A / N : Thanks to Expecting Rain and Rainy Dae, who were kind enough to review part one! I appreciate it. Anyway, here's part two. Enjoy!

Hold your breath and count to ten,

Fall apart and start again,

Hold your breath and count to ten,

And start again,

And start again . . .

English Summer Rain, Placebo

It was raining. Barty wandered through the garden, annoyed. Why was his mother making him play in the rain? That wasn't like her. He didn't understand it, and Barty didn't like it when he didn't understand things. He approached the tree at the bottom of the garden slowly, wondering if she was watching him. Whether she was or not, he didn't turn around. He decided he didn't care. It wasn't important, not really. She had told him to play, and that was what he was going to do. Carefully, he put out a hand to touch the swing, to run his fingers along the sodden rope that held it up. Swings were made for sitting on, but that was boring. Gripping the rope tightly on either side, Barty put his feet onto the wooden plank and pushed the swing forward, letting it sway to and fro. He closed his eyes and swung faster, until all he could hear was the wind ruffling his hair and the surge of blood drumming in his ears, faster and faster and faster . . . . Laughing, he threw his head back and opened his mouth, letting the raindrops fall on his tongue, cold as silver bullets and metallic tasting too. And then, at last, when he had swallowed so much rain and spun so fast he thought he might be sick, he spoke.

"Why are you watching my house?"

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It was raining. Antonin Dolohov did not like the rain. As far as he was concerned, it was simply something which made an unbearably boring task even harder to bear. He was standing in the garden, watching the house of Bartemius Crouch, a rather annoying Ministry official with plans of a sort that annoyed Dolohov's master no end. That said, Crouch was, at present, hardly a high priority, and Dolohov suspected that this assignment was intended as a punishment.It's working, he thought sourly. The rain had plastered his hair and clothes to his skin, and muddy water was filling his boots. Crouch, apparently, spent more time out of the house than in it, which meant that all he really had to do was watch the man's wife, and his house elf. Oh, and his decidedly demented son. Hidden beneath a borrowed Invisibilty Cloak, Dolohov scowled. Children were not a subject he knew much about, never having had any himself. But this kid was weird. No doubt about it. Dolohov watched him spinning on his swing, and fingered the edge of his wand. A simple slashing movement and he could cut through the rope and break the kid's neck. Now that would be warning enough to Crouch. He raised his wand carefully and opened his mouth.

But the boy had stopped laughing now, and slowed down, until he was swaying gently back and forth, his eyes locked on the patch of ground where Dolohov stood concealed. Frowning a little, he opened his mouth.

"Why are you watching my house?"

Antonin Dolohov was not easily alarmed. But he had to admit, that surprised him. After all, he was supposed to be invisible. How . . . ?

The boy continued to stare at him, looking a little exasperated now. "I know you're there, you know," he continued. "I only want to talk."

Frowning, Dolohov pulled off the Cloak. "Is that right?" he growled. To his annoyance, the brat simply smiled.

"Hello."

Dolohov scowled. "How did you know where I was?" he demanded. If the Cloak had a defect, he might as well know about it now.

The boy tilted his head to the side, watching him with a sort of keen interest that seemed entirely devoid of fear. "Is that all?" he asked, disappointed.

Losing patience, Dolohov grabbed the brat by the neck and jammed his wand into the hollow of his throat. "Answer the question."

"Fine." The kid sighed. "It was easy really. I just looked for what wasn't there."

"What do you mean, what wasn't there?" This made no sense at all to Dolohov.

Barty flung out an arm, gesturing at the rain tumbling from the skies above. "The rain," he explained. "Rain doesn't hit the ground if there's something in the way. You were in the way." After a moment's silence he continued with a question of his own. "Why are you watching my house?" he repeated. "Are you trying to kill my father?"

Dolohov raised an eyebrow. "Maybe," he conceded. He took a step closer, pushing the wand deeper into the kid's neck. "Or maybe," he growled, "I'm here to kill you."

Barty swallowed. "Really?" he asked, fascinated.

Dolohov's only response was to increase the pressure against the boy's windpipe. Barty considered the situation. No-one had ever tried to kill him before. Sometimes, he got the feeling that his father would like to, but he was pretty sure he was safe in that regard, as he had the distinct impression that procreation was not an experiment his father wished to repeat.

"I know who you are."

Dolohov gave a cold, humourless laugh. "Do you now?" he said shortly.

"You're Antonin Dolohov. My father wants to put you in prison."

Dolohov smiled. "Is that so? And what do you think? Do you agree with your father? Do you think the big bad murderer should be thrown to the dementors?"

Barty shrugged. "I can't breathe," he pointed out, gasping a little.

Dolohov grudgingly lowered his wand. "Answer the question."

"I don't care," Barty said at last. "I just don't want you to kill my father."

"Touching."

Barty frowned. "Not really. I just don't think it would be fair, that's all."

"Life's not fair, kid. Trust me."

Barty considered this. It seemed reasonable. Then again, Barty wasn't the sort of person to give up easily. He hesitated.

"Can we make a deal?" he said at last.

Dolohov stared at him. "A deal?" he echoed. The kid had to be mad.

Barty nodded. "You can't kill my father," he said at last. "That wouldn't be fair. You don't even know him. And that would be like . . . . taking away my favourite toy. I wouldn't have anything then."

Dolohov stared. He couldn't be entirely sure, but it sounded as though the boy was jealous. As though killing Crouch Sr was some kind of right, and he was the only one who had earned it. Strange. There was no denying the logic of it, but it surprised him. That wasn't the sort of logic normal people used. He frowned.

"So let me get this straight. You don't object to the idea of your father ending up dead. You just object to the circumstances?"

The boy's eyes lit up, and his lips cracked apart in a delighted grin. "Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying!" Before Dolohov could interrupt, he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, and pressed it into his hands. A letter. Dolohov frowned at it.

"He got another promotion," Barty explained, watching the man's face carefully for a reaction. "I stole the letter from his desk. And I can tell you something else as well, if you want to know."

Dolohov raised an eyebrow and waved a hand, indicating that he should go on. The kid grinned again.

"He thinks he's going to be head of department by the end of the year. And he's always right about that kind of thing." He glanced at the letter. "I don't think you can keep that, though. He frames all his promotion letters. He'll notice it's gone." For the first time, he looked a little worried.

Dolohov laughed. This was turning out to be the strangest day he'd had in a long time.

"How old are you?"

Barty frowned. "I'm ten," he replied. "Why is that important?"

"It isn't." Dolohov put out a hand. "You know what? Consider it a deal. I won't kill your father. I will be keeping this though." He tapped the scroll of parchment in his hand and tucked it into his pocket. The boy frowned, staring at his outstretched hand as though unsure whether to take it or not.

Dolohov laughed again. "I get that a lot," he said sardonically. He felt curiously cheerful. He had a feeling his master was going to find this particular story very amusing. He smiled. "Well, so long kid."

Barty leapt to his feet, panicking. "Wait! You can't keep the letter," he insisted. "He'll know I took it! I'll get punished!"

Dolohov's smiled widened as he took in the boy's frightened expression. His eyes had widened in horror and what little colour his face held had already drained from it. Dolohov shrugged.

"You've got a lot to learn," he remarked. He was still laughing as he turned on the spot and disapparated, leaving Barty standing open-mouthed in the garden, soaked to the skin.

Eventually, Barty closed his mouth and shivered. He was going to get punished. And he had the feeling he had come off worse, in this exchange. But still . . . it had been interesting. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the sky, letting the raindrops beat against the fragile skin of his eyelids. The rain seemed colder now, and heavier, the sky a sombre grey so dark it was almost black. Funeral black. Barty smiled.