"Come here, Mr Weasley," Dumbledore says in a very quiet, serious tone, and Fred moves immediately, doing his best to stand up and face Dumbledore. It's been an hour now since the Malfoys, Sirius and the Weasleys returned from the Quidditch World Cup, and everyone is sat anxiously around the dining hall in one chair or another. George is holding tightly to Fred's arm, helping him to stay on his feet: he just keeps on coughing, and every single retch and choke brings more thick blood out of his mouth.

Sirius and Mrs Weasley had been about to take him to St Mungo's when Mr Weasley had finally appeared with Dumbledore in tow, and Harry feels a sweeping relief as Dumbledore does a few complicated twists of his wand and Fred gasps for breath, no longer spitting anything out of his mouth. Bill presses a glass of water into his brother's hand, patting his back, and Fred drinks greedily to try and soothe his throat. There'd been a sense of rising panic as every counterspell and healing charm each of the adults had tried had failed to work, and the relief in the room is palpable as Fred breathes in heavy breaths.

Lucius is holding Narcissa's hand tightly in his own, and Draco leans into the half hug Narcissa gives him: it's a good thing Draco inherited his mother's more slender form rather than his father's broad shoulders, Harry thinks, else they wouldn't fit together on the loveseat at the side of the room. Hermione is putting a greenish balm on Ginny's neck to soothe some of the bruises there, and everyone else sits mutely around the room, staring into the empty air.

"Arthur did not have time to tell me," Dumbledore says quietly, "what precisely occured."

"They came for us, Draco and I," Lucius says, his grip tight on the glass of whiskey in his right hand; his left remains interlinked with his wife's, and from the look of it Lucius has no plans to let Narcissa go for the rest of the evening.

"I'd left the tent to, er," Sirius glances at Mrs Weasley, and then says, "flirt with some girls I'd met in the stadium. I didn't think anything of it - the two of them were exhausted, and I was just coming back to the tent when I saw the flames licking at the entrance. I drew the both of them out, but there was fire everywhere."

"They were marching," Bill adds. "Twenty or thirty of them in their masks, and others had broken off to grab some people from the crowd."

"One of them took me," Ginny says quietly. "Recognized my hair."

"That's how Ron got hurt," Bill says. "The three of us were coming back to the tent together, and Ron lunged at the woman who cursed her."

"Us and Dad were in the tent still," George says.

"And I told you to stay in the tent," Arthur says.

"We didn't do that," Fred says without a semblance of guilt. "Put two of the bastards on the ground before one of them hit me with that curse." Harry tries to make sense of all of their stories - Ginny, Bill and Ron walking together, the twins and Arthur still in the tent, and Sirius finding the Malfoys in theirs. He feels trapped, all of a sudden, and he keeps thinking of them all - Ron, with his twisted leg, Ginny drowning in the middle of the room, Fred coughing up everything in his chest.

"Why were you all split up?" he demands, looking between them all. "Are you stupid or something? What the Hell, Sirius, you just left the Malfoys to go flirt with someone?" Sirius startles somewhat, obviously surprised, but the others just look between each other, shaking their heads.

"Harry," Bill says quietly, shaking his head at him. "There'd been no sign that anything was going to wrong or awry. We were enjoying the excitement of the game, of the win. Ireland had-"

"I don't care who won," Harry snaps out, and he feels Dumbledore' hand on his shoulder. He glances at the old man, who just meets Harry's eyes for a second: usually, if Dumbledore tried to do something like this, he'd be annoyed, but somehow it calms him down a little, and he shrugs Dumbledore's hand off him, going quiet again.

He listens in silence as Arthur explains how he'd got them all together, to go to a portkey they'd set up for London, and Harry lets himself zone out, dropping himself into space. He replays it again and again - Sirius' burns, Ginny drowning... It's horrible. All that magic is just horrible, and he can't believe he'd just been enjoying learning to cast a scalping hex when-

"Harry?" He jolts, pulled out of his spiralling daydream, and he looks around the room. Everyone is staring at him, and Hermione's hand is on his lower arm. "Dumbledore was asking us why we didn't go," Hermione murmurs, frowning at him, and Harry sighs, shaking his head.

"I didn't want to be in the crowd," Harry admits, shaking his head. "It seemed like a lot of people to deal with. When Hermione said she wasn't really interested, I thought we could both stay back."

"And you, Narcissa?" Dumbledore asks, turning to her and raising his silver eyebrows.

"I hate Quidditch," Narcissa answers simply. "I think it's dull."

"You're mad, Mrs Malfoy," George says, and despite himself Harry snorts. Narcissa puts her nose in the air, but even Draco offers a weak little laugh.

"I was teaching the children a few hexes," Narcissa says. She doesn't look at Lucius as she speaks, but he keeps his gaze focused on her face. "We were upstairs - I thought taking advantage of some time to study might be beneficial." Harry doesn't miss the way Lucius' eyes widen slightly, nor the comprehension on his face.

"The children?" Lucius repeats, glancing at Hermione and curling his lip slightly. "What-"

"And you, Molly?" Dumbledore interrupts before Lucius can continue, and Harry feels a little grateful for that.

"I like a game of Quidditch, but I don't much like to watch it," she answers tiredly, "Do you think this is important?"

"No," Dumbledore says, shaking his head. "I merely wished to check. I know Percival didn't attend because of constraints of his work: he and Mr Crouch required him to complete some paperwork at the Ministry."

"Did anyone die?" Ginny asks. Harry only now notices that her voice is slightly hoarse, and he feels an extra pang of sympathy for her: she stands firm, though, and isn't shaking despite what she's just been through. None of the Weasleys are, actually, except Fred - they're all a lot hardier than Harry had expected. Dumbledore is silent in response to the question.

"It's too early to be certain as to the precise number of casualties," he says quietly, obviously doing his best to be charitable, but Ginny shakes her head.

"Please, Professor. Who died?"

"Percival is completely fine," Dumbledore says, "He was sent back to the Ministry at six o'clock this evening. I say this because Bartemius Crouch was discovered dead beneath the Dark Mark not long after." Harry stares at him, utterly taken aback by what he's said - Barty Crouch, with his tough-bristled moustache and eternally stern expression, had never really struck Harry as capable of dying. "A few witches from the Salem Institute have been hospitalized with heavy spell damage, but to my awareness Mr Crouch was the only casualty."

There's silence in the room, and Arthur says, "You should all get to bed, I think. We can worry in the morning."

"Did he have any family?" Harry asks, looking at Dumbledore. "He never- he never really mentioned any, when he wrote me, so I didn't know..."

"His son was a Death Eater," Lucius murmurs. "He died in Azkaban, and his wife died of grief soon after. He never remarried." It strikes Harry with a particular melancholy, and he stays still as the Weasleys slowly split off to go to bed - Hermione and Ginny make their way up the stairs together, the twins in their pursuit. Harry stays in place, silent. Nobody bothers him - Bill goes to bed, as well as Draco, Ron, Lucius and Mrs Weasley, and it's only then that Sirius sits down beside him.

Mr Weasley is talking seriously with Dumbledore, too quietly for Harry to hear even if he strains: Sirius is silent as he puts his arm around Harry's shoulder and delivers a small kiss to the top of his head. He rubs Harry's upper forearm, and Harry breathes in, slowly. There's a slow sickness twisting his belly, making shivers run up his spine, and he can't quite verbalize what he's feeling for a few minutes. For that time, he and Sirius sit in the silence together, the only sounds in the room coming from Dumbledore and Mr Weasley's quiet mutterings.

"Would it have been different, do you think, if I'd come?" Harry asks finally, and Sirius shakes his head right away, like he'd been waiting for the question. Guilt ghosts through Harry's body, despite his having not even gone, but he can't help but wonder - would it have been different, if he'd gone? Could he have saved Crouch somehow? "I could have-"

"No, Harry," Sirius says, rubbing Harry's arm. He smells burnt, and Harry wonders how long it will take for him to fix his hair, which is uneven on one side. "You couldn't have done anything. He was a very capable wizard - a demon in a duel. Nothing you could have done would have saved him." Harry leans against Sirius' side, closing his eyes as his godfather plays absently with his hair, and he breathes in slowly, doing his best to ignore the smoky odour from his hair.

"I want to go to his funeral," Harry says. He's never been to a funeral before. He was never taken to his parents' funeral - did they even have a funeral? - and although he remembers Aunt Petunia going to one or two, Harry had never been brought along. What's a funeral like, even? He doesn't know. But he knows he wants to go to Barty Crouch's - even if he hadn't really known the man, he feels like he's lost something.

"'Course," Sirius says. "Sure, yeah. You can probably go with Percy - Mad-Eye will go too." Sirius' hand rubs slowly over Harry's shoulder, and Harry swallows down the thickness in his throat. It isn't that he wants to cry. In honesty, he just feels sick. "You gonna head to bed, kid?"

"Yeah," Harry says lowly. "Yeah, Sirius, I'll go. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Sirius says firmly. "Don't be sorry."

---

Harry stays in his room the next day. He reads through old letters the old man had sent him - Crouch had never been a regular penfriend of his, but he has a dozen or so pieces of correspondence. He doesn't know why he's bothering: every letter is curt, simple and polite, but Crouch had never spilled his life's secrets on the page or displayed his heart. He'd just been a professional man who'd been nice enough to write Harry back.

Harry sits on the floor, leaning against the back of his armchair and absently paging through books, not really reading any of them. He doesn't feel social, and nor does he feel hungry, so he doesn't bother coming downstairs for breakfast. At twelve, one of the Malfoys' house elves appears with a bacon sandwich, sets it beside Harry, and then disappears.

He doesn't eat it.

Harry doesn't even feel like playing a record - all he wants to do is sit and think about the Death Eaters, and wonder how many more people they'll kill this year.

Hedwig brings him a letter in the early evening from Afifa Lanjwani: it's a normal thing, just telling Harry how she's doing and how she's enjoying work in her parents' shop. He sets it aside, and he pets Hedwig when she sits beside him, settling in the silence.

The knock on his door in the early evening isn't entirely unexpected. "Come in," Harry calls, and he hears the door open.

"Harry?" Remus asks. From his current position, Harry's out of sight, and he waves his hand to the left of the armchair so that Remus can see him. He knows why Sirius has sent Remus - Sirius isn't great at talking about feelings, even though he tries, and Remus is a little better. Still terrible at it, but a little better.

"Down here." He hears the door shut closed, and Remus comes into the room. Harry stays in his place, cross-legged against the back of his chair, and Remus slides down against the wall across from him, his hands on his knees. For a long time, neither of them say anything. Remus seems like he's waiting for Harry to say something, but for Harry doesn't feel like saying anything. And then, the question suddenly coming back to him, he asks, "Did my parents have a funeral?" Remus stares at him, obviously not having expected the question, and then he nods his head.

"Yes, of course they did."

"Were you the only person to go?" Harry asks. He doesn't know why, but asking the question hurts him. He has a terrible visual of Remus in some churchyard in the rain, holding a tattered umbrella over his head, all alone.

"No," Remus answers. "No. I was there, for your mother and father. Minerva McGonagall came, Filius Flitwick, and Albus. Hagrid..." Remus trails off, and he looks at the patched knees of his trousers, letting out a quiet sigh. "It wasn't that your parents didn't have more friends, of course, it was-"

"All of them were already dead, or in prison," Harry finishes. He speaks dully. "I know all my family had been killed already. I asked a lot about them, in fist year, when I was writing people - no one ever mentioned you or Sirius to me, 'cause I never asked about you. I asked about grandparents, and uncles, and stuff. It never occurred to me that I'd have some. And they'd be alive now, if it hadn't been for the war, wouldn't they?"

"I can't know that for certain," Remus says immediately, but Harry ignores him, looking at Hedwig and stroking over her cheek. She coos at him, giving a small, affectionate nip to the side of his hand. "The Potters were all- they were all very focused on the cause, Harry. They wanted to protect-"

"I know," Harry says. "I know. It's okay."

"You haven't eaten anything," Remus murmurs, and Harry shrugs his shoulders.

"Don't really feel like it," he replies. Remus doesn't nag like Mrs Weasley or Lucius would, and nor does he push the plate of cold sandwich towards Harry. He just looks at Harry with his sad eyes, and gives a slow nod of his head. "What's happening downstairs?"

"Lucius and Bill arm-wrestled," Remus offers, and Harry gives him a weak smile. Remus looks more well-rested than usual, but the full moon is coming soon, and Harry knows it won't last.

"Did they bet on it?"

"Of course."

"How much did Lucius win?"

"A Galleon." Harry laughs a little, quietly, and he leans his head into it when Hedwig gently butts her head against his temple. "I'll come downstairs for dinner," Harry promises, and Remus gives a slow nod of his head.

"Alright, Harry," Remus murmurs. "We love you, you know, Sirius and I." It makes Harry glance up, and he stares at Remus. Remus' expression is intense and focused, but he's never said that to Harry before. The words echo in his ears.

"Yeah," Harry says, barely hearing his own, thick voice. "Yeah, I love you too." When he hears the door shut closed, he closes his eyes, and he lets himself let out a small sob. He feels stupid for crying over anything at all, let alone over the death of a bloke he didn't even know, but he can't really stop himself. Especially when that's not all he's crying over.

He just hides his face in Hedwig's feathers and lets himself cry.

---

"Do you feel better?" Hermione asks when Harry sits next to her at dinner, and he considers the question for a little bit. He'd dabbed his eyes with cold water, trying to make them look a little less red-rimmed, but he's worried it's obvious he's been crying.

"Yeah," he decides. "Yeah, a little." She reaches for his hand, giving it a squeeze, and he gives her a small smile before they begin to eat. Everyone talks at dinner: Draco is animatedly continuing an argument with Ron, who goes a darker shade of red the more Draco continues, and that's mostly what Harry listens to the whole way through. It's not even a subject he cares about - they're arguing about whether chess should be considered legitimate enough for a competition - but they're both so irritated about it it's impossible not to be entertained.

There aren't that many people at dinner: neither Mr Weasley nor Bill are present, and Narcissa is gone too. The twins are home, but they aren't at the table. Barring Draco and Ron, everyone is a little muted, and Harry's a little glad for that - he loves the animated conversation of Grimmauld Place, but tonight he's grateful for something a little quieter.

"There's a meeting tonight," Sirius says to Harry, and Harry nods his head, glancing to Hermione.

"I'm coming, yeah," Hermione answers his silent question, and both Draco and Ron drop their argument to glance their way.

"Why can't we join if they can?" Ron demands for the fifth time, and Mrs Weasley opens her mouth to respond, but Harry interrupts.

"Hands up if you're an orphan because of Lord Voldemort," Harry says dryly. He raises his own hand, watching Draco and Ron with arched eyebrows. "Now raise your hand if you and you parents are at risk from Lord Voldemort simply because of your blood status." Hermione raises hers. "There it is, Ron. That's the reason."

Remus hides his laughter in his cup, and Sirius reaches over, patting Harry's face with obvious fondness. Harry leans back and out of his godfather's reach, shaking his head at the man, and Sirius laughs openly, putting his hand on Remus' shoulder instead. Harry nearly misses the way Sirius' fingers linger there for a second before he draws his hand slowly away again, and he frowns slightly, a little perplexed by it, but he brushes the thought away.

"Who's coming tonight?" Hermione asks.

"Well," Remus says, and he begins to list some names.