Chapter Six “ Welcome to St Mungo’s
You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you don't trust enough.
Frank Crane
When Hermione opened her eyes she was standing in the reception of what she presumed was St Mungo’s Hospital. She realised she was still holding the inkwell and pocketed it irritably. Trust Dumbledore to send her without a moment’s notice on an impossible mission. How was she supposed to get a prophecy out of a woman with no recollection of it, who she’d never even met? Well, Hermione would go and see Cassandra, if that would help anything.
If I could ever find her,she thought, sighing in frustration as she surveyed the chaotic room.
Most of the reception was taken up by creaky wooden chairs arranged in wonky rows. A random collection of witches and wizards were seated. Most of them were reading tatty magazines or trashy novels. Some looked perfectly ordinary, but others…
Hermione shuddered and tried to edge her way across the room without treading on anyone’s toes; managing to knock over a battered table stacked with month-old newspapers in the process. After picking them all up, she spotted the queue for the Welcome Witch and stepped into the back of the line.
There were some truly strange-looking people in front of her. Two large men with thick Irish accents were leaning on a muddy wheelbarrow. A statue of a pretty young girl was balanced precariously inside it. A couple of places before them was an old lady with a sunflower growing out of the top of her head. Next to her a little boy with freckles flashed pink and green every time he sneezed. The queue was quite long, but it moved quickly. The bored Welcome Witch didn’t even stop filing her nails when she was approached by a man with a head as big as a cauldron. Finally, Hermione got to the front of the line.
“I’m here to see Cassandra Trelawney. Could you tell me what ward she’s in, please?”
The red-headed witch put her file on the desk. She ran her crimson nail down the list, “Fourth Floor, the Permanent Ward. Are you family?”
“A friend,” Hermione lied.
“Well, I’m sure she’ll appreciate a visit.”
She nodded. The floor guide said there was a Gift Shop. Maybe she’d buy a present for Cassandra before she saw her. It might get her off to a good start, and would, at any rate, delay the actual meeting.
***
Twenty minutes later, Hermione was raising her hand hesitantly to knock on the door to Cassandra’s ward. The other was tightly gripped around the most expensive box of chocolates that she had been able to afford. If Dumbledore hadn’t been in such a hurry to send her off, she could have brought a purse. As it was, Cassandra had to be content with a smallish red box of fairly cheap chocolates.
Hermione took a deep breath. She would just do the best she could. Dumbledore could hardly expect more of her. She knocked hard, and waited until a plump Healer who smelt of coffee opened the door.
“Hello, dearie. What do you want?”
“I’ve come to see Cassandra Trelawney,” Hermione said in the biggest voice she could manage. Nerves always made it difficult for her to speak.
“Ooh, she’s certainly popular today. I’ve already got a young man waiting for her. But I’m afraid you’ll have to wait “ she’s still having lunch. Come inside and I’ll take you to her Sitting Room.”
She pulled Hermione firmly in by her arm, not noticing her look of dismay. How am I going to get the prophecy off Cassandra if she’s got relatives visiting her? I’ll have trouble enough without her grandson or cousin twice removed sticking his nose in. She was starting to panic as the Healer deposited her in the middle of the corridor.
“It’s through the door to your right,” the witch said before rushing off to look after a gaunt man they’d just passed.
Hermione was shaking slightly, wondering how long Cassandra would be and how much polite conversation she’d be forced to make. Maybe the relative was only going to stay for a short time. Hermione prayed he would.
She opened the door a bit too fast, and managed to knock the man inside sharply on his elbow. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh God. I’m so sorry. I really-”
She rushed inside, and took in a sharp intake of breath. She recognised that man.
“You!” she said accusingly.
“Me.” Agreed a disgruntled-looking Barty Crouch as he massaged his elbow.
“What are you doing here?” Hermione advanced a few steps into the room. She didn’t notice that now the Death Eater was between her and the door.
“Same as you,” he shrugged, “I came to get the prophecy.”
Hermione felt her jeans waistband for her wand. She checked all the pockets in her jacket, and even ran her hands through her hair, just in case. It wasn’t there. She didn’t have her wand. Hermione thought hard, but couldn’t remember having it any of the time she was at St Mungo’s.
Great, she thought, the first time I’m stuck in a room with a Death Eater by myself and I don’t have a wand. And to top it all I just had to let him get between me and the door.
Crouch sat down on a faded floral sofa. For some odd reason, his hair had changed colour, but other than that he was the same wizard who’d jumped out of a window two months ago. He was fiddling in the pocket of his long brown coat. Hermione presumed it was for his wand, and grabbed a cushion. She wondered if it would be any good at blocking a Killing Curse
“Ah-ha!” He grinned, producing a packet of Droobles, “Chewing gum?”
“What?” Hermione felt caught off her guard. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“It’s a serious question,” he pretended to look serious. “Would you like Puffskein Peach or Salamander Strawberry?”
“No, thank you,” Hermione replied in a voice she hoped sounded cool and dignified.
“Suit yourself,” he put a piece in his mouth and stowed the rest away.
They waited in silence for a few minutes. Barty Crouch fiddled with the grey scarf he had on, despite the warmth of the room. His large brown eyes had a far away, dream-like expression, as if his mind was on a different planet. Hermione watched him warily, until eventually she said,
“Aren’t you going to kill me?”
“Kill you?” repeated Crouch, frowning. “Why would I want to do that? Unless you’re going to smother me with a cushion, I think I’m safe.”
If Hermione had been the one with the wand she would have said, “Let me think…” and frown thoughtfully, “what could a maniacal Death Eater “ such as yourself “ possibly have against me?”
But, as it was, she only replied, “I’m part of the Order. And a Muggle-born. Deal with it.”
Crouch folded his arms and surveyed her, sticking his chin out thoughtfully. Hermione met his gaze with a look that could almost reduce Ron to tears. Unfortunately, it didn’t work on him. If he wanted to mess about that was tough, she was going to force him to kill her quickly.
“You don’t like me, do you?” he observed.
Hermione didn’t think that even came close, “Of course not! You’re a Death Eater.”
“So what?” He asked indignantly. “Some of the best people I ever met were followers of You-Know-Who.”
She rolled her eyes, “So you love pure-bloods and killing people. And hate Muggles and people whose parents aren’t magic, like me.”
“That’s stereotyping, you know.” Crouch said solemnly. “I’m a half-blood myself. And my mother didn’t have a single magical relative. So there. Ha!”
Her arms were starting to ache, so she lowered the pink and green floral cushion, “But why did you join the Death Eaters then, if you don’t care about blood status?”
Hermione regretted the words the moment they were out of her mouth. The relaxed smile that had been playing on his mouth vanished. And his eyes seemed to loose their sparkle. He gave her a look which plainly said ‘don’t even consider mentioning that again’ and changed the subject, “Why don’t you sit down? It might be a long time before she finishes lunch.”
Feeling slightly intimidated, she nodded. A rocking chair painted white was the nearest seat. Hermione settled down comfortably to take in her surroundings, but watching Crouch out of the corner of her eye.
This was just the place you would expect an old lady to live in. Admittedly it was quite small, but all the space that was there was used. The pale pink and white striped wallpaper was hardly visible under all the paintings hung up. Most of them were watercolours of flowers and fruit. The little walnut end tables (which looked, from the top, like house elves carrying trays over their heads) were heaped with lace doilies and framed photos.
It was almost like stepping into the young Cassandra’s memory. There she was holding her wand, being hugged by her brothers, clutching her OWL results and with a boy Hermione presumed was Jamie. Looking so happy, completely unaware of her fate. Was that what someone, years later, would think about the pictures of her with Ron and Harry? That they were living on borrowed time?
Hermione tried to distract herself. In the corner was a wedding photo full of confetti and silk, and one of Jamie and Cassandra holding a baby. On the table next to her Dumbledore, the prophetess and many others beamed and waved. That was the last photo. There were no more, after she got captured by the DDL. Not even ones of grand-children and eightieth birthdays. It was as if Cassandra’s life had stopped that night. That there were no memories, only shadows.
Looking closer at the photo nearest to her, Hermione realised with a jolt that the prophetess looked exactly as she’d imagined her. The prominent cheekbones, the heart-shaped face, the black hair. And Hermione was sure that if the photos had been in colour, her eyes would have been the same shade as emeralds. That was…strange.
A sudden shuffling of papers yanked her attention back to reality. Crouch was taking a small white package out of one of his many pockets. He smiled at her curiosity and began unfolding it. Soon it had grown into a sheaf of parchment at least as big as A4.
“Some stuff about Cassandra that Billings gave me,” he answered her inquiring gaze.
“Who’s Billings?”
“He’s in charge of finding out things for You-Know-Who.” He laughed, “You wouldn’t find him on the battlefield. He’s been researching Cassandra for at least a hundred and fifty years…No, don’t look at me like that, I was only joking.”
And with that he unfolded a pair of black, rectangular-shaped glasses and slipped them on the bridge of his nose. He disappeared behind it for a few minutes, and read the first couple of pages. It was obviously not to his liking, as he threw it down after a few minutes muttering, “Contemptible rubbish.”
Crouch looked straight at Hermione, “You would’ve thought that if I wanted to know about Cassandra’s time at Hogwarts. I can remember my own days at school perfectly well without.”
“I suppose you were in Slytherin?” Hermione groaned.
“What’s wrong with that? It took the Sorting Hat almost five minutes to decide which house to put me in.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it was awful. I’m sure you remember getting sorted? Professor Lattima (she was a grumpy old battle-axe, be glad you never met her) called out my name first. I was a scrawny little bugger in those days. I think I was probably the shortest in the year! But then, when I was fifteen I suddenly shot up and laughed at everyone because I was taller than them. Anyway, where was I?”
“Professor Lattima called out your name,” Hermione reminded him.
“Ah yes. Well, I sat on the stool and got the smelly hat shoved over my eyes. I don’t really think I cared what house I was put in, as long as someone wanted me. Then the hat started talking to me “ of course, you’ll know that, you’ve been sorted too, haven’t you?”
Hermione nodded.
“It said, ‘Ah, the younger Barty Crouch. Very different to your father, aren’t you? Brave and adventurous “ I could put you in Gryffindor. But do I detect…a rebellious streak? Yes? That might make Slytherin a good house for you. And I see ambition. You want to be remembered when you’re gone. Hmmm…but you are hard-working, also. Shall I put you in Hufflepuff? No you seem too independent and aloof to be placed there. Intelligence, and a thirst for knowledge. Yes, definitely. Would Ravenclaw be a good choice?”
Hermione snorted, “I bet he didn’t say half those things!”
“It did!” He protested. “It carried on musing to itself, while everyone else in the hall had completely stopped paying attention. I could hear all the Gryffindors conducting a few minor wars, the Slytherins moaning, the Hufflepuffs chatting and the Ravenclaws flicking through books. Even the teachers were muttering to each other. I remember asking the hat to hurry up and decide, because I was starting to feel numb.”
She laughed, and all thoughts of his past were gone from her head, “I can’t believe you said that to the Sorting Hat! What happened?”
“It only went, ‘Ah, an impatient nature!’ And carried on dissecting my brain. Finally, it decided to put me in Slytherin-” he suddenly looked at her sharply, as if he’d only just remembered who he was talking to. “Why am I telling you all this?”
“I don’t know! You started it.”
Crouch shrugged, “Ah well, it can’t hurt. I suppose. What about you? I know you were put in Gryffindor, but you seemed more of a Ravenclaw to me.”
“How do you-” she trailed off, and then remembered it was actually Crouch who’d taught her Defence Against the Dark Arts. “Well, the Hat was going to put me in Ravenclaw, but decided to sort me into Gryffindor in the end.”
“Why?”
Hermione frowned, “I don’t know. It just said ‘You’ll be needed in Gryffindor.’”
“And you don’t regret it?”
“Not really, no. If I was in Ravenclaw, I wouldn’t have met Ron or Harry.”
“Ah yes. Your ickle friends.”
“Well, and who were your friends at Hogwarts? Mini-Death Eaters? I suppose you were the Draco Malfoy equivalent at Hogwarts?” she asked, before remembering that he was on her side now.
Crouch looked confused. “Do you mean the,” he stood up and stuck his nose in the air, “‘I am superior to you in every way, you smelly little piece of scum. Bow down and worship me!’ sort of person?”
“Yes,” she laughed in spite of herself, “you’ve got him exactly!”
“Nah. That wasn’t me “ it was Sam Pritchard. Sorry to disappoint you. We had some endlessly fun conversations together. Most of which involved him punching my head in between classes, and then me cursing him back.”
He noticed Hermione’s shocked expression, “Don’t worry “ that’s what boys do to each other. Especially if they hate each other. And he certainly didn’t like me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was different.”
She was about to reply when the door clicked open. A plain-looking nurse with a flat nose and wide mouth came in.
“Oh look Cassandra, you’ve got some visitors!”
“We’ll do this together and at the end we’ll both have a copy of the prophecy. Deal?” he muttered.
Hermione nodded. It was either they both got it, or he killed her. And what good would she do if she was dead? She held her breath and waited for Cassandra.
Roses and Thorns by Phoebe Gruzelier
Chapter Notes: This chapter is for David Tennant, because without him Barty Crouch would still be a straw-haired phyco with his soul sucked out.