An interdepartmental memo fluttered between the rapidly emptying cubicles on level two of the Ministry of Magic.. The memo swooped over the head of an administrative clerk dictating to a large quill, dodged between a group of hit wizards heading toward the lifts, flying doggedly toward the office of Bartemius “Barty” Crouch, head of Magical Law Enforcement.

A door at the end of the hall opened and a harried young wizard rushed out. The memo sped through right as the door closed and came to a halt in front of Barty. It was clear at a glance that here was a man who exemplified the reserved dignity of the wizarding upper class. His hair was neatly combed, his mustache neatly trimmed, and his shoes neatly polished. His wardrobe was dark and unassuming but on close inspection of fine tailoring. There wasn’t a stitch out of place nor a button missing, for Barty wouldn’t abide by such sloppiness.

Much like its occupant, the office was both handsomely appointed and meticulously organized. The walnut wood shelves held neatly stacked books with titles such as A Legislative Guide to the Proper Use of Magic and Unforgivable Curses and Their Legal Implications. A framed Auror training certificate was displayed on the otherwise bare walls.

Although a wood-and-brass clock tucked between the books on one shelf showed the time to be past six, Barty was in no hurry to leave his office. Nor was he in any hurry to read the memo; work kept him busy enough. If he treated every memo as urgent he’d never get any work done.

He gestured impatiently at his inbox, where a flock of other memos huddled atop a pile of scrolls that spilled over the top. It was the one area of the office that was less than perfectly controlled. “Go on, then,” he told the newest memo. “Get in the queue.”

But the memo did not land on the inbox; it stubbornly bumped against Barty’s head with an impatient rustle of paper wings.

“Oh, very well.” He snatched the memo out of the air, unfolding it with a snap of the wrist. He gave a cursory glance, expecting to dismiss the memo until later, but his attention sharpened as soon as he read the short message.

Barty stared at the memo, hardly daring to believe it was true. After two years he’d almost given up hope of ever seeing justice done.

He’d become depressingly used to that. The Law department had done their damndest to hunt down every Death Eater only for the Wizengamot to undermine their efforts by dismissing or reducing charges even in the face of overwhelming evidence of terrorism.

In fact, he was almost inclined to blame the Wizengamot for the attack on Alice and Frank, which had come a year and two months after Voldemort’s downfall and after months of known Death Eaters receiving nothing more than a slap on the wrist because their prestige or popularity mattered more than justice.

Too many Death Eaters had gone free, but investigating them had turned up nothing, to Barty’s frustration. Any of them could have been the perpetrators. Sniveling Karkaroff might have wanted revenge upon the Aurors who had brought him to Azkaban, or maybe one of the Blacks felt empowered to follow the footsteps of their wretched cousin Sirius. Maybe that damnable Bagman had ‘accidentally’ sold information to the wrong people again because he needed the galleons.

Whoever it was, they weren’t getting away this time. He’d see them rot in Azkaban no matter what obstacles the Wizengamot put in his way.

He strode out of the office with visions of triumphant headlines. Of course, triumphant headlines often were attended by requests for interviews. He had little patience for such things; it was more important to do a job well than to waste time on idle chit chat. But even he had to admit the interviews would serve a purpose with campaign season coming up. The Daily Prophet may have already declared the election his to lose but it wouldn’t go amiss to keep it fresh in everyone’s memories exactly why he was the best wizard to replace Bagnold as Minister.

When he made promises, he delivered; Not even the most bitter opponent could twist such an impeccable record against him.

These pleasant thoughts sustained him all the way to the tenth level.

There were four Aurors waiting outside the lift: Clive Carmichael, an impetuous firecracker of a muggleborn; Wardell Crickerly, Carmichael’s responsible work partner; Jill Proudfoot, who had gone through Auror training with Alice and had been one of the first on the scene of the tragedy; and grizzled veteran Sandra Savage. They all looked worse for wear. Blood caked their faces and their tattered robes. An acrid smell of smoke hung in the air around them.

The four exchanged glances, shifting with obvious discomfort.

Barty’s feelings of triumph wavered. “Who was injured?”

Clive Carmichael stepped forward. “Moody took Dawlish to St. Mungo’s. He was hit with a nasty tentacle jinx and we couldn’t put his arm right. And Lotte Higgs…” he twisted his wand between both hands. “Scrimgeour is filling out the paperwork so we can inform her family.”

Barty bowed his head. The healers at St. Mungo’s would sort Dawlish out in no time, but Higgs…

He had lost too many good witches and wizards during the war. It hurt to lose another one to the same damnable Dark Wizards. But they would get what they deserved.

“Well, lead me to them,” He said, striding forward. “Let’s not take all day about it.”

Jill made a jerky movement, like she was going to stop him, but she thought better of it and fell back into position. She cast an uncertain look at Sandra.

Sandra cleared her throat. She looked no more comfortable than Jill, or perhaps that was the effect of her many scars. “First, you ought to kn–”

“Not now,” Barty snapped. He’d waited too long for this day to be waylaid. “Savage, Proudfoot, inform Azkaban there will be more arrivals tonight. Crickerly, Carmichael, follow me.”

The two witches reluctantly departed while the wizards followed Barty through the heavy iron door into the dungeon.

Stepping through the doorway was like walking from a warm spring day into the cold of winter at dusk. The silence was broken only by their footsteps against the stone floor and the whispering swish of their cloaks.

As they drew nearer the holding cells for newly collected prisoners it grew darker, damper, colder. Barty lifted his wand, focused on the joy of bringing these terrorists to heel, and muttered, “Expecto Patronum.”

A large silver ant floated in front of him, clicking its misty pincers. The chill lessened. Out of the darkness, the darker figures of the Dementors took gradual shape, marking the occupied cells.

The youngest of the prisoners looked up through the bars of his cell, his eyes wide with terror. “Father?”

The silver ant dissipated in a puff of smoke and the chill sank deeper into Barty’s bones. This was some horrible trick; one of the Death Eaters had used polyjuice potion to shame him and his family. His son couldn’t have, he wouldn’t have–

He scrambled for a question only his son could answer. What was the boy’s favorite class at Hogwarts? Who had been his closest school friends? What were his secret thoughts and fears? Barty realized with a jolt he didn’t know.

“How old were you when you snuck into the Ministry to visit me?” he asked at last.

His son’s face grew quizzical and for a moment Barty felt a sense of sharp satisfaction–of course he couldn’t answer. Whatever Death Eater hid behind his son’s face would never have known to ask a question like that.

But then his son whispered, “Five. I was five.”

Barty’s heart sank. “And how did you get to the Ministry?” he asked, but he already knew this was no polyjuice pretender.

“I stole…I stole the floo powder off the mantle while Winky was cleaning your room.” The boy sank into his robes, hunching his shoulders miserably at the confession. “But I never–”

Barty interrupted before his son could begin his excuses. “I thought your mother and I emphasized never to steal or sneak around behind our backs like that,” he said, voice hoarse. “How long? How long have you been ... .have you been associating with Dark Arts scum?”

“But I didn’t!” Barty Junior wailed, reminding Barty keenly of the six-year-old he’d hauled back home by the ear. At six, he hadn’t denied his wrongdoing, but he had sobbed inconsolably when he’d realized his father wasn’t pleased to see him.

Floo travel was regulated, but there were inherent risks, especially when the traveler was a small child missing his bottom front teeth who didn’t always speak clearly. It would have been all too easy for him to end up somewhere he had never intended—somewhere much more dangerous than the Ministry of Magic.

Barty hadn’t intended to make the boy cry, but he had been so terrified to realize his only child would take such reckless, irresponsible actions, and had wanted to impress upon him the seriousness of what he had done.

He wanted him to understand the importance of following the rules.

He had failed.

Rabastan spat contemptuously through the bars. “You’ll get what’s coming to you one day, blood traitor. All of you will.”

Crickerly leaned against the opposite wall. “You’ll have a frightful time carrying out that threat when you’re stuck in Azkaban. You ought to have learned to listen to me when I was prefect, Lestrange.”

“Listen to you?” Rabastan scoffed. “I’m not the one Salazar Slytherin would be ashamed of. Which one of us is conspiring with Mudbloods?” Rabastan cast a venomous look in Clive Carmichael’s direction.

Carmichael was at the cell doors in a flash, brandishing his wand in Rabastan’s face. “Look here–”

Barty stepped between Carmichael and the cell, lifting his own wand in warning. “Put that away. This isn’t an interrogation.” That could come later. Once the prisoners had a taste of Azkaban to soften them.

Carmichael grudgingly slid his wand into the pocket of his robes, but the look he gave Rabastan was pure venom.

“Father,” Barty Junior repeated in a shaking voice. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t, I wasn’t there, I–”

“Do not lie to me! You were caught red-handed!” His gaze swept his son, whose robes were as burnt and torn as the Aurors. Even his blond hair was singed.

“I’m not!” The boy pleaded, rattling the cell door. Sweat beaded his face despite the cold. “I swear I’m not! Please, Father–”

“Daddy doesn’t look happy to see his son,” a sing-song voice called from a neighboring cell, and Barty Junior’s pleas subsided into hiccuping sobs.

Barty was glad of the excuse to turn his back on the boy, even if that meant confronting the owner of that mocking voice–the only witch among the prisoners. He regarded her with naked dislike. “Bellatrix Black. Back again, I see.”

“Lestrange,” she corrected with a cackle, seemingly unperturbed by the position she found herself in. “Rodolphus and I are married. A little spot of torture was such a nice way to celebrate.”

Rodolphus snorted, the first reaction he’d had to the presence of the Aurors.

“A nice way to celebrate if you want to spend your honeymoon in Azkaban,” Carmichael muttered.

Barty rubbed his temple. He ought to have brought Savage instead of Carmichael; Savage wouldn’t treat terrorists like school Quidditch rivals. But worse was his son’s tear streaked face. Barty needed to get away. Now. “Send them to Azkaban until their trial,” he ordered.

There was a sharp intake of breath from his son’s cell, followed by frantic pleas. “Father, father! No! Don’t leave me! Father!”

Bellatrix called after them, “The Longbottoms were the lucky ones! The Dark Lord won’t be so merciful to the rest of you!”

Carmichael’s wand was halfway out of his wand holster when Crickerly placed a warning hand on his wrist. “Don’t let her rile you up.”

Carmichael glared sourly but he allowed Crickerly to lead him away from the cell.

Barty stalked behind them. His son reached through the bars as he went past, still babbling in near incoherent fright. “Father! Don’t go, don’t leave me! Father, wait! Don’t go!”

Barty wordlessly yanked his robe away from the boy’s grasping fingers. But his son’s piteous cries echoed in his mind long after he’d left the dungeons behind.