"Germany, France, Austria..."
"Sloppy work," Argus murmured, scanning the intelligence report with a faint smile. "They barely tried."
The Ministries of Magic in Germany, France, and Austria had always maintained cordial ties with Britain, separated only by the Channel. Cooperation came naturally, far easier than wrangling deals from the U.S. Congress or far-flung offices in New Zealand, India, or Iran.
"Our turn, then?" Vinda asked, stepping forward with a knowing smile.
Pure-blood families had their networks in those countries, but the acolytes? They ran deeper. Austria was their ancestral heartland; Germany and France had once flown their banners. Even after centuries, the acolytes' name evoked awe, outshining any old-blood connections.
"Any word from Bertha Jorkins?"
"We've reached out," Vinda replied, "but our contacts say she's... off lately."
"Not surprising," Argus thought. She'd eavesdropped on Barty Crouch and his son— if Crouch Sr. hadn't been such a stickler for justice, she'd be a memory by now.
"Doesn't matter," he said. "As long as eyes are on her, noticing all the visitors she's had."
A sharp glint flashed in his eyes, one Vinda couldn't quite read.
...
Crouch Manor.
Even at home, Barty Crouch Sr. kept his hair slicked back to perfection. Things at the Ministry had eased up lately; Britain's pure-blood families were flexing their muscle, sparking a flurry of international deals. The Department of International Magical Cooperation buzzed with activity, solidifying his standing once more.
"Shall I fetch some appetizers, sir?" Kreacher asked, bowing low.
"Not yet." Crouch massaged his temples. "How's he been today? Any outings?"
"As you ordered, sir—the young master wore his Invisibility Cloak all day, never left the grounds."
"You've been good today," Crouch said aloud, though his mind churned. Whispers at the Ministry painted Bertha Jorkins as a sudden social butterfly. Unease gnawed at him.
"Sir, couldn't we let the young master step outside, just once? He's so... confined."
"Absolutely not!" Crouch snapped, his voice ironclad. "The line is drawn—his mother died to spring him from Azkaban."
Crouch had always been ruthless. When evidence pinned his son as a Death Eater, there'd been no mercy, no trial. Straight to Azkaban. Lately, only Kreacher's persistent pleas—and his willingness to play jailer—had kept things from boiling over. Otherwise, Crouch might've built an actual cage in the parlor.
As it was, young Barty's world shrank to a few rooms, Invisibility Cloak mandatory or else.
"Prepare my suit for tomorrow. Austrian delegates."
"Yes, sir."
Kreacher snapped his fingers and vanished—only to pop back, clutching a letter.
"Sir, a delivery arrived for you."
"A letter?" Crouch frowned, waving it off. Kreacher checked for curses first, then handed it over.
The contents were brief, but they hit like ice water:
"Mr. Barty Crouch, I've gleaned some intriguing details from Miss Bertha Jorkins."
"You wouldn't want your son returned to that pit of despair."
"No need to resign from the Ministry, of course. Just a few minor... adjustments."
It was from Argus, penned in a smug, unfamiliar hand to mask the acolytes' involvement.
Crouch's face hardened to stone.
"Who delivered this?"
"A cloaked man, sir—black robes. Kreacher's never seen him before."
The elf sensed the shift, shrinking back.
"Has he slipped out these past days? Any strangers? Speak!"
Crouch's eyes bulged; his hair, once impeccable, now stood wild.
"N-no, sir! Kreacher swears—the young master's never left, no outsiders either."
Crouch deflated into his chair, drained. No bargaining power here. The sender knew his every secret, while he grasped at shadows.
If they'd gone to the Aurors instead...
He shuddered, shoving the thought aside. Panic solved nothing. Time to counter.
"You think hiding your face shields you?" he muttered. "One move, and traces remain."
"I don't need your name—just who gains from this."
"Bertha Jorkins... she has to go."
...
Three days later.
The same nightmare revisited Alan Mitchell, but with amplified fervor.
Unlike Crouch, whose career teetered on ruin, Mitchell rode high. He was the safer bet.
"Director Mitchell, you're a rising star," a colleague gushed. "Those few words of yours sealed half a dozen deals!"
"The director's post is yours soon enough."
"Poor Crouch—negotiations were humming along until his illness struck. Lucky we had you!"
"Couldn't agree more. Without Mitchell, those partnerships might've fizzled."
Mitchell fielded the praise smoothly, a well-rehearsed smile in place. Save for a handful of pure-bloods following orders, the Ministry brimmed with cheer.
"Director Mitchell," Fudge announced, beaming, "with Crouch sidelined for recovery, you'll step in as acting Deputy Head of Cooperation and Exchange. See this through—we can't afford slip-ups."
Fudge clapped Mitchell's shoulder, all false camaraderie, oblivious to the distant stare boring into him.
"Cornelius Fudge!"
"It was you after all. I underestimated you."
---
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