Chapter Text
Cassandra Crouch and The Great Big Worm
Summer of 1992
The Crouch estate was situated in Runswick, a coastal village with weather unbefitting of summer. Constant rain and fog lent the area a strange hue, as if the climate had adopted Senior’s colour palette rather than the other way around. Black cliffs, brown sand, grey foamy waves.
A mossy wall encircled the manor house with its faded red roof, metal windows and stone bricks with the motto carved above the door:
Cras es noster. Tomorrow, be ours.
Senior took the platitude to heart.
He kept the place out of a sense of duty to his childhood home, but London was where his mind lived. Some nights, London was the mistress he skulked off to see. A man of the future, innovation and order; he looked not only at what could be done, but how it could be done.
Half the manor’s furniture was covered with white sheets as Mr Crouch didn’t spend enough of his time at home to really use it. Cass didn’t understand the point of being rich if you didn’t use the things you had. For instance, the ivy-damage to the north wall definitely broke several safety standards, but the man had no intention of fixing it, as if the collapse of the house was an inevitable fact rather than a problem.
Things kept going missing in the house, like jam. That he considered a problem, and Cass was blamed without proof.
She didn’t even like jam. It was Senior who liked Jam, who spread it on his toast every breakfast like clockwork, then dipped it in his milky tea.
She had to relearn what tasted good during the breakfasts, lunches and dinners at Hogwarts by trying everything once. One morning, Tracey had told her that combining jam with a whole lot of butter was the way to go, but it just felt even more off. Butter by itself, on the other hand, was heaven-sent.
And then there she was, sitting at the table — the only furniture that wasn’t covered — asking him questions, gushing excitedly about Hogwarts, because of course she would. Castles and spells and common room debates on ‘which dragon would hypothetically win in a fight’ were all things she would probably never get used to.
And she missed it already.
“Are you going to talk the entire time?” he grumbled from behind his newspaper, and Cass went quiet again.
It wasn’t all bad.
She could get away with things while he was away on Ministry business, like snooping around upstairs. The only soul who disapproved of such ventures was the house-elf she had discovered the first time she wandered into the attic – Junior’s old room, where the floorboards creaked under every light step and the lock on the outside of the door almost allowed Cass to dismiss it as a broom cupboard.
She tried not to think about why the lock was on the outside.
Needless to say, there was nothing within the room that indicated the child who had grown up there would turn out to be a war criminal. Actually, it looked normal besides the ceiling, which had the same open-sky bewitchment the Great Hall did. Cass guessed that Senior wanted to preserve the memory of the son he remembered, or a version of the son he loved.
Beside the bookshelf was a full-sized bed with perfectly fluffed pillows. Posters of ‘The Clabbert Kings’, ‘Sham 69’ and ‘Demeter's Sweaty Pits’ were plastered across the walls and slanted ceiling; she had no idea which were muggle bands and which were wizard ones as all were dressed extravagantly.
And then there was a tea-towel-wearing timid little being with brown tennis ball eyes and a squashed nose who was dusting away at the trophy shelf.
“Dobby? What are you doing here?” asked Cass.
The house-elf dropped the feather duster. “Is the young Miss not feeling well? I is Winky.”
“No matter,” she said rather hurriedly, certain she heard the front door shut downstairs, which was either caused by the wind or - more likely – Senior’s premature return. She rolled the sock off her foot. “Here! Take this.”
Winky jumped away from her. “I wouldn’t dare!”
“I’m freeing you. Take it!”
“I has been serving the noble Crouch family for years. I is loyal until the end. Winky would rather die than be without a home.”
“Clearly, you’ve been brainwashed. Pick up the damn sock!” She thought that maybe ordering it would help in case Winky thought she was telling a very cruel joke.
“No! Nooo! Maaaaster Crouchhhh!”
“Shhhh! Okay! Okay, forget it! I’m sorry.”
The house-elf ran forward and sobbed into Cass’ knee. “Is…” she sniffed, “is Winky’s quality of service not up to par these days, Miss?”
“It’s fine.”
“Is Winky to be out of house and home?”
Cass shook her head. “No, you’re fine. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”
She listened for any more sounds that came from downstairs, but heard nothing, so went back to looking around the room, a pair of watery eyes following her every move, as if she might break something.
She found his clothes in the wardrobe; shirts and jumpers that moths — or nargles, she thought with a wry smile — had chewed out. Beneath the bed was a latched box of records, but none of them matched the posters. Instead, they were the jazz suites of Shostakovich and the symphonies of Greig, Dvořák and Smetana.
Preserved, yes, but in a kind of artificial way.
It should have been messy. That’s how she’d seen him anyway — not that she knew him really — intelligent and angry and messy. She expected a cluttered desk and piles of clothes on the floor. Not whatever this was.
How long had it been kept like this?
She supposed the answer to that could be measured in grief. Specifically Senior’s.
Would it have been better or worse to see the room as it had really been, when his son had slept in that bed, read from that bookshelf, studied at that desk? If she could just see him as a regular boy for a second, then maybe the way her stomach dropped every time she thought about meeting him would finally go away.
Yes, somehow this was worse.
How far apart were they in age?
She went over to his shelf of achievements to look at the dates. Arithmancy Champion 1977. Charms 1979. There was even a gold one for D.A.D.A. with a mini-figure in a duelling stance, which begged the question: what wasn’t he good at?
She didn’t have time to find out, whipping around when the floorboards creaked so loudly she knew it couldn’t be Winky, who hadn’t really moved.
“What the devil are you doing in here?” asked Crouch, before crossing the room and snatching the trophy out of her hands, putting it back in the exact same place she had taken it from. “You know very well you’re not allowed!”
“How did you get back from the Ministry so fast?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“No, really?”
He rubbed his eyes in frustration. “The way I always do, Cassandra. Floo powder!”
Shrugging off how strange it felt to be referred to by her first name, her mind returned to the real issue. Why had she heard the front door close downstairs if he had come through the fireplace? Unless there was another house-elf she hadn’t met yet, that made no sense.
“What’s wrong with you?”
She blinked. She had been having a tough time adjusting, sure, but was her behaviour that strange to him? How did he expect her to behave?
She just left the room instead of replying.
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One of the worst things about being a Crouch was being connected to the Malfoys. They shared the ancestry of Phineas Nigellus Black, an old Headmaster of Hogwarts and, apparently, that was reason enough to invite them to an elaborate dinner on July 10th.
Cass had hoped that her first outing to London would be exciting. Instead, it was just to join her sort-of-father at Crouch End, an empty street crowded with dimly lit houses.
Unlike the Runswick house, the interior was lavishly decorated. A blazing fireplace and a piano in the living room, velvet sofas and lounge chairs, marble staircases and chandeliers that glittered like diamonds in every room.
So, this is where Senior puts all his effort.
Even the portraits were on display, though the likes of Faunus Crouch and Charis Crouch did nothing but look cross and mutter something that Cass couldn't quite catch. She had hoped that there would be friendlier paintings from her "mother's" side, except there were none of those.
The Malfoys were a vision of bourgeois respectability, but dinner wasn’t the only thing they were ravenous for.
Narcissa Malfoy spun her ring around her finger methodically as her eyes tore apart each room they entered. Her black evening dress was high-neck and backless, the fur that was draped over her shoulders made no attempt at hiding her cascading blonde hair.
Lucius Malfoy II, with his freakishly tall stature, was striking rather than stunning, and when offered a believable smile and a gloved hand for Cass to shake, she knew he would always be a better politician than Crouch. Because he was a charmer. Because he was in another man’s home and still in charge, which was exactly what the host wanted him to think.
She accepted the handshake, partly out of politeness and partly because Senior had already threatened her. Ironically, he was the only one who looked underdressed with that stupid black suit. He had, however, undone his top button, something that seemed normal but was a monumental step-forward when it came to Senior. He lived in suits.
Tonight had to go perfectly in order for tomorrow to be theirs.
Lucius propped his serpentine cane against his chair and then both Malfoys both made a show of taking to their seats, like a pair of well-dressed wolves. Cass might have been grateful that Draco wasn’t with his parents, but it seemed like he was getting the better deal somehow.
“He’s such a hard worker, trying to make the team this year,” Narcissa explained. “I told him not to go near that tree, I told him, but children don’t really listen to their parents these days, do they?”
Senior hummed in agreement and poured her a glass of red wine.
“Draco flew right into it while practising his dives, poor thing — we’re having the thing uprooted next Tuesday — but he’s really improved his technique this Summer, especially with the coach we hired….”
Cass thought it was rather unfair that the tree was being punished. She looked at Senior who was expertly pretending to be interested and picked at her plate some more. The food somehow tasted worse now that she knew it was Winky who made each and every course.
Narcissa sipped at her wine. “Draco was so chaffed when he found out Potter would be in his year. He really wanted to be his friend, you see. I thought it was a lovely idea.”
“Charity is important,” Senior agreed.
“Mm. Pity he turned out to be a filthy blood-traitor like that renegade father of his,” commented Lucius.
Cass shot him a look. She didn’t know much about James, but she knew he was a good man and would have been an excellent father. The real pity was that James Potter wasn’t alive to defend himself. You're going to lose to lose to Harry Potter's damn sock this year, Lucius, just you wait...
“Lucius.” Narcissa warned.
“Forgive me, Barty. I know you despise blood talk, but it’s always the ones you don’t expect, isn’t it?” He looked at Cass. “You think he would have learned from his father’s mistakes.”
Narcissa smiled reassuringly. “I’m just glad Draco’s meeting the right kind of people.” It took Cass a second to realise Mrs Malfoy was talking about her. “I hear you’re also interested in Quidditch. Draco told me about your first flying lesson.”
“He told you about that?”
Just drop it, Malfoy.
What a splendid idea!
“He talks about you all the time.”
Oh ho ho. Does he now?
She smiled for the first time that evening. It was like Christmas again. Clearly, Mrs Malfoy had probably misinterpreted something Draco had said, but she decided to run with it anyway. “Ah yes, Draco and I, we’re as thick as thieves.”
The ‘thieves’ part was accurate. At least to Snape.
Narcissa nodded and put a hand on Cass’ arm, giving it a light squeeze. “I’m glad he’s making lots of friends. He’s a sensitive soul.”
If by ‘sensitive’ you’re referring to the way he shouts and whines and smacks people over the head when the teacher isn’t looking, then sure.
Mrs Malfoy opened her locket to show Cass a picture of Draco at six or seven years old, dressed in a suit. His hair was in its pre-gel era — a rare sight — fluffy and parted at the side, and on his arm perched an owlet she could only assume was Eurus because of her crazy, wide yellow eyes.
“He’s adorable!” and by that she meant he hadn’t changed a bit. Same slimy, arrogant expression.
Cass multitasked between sifting through embarrassing stories about Draco with his mother and listening to whatever Mr Malfoy and Senior were discussing.
“…See that’s what I like about you, Barty, you’re like me; you stand for family values. It’s what sets us apart from Fudge.”
You could almost smell the honey dripping off his tongue. Lucius knew how to play the game, buttering Senior up with each word in the same way he was buttering the steaming potato on his plate. Each compliment transparent, laughable even. How could Senior be deemed a family man when all his family were gone? All of them, because she didn’t count herself as family.
She’d rather be violently drowned by the giant squid than call him ‘father’ or ‘dad’ or words to that effect.
Lucius cut his roast beef aggressively with his knife and fork. “People will always see you as you are — a pillar of discipline. Your policies have stood the test of time. That counts for something.”
“People,” Senior corrected, “hear my name and think of the trial. They think of the breakout. They think of my son.”
Narcissa started fiddling with her ring again.
Lucius continued, “you do yourself a disservice, my friend. They remember when you locked him away. You made no exceptions for him. It was something they could respect. Something they still do. You’re exactly what the Ministry needs and that’s why Fudge feels threatened.”
She could only sit there and pick at her food and hope, no, pray that Senior saw how slippery Lucius was.
“Fudge has every right to feel that way,” said Mr Crouch. “I want him as paranoid as possible.”
Cass had to admit, they were an unlikely pair; an ex-Death Eater… and a man, who made no effort to hide the fact that he despised Death Eaters with every bone in his body, scheming away at the dinner table.
Lucius smiled. “We’ll all sleep a little better in the end. He was foolish to demote you; so much talent is wasted to jealousy.” He sighed. “But no matter. He will apologise soon enough.”
“Any word on Junior’s whereabouts?” Narcissa chimed in. Clearly, the question had been simmering in her mind for too long to find an appropriate segue.
Senior swirled his wine around in his glass. He had a curt tone. “Left the country. Searching for his master.”
Narcissa and Lucius shared a look that Mr Crouch didn’t quite catch.
“He believes the Dark Lord survived?”
It was likely Lucius thought his wife sounded a bit too eager, so he added, “then he’s madder than I thought,” to sell himself properly.
Mr Malfoy’s glass was knocked over, but not by anything you could see. It just did it by itself. Wine was spilt all down his lap.
“Great sizzling dragon bogies— FUCK!” he yelled, practically leaping from his chair, all niceties stripped away.
“Lucius!” snapped Narcissa.
Was that… me? Was that non-verbal magic? No, no, no. Don’t look at him. Don’t look — Oh my gosh, I’m a genius! — Stop looking! You’re acting suspicious.
“Mad,” said Mr Crouch thoughtfully, then sipped from his own glass. “Yes, Azkaban has that effect on people.” Now Mr Crouch just sounded sad and Cass didn’t really understand why.
Lucius laughed darkly and straightened his collar. “Barty isn’t a person. When he banged on my door in the middle of the night with his band of raving lunatics, there wasn’t a light behind those eyes. I’m just glad Cissy gave me enough wits to turn him down. Best to freeze them out until they have nowhere to run.”
“Yes, how is Andromeda these days?” asked Mr Crouch.
Narcissa’s mouth dropped open a little and Lucius held his gaze, refused to give it up even. “Tonight has been splendid, but it’s getting late.”
“Indeed, it is.”
Damn. He’s going to blame me for how shit it’s going, isn’t he? As soon as they leave.
It was difficult to breathe again. She tried to reassure herself that people would judge Senior if he kicked her out, but then again, if one child had already disgraced him then who would stop him from disowning the other?
Apparently, there was no need to imagine life on the streets, because then Narcissa said, “If we’re here to discuss business we should do it now.”
Wait, what? Haven’t they been talking business this whole time?
The dinner had consisted of the juiciest conversation Cass had ever heard! Unfiltered scheming. Villain scheming, out in the open, completely unsuspecting of her, and all along, they hadn’t even gotten to the meat of things.
Senior’s secrets had secrets.
The adults left Cass alone at the dinner table with a slice of treacle tart that had been baked and served by Winky, but the real dessert of the evening was learning a great many things about Draco Malfoy. Things that would ensure he never breathed near her ever again.
She sat at the table for a good hour.
“D’you want a bit?” She asked Winky.
Winky shook her head.
“You’ve done a lovely job, see for yourself.” Cass held out a spare fork and the house-elf took it reluctantly.
Winky took a bite, chewed and looked a little less miserable a second later. She wished the legendary powers of sugar could cheer up all the miserable sods she knew, and there was a long list of those.
“It’s nice,” said Winky.
“Yeah,” said Cass. “It’s nice.”