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therealsnapeThis story was written for the wonderful ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
minerva_fest. And there’s a very special surprise for all of you: the amazing ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jodel_from_aol has turned the Minerva McGonagall, Spinster Detective stories into one of her great Red Hen Publications projects.
So now there is a virtual book, downloadable (not to kindle, alas, but to your PC), which has a cover, beautiful page lay-outs, and illustrations. I can barely contain myself.
It looks absolutely amazing, and I'm tickled pink she was interested in my stories.
Go check it out at Red Hen Publications
Title: Minerva McGonagall and the Business of Ferrets
Prompt #: Minerva was not prompted to write this story. One might say she was driven.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 17K
Characters and/or Pairings: Minerva, Severus Snape, and assorted others. Listing them here would give away too much of the plot.
Summary: The kitchen burglaries by the ScAvengers seemed innocent at first; a mere teenage prank. But then Minerva and Severus realised they might have a far more sinister meaning.
Warnings: None
Author's Notes:kellychambliss did her usual magic as a beta and made this story so much better, as always.
“I hope you won’t be too disappointed by the meagre entertainments of La Caunette, after this wild swirl of society events,” said Severus as we withdrew to the sitting area. We had just finished dinner – a very good one, for Severus is an accomplished cook who knows how to make the most of the produce of the French countryside.
I had arrived late that afternoon for my annual summer holiday visit. I had unpacked and refreshed myself while Severus put the final touches to the meal, and we had spent a leisurely few hours eating and chatting. Among other things I had told him I had attended a birthday party for Elphias Doge and a lunch with the Weasley family. Hardly a swirl of society events, but to Severus, who still relishes the total absence of any social life, it might seem so.
“I love staying in La Caunette, and you know it,” I said. “I’m not a social butterfly who needs daily ‘entertainments’. But I admit the Weasley lunch was lovely, even though Sybill was present.”
“Sybill? At a Weasley family gathering?” asked Severus with understandable surprise. I had been surprised to see her there myself.
“Sybill. Annoying as ever. Fortunately there were enough people present to dilute her ramblings somewhat. And it made me enjoy her retirement all the more. Like a cold,” I said.
“Like a cold? I don’t understand.”
“Well, you know what it’s like: only when you have a cold do you fully appreciate the pleasure of breathing normally through your nose. You don’t appreciate that at all when you’re well. It’s the same with Sybill. When she was around, she was most annoying. Even though in the last few years she taught so few classes that she was hardly a professional bother any more, the mere sight of her still set my teeth on edge. This meeting made me feel the full bliss of her retirement. And other than that it was a lovely party.”
“Still, you must tell me all about Annoying Sybill,” grinned Severus. “I’ll get us both a nightcap.”
“Severus!” I said, sternly. “Are you turning into a gossip?”
“Perish the thought,” he said, pouring two glasses of Calvados. “I’m merely turning into the kind of good friend who will let you talk freely of a problem. So that you can get it off your chest and feel the better for it. As your host, I should provide a spiritual digestive just as much as an alcoholic one.” And he put my glass on a side table with one of his elegant little bows. Severus Snape, a Slytherin and a gentleman.
“Very well, then,” I said. “I’ll tell you the whole business. Don’t blame me if you get nightmares.”
And that, with the benefit of hindsight, was the starting point of The Business of Ferrets.
*+*+*+*
Before I launch into Sybill’s narrative, I must explain about the Weasley’s holiday arrangements. They have everything to do with this case.
For years, with the children growing up and the school fees and everything, Molly and Arthur didn’t have any holiday arrangements to speak of. Except for that one occasion when they all went to Egypt after winning a prize in the lottery. Many people thought it foolish of them to spend so much on a vacation
http://www.redhen-publications.com/detective.html
Title: Minerva McGonagall and the Business of Ferrets
Prompt #: I was not prompted to write this story. One might say I was driven.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 17K
Characters and/or Pairings: Severus Snape, myself, and assorted others. Listing them here would give away too much of the plot.
Summary: The kitchen burglaries by the ScAvengers seemed innocent at first; a mere teenage prank. But then we realised they might have a far more sinister meaning.
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: I owe it to my side-kick to publish this story, and I'm deeply grateful to our Moderator, Professor Chambliss, for granting me the opportunity to do so. Her help and suggestions during the writing stage were invaluable.
“I hope you won’t be too disappointed by the meagre entertainments of La Caunette, after this wild swirl of society events,” said Severus as we withdrew to the sitting area. We had just finished dinner – a very good one, for Severus is an accomplished cook who knows how to make the most of the produce of the French countryside.
I had arrived late that afternoon for my annual summer holiday visit. I had unpacked and refreshed myself while Severus put the final touches to the meal, and we had spent a leisurely few hours eating and chatting. Among other things I had told him I had attended a birthday party for Elphias Doge and a lunch with the Weasley family. Hardly a swirl of society events, but to Severus, who still relishes the total absence of any social life, it might seem so.
“I love staying in La Caunette, and you know it,” I said. “I’m not a social butterfly who needs daily ‘entertainments’. But I admit the Weasley lunch was lovely, even though Sybill was present.”
“Sybill? At a Weasley family gathering?” asked Severus with understandable surprise. I had been surprised to see her there myself.
“Sybill. Annoying as ever. Fortunately there were enough people present to dilute her ramblings somewhat. And it made me enjoy her retirement all the more. Like a cold,” I said.
“Like a cold? I don’t understand.”
“Well, you know what it’s like: only when you have a cold do you fully appreciate the pleasure of breathing normally through your nose. You don’t appreciate that at all when you’re well. It’s the same with Sybill. When she was around, she was most annoying. Even though in the last few years she taught so few classes that she was hardly a professional bother any more, the mere sight of her still set my teeth on edge. This meeting made me feel the full bliss of her retirement. And other than that it was a lovely party.”
“Still, you must tell me all about Annoying Sybill,” grinned Severus. “I’ll get us both a nightcap.”
“Severus!” I said, sternly. “Are you turning into a gossip?”
“Perish the thought,” he said, pouring two glasses of Calvados. “I’m merely turning into the kind of good friend who will let you talk freely of a problem. So that you can get it off your chest and feel the better for it. As your host, I should provide a spiritual digestive just as much as an alcoholic one.” And he put my glass on a side table with one of his elegant little bows. Severus Snape, a Slytherin and a gentleman.
“Very well, then,” I said. “I’ll tell you the whole business. Don’t blame me if you get nightmares.”
And that, with the benefit of hindsight, was the starting point of The Business of Ferrets.
*+*+*+*
Before I launch into Sybill’s narrative, I must explain about the Weasley’s holiday arrangements. They have everything to do with this case.
For years, with the children growing up and the school fees and everything, Molly and Arthur didn’t have any holiday arrangements to speak of. Except for that one occasion when they all went to Egypt after winning a prize in the lottery. Many people thought it foolish of them to spend so much on a vacation when they were perpetually stretched for money. But all the young Weasleys still speak of that glorious time, and I think the memory their parents gave them was worth more than new schoolbooks and expensive clothes.
But now that all the children have left home, things are much easier for Molly and Arthur. And once again they have managed to come up with the very thing that will create wonderful memories for their little tribe. They have bought an old farmhouse in Wiltshire near Stonehenge.
The whole family helped with the restoration, and every summer Arthur and Molly go down for a month. All their children visit them, some for just a few days, others for longer. Occasionally grandchildren stay while their parents go off on a few days together. And there is usually one week when everyone is present. The whole scheme works wonderfully well.
The lunch to which I was invited was one in the week where everyone was present. Molly had set up two large tables in the garden, one for us older people, and one for the youngsters. It was a very informal affair, with gingham table clothes and cheerful blue Cornishware. Molly served large plates of cold ham and cold chicken, salads, bread rolls, and pitchers of cider, ale, and lemonade. It was just the sort of thing they will remember later. Granny’s summer lunches.
The only thing I would personally consider a downside of that idyllic spot, is that Sybill has bought a small property that is less than a ten minutes’ walk away – my little old-lady’s bolt-hole, as she coyly refers to it, expecting her listeners to object to the ‘old’ part. It was the attraction of Stonehenge that drew her to the area, of course.
But Molly assured me Sybill was a very pleasant neighbour. The young girls especially were very taken with her, and they loved the small tea parties to which Sybill occasionally invited them. I could readily believe it – at Hogwarts, too, there were always several girls who had crushes on Sybill. They admired her prophecies, her highly unusual classroom, and her … well, I suppose one could call it ‘artistic looks’.
On more than one occasion I have had to tell a girl that imitation is not always the sincerest form of flattery.
So Sybill, too, was invited to the family gathering. And for the first half hour after her arrival, she managed to make herself the centre of attention. To give her her due, she did have a story to tell.
It seemed that her geriatric bolt-hole had been burgled. Sybill had been off on a walk in the countryside, or, as she put it, “a spiritual path of meditation and contemplation which one so needs to restore the tranquillity of the Inner Eye”.
Upon her return, the mere physical eye had not noticed anything amiss, until she stepped into her kitchen to make tea. There she saw that her freshly-baked shortbread, which she’d left cooling on a rack, had gone missing. Someone had taken more than half of it – but not all, funnily enough.
At first Sybill thought one of the Weasley children had been very naughty. A not entirely inconceivable idea.
But then she found that something else was missing, too. It was a highly spiritual object as Sybill called it, a framed drawing she had made herself.
Sybill’s doodle seemed to have been a Mandala. No surprise there. She had used the colours of all four elements, “to unite the powers of Earth, Wind, Fire, and Water in a magical allegiance of protection.” And the need for this so-called magical allegiance was explained as well. Not that some good protective wards wouldn’t have worked better.
Sybill had added the wordings of her “two strongest, most important predictions. Folded into the design of the Mandala, protected by its sacred form, unreadable to the uninitiated.”
Well, hardly unreadable. Young Rose told me later that “Auntie Sybill really, really is a Seer, never mind what Mummy says, because she did predict that Uncle Harry was the Chosen One, and it was all in the Mandala that has been stolen. And another prediction, too. About a Servant and a Master.” But Rose had not managed to find out the exact wording of that one. “Everyone knows the prediction about Uncle Harry, of course. So I really, really wanted to read the other one, and I would have cracked it, if only it weren’t gone.”
She would, too. A very clever little girl. She may not see eye to eye with Hermione where Sybill’s predictions are concerned, but she is very much a chip of the old block. It will be a pleasure to have her at Hogwarts in a few years’ time.
Anyhow, the Mandala and the shortbread had both gone. And the truly interesting part was that the thieves had signed their crime. On the wire rack Sybill had found a little scrap of parchment with the inscription The ScAvengers were here!.
“And then Sybill kept prattling about the ScAvengers, and how the Dark Arts must be involved, for they only attack the Great Heroes of the Resistance, of which she is one. Or so she claims. But Harry soon put a stop to that, thank heavens,” I told Severus, and took another sip of my Calva.
“The scavengers? Who are they, and why does it involve the Dark Arts? And Potter?” asked Severus.
I should have realized that he knew nothing about the ScAvengers. He doesn’t read the Daily Prophet, other than the articles I send him occasionally.
“The ScAvengers,” I corrected, and explained how they write their name. “They’re this year’s Summer Craze. It isn’t important – some pranksters, I dare say. But the Prophet makes much of it.
“So far there have been three burglaries, and the pattern is always the same. They steal food and what one might call a souvenir.
“The first victim was Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron. One morning he found that half a fruitcake was missing – a left-over from Elphias’s birthday bash, actually. There was this same note that the ScAvengers had been there. He didn’t think much of it – a childish prank, he assumed. But then he noticed that a picture was taken as well. It was a framed picture of Harry, taken when Ron and he gave a party at the Leaky to celebrate passing the Auror Entrance Exam.
“Tom was proud of that picture. You know how he tells everyone that Harry first entered the Wizarding World through his pub?”
“I certainly know. Young Harry Potter Claimed His Inheritance Right Here In My Pub. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times,” said Severus. “Everyone who goes to the Leaky was subjected to it at some point. And now you’re telling me his customers couldn’t have a quiet pint without Potter glaring at them? If these ScAvengers put an end to that nonsense, I like them already.”
“Quite,” I said. Where Harry is concerned, Severus has a chip on his shoulder the size of a house, and there’s no point in arguing.
“The second case was more serious. Food-wise it was just the better part of a batch of flapjacks, but the burglary was at the Weasleys’ house, and their clock was stolen. You remember the clock? The one with the family names on it that told Molly and Arthur where everyone was? Now, that clock was valuable.
“And Sybill is the third one. But they seem back to taking just food and a souvenir.”
“I see,” said Severus. “And your idea is it’s a series of pranks? Perhaps a group of young wizards who dare each other?”
“Exactly,” I said. “I think it’s some sort of secret society – a teenage one, you know. They call themselves the ScAvengers, and new members have to steal food for the group, as well as a souvenir. To prove that they didn’t just buy the food, but actually broke in somewhere.”
“And now they do realize the clock’s value, but they can’t return it, or it would land them in a pretty pickle,” said Severus, quick on the uptake as ever. “You should investigate, you know. The Case of the Cake Criminals. Only, that would make a second alliteration with C’s. The Case of the Ferocious Food Frauds, perhaps?”
I glared at him. I have solved only one case that has a – much regretted – alliteration in the title, and Severus knows perfectly well why I couldn’t call it The Case of the Red Herring. He disagrees, of course, and thinks it would have done Lucius all the good in the world. Ever since I told him the tale, he gleefully refers to his old ally as Kipper Malfoy.
“If they had continued with valuable objects like the clock, I would expect Mundungus to be behind it. And you know you wouldn’t enjoy another detective story where Mundungus has dunnit.
“But this group of youngsters? They are very wrong, of course. But I can see how it happened. What they are doing here is just one step up from a kitchen raid at Hogwarts in their eyes. I have wondered, briefly, whether we shouldn’t be sterner on those. Because in a way they are right: it is just one small step up. Technically, a kitchen raid is theft, too.
“On second thoughts, however, I do still think a kitchen raid is the kind of prank most of us have played – it’s harmless fun, it’s a bonding activity. Remember that time we went down for a snack and heard those Hufflepuffs?”
“I certainly do,” said Severus. “And I still think the way you Transfigured and slid under the cupboard, in one smooth move, is one of the neatest actions I’ve ever seen. My leap into that storage room was much more undignified.”
“But you could stand up straight,” I said morosely. That kitchen floor had been cold, the space under the cupboard too low for comfort, and Pomona’s little colony of badgers had selected and prepared their food at leisure. They could afford to: I heard some excellent, whispered protective wards, and a very good muffled Silencio. Never underestimate badgers. They’re not slow; they’re well-prepared and methodical.
“But I see your point about the pranksters,” Severus said. “They do feel it’s just a small step up. They truly don’t realize the enormous invasion of privacy that is a burglary. And the clock was clearly a mistake. Someone wanted to do something very impressive, and now they don’t know how to solve it.”
“If I find out that a group of Hogwarts students is behind it,” I said, “the difference between a kitchen raid and burglary will be made perfectly clear. But I’m not going to spend my precious holiday chasing them.
“Of course, you might take up the case yourself, you know. You would be good at detecting. And you could always ask me for advice.”
Now it was Severus’s turn to glare. “I dare say I might manage on my own,” he said. “I could do a halfway decent Sherlock Holmes, I think. And you’d make a lovely Watsonette.”
Severus may be more fortunate in his looks, but he is every bit as conceited as Hercule Poirot, and that’s the fictional detective he should emulate. He could pull off the French, too. It’s a shame no-one in their right mind will mistake him for a hairdresser.
In the end we spent a pleasurable few minutes listing possible other suspects. Severus suggested Rita Skeeter – if the story won’t come to the reporter, the reporter must make the story. I suggested Augusta Longbottom – a glutton, and she may well think that Neville has lived in Harry’s shadow for long enough and that removing Harry’s portrait from public places would change this. These are both delusional notions, but, as her long-suffering former prefect knows, common sense is not Augusta’s strongest point. And she always was a complete madcap.
We had a good laugh over it before we retired.
*+*+*+*
The next morning Severus was quiet and thoughtful. More so than usual. I was about to ask him whether there was anything bothering him, but he must have read my face before I could utter the words, for he at once made an effort to be more genial.
Severus and I have known each other for long enough to bear with the other’s moods, so when he asked me about my plans for the day I told him I would take a stroll in the village, and then perhaps spend some time in the garden with a book. That way he could offer to join me or remain alone, as he wished.
After all, we had spoken extensively of the Wizarding world the night before. While Severus’s exile was his own choice, and mostly to his liking, it would be quite understandable that all these stories of people he used to know would turn him silent and pensive. Not so much because he missed anyone, but because there was so little to miss. When had Severus ever been a part of friendly, informal gatherings?
Perhaps the only time he truly felt part of a group of friends was during those few years when, as a very young man, he had embraced Voldemort’s ideas wholeheartedly. I remember that once, at a Grimmauld Place meeting, Sirius made a scathing remark about his brother Regulus, and Severus nearly bit his head off. Albus calmed them down, as always. The reason I have remembered this particular quarrel was the look in Severus’s eyes when he said, gruffly, by way of explanation, “Reg and I were friends, once.”
If Severus wanted some privacy that morning, he should have it. I had a lovely little stroll in the village, and when I returned I wrote a thank-you note to Molly Weasley. I had left for France the day after her luncheon party, and I hadn’t had time yet. Very remiss of me, of course, and I felt bad about my neglect.
I asked Severus whether it would bother him to have his owl carry the letter. Severus had bought Socrates when we had resumed our friendship, in order to correspond with me. He said it wouldn’t be a problem at all, since the owl could hardly give information on its owner and his whereabouts.
So I sent off the letter, we had a light lunch, and Severus joined me with a book of his own. I could see that he felt more cheerful than that morning, and by the time we had a pre-dinner drink he was quite his old self.
The next day was uneventful but very pleasant. But on the third morning of my stay with Severus, his owl returned with a letter that changed the entire course of my holiday.
*+*+*+*
“Pleasant news?” asked Severus as I perused Molly’s note over breakfast.
“They’re all very well,” I said. “It seems that Ginny and Bill have left with their families, and Molly feels quite bereaved with only Charlie and his partner and Percy and Ron with their offspring to look after.”
We threw each other an understanding look. Only Charlie, Paul, and Percy’s and Ron’s tribes. Sweet Merlin.
There was some trivial information on the children – how Bill and Fleur would go to France to visit Fleur’s parents, and Harry and Ginny would take Teddy Lupin along on their family trip on a long boat. Harry liked doing Muggle things during his holidays. And he thought his children should learn to appreciate the Muggles and their world, too, but he was clever enough to turn these lessons into adventures rather than sermons.
The whole group had set off for Diagon Alley, so that the women could get most of the Hogwarts shopping done before the August rush. Sensible of them, I thought.
Naturally, these domestic details wouldn’t interest Severus. But the last part of the letter made me exclaim.
“The ScAvengers have been busy again,” I told him. “This time it’s Florean Fortescue’s.”
“Food-wise one can’t fault their taste,” he said. “What did they take this time? One of those ghastly Italian harbour paintings – if Florean still has those?”
I confirmed the presence of the paintings. Of all of them, for that was not what the thieves had taken. “You know Florean always had a picture of his place, with the awning down and a full terrace?”
Severus said he remembered and wondered why anyone who had made the choice to go to Florean’s would need a reminder on the wall that they were, indeed, at Florean’s.
I quite agreed with him. “But these days,” I told him, “the picture serves another purpose: it shows that Harry Potter is an old customer.”
“Merlin forbid!” exclaimed Severus. “Is all of the Wizarding world infested with Potter’s image? What’s Florean’s claim to fame?”
“Harry stayed a few days in Diagon Alley one August. At the start of the Lupin Year, if I remember correctly. During those days he spent quite a lot of time at Florean’s. He was only fourteen, and Florean fed him an unlimited supply of sundaes. And helped him with his homework, or so he claims. It’s quite possible, too. Florean had an ‘Outstanding’ for Magical History. One of the very few students who stayed awake often enough to achieve such results. And Harry could use all the help he could get with that subject.”
“With most subjects,” said Severus. “But that’s beside the point.”
It was. Trust Severus to make the remark, regardless. He really can be annoying sometimes. “Do you want to hear the rest of the details?” I asked pointedly. He nodded.
“The ScAvengers have left their usual note. The picture is gone, frame and all. And they seem to have had quite a lot of ice cream. They probably used the cardboard goblets for take-away customers. It seems they also used one of his ice scoops to fill the goblets, and they left it on the draining board, well-rinsed.”
“This news,” said Severus, “is ominous.” And he gave his croissant the kind of glare that, once upon a time, would have wilted an entire classroom.
Then he looked up and said, “Minerva …” He stared at his croissant again. I waited.
“Minerva,” he continued, “I think there is a case to investigate here. A more serious one than your previous successes, I’m afraid. I’ve been thinking about it for some time now. May I present the facts, as I see them?”
I nodded and poured us both a fresh cup of coffee. I must admit that I was very curious. Severus had told me once that he would make a better side-kick than Kipper Malfoy, and that perhaps one day we would investigate a case together. Was he trying to turn this matter into more than it actually was? Yet Severus wouldn’t use the word serious lightly where crime was involved.
“The way I see it,” Severus began, “we now have four ScAvenger burglaries. In all four cases, food was taken, and in all four cases, it was cakes or sweets. Not proper mealtime food, I mean. But the kind of snacks that fit in very well with the notion of a childish prank. So does the ScAvenger note, and it explains why they call themselves the scavengers: it’s what they do. They scavenge.
“There is, however, another explanation that might be possible. The thieves may steal food because they need it – because they can’t buy it.”
“But why didn’t they take it all, then?” I asked. “They left some of the shortbread. And they didn’t take all the food in the Leaky Cauldron either. If they are that desperate, surely they would take all and save some to eat later?”
“Quite,” said Severus. “That is odd, and it’s a problem we’ll have to discuss further. But here’s the second part. In three out of four cases, the stolen object has a reference to Potter. And remember that the ScAvengers very much stress the ‘avenger’ part of their name, too.
“Now, what kind of people could you think of who might have difficulties buying food, and who might want to avenge something by removing Potter artefacts from display?”
I stared at Severus in dismay.
“Oh, sweet Merlin, no,” I finally said. It was clear what he meant. Death-Eaters.
“And the stealing of food would mean they are still on the Ministry’s Wanted list and can’t buy from shops for that reason,” I said.
“That’s what I thought,” said Severus. “They could go to Muggle shops, of course. But …”
“Most of them are quite unfamiliar with the Muggle world,” I finished his sentence. We often knew what the other one was thinking.
Often.
But not always.
For his next remark rendered me speechless for longer than I have ever been.
“Minerva,” Severus said, “you may think I’m crazy. Maybe I am. But … believe me, I’ve really given this much thought and … are you absolutely certain that Peter Pettigrew is dead?”
*+*+*+*
“Pettigrew? Peter Pettigrew? You think Peter Pettigrew is behind this?” I said finally. It seemed outrageous – impossible. “But … he died at Malfoy Manor. Harry saw it. And Ron. And others, probably.”
“On the first occasion of his death, a whole crowd of wizards and Muggles saw it,” said Severus. “Did Potter tell you the way he died?”
“No,” I said. “I read he was dead – that Harry had seen it. It was on the Death Lists. You know Shacklebolt ordered the compilation of those lists. To make sure who was dead and who was missing. To establish which Death Eaters might still be alive and hiding. Pettigrew’s name was on the list – witnesses of his death were Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. But surely … he died at Malfoy Manor. Weren’t you there? There must have been others – Death Eaters … And even if … surely he wouldn’t show up now to steal cakes and Potter artefacts?”
“I was knocked sideways by the thought myself,” said Severus. “You noticed – the first morning you were here. I didn’t want to talk about it then. I thought it was insane – the result of a nightmare, induced by too much food and talk of the Wizarding world. Remember you said not to blame you if your story gave me nightmares? I didn’t mean to. I thought it was silly, and I was annoyed at how the silliness affected me.
“But if there is even the smallest possibility that I’m right … “
“What makes you think he might be alive?” I asked. The idea seemed preposterous.
“I’ll give you my reasoning in a moment,” said Severus. “But if I am right, do you agree that we need to investigate the matter?”
“Yes,” I said, without hesitation. “If he’s alive, there is a case – a serious one. But before we start hexing from the hip, we had better take a good look at the situation.”
“Of course,” said Severus, and I could see he was relieved I didn’t dismiss his ideas outright. As if I would ever dismiss Severus Snape’s opinions on crime or the Dark Arts.
“I know I’m a good spy,” Severus continued. “But – this may surprise you – I’ve never set up an independent investigation of my own. I’ve always worked on specific missions. And there was never much doubt who did it, in those days. You have done detective work. Where do we start?”
“We establish the facts, to see whether there is a case in the first place” I said. “Do you have a notebook we can use?”
Severus fetched a Muggle notebook and a ballpoint. “Will this do?” he asked.
I nodded, opened the book, wrote The ScAvengers at the top of the first page, and underlined the words. Severus smiled. “Very methodical,” he said.
“And now, facts,” I said. “The first thing we must establish is whether there is a chance that Pettigrew is still alive. Do you realize this is my second case where the corpse may spring to life in the early chapters?”
We briefly smiled at each other. Not because we didn’t think the situation serious enough – it’s just that after so many years in the Order together we had our own way of working. Fighting the Dark Arts with Dark Humour Albus had once called it.
“That will be a wonderful addition to your entry in Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century,” said Severus. “In addition to her ground-breaking work in Transfiguration and her Headship of Hogwarts, Professor Minerva McGonagall changed the British Detective Novel forever. “ He grinned.
“Is there a special name for your sort of cases?” he asked. “It’s always better to be specific, as we’ve told our students endlessly. I know the ‘hard-boiled’ and the ‘thriller’ but is there a word for what you do? Or is this Agatha Christie of yours a stand-alone?”
“She’s not, and it’s called a cosy mystery,” I said. Reluctantly, for I knew Severus would have a field day with that one. And sure enough, a delighted grin spread over his face.
“A cosy mystery? How utterly enchanting. I’m honoured to be the side-kick in a cosy mystery. I’ll endeavour to give satisfaction. “
“We’ll give it a try,” I said. “Whatever doubts I may have about your capacity for cosiness, I will set them aside. I trust you’ll take to your new part with panache. How about a fresh pot of coffee to start with?”
Severus nodded and fetched the coffee. And a plate of delectable madeleines. “See?” he said. “I can out-cosy Kipper Malfoy any day.”
And, strengthened by coffee and madeleines, we set to work in earnest. The Death of Peter Pettigrew – Severus Snape’s testimony I wrote.
*+*+*+*
The Death of Peter Pettigrew – Severus Snape’s testimony
I went to Malfoy Manor in the early hours of 28th March, 1998. I had received an urgent summons from Voldemort. Upon my arrival, I learned that this had to do with the capture and subsequent escape of Potter and various others. Voldemort wanted me to take certain measures regarding valuable objects at Hogwarts – that part of our discussion is not relevant for this case.
Before we started our conversation – held in private at Voldemort’s insistence – he informed me that Pettigrew had died. I will render the conversation as precisely as possible.
Voldemort said, “You will be interested to hear that your faithful servant is no more.”
“Pettigrew is dead?” I asked. “How did that happen, My Lord?”
[Voldemort had ordered Pettigrew to act as my servant at one point – hence his use of that word. I wanted to find out whether Potter had killed him after all. Potter had once, rather grandly, spared Pettigrew’s life. I was curious to know his present state of mind –had he been involved in Pettigrew’s death?]
It was Bellatrix Lestrange who answered. “The unworthy rat betrayed Our Master!” she screamed. “He helped Potter! So he died a traitor’s death. The silver hand Our Master so graciously gave him has strangled him. The Master’s Hand punished the traitor!”
I looked at Voldemort, and he nodded. “Pettigrew was foolish,” he said. “And unworthy. Unlike you, my dear Severus.”
He then gave me a sign to follow him, and we had our further discussion. Pettigrew’s death was spoken of no more, but I learned later that Potter and Weasley were present when it happened. They escaped from the dungeon and rescued Hermione Granger, who had been tortured upstairs.
It is important to note that at the time of Pettigrew’s alleged death, Potter and Weasley were greatly distressed by Miss Granger’s screams. Their only interest was to save her.
This leads to the following facts:
Pettigrew died by his own hand.
The two witnesses saw him fall down. His face was purple, his eyes protruded, and he looked like someone who was strangled. The witnesses reported this to Kingsley Shacklebolt.
It is not certain that Weasley and Potter ever actually witnessed a strangulation before or are familiar with the death struggle of a strangled person.
For some time after that – reports vary from several minutes to nearly half an hour – no-one entered the cellar as a fight was going on upstairs, during which Potter and company managed to escape. Then Greyback was sent down to check on the other prisoners. He reported that they were gone as well and that Pettigrew was dead. Voldemort told him to dispose of the body.
This means there was some time in which Pettigrew could Transfigure an object to look like his dead body – a dead rat or mouse, brought for the purpose, suggests itself– and could disappear in his Animagus form.
*+*+*+*
I finished my notes and looked at Severus. “But he died by Voldemort’s hand,” I said. “Voldemort put a spell on Pettigrew’s hand – are you saying his spell didn’t work properly?” It seemed unlikely. Voldemort, despicable though he was, was a very powerful wizard. I don’t think it would be impossible to break a spell he had cast, but it would take time. A man who is being strangled does not have time. Unless …
“Was the existence of this spell known to others?” I asked. “Did Pettigrew know?”
“We didn’t,” said Severus. “None of us knew, and everyone was impressed. It is a very difficult form of Dark Magic. I still remember the look on Narcissa’s face. The way she looked at Draco – she was terrified that he might be under some sort of spell, too. But I’m certain Pettigrew knew.”
“Do you know that for a fact?” I asked him. During my previous cases, I’ve learned that people often tell you something is a fact when it actually is only hearsay or surmise. Rosmerta, for instance, once described as a fact something she was told by Mundungus Fletcher. One can’t get more unreliable than that.
“It’s not a fact, no. But it makes sense,” said Severus. “Put yourself in Voldemort’s shoes. You never really trust anyone. To you, people are just instruments. In Pettigrew you have an instrument that is useful, for he is a very capable wizard. But you know he has betrayed people before. So you put a spell on his hand.
“And the reason you tell him about this spell is that he’ll be useful for longer when he knows. If he doesn’t know, he may decide to betray you and then he dies. This stops the betrayal – good – but the downside is, you now have a dead servant. If you tell him in advance, it will not just stop him from betraying you, it will stop him from even thinking about it. He will remain useful for much longer.”
It was a reasoning that chilled me to the core. Not because of the callousness and the complete disregard for human life. Not even because it was so clearly a psychopath’s view, a view that objectifies people.
What shocked me was the ease with which Severus put himself in Voldemort’s shoes. Everyone knows that the point of a spy is to gather information, and that he must work with despicable people to do so. But this was the first time I fully realised that Severus had not just worked for Voldemort – he had spent years getting under his skin, seeing the world through his eyes, living in that distorted mind. If I had had to do that, would I ever feel clean again? Or would I always feel tainted by the psychopath’s view? It is an experience that sets one apart from other people. No wonder Severus craved the loneliness of La Caunette.
Severus saw how shocked I was, but he attributed it merely to the Pettigrew story. For him, getting under Voldemort’s skin was really just part of the job. “You agree with me, then?” he asked. “That Pettigrew was capable enough to work out a counter-spell? That’s the one part that kept me wondering. He was good, I know that. But was he good enough? You had him as a student; what do you think?”
I nodded. Pettigrew had been a very good student. Not the kind that has flashes of brilliant insight, but he had a very logical mind and was good at working things out. And he thought before he acted. Give him a year and he could work out a way to counter the spell and test it without Voldemort realising what was going on.
All this, of course, meant that Severus might well be right about Pettigrew being alive. Everything fitted. I remembered the case of Mrs Norris’s attacker – there everything fitted with Lucius being guilty, except for that one, very important part: motive. Unfortunately, in Pettigrew’s case, even the lack of a motive fitted.
“You’re right, it fits. The death was a high-risk performance that demanded a great deal of determination,” I said. “The determination to keep strangling oneself – against the urge to draw breath. But we know Pettigrew has determination. It’s how he staged his death the first time. And living as a rat for a decade demanded determination, as well.
“And somehow the lack of a motive fits, too. For ten years no-one thought Pettigrew could possibly betray Potter. No-one could think of a reason. Now we know he was Voldemort’s man. And he seems to have been Voldemort’s man with the same dedication he once gave his Hogwarts friends. He betrayed them. Did he betray Voldemort in the end?”
“And he did lie low for over a decade before,” Severus nodded. “It all does fit in. We may still be wrong – I may still be wrong. But it’s possible.”
I thought for a moment. “What I suggest,” I finally said, “is that we take a break here. Go someplace. So that we can both have a good think on whether the burglaries fit in as well. Then we can compare notes. That way we don’t influence each other. If we both reach the same conclusions … well, we’ll see what to do next, then.”
Severus agreed with the plan at once. I left the choice of our destination to him, since he knew the region very well. And he knows me. Whenever we go on an outing, Severus finds not just the sort of place I like visiting, but one that suits my mood exactly.
He didn’t disappoint me this time, either. He took us to an old abbey – the Abbaye de Fontfroide– and it was the perfect spot, peaceful and quiet. We were practically the only visitors, and the soothing lines of the Cistercian architecture that I love so much worked their usual magic. We sat on a bench in the cloister for at least an hour, each working out our own thoughts.
There are a great many dear friends in my life that I can talk with and laugh with – and sometimes even cry with – but Severus is the one with whom I can be quiet for hours. I am still very glad I solved the Case of the Living Portrait.
In the end we Apparated back to La Caunette, with a stop at a local supermarket to pick up a ready-cooked meal. Neither Severus nor I felt inclined to cook.
While the meal took care of itself, I fetched us both a drink, and then we sat down on the little terrace. We lifted our glasses to each other.
“Your turn,” said Severus.
Part 2
minerva_fest. And there’s a very special surprise for all of you: the amazing jodel_from_aol has turned the Minerva McGonagall, Spinster Detective stories into one of her great Red Hen Publications projects. So now there is a virtual book, downloadable (not to kindle, alas, but to your PC), which has a cover, beautiful page lay-outs, and illustrations. I can barely contain myself.
It looks absolutely amazing, and I'm tickled pink she was interested in my stories.
Go check it out at Red Hen Publications
Title: Minerva McGonagall and the Business of Ferrets
Prompt #: Minerva was not prompted to write this story. One might say she was driven.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 17K
Characters and/or Pairings: Minerva, Severus Snape, and assorted others. Listing them here would give away too much of the plot.
Summary: The kitchen burglaries by the ScAvengers seemed innocent at first; a mere teenage prank. But then Minerva and Severus realised they might have a far more sinister meaning.
Warnings: None
Author's Notes:
kellychambliss did her usual magic as a beta and made this story so much better, as always. “I hope you won’t be too disappointed by the meagre entertainments of La Caunette, after this wild swirl of society events,” said Severus as we withdrew to the sitting area. We had just finished dinner – a very good one, for Severus is an accomplished cook who knows how to make the most of the produce of the French countryside.
I had arrived late that afternoon for my annual summer holiday visit. I had unpacked and refreshed myself while Severus put the final touches to the meal, and we had spent a leisurely few hours eating and chatting. Among other things I had told him I had attended a birthday party for Elphias Doge and a lunch with the Weasley family. Hardly a swirl of society events, but to Severus, who still relishes the total absence of any social life, it might seem so.
“I love staying in La Caunette, and you know it,” I said. “I’m not a social butterfly who needs daily ‘entertainments’. But I admit the Weasley lunch was lovely, even though Sybill was present.”
“Sybill? At a Weasley family gathering?” asked Severus with understandable surprise. I had been surprised to see her there myself.
“Sybill. Annoying as ever. Fortunately there were enough people present to dilute her ramblings somewhat. And it made me enjoy her retirement all the more. Like a cold,” I said.
“Like a cold? I don’t understand.”
“Well, you know what it’s like: only when you have a cold do you fully appreciate the pleasure of breathing normally through your nose. You don’t appreciate that at all when you’re well. It’s the same with Sybill. When she was around, she was most annoying. Even though in the last few years she taught so few classes that she was hardly a professional bother any more, the mere sight of her still set my teeth on edge. This meeting made me feel the full bliss of her retirement. And other than that it was a lovely party.”
“Still, you must tell me all about Annoying Sybill,” grinned Severus. “I’ll get us both a nightcap.”
“Severus!” I said, sternly. “Are you turning into a gossip?”
“Perish the thought,” he said, pouring two glasses of Calvados. “I’m merely turning into the kind of good friend who will let you talk freely of a problem. So that you can get it off your chest and feel the better for it. As your host, I should provide a spiritual digestive just as much as an alcoholic one.” And he put my glass on a side table with one of his elegant little bows. Severus Snape, a Slytherin and a gentleman.
“Very well, then,” I said. “I’ll tell you the whole business. Don’t blame me if you get nightmares.”
And that, with the benefit of hindsight, was the starting point of The Business of Ferrets.
*+*+*+*
Before I launch into Sybill’s narrative, I must explain about the Weasley’s holiday arrangements. They have everything to do with this case.
For years, with the children growing up and the school fees and everything, Molly and Arthur didn’t have any holiday arrangements to speak of. Except for that one occasion when they all went to Egypt after winning a prize in the lottery. Many people thought it foolish of them to spend so much on a vacation
http://www.redhen-publications.com/detective.html
Title: Minerva McGonagall and the Business of Ferrets
Prompt #: I was not prompted to write this story. One might say I was driven.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 17K
Characters and/or Pairings: Severus Snape, myself, and assorted others. Listing them here would give away too much of the plot.
Summary: The kitchen burglaries by the ScAvengers seemed innocent at first; a mere teenage prank. But then we realised they might have a far more sinister meaning.
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: I owe it to my side-kick to publish this story, and I'm deeply grateful to our Moderator, Professor Chambliss, for granting me the opportunity to do so. Her help and suggestions during the writing stage were invaluable.
“I hope you won’t be too disappointed by the meagre entertainments of La Caunette, after this wild swirl of society events,” said Severus as we withdrew to the sitting area. We had just finished dinner – a very good one, for Severus is an accomplished cook who knows how to make the most of the produce of the French countryside.
I had arrived late that afternoon for my annual summer holiday visit. I had unpacked and refreshed myself while Severus put the final touches to the meal, and we had spent a leisurely few hours eating and chatting. Among other things I had told him I had attended a birthday party for Elphias Doge and a lunch with the Weasley family. Hardly a swirl of society events, but to Severus, who still relishes the total absence of any social life, it might seem so.
“I love staying in La Caunette, and you know it,” I said. “I’m not a social butterfly who needs daily ‘entertainments’. But I admit the Weasley lunch was lovely, even though Sybill was present.”
“Sybill? At a Weasley family gathering?” asked Severus with understandable surprise. I had been surprised to see her there myself.
“Sybill. Annoying as ever. Fortunately there were enough people present to dilute her ramblings somewhat. And it made me enjoy her retirement all the more. Like a cold,” I said.
“Like a cold? I don’t understand.”
“Well, you know what it’s like: only when you have a cold do you fully appreciate the pleasure of breathing normally through your nose. You don’t appreciate that at all when you’re well. It’s the same with Sybill. When she was around, she was most annoying. Even though in the last few years she taught so few classes that she was hardly a professional bother any more, the mere sight of her still set my teeth on edge. This meeting made me feel the full bliss of her retirement. And other than that it was a lovely party.”
“Still, you must tell me all about Annoying Sybill,” grinned Severus. “I’ll get us both a nightcap.”
“Severus!” I said, sternly. “Are you turning into a gossip?”
“Perish the thought,” he said, pouring two glasses of Calvados. “I’m merely turning into the kind of good friend who will let you talk freely of a problem. So that you can get it off your chest and feel the better for it. As your host, I should provide a spiritual digestive just as much as an alcoholic one.” And he put my glass on a side table with one of his elegant little bows. Severus Snape, a Slytherin and a gentleman.
“Very well, then,” I said. “I’ll tell you the whole business. Don’t blame me if you get nightmares.”
And that, with the benefit of hindsight, was the starting point of The Business of Ferrets.
*+*+*+*
Before I launch into Sybill’s narrative, I must explain about the Weasley’s holiday arrangements. They have everything to do with this case.
For years, with the children growing up and the school fees and everything, Molly and Arthur didn’t have any holiday arrangements to speak of. Except for that one occasion when they all went to Egypt after winning a prize in the lottery. Many people thought it foolish of them to spend so much on a vacation when they were perpetually stretched for money. But all the young Weasleys still speak of that glorious time, and I think the memory their parents gave them was worth more than new schoolbooks and expensive clothes.
But now that all the children have left home, things are much easier for Molly and Arthur. And once again they have managed to come up with the very thing that will create wonderful memories for their little tribe. They have bought an old farmhouse in Wiltshire near Stonehenge.
The whole family helped with the restoration, and every summer Arthur and Molly go down for a month. All their children visit them, some for just a few days, others for longer. Occasionally grandchildren stay while their parents go off on a few days together. And there is usually one week when everyone is present. The whole scheme works wonderfully well.
The lunch to which I was invited was one in the week where everyone was present. Molly had set up two large tables in the garden, one for us older people, and one for the youngsters. It was a very informal affair, with gingham table clothes and cheerful blue Cornishware. Molly served large plates of cold ham and cold chicken, salads, bread rolls, and pitchers of cider, ale, and lemonade. It was just the sort of thing they will remember later. Granny’s summer lunches.
The only thing I would personally consider a downside of that idyllic spot, is that Sybill has bought a small property that is less than a ten minutes’ walk away – my little old-lady’s bolt-hole, as she coyly refers to it, expecting her listeners to object to the ‘old’ part. It was the attraction of Stonehenge that drew her to the area, of course.
But Molly assured me Sybill was a very pleasant neighbour. The young girls especially were very taken with her, and they loved the small tea parties to which Sybill occasionally invited them. I could readily believe it – at Hogwarts, too, there were always several girls who had crushes on Sybill. They admired her prophecies, her highly unusual classroom, and her … well, I suppose one could call it ‘artistic looks’.
On more than one occasion I have had to tell a girl that imitation is not always the sincerest form of flattery.
So Sybill, too, was invited to the family gathering. And for the first half hour after her arrival, she managed to make herself the centre of attention. To give her her due, she did have a story to tell.
It seemed that her geriatric bolt-hole had been burgled. Sybill had been off on a walk in the countryside, or, as she put it, “a spiritual path of meditation and contemplation which one so needs to restore the tranquillity of the Inner Eye”.
Upon her return, the mere physical eye had not noticed anything amiss, until she stepped into her kitchen to make tea. There she saw that her freshly-baked shortbread, which she’d left cooling on a rack, had gone missing. Someone had taken more than half of it – but not all, funnily enough.
At first Sybill thought one of the Weasley children had been very naughty. A not entirely inconceivable idea.
But then she found that something else was missing, too. It was a highly spiritual object as Sybill called it, a framed drawing she had made herself.
Sybill’s doodle seemed to have been a Mandala. No surprise there. She had used the colours of all four elements, “to unite the powers of Earth, Wind, Fire, and Water in a magical allegiance of protection.” And the need for this so-called magical allegiance was explained as well. Not that some good protective wards wouldn’t have worked better.
Sybill had added the wordings of her “two strongest, most important predictions. Folded into the design of the Mandala, protected by its sacred form, unreadable to the uninitiated.”
Well, hardly unreadable. Young Rose told me later that “Auntie Sybill really, really is a Seer, never mind what Mummy says, because she did predict that Uncle Harry was the Chosen One, and it was all in the Mandala that has been stolen. And another prediction, too. About a Servant and a Master.” But Rose had not managed to find out the exact wording of that one. “Everyone knows the prediction about Uncle Harry, of course. So I really, really wanted to read the other one, and I would have cracked it, if only it weren’t gone.”
She would, too. A very clever little girl. She may not see eye to eye with Hermione where Sybill’s predictions are concerned, but she is very much a chip of the old block. It will be a pleasure to have her at Hogwarts in a few years’ time.
Anyhow, the Mandala and the shortbread had both gone. And the truly interesting part was that the thieves had signed their crime. On the wire rack Sybill had found a little scrap of parchment with the inscription The ScAvengers were here!.
“And then Sybill kept prattling about the ScAvengers, and how the Dark Arts must be involved, for they only attack the Great Heroes of the Resistance, of which she is one. Or so she claims. But Harry soon put a stop to that, thank heavens,” I told Severus, and took another sip of my Calva.
“The scavengers? Who are they, and why does it involve the Dark Arts? And Potter?” asked Severus.
I should have realized that he knew nothing about the ScAvengers. He doesn’t read the Daily Prophet, other than the articles I send him occasionally.
“The ScAvengers,” I corrected, and explained how they write their name. “They’re this year’s Summer Craze. It isn’t important – some pranksters, I dare say. But the Prophet makes much of it.
“So far there have been three burglaries, and the pattern is always the same. They steal food and what one might call a souvenir.
“The first victim was Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron. One morning he found that half a fruitcake was missing – a left-over from Elphias’s birthday bash, actually. There was this same note that the ScAvengers had been there. He didn’t think much of it – a childish prank, he assumed. But then he noticed that a picture was taken as well. It was a framed picture of Harry, taken when Ron and he gave a party at the Leaky to celebrate passing the Auror Entrance Exam.
“Tom was proud of that picture. You know how he tells everyone that Harry first entered the Wizarding World through his pub?”
“I certainly know. Young Harry Potter Claimed His Inheritance Right Here In My Pub. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times,” said Severus. “Everyone who goes to the Leaky was subjected to it at some point. And now you’re telling me his customers couldn’t have a quiet pint without Potter glaring at them? If these ScAvengers put an end to that nonsense, I like them already.”
“Quite,” I said. Where Harry is concerned, Severus has a chip on his shoulder the size of a house, and there’s no point in arguing.
“The second case was more serious. Food-wise it was just the better part of a batch of flapjacks, but the burglary was at the Weasleys’ house, and their clock was stolen. You remember the clock? The one with the family names on it that told Molly and Arthur where everyone was? Now, that clock was valuable.
“And Sybill is the third one. But they seem back to taking just food and a souvenir.”
“I see,” said Severus. “And your idea is it’s a series of pranks? Perhaps a group of young wizards who dare each other?”
“Exactly,” I said. “I think it’s some sort of secret society – a teenage one, you know. They call themselves the ScAvengers, and new members have to steal food for the group, as well as a souvenir. To prove that they didn’t just buy the food, but actually broke in somewhere.”
“And now they do realize the clock’s value, but they can’t return it, or it would land them in a pretty pickle,” said Severus, quick on the uptake as ever. “You should investigate, you know. The Case of the Cake Criminals. Only, that would make a second alliteration with C’s. The Case of the Ferocious Food Frauds, perhaps?”
I glared at him. I have solved only one case that has a – much regretted – alliteration in the title, and Severus knows perfectly well why I couldn’t call it The Case of the Red Herring. He disagrees, of course, and thinks it would have done Lucius all the good in the world. Ever since I told him the tale, he gleefully refers to his old ally as Kipper Malfoy.
“If they had continued with valuable objects like the clock, I would expect Mundungus to be behind it. And you know you wouldn’t enjoy another detective story where Mundungus has dunnit.
“But this group of youngsters? They are very wrong, of course. But I can see how it happened. What they are doing here is just one step up from a kitchen raid at Hogwarts in their eyes. I have wondered, briefly, whether we shouldn’t be sterner on those. Because in a way they are right: it is just one small step up. Technically, a kitchen raid is theft, too.
“On second thoughts, however, I do still think a kitchen raid is the kind of prank most of us have played – it’s harmless fun, it’s a bonding activity. Remember that time we went down for a snack and heard those Hufflepuffs?”
“I certainly do,” said Severus. “And I still think the way you Transfigured and slid under the cupboard, in one smooth move, is one of the neatest actions I’ve ever seen. My leap into that storage room was much more undignified.”
“But you could stand up straight,” I said morosely. That kitchen floor had been cold, the space under the cupboard too low for comfort, and Pomona’s little colony of badgers had selected and prepared their food at leisure. They could afford to: I heard some excellent, whispered protective wards, and a very good muffled Silencio. Never underestimate badgers. They’re not slow; they’re well-prepared and methodical.
“But I see your point about the pranksters,” Severus said. “They do feel it’s just a small step up. They truly don’t realize the enormous invasion of privacy that is a burglary. And the clock was clearly a mistake. Someone wanted to do something very impressive, and now they don’t know how to solve it.”
“If I find out that a group of Hogwarts students is behind it,” I said, “the difference between a kitchen raid and burglary will be made perfectly clear. But I’m not going to spend my precious holiday chasing them.
“Of course, you might take up the case yourself, you know. You would be good at detecting. And you could always ask me for advice.”
Now it was Severus’s turn to glare. “I dare say I might manage on my own,” he said. “I could do a halfway decent Sherlock Holmes, I think. And you’d make a lovely Watsonette.”
Severus may be more fortunate in his looks, but he is every bit as conceited as Hercule Poirot, and that’s the fictional detective he should emulate. He could pull off the French, too. It’s a shame no-one in their right mind will mistake him for a hairdresser.
In the end we spent a pleasurable few minutes listing possible other suspects. Severus suggested Rita Skeeter – if the story won’t come to the reporter, the reporter must make the story. I suggested Augusta Longbottom – a glutton, and she may well think that Neville has lived in Harry’s shadow for long enough and that removing Harry’s portrait from public places would change this. These are both delusional notions, but, as her long-suffering former prefect knows, common sense is not Augusta’s strongest point. And she always was a complete madcap.
We had a good laugh over it before we retired.
*+*+*+*
The next morning Severus was quiet and thoughtful. More so than usual. I was about to ask him whether there was anything bothering him, but he must have read my face before I could utter the words, for he at once made an effort to be more genial.
Severus and I have known each other for long enough to bear with the other’s moods, so when he asked me about my plans for the day I told him I would take a stroll in the village, and then perhaps spend some time in the garden with a book. That way he could offer to join me or remain alone, as he wished.
After all, we had spoken extensively of the Wizarding world the night before. While Severus’s exile was his own choice, and mostly to his liking, it would be quite understandable that all these stories of people he used to know would turn him silent and pensive. Not so much because he missed anyone, but because there was so little to miss. When had Severus ever been a part of friendly, informal gatherings?
Perhaps the only time he truly felt part of a group of friends was during those few years when, as a very young man, he had embraced Voldemort’s ideas wholeheartedly. I remember that once, at a Grimmauld Place meeting, Sirius made a scathing remark about his brother Regulus, and Severus nearly bit his head off. Albus calmed them down, as always. The reason I have remembered this particular quarrel was the look in Severus’s eyes when he said, gruffly, by way of explanation, “Reg and I were friends, once.”
If Severus wanted some privacy that morning, he should have it. I had a lovely little stroll in the village, and when I returned I wrote a thank-you note to Molly Weasley. I had left for France the day after her luncheon party, and I hadn’t had time yet. Very remiss of me, of course, and I felt bad about my neglect.
I asked Severus whether it would bother him to have his owl carry the letter. Severus had bought Socrates when we had resumed our friendship, in order to correspond with me. He said it wouldn’t be a problem at all, since the owl could hardly give information on its owner and his whereabouts.
So I sent off the letter, we had a light lunch, and Severus joined me with a book of his own. I could see that he felt more cheerful than that morning, and by the time we had a pre-dinner drink he was quite his old self.
The next day was uneventful but very pleasant. But on the third morning of my stay with Severus, his owl returned with a letter that changed the entire course of my holiday.
*+*+*+*
“Pleasant news?” asked Severus as I perused Molly’s note over breakfast.
“They’re all very well,” I said. “It seems that Ginny and Bill have left with their families, and Molly feels quite bereaved with only Charlie and his partner and Percy and Ron with their offspring to look after.”
We threw each other an understanding look. Only Charlie, Paul, and Percy’s and Ron’s tribes. Sweet Merlin.
There was some trivial information on the children – how Bill and Fleur would go to France to visit Fleur’s parents, and Harry and Ginny would take Teddy Lupin along on their family trip on a long boat. Harry liked doing Muggle things during his holidays. And he thought his children should learn to appreciate the Muggles and their world, too, but he was clever enough to turn these lessons into adventures rather than sermons.
The whole group had set off for Diagon Alley, so that the women could get most of the Hogwarts shopping done before the August rush. Sensible of them, I thought.
Naturally, these domestic details wouldn’t interest Severus. But the last part of the letter made me exclaim.
“The ScAvengers have been busy again,” I told him. “This time it’s Florean Fortescue’s.”
“Food-wise one can’t fault their taste,” he said. “What did they take this time? One of those ghastly Italian harbour paintings – if Florean still has those?”
I confirmed the presence of the paintings. Of all of them, for that was not what the thieves had taken. “You know Florean always had a picture of his place, with the awning down and a full terrace?”
Severus said he remembered and wondered why anyone who had made the choice to go to Florean’s would need a reminder on the wall that they were, indeed, at Florean’s.
I quite agreed with him. “But these days,” I told him, “the picture serves another purpose: it shows that Harry Potter is an old customer.”
“Merlin forbid!” exclaimed Severus. “Is all of the Wizarding world infested with Potter’s image? What’s Florean’s claim to fame?”
“Harry stayed a few days in Diagon Alley one August. At the start of the Lupin Year, if I remember correctly. During those days he spent quite a lot of time at Florean’s. He was only fourteen, and Florean fed him an unlimited supply of sundaes. And helped him with his homework, or so he claims. It’s quite possible, too. Florean had an ‘Outstanding’ for Magical History. One of the very few students who stayed awake often enough to achieve such results. And Harry could use all the help he could get with that subject.”
“With most subjects,” said Severus. “But that’s beside the point.”
It was. Trust Severus to make the remark, regardless. He really can be annoying sometimes. “Do you want to hear the rest of the details?” I asked pointedly. He nodded.
“The ScAvengers have left their usual note. The picture is gone, frame and all. And they seem to have had quite a lot of ice cream. They probably used the cardboard goblets for take-away customers. It seems they also used one of his ice scoops to fill the goblets, and they left it on the draining board, well-rinsed.”
“This news,” said Severus, “is ominous.” And he gave his croissant the kind of glare that, once upon a time, would have wilted an entire classroom.
Then he looked up and said, “Minerva …” He stared at his croissant again. I waited.
“Minerva,” he continued, “I think there is a case to investigate here. A more serious one than your previous successes, I’m afraid. I’ve been thinking about it for some time now. May I present the facts, as I see them?”
I nodded and poured us both a fresh cup of coffee. I must admit that I was very curious. Severus had told me once that he would make a better side-kick than Kipper Malfoy, and that perhaps one day we would investigate a case together. Was he trying to turn this matter into more than it actually was? Yet Severus wouldn’t use the word serious lightly where crime was involved.
“The way I see it,” Severus began, “we now have four ScAvenger burglaries. In all four cases, food was taken, and in all four cases, it was cakes or sweets. Not proper mealtime food, I mean. But the kind of snacks that fit in very well with the notion of a childish prank. So does the ScAvenger note, and it explains why they call themselves the scavengers: it’s what they do. They scavenge.
“There is, however, another explanation that might be possible. The thieves may steal food because they need it – because they can’t buy it.”
“But why didn’t they take it all, then?” I asked. “They left some of the shortbread. And they didn’t take all the food in the Leaky Cauldron either. If they are that desperate, surely they would take all and save some to eat later?”
“Quite,” said Severus. “That is odd, and it’s a problem we’ll have to discuss further. But here’s the second part. In three out of four cases, the stolen object has a reference to Potter. And remember that the ScAvengers very much stress the ‘avenger’ part of their name, too.
“Now, what kind of people could you think of who might have difficulties buying food, and who might want to avenge something by removing Potter artefacts from display?”
I stared at Severus in dismay.
“Oh, sweet Merlin, no,” I finally said. It was clear what he meant. Death-Eaters.
“And the stealing of food would mean they are still on the Ministry’s Wanted list and can’t buy from shops for that reason,” I said.
“That’s what I thought,” said Severus. “They could go to Muggle shops, of course. But …”
“Most of them are quite unfamiliar with the Muggle world,” I finished his sentence. We often knew what the other one was thinking.
Often.
But not always.
For his next remark rendered me speechless for longer than I have ever been.
“Minerva,” Severus said, “you may think I’m crazy. Maybe I am. But … believe me, I’ve really given this much thought and … are you absolutely certain that Peter Pettigrew is dead?”
*+*+*+*
“Pettigrew? Peter Pettigrew? You think Peter Pettigrew is behind this?” I said finally. It seemed outrageous – impossible. “But … he died at Malfoy Manor. Harry saw it. And Ron. And others, probably.”
“On the first occasion of his death, a whole crowd of wizards and Muggles saw it,” said Severus. “Did Potter tell you the way he died?”
“No,” I said. “I read he was dead – that Harry had seen it. It was on the Death Lists. You know Shacklebolt ordered the compilation of those lists. To make sure who was dead and who was missing. To establish which Death Eaters might still be alive and hiding. Pettigrew’s name was on the list – witnesses of his death were Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. But surely … he died at Malfoy Manor. Weren’t you there? There must have been others – Death Eaters … And even if … surely he wouldn’t show up now to steal cakes and Potter artefacts?”
“I was knocked sideways by the thought myself,” said Severus. “You noticed – the first morning you were here. I didn’t want to talk about it then. I thought it was insane – the result of a nightmare, induced by too much food and talk of the Wizarding world. Remember you said not to blame you if your story gave me nightmares? I didn’t mean to. I thought it was silly, and I was annoyed at how the silliness affected me.
“But if there is even the smallest possibility that I’m right … “
“What makes you think he might be alive?” I asked. The idea seemed preposterous.
“I’ll give you my reasoning in a moment,” said Severus. “But if I am right, do you agree that we need to investigate the matter?”
“Yes,” I said, without hesitation. “If he’s alive, there is a case – a serious one. But before we start hexing from the hip, we had better take a good look at the situation.”
“Of course,” said Severus, and I could see he was relieved I didn’t dismiss his ideas outright. As if I would ever dismiss Severus Snape’s opinions on crime or the Dark Arts.
“I know I’m a good spy,” Severus continued. “But – this may surprise you – I’ve never set up an independent investigation of my own. I’ve always worked on specific missions. And there was never much doubt who did it, in those days. You have done detective work. Where do we start?”
“We establish the facts, to see whether there is a case in the first place” I said. “Do you have a notebook we can use?”
Severus fetched a Muggle notebook and a ballpoint. “Will this do?” he asked.
I nodded, opened the book, wrote The ScAvengers at the top of the first page, and underlined the words. Severus smiled. “Very methodical,” he said.
“And now, facts,” I said. “The first thing we must establish is whether there is a chance that Pettigrew is still alive. Do you realize this is my second case where the corpse may spring to life in the early chapters?”
We briefly smiled at each other. Not because we didn’t think the situation serious enough – it’s just that after so many years in the Order together we had our own way of working. Fighting the Dark Arts with Dark Humour Albus had once called it.
“That will be a wonderful addition to your entry in Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century,” said Severus. “In addition to her ground-breaking work in Transfiguration and her Headship of Hogwarts, Professor Minerva McGonagall changed the British Detective Novel forever. “ He grinned.
“Is there a special name for your sort of cases?” he asked. “It’s always better to be specific, as we’ve told our students endlessly. I know the ‘hard-boiled’ and the ‘thriller’ but is there a word for what you do? Or is this Agatha Christie of yours a stand-alone?”
“She’s not, and it’s called a cosy mystery,” I said. Reluctantly, for I knew Severus would have a field day with that one. And sure enough, a delighted grin spread over his face.
“A cosy mystery? How utterly enchanting. I’m honoured to be the side-kick in a cosy mystery. I’ll endeavour to give satisfaction. “
“We’ll give it a try,” I said. “Whatever doubts I may have about your capacity for cosiness, I will set them aside. I trust you’ll take to your new part with panache. How about a fresh pot of coffee to start with?”
Severus nodded and fetched the coffee. And a plate of delectable madeleines. “See?” he said. “I can out-cosy Kipper Malfoy any day.”
And, strengthened by coffee and madeleines, we set to work in earnest. The Death of Peter Pettigrew – Severus Snape’s testimony I wrote.
*+*+*+*
The Death of Peter Pettigrew – Severus Snape’s testimony
I went to Malfoy Manor in the early hours of 28th March, 1998. I had received an urgent summons from Voldemort. Upon my arrival, I learned that this had to do with the capture and subsequent escape of Potter and various others. Voldemort wanted me to take certain measures regarding valuable objects at Hogwarts – that part of our discussion is not relevant for this case.
Before we started our conversation – held in private at Voldemort’s insistence – he informed me that Pettigrew had died. I will render the conversation as precisely as possible.
Voldemort said, “You will be interested to hear that your faithful servant is no more.”
“Pettigrew is dead?” I asked. “How did that happen, My Lord?”
[Voldemort had ordered Pettigrew to act as my servant at one point – hence his use of that word. I wanted to find out whether Potter had killed him after all. Potter had once, rather grandly, spared Pettigrew’s life. I was curious to know his present state of mind –had he been involved in Pettigrew’s death?]
It was Bellatrix Lestrange who answered. “The unworthy rat betrayed Our Master!” she screamed. “He helped Potter! So he died a traitor’s death. The silver hand Our Master so graciously gave him has strangled him. The Master’s Hand punished the traitor!”
I looked at Voldemort, and he nodded. “Pettigrew was foolish,” he said. “And unworthy. Unlike you, my dear Severus.”
He then gave me a sign to follow him, and we had our further discussion. Pettigrew’s death was spoken of no more, but I learned later that Potter and Weasley were present when it happened. They escaped from the dungeon and rescued Hermione Granger, who had been tortured upstairs.
It is important to note that at the time of Pettigrew’s alleged death, Potter and Weasley were greatly distressed by Miss Granger’s screams. Their only interest was to save her.
This leads to the following facts:
Pettigrew died by his own hand.
The two witnesses saw him fall down. His face was purple, his eyes protruded, and he looked like someone who was strangled. The witnesses reported this to Kingsley Shacklebolt.
It is not certain that Weasley and Potter ever actually witnessed a strangulation before or are familiar with the death struggle of a strangled person.
For some time after that – reports vary from several minutes to nearly half an hour – no-one entered the cellar as a fight was going on upstairs, during which Potter and company managed to escape. Then Greyback was sent down to check on the other prisoners. He reported that they were gone as well and that Pettigrew was dead. Voldemort told him to dispose of the body.
This means there was some time in which Pettigrew could Transfigure an object to look like his dead body – a dead rat or mouse, brought for the purpose, suggests itself– and could disappear in his Animagus form.
*+*+*+*
I finished my notes and looked at Severus. “But he died by Voldemort’s hand,” I said. “Voldemort put a spell on Pettigrew’s hand – are you saying his spell didn’t work properly?” It seemed unlikely. Voldemort, despicable though he was, was a very powerful wizard. I don’t think it would be impossible to break a spell he had cast, but it would take time. A man who is being strangled does not have time. Unless …
“Was the existence of this spell known to others?” I asked. “Did Pettigrew know?”
“We didn’t,” said Severus. “None of us knew, and everyone was impressed. It is a very difficult form of Dark Magic. I still remember the look on Narcissa’s face. The way she looked at Draco – she was terrified that he might be under some sort of spell, too. But I’m certain Pettigrew knew.”
“Do you know that for a fact?” I asked him. During my previous cases, I’ve learned that people often tell you something is a fact when it actually is only hearsay or surmise. Rosmerta, for instance, once described as a fact something she was told by Mundungus Fletcher. One can’t get more unreliable than that.
“It’s not a fact, no. But it makes sense,” said Severus. “Put yourself in Voldemort’s shoes. You never really trust anyone. To you, people are just instruments. In Pettigrew you have an instrument that is useful, for he is a very capable wizard. But you know he has betrayed people before. So you put a spell on his hand.
“And the reason you tell him about this spell is that he’ll be useful for longer when he knows. If he doesn’t know, he may decide to betray you and then he dies. This stops the betrayal – good – but the downside is, you now have a dead servant. If you tell him in advance, it will not just stop him from betraying you, it will stop him from even thinking about it. He will remain useful for much longer.”
It was a reasoning that chilled me to the core. Not because of the callousness and the complete disregard for human life. Not even because it was so clearly a psychopath’s view, a view that objectifies people.
What shocked me was the ease with which Severus put himself in Voldemort’s shoes. Everyone knows that the point of a spy is to gather information, and that he must work with despicable people to do so. But this was the first time I fully realised that Severus had not just worked for Voldemort – he had spent years getting under his skin, seeing the world through his eyes, living in that distorted mind. If I had had to do that, would I ever feel clean again? Or would I always feel tainted by the psychopath’s view? It is an experience that sets one apart from other people. No wonder Severus craved the loneliness of La Caunette.
Severus saw how shocked I was, but he attributed it merely to the Pettigrew story. For him, getting under Voldemort’s skin was really just part of the job. “You agree with me, then?” he asked. “That Pettigrew was capable enough to work out a counter-spell? That’s the one part that kept me wondering. He was good, I know that. But was he good enough? You had him as a student; what do you think?”
I nodded. Pettigrew had been a very good student. Not the kind that has flashes of brilliant insight, but he had a very logical mind and was good at working things out. And he thought before he acted. Give him a year and he could work out a way to counter the spell and test it without Voldemort realising what was going on.
All this, of course, meant that Severus might well be right about Pettigrew being alive. Everything fitted. I remembered the case of Mrs Norris’s attacker – there everything fitted with Lucius being guilty, except for that one, very important part: motive. Unfortunately, in Pettigrew’s case, even the lack of a motive fitted.
“You’re right, it fits. The death was a high-risk performance that demanded a great deal of determination,” I said. “The determination to keep strangling oneself – against the urge to draw breath. But we know Pettigrew has determination. It’s how he staged his death the first time. And living as a rat for a decade demanded determination, as well.
“And somehow the lack of a motive fits, too. For ten years no-one thought Pettigrew could possibly betray Potter. No-one could think of a reason. Now we know he was Voldemort’s man. And he seems to have been Voldemort’s man with the same dedication he once gave his Hogwarts friends. He betrayed them. Did he betray Voldemort in the end?”
“And he did lie low for over a decade before,” Severus nodded. “It all does fit in. We may still be wrong – I may still be wrong. But it’s possible.”
I thought for a moment. “What I suggest,” I finally said, “is that we take a break here. Go someplace. So that we can both have a good think on whether the burglaries fit in as well. Then we can compare notes. That way we don’t influence each other. If we both reach the same conclusions … well, we’ll see what to do next, then.”
Severus agreed with the plan at once. I left the choice of our destination to him, since he knew the region very well. And he knows me. Whenever we go on an outing, Severus finds not just the sort of place I like visiting, but one that suits my mood exactly.
He didn’t disappoint me this time, either. He took us to an old abbey – the Abbaye de Fontfroide– and it was the perfect spot, peaceful and quiet. We were practically the only visitors, and the soothing lines of the Cistercian architecture that I love so much worked their usual magic. We sat on a bench in the cloister for at least an hour, each working out our own thoughts.
There are a great many dear friends in my life that I can talk with and laugh with – and sometimes even cry with – but Severus is the one with whom I can be quiet for hours. I am still very glad I solved the Case of the Living Portrait.
In the end we Apparated back to La Caunette, with a stop at a local supermarket to pick up a ready-cooked meal. Neither Severus nor I felt inclined to cook.
While the meal took care of itself, I fetched us both a drink, and then we sat down on the little terrace. We lifted our glasses to each other.
“Your turn,” said Severus.
Part 2