looked down at him.
“Stay there.”
His voice was low now.
Deadly.
Crouch Sr. pressed one hand against the floor and attempted to push himself upright.
His other hand reached towards Regulus.
Perhaps to grab his robes.
Perhaps to strike him.
He never got the chance.
Regulus saw the movement.
He stepped back.
Then he turned his body, lifted one leg and drove the sole of his shoe squarely into the side of Crouch Sr.’s head.
The kick was swift and brutally precise.
Crouch Sr. collapsed back to the floor.
The noise that came from the students was deafening.
James screamed.
Not shouted.
Screamed.
“OH, MY GOD!”
Sirius grabbed the edge of his desk with both hands.
“REGULUS!”
Peter nearly fell out of his chair.
Marlene stood on hers.
“HE KICKED HIM!”
“I KNOW!” Mary shouted.
“HE FUCKING KICKED HIM!”
“I WAS LOOKING!”
Fabian seized Gideon around the shoulders.
“THAT WAS BEAUTIFUL!”
Gideon was pounding the desk.
“DO IT AGAIN!”
Molly covered Bill’s ears.
“Fabian! Gideon!”
“Sorry!”
“Sorry, Bill!”
Alice’s grandmother punched the air.
“Excellent balance!”
“Marriane!”
“He pivoted!”
Lily had both hands over her mouth.
Frank was frozen in place.
Augusta’s eyebrows had risen nearly to the brim of her hat.
Evan finally tore himself free of his father’s grip—not to join the attack, but to stare at Regulus from a better angle.
Pandora whispered, “Oh.”
Dorcas breathed, “What the fuck?”
Even Barty’s mother had gone silent.
Regulus stood over the fallen man.
His chest rose and fell.
He pointed at him with one shaking hand.
“Do not fucking touch me.”
Crouch Sr. did not move.
Regulus’s eyes were black with fury.
“And do not touch him again.”
The students were still losing their minds.
James had both hands buried in his hair.
“Where did he learn that?”
Sirius looked equally horrified and impressed.
“I don’t know!”
“You’re his brother!”
“He doesn’t tell me things!”
“He just kicked a Ministry official in the head!”
“I saw!”
Marlene jumped down from her chair.
“That was the best thing I have ever seen.”
Her uncle caught the back of her coat.
“You are not joining in.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were moving forwards.”
“I wanted a better view.”
“No.”
Fabian leaned around his mother.
“Black!”
Regulus did not look at him.
“That hook was fucking gorgeous!”
“Fabian Prewett!”
“What? It was!”
Gideon nodded frantically.
“He dropped like a sack of flour!”
“The baby is present!”
Bill began crying again.
Molly bounced him with one arm while pointing furiously at her brothers with the other.
“You two are never babysitting.”
“That feels unrelated,” Fabian said.
“It is completely related.”
At the centre of it all, Barty made a soft sound.
Regulus turned immediately.
The fury vanished from his face so quickly that it was almost frightening.
Barty was no longer looking at his father.
He was looking at his mother.
Mrs Crouch had sunk into the chair he had vacated, one hand pressed to her mouth. She was shaking.
Barty dropped beside her.
“Mum.”
She looked at him.
Then she reached for him with both hands.
Barty went willingly.
He folded around her, kneeling at her feet while she clung to his shoulders. Her fingers moved frantically over his hair, his face, the red mark on his cheek.
“Oh, my baby.”
“I’m all right.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Mum—”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“I should have stopped him.”
“You couldn’t.”
“I should have.”
Barty caught both her wrists gently.
The strange restraint remained in him, but it had changed shape.
He was no longer holding himself still for his father.
He was holding himself together for her.
“Mum, look at me.”
She tried.
Tears shone in her eyes.
Barty’s own eyes were wet, though his voice remained steady.
“You’re all right.”
She shook her head.
“You’re all right,” he repeated.
“He hurt you.”
“He’s done.”
Mrs Crouch looked towards her husband on the floor.
Then towards Regulus.
Regulus stood between them.
Small.
Bandaged.
His right hand already reddening across the knuckles.
He had placed himself directly in the path between Crouch Sr. and his family.
Mrs Crouch’s expression crumpled.
“Regulus.”
He glanced back.
“Are you hurt?”
The question seemed to confuse him.
He looked down at his fist.
“No.”
Madam Pomfrey made an enraged sound.
“Yes, you are!”
She stormed forwards with her wand drawn.
Regulus stepped aside at once, apparently more intimidated by the school nurse than he had been by a senior Ministry official.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sit.”
“I only—”
“Mr Black, I have treated dragon handlers with more sense than you possess. Sit down before I make you.”
Regulus looked at the nearest chair.
Then at Crouch Sr.
“He moved.”
“He is unconscious.”
“He was conscious a moment ago.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Regulus did not answer.
“Chair,” Madam Pomfrey ordered.
Regulus sat.
The students watched him as though he had transformed into a Hungarian Horntail.
Sirius was still standing.
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
“You punched him.”
Regulus looked at him.
“Yes.”
“You punched him.”
“You have established that.”
“And then you kicked him.”
“He tried to grab me.”
Sirius stared.
Regulus frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is clearly not nothing.”
Sirius looked at Fleamont.
Fleamont was trying very hard not to smile.
“Dad.”
“I did not say anything.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Euphemia rounded on him.
“Fleamont.”
He cleared his throat.
“The situation is serious.”
“Your moustache is twitching.”
“It does that.”
“It does not.”
Regulus glanced towards Barty again.
Barty was still kneeling beside his mother, one arm around her waist while she stroked his hair and whispered apologies into it.
Dorcas finally pulled free of her father.
This time he let her go.
She crossed to Barty quickly and crouched beside him.
Evan followed, limping.
Pandora slipped from her mother’s hands and joined them.
The three closed around Barty and his mother.
Dorcas placed one hand on Barty’s back.
Evan sat on the edge of the neighbouring chair and glared down at Crouch Sr.
Pandora knelt beside Mrs Crouch and held one of her hands.
Barty looked towards Regulus over his mother’s shoulder.
The softness in his face was startling.
He looked younger.
Exhausted.
Stripped of every sharp edge he usually wielded like a weapon.
“You hit him,” he said.
Regulus flexed his injured hand while Madam Pomfrey muttered over it.
“Yes.”
“For me.”
Regulus’s expression tightened.
“He was irritating me.”
Dorcas looked at him.
Regulus ignored her.
Barty gave a broken little laugh.
It caught halfway through and turned into something dangerously close to a sob.
His mother pulled him closer.
Regulus looked away.
Madam Pomfrey tapped his knuckles with her wand.
He hissed.
“Nothing broken,” she said. “Though not for lack of trying.”
“He has a hard face.”
Half the room choked.
Crouch Sr. groaned faintly.
Every student fell silent.
Regulus immediately stood again.
Madam Pomfrey shoved him back down by the shoulder.
“No.”
“He’s waking up.”
“And there are multiple adults in this room.”
“They watched him hit Barty.”
The words landed hard.
Dumbledore stepped around the desk.
His expression had lost every trace of softness.
“Mr Black is correct.”
McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Dumbledore looked towards Crouch Sr., then towards the other professors.
“Professor Flitwick, Professor Sprout, please assist Mr Crouch to the hospital wing when he regains consciousness.”
Flitwick’s eyebrows rose.
“Under guard?”
“Yes.”
Crouch Sr.’s eyes opened.
He blinked at the ceiling.
Then attempted to rise.
Flitwick’s wand was in his hand at once.
“I would remain still, if I were you.”
Crouch Sr. focused on him.
Then on the room.
Humiliation flooded his face.
He saw Regulus seated nearby.
His expression twisted.
“You—”
Regulus stood for the third time.
Madam Pomfrey swore.
Fleamont moved between them before Regulus could get past the chair.
“All right,” Fleamont said quietly.
“Move.”
“No.”
“He’s looking at Barty.”
“He is looking at everyone.”
“I don’t care.”
Fleamont placed both hands on Regulus’s shoulders.
Regulus went rigid.
For a moment, Fleamont looked prepared to be hit himself.
Then Regulus stopped.
Fleamont did not tighten his grip.
He merely stood there.
“You’ve made your point,” he said.
“He never listens.”
“He will today.”
Crouch Sr. struggled to sit up.
Dumbledore looked down at him.
“You will remain where you are.”
“You cannot detain me.”
“I can prevent an injured man from endangering himself.”
“I am leaving with my son.”
Barty’s arms tightened around his mother.
Regulus tried to step around Fleamont.
Fleamont shifted with him.
“No.”
“He’s not taking him.”
“No,” Dumbledore said.
The entire room turned towards him.
Crouch Sr. stared.
Dumbledore’s voice remained quiet.
“Your son will not leave this room with you.”
“You have no authority—”
“I have a duty of care towards every student within this castle.”
“He is my child.”
“And you struck him repeatedly in the presence of school staff, his peers and more than a dozen witnesses.”
Crouch Sr.’s face went pale with rage.
“You would threaten my position over a disciplinary matter?”
Augusta Longbottom spoke from behind Frank.
“This ceased to be a disciplinary matter when you put your hands on the boy.”
Crouch Sr. looked towards her.
“Augusta.”
“Do not use my name as though we are allies.”
Her voice was cold enough to freeze the windows.
“You struck your son in public. One can only imagine what you consider acceptable in private.”
Mrs Crouch began to cry harder.
Barty closed his eyes.
Evan’s father stepped forward.
“My family witnessed the same.”
Crouch Sr.’s gaze snapped towards him.
Mr Rosier’s expression remained calm.
“If testimony is required, it will be given.”
“So will ours,” Dorcas’s father said.
Her mother nodded.
Alice’s grandfather struck the floor once with the end of his walking stick.
“And mine.”
Lily’s father looked confused by the politics of the room, but not by what he had seen.
“You hit a child,” he said. “Of course we’ll say so.”
Mrs Evans tightened her arm around Lily.
Mary’s father stepped forwards.
“Every person here saw it.”
Crouch Sr.’s eyes darted towards the Potters.
Fleamont still stood in front of Regulus.
Euphemia met Crouch Sr.’s gaze with open disgust.
“You will not be taking that boy anywhere.”
“He is not yours.”
“No,” Euphemia said. “But that has never stopped me from protecting a child whose parents failed him.”
The words cut through more than one person.
Sirius looked down.
Regulus stopped struggling against Fleamont’s hands.
Crouch Sr. looked towards his wife.
“Stand up.”
Mrs Crouch flinched.
Barty rose between them.
This time, he did not lower his eyes.
He was still shaking.
His face was still pale.
But his friends stood around him.
Regulus stood behind Fleamont.
Dumbledore stood near his father.
The room was full of witnesses.
“No,” Barty said.
Crouch Sr. went still.
Barty’s mother stared up at him.
Barty swallowed.
His voice trembled, but it carried.
“She stays.”
His father’s face darkened.
“You do not dictate terms to me.”
Barty’s fear flashed across his face.
Regulus took one step sideways.
Fleamont let him.
Barty saw him.
The fear did not disappear, but Barty lifted his chin.
“She stays with me.”
Mrs Crouch clutched his sleeve.
Crouch Sr. started to rise.
Flitwick flicked his wand.
Invisible force pressed him flat against the floor.
“Do stop doing that,” Flitwick said pleasantly.
A startled laugh escaped Peter.
His mother covered his mouth with one hand.
“Sorry,” Peter mumbled through her fingers.
Dumbledore looked towards Mrs Crouch.
“Madam, you and your son may remain at Hogwarts tonight. Arrangements will be made.”
Crouch Sr.’s face twisted.
“My wife will do no such thing.”
Mrs Crouch looked at him.
For a long moment, she appeared exactly as she had upon entering: pale, frightened, folded into herself.
Then Barty took her hand.
Pandora held the other.
Dorcas stood at her shoulder.
Evan stood beside Barty.
Regulus watched from across the room.
Mrs Crouch drew in a shaking breath.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her husband stared.
She flinched at his expression but did not look away.
“Yes, I will.”
Barty’s face crumpled.
He turned and pulled her into his arms.
She buried her face in his shoulder.
Crouch Sr. began shouting.
“You ungrateful—”
Dumbledore’s wand moved.
The rest of the sentence vanished into silence.
Crouch Sr.’s mouth continued moving soundlessly.
Marlene stared.
“That is brilliant.”
Her uncle pointed at her.
“Do not learn that spell.”
“I already know it.”
“Of course you do.”
Flitwick and Sprout moved to either side of Crouch Sr.
With a levitation charm and no particular gentleness, they lifted him several inches from the floor.
He thrashed soundlessly.
Gideon leaned towards Fabian.
“He looks like an angry plank.”
Fabian nodded.
“A well-dressed plank.”
Their mother cuffed them both lightly around the back of the head.
Molly sighed over Bill’s hair.
The classroom door opened.
Flitwick and Sprout guided Crouch Sr. towards it.
As he passed Regulus, his eyes burned with humiliation.
Regulus stared back.
Then, very slowly, he raised his bruised fist.
Crouch Sr. stopped struggling.
Flitwick’s mouth twitched.
The door shut behind them.
Silence returned.
It lasted one second.
Then every student began speaking at once.
“Regulus, what the fuck—”
“Where did you learn to punch like that?”
“Did you see his face?”
“Of course we saw his face!”
“You kicked him in the head!”
“Beautiful form—”
“Stop calling it beautiful!”
“Regulus!”
“Black!”
“Are you secretly an assassin?”
“Can you teach me?”
“No one is teaching anyone anything!”
McGonagall’s voice cracked over the room.
“SILENCE!”
Everyone stopped.
Marlene slowly sat back down.
McGonagall looked at Regulus.
Her nostrils flared.
Regulus met her gaze without blinking.
“Mr Black.”
“Professor.”
“You struck a parent.”
“Yes.”
“You struck him twice.”
“He stood up.”
McGonagall closed her eyes.
“He was sitting up,” Lily corrected before she could stop herself.
Her mother stared at her.
Lily winced.
“Sorry.”
McGonagall opened her eyes again.
“Mr Black, physical violence against any person, adult or otherwise, is unacceptable.”
Regulus glanced at Barty.
Barty was seated beside his mother now, still holding her hand.
“I disagree.”
Several students made strangled sounds.
McGonagall’s mouth thinned.
“You disagree.”
“Yes.”
“On what grounds?”
“He was hurting Barty.”
“That does not grant you permission to assault him.”
“No one else was stopping him.”
The room went still again.
McGonagall’s face changed.
Only slightly.
But the anger lost some of its edge.
Regulus looked around at the adults.
“You were all watching.”
Dumbledore lowered his gaze.
“So I stopped him.”
Fleamont remained beside Regulus.
He looked towards Dumbledore.
The headmaster sighed.
“You should have allowed the staff to intervene.”
“You told me to step away after he had already hit Barty.”
“I was attempting to prevent further violence.”
“You prevented nothing.”
Dumbledore studied him.
Regulus’s chin lifted.
His voice did not shake.
“He was afraid.”
Barty closed his eyes.
Regulus continued.
“He wasn’t fighting back because his father would have hurt his mother. Evan couldn’t get free. Dorcas couldn’t get free. Pandora couldn’t get free.”
His gaze flicked towards the adults who had restrained them.
Their parents looked stricken.
“No one was holding me.”
Barty bowed his head.
His mother squeezed his hand.
Regulus’s fist tightened.
“So I hit him.”
No one spoke for several seconds.
Then Sirius said quietly, “You weren’t afraid?”
Regulus looked at him.
“Of Crouch?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Crouch Sr. had been afraid of him.
The answer was obvious.
Sirius shook his head.
“No. Of hitting an adult. In front of Dumbledore. In front of everyone.”
Regulus considered that.
Then shrugged.
“He had it coming.”
A laugh burst out of James.
He tried to smother it.
Failed.
Peter joined him.
Then Mary.
Then Fabian and Gideon.
Marlene bent forward over her knees, cackling.
Even Remus covered his mouth.
McGonagall looked ready to commit a crime of her own.
“Enough!”
The laughter died badly.
Euphemia stepped forwards.
“His parents still aren’t here.”
Everyone looked towards the clock.
Nearly an hour had passed since the first owl had been sent.
Regulus’s chair still had no one standing behind it.
His face went blank again.
“They aren’t coming.”
McGonagall looked towards the door.
“Another owl may have—”
“They received it.”
“How can you be certain?”
“My mother’s owl returned.”
Sirius looked at him sharply.
“You saw it?”
“It was outside the window.”
“And?”
Regulus looked at the floor.
“The message had been opened.”
The room seemed colder.
Euphemia’s face tightened.
Fleamont looked at Regulus for a long moment.
Then he moved from beside him and picked up the overturned chair.
He set it upright.
Regulus watched him suspiciously.
Fleamont sat in the empty seat beside him.
“You can come with us.”
Regulus stared.
Sirius’s head snapped around.
Euphemia did not hesitate.
“Yes.”
Regulus looked between them.
“No.”
“You cannot return to an empty house after this,” Euphemia said.
“It will not be empty.”
“Your parents have not come.”
“That does not mean the house is empty.”
The distinction was bleak enough that Euphemia went silent.
Sirius stepped closer.
“Come home with us.”
Regulus’s eyes flashed.
“It is not my home.”
Sirius recoiled as though struck.
Regulus looked away immediately.
For the first time all afternoon, he appeared uncomfortable.
“I mean,” he said stiffly, “I cannot simply arrive at someone else’s house.”
“You can at ours,” James said.
Regulus turned.
James sat with Euphemia’s hand still resting on his shoulder, his swollen eye nearly closed.
“You punched a Ministry official for Barty,” James continued. “Mum will probably adopt you before pudding.”
Euphemia gave him a look.
James shrugged.
“She adopted Sirius.”
Sirius’s expression did something complicated.
Euphemia touched the back of his head gently.
Regulus looked at her.
She smiled, but there was nothing forceful in it.
“No decisions tonight,” she said. “Only a warm meal, somewhere safe to sleep and someone to check that you have not broken your hand.”
“My hand is fine.”
Madam Pomfrey made another furious sound.
“It is not fine.”
“It functions.”
“That is not the standard.”
Barty stood.
He did not let go of his mother.
“Reg.”
Regulus looked at him.
Barty’s eyes were red.
“You can stay with us here.”
Mrs Crouch nodded quickly.
“Yes. Please.”
Regulus’s expression softened.
“I don’t need—”
“I do,” Barty said.
Regulus stopped.
Barty swallowed.
His voice dropped.
“I need you to.”
The classroom quieted.
Regulus looked at him for a long time.
Then he glanced towards Dumbledore.
“Can I?”
Dumbledore nodded.
“Of course.”
Regulus exhaled.
“All right.”
Barty’s shoulders sagged with relief.
Dorcas sat on the edge of his desk.
Evan lowered himself gingerly into the chair beside him.
Pandora rested her head against Mrs Crouch’s shoulder.
Regulus remained where he was for another moment.
Then Barty held out one hand.
Regulus stared at it.
Barty wiggled his fingers.
“Come here.”
Regulus sighed as though deeply inconvenienced.
He crossed the room.
Barty caught his wrist and pulled him closer.
Regulus allowed it.
Mrs Crouch reached up hesitantly.
Her fingers brushed the bandage on Regulus’s cheek.
“You were hurt too.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You protected my son.”
Regulus glanced at Barty.
“He would have done the same.”
Barty’s face twisted.
“I’d have killed him.”
“That is why I did it first.”
Evan let out a startled laugh.
Dorcas covered her eyes.
Pandora smiled faintly.
Mrs Crouch made a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh.
Then she pulled Regulus into her arms.
Regulus froze.
Completely.
His arms remained stiff at his sides.
His eyes widened over her shoulder.
Barty watched him.
Slowly, very awkwardly, Regulus lifted one hand and patted her back.
Once.
Twice.
“There,” he murmured. “Don’t cry.”
That only made her cry harder.
Regulus looked helplessly at Barty.
Barty leaned against him.
Dorcas moved closer.
Pandora caught the edge of Regulus’s sleeve.
Evan rested one hand against his back, close enough to complete the circle without crushing anyone.
Their parents watched.
So did the Gryffindors.
Sirius’s face had gone quiet.
James nudged him gently.
Sirius did not look away from his brother.
“He’s terrifying,” James whispered.
Sirius swallowed.
“Apparently.”
“I thought he hated fighting.”
“He does.”
“He knocked a grown man out.”
“I was there, James.”
“Right hook.”
“Yes.”
“Then the kick.”
Sirius finally looked at him.
“Are you going to keep listing it?”
“For the rest of my life.”
Marlene leaned across the aisle.
“We all are.”
Mary nodded solemnly.
“I’m writing a song.”
Lily stared at her.
“No, you aren’t.”
“I’ve already got the chorus.”
“You have been sitting there for thirty seconds.”
“It came to me.”
Fabian twisted around.
“Does it include the kick?”
“It is mostly about the kick.”
Gideon nodded approvingly.
Alice’s grandmother leaned forwards.
“Mention the pivot.”
Alice’s grandfather groaned.
“Please stop.”
McGonagall stood at the front of the classroom with both hands braced against the teacher’s desk.
She surveyed the students.
The parents.
The blood.
The bandages.
The unconscious Ministry official now removed from the room.
The crumbling plaster.
Then she looked at Dumbledore.
“Punishments,” she said.
Every student groaned.
Even Barty, still holding his mother’s hand.
Dumbledore sat slowly.
“Yes.”
James raised his good hand.
“Before we begin—”
“No,” McGonagall said.
“You don’t know what I was going to ask.”
“You were going to argue that the afternoon’s events were punishment enough.”
James lowered his hand.
“That was exactly what I was going to ask.”
“No.”
Marlene lifted hers.
“No.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“No.”
Fabian raised his.
“No.”
Gideon raised his too.
“Especially no.”
Peter looked at his mother.
She shook her head.
“Don’t.”
Peter sighed.
Dumbledore adjusted the parchment in front of him.
“Mr Black’s case will, naturally, require separate consideration.”
Regulus looked up from where Mrs Crouch still had one arm around him.
“I didn’t take part in the corridor fight.”
“You assaulted a parent,” McGonagall reminded him.
“A terrible parent,” Barty said.
McGonagall’s eyes moved to him.
Barty lowered his gaze.
“A parent nonetheless.”
Regulus frowned.
“Do I still have detention?”
McGonagall stared at him.
“You are concerned about detention?”
“I have Arithmancy work tomorrow evening.”
James made another strangled noise.
Sirius dragged both hands down his face.
Regulus looked around.
“What?”
“You knocked out a Ministry official,” James said, “and you’re worried about homework.”
“It is due Monday.”
Marlene pointed at him.
“I love him.”
Sirius pointed back.
“No.”
“I didn’t mean like that.”
“I don’t care.”
Regulus rolled his eyes.
Dumbledore hid a smile behind one hand.
McGonagall noticed.
“Headmaster.”
Dumbledore cleared his throat.
“Yes. Quite.”
He surveyed the room.
“Let us begin with the corridor.”
Sixteen students sank into their chairs.
Parents tightened hands on shoulders.
Bill began to cry again.
A portrait outside shouted that someone had stolen his hat.
Somewhere in the distance, another suit of armour collapsed.
And at the centre of the crowded classroom, Barty Crouch Jr. sat quietly with his mother on one side, his friends around him and Regulus Black within reach.
Regulus’s knuckles were bruised.
His lip was bleeding.
His parents had not come.
But when Barty’s father had raised a hand, Regulus had stood.
And now every person in that room knew exactly what happened when someone Regulus Black loved was given no room to fight for himself.
Regulus made room.
Even if he had to knock a grown man to the floor to do it.