Fic: MInerva McGonagall and the Business of Ferrets

[therealsnape]

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.

Part 1


“I’ve gone over the things you’ve said,” I started, “and I’m afraid I haven’t found any facts that belie the theory that Pettigrew is alive. So far, everything fits.

“Then I’ve gone over the four ScAvenger burglaries. To see how they fit in. There’s one thing that does strike me as odd – we’ve spoken about it before. The fact that not all the food is taken, and that it’s only snacks. The nature of the food still points towards teenage pranksters for me.

“Mind, I can understand the need for prepared food – that makes sense. Pettigrew may not live in a place with cooking facilities. And in the case of Florean’s, he might not have found anything other than ice-cream. But surely the Leaky and Sybill’s and Molly’s houses had other food he could have taken? Does he have a particularly sweet tooth?”

“I don’t really know,” Severus replied. “Voldemort assigned him to me as my servant. I knew that wasn’t the real reason, but I also knew both Pettigrew and I were supposed to take our lead from Voldemort and keep up appearances. So I told Pettigrew what food he had to buy and prepare, and he did. His taste didn’t matter.”

“I see,” I said. “We must keep looking for clues in this direction, then. So far it’s a piece that doesn’t quite fit. It may be unimportant – but perhaps it’s not.

“The other thing that seems odd is the clock. It’s a Weasley family clock. True, Harry Potter is part of the Weasley family now, but the clock is about Molly, Arthur and their children. And it’s not a Potter artefact on public display. Come to think of it, the mandala wasn’t on public display, either. But it definitely was a Potter artefact. “

“You’re right, that’s odd,” said Severus. “Perhaps I am wrong after all.” He sounded relieved. Noticing my mild surprise – his comments after the Cat Show case had led me to believe he actually had been a bit jealous that it was Lucius, not him, who had been my side-kick – he smiled somewhat wistfully.

“I may have joked at the notion of ‘cosy’ mysteries, but I would have enjoyed going over the details of a case like Kipper Malfoy’s. Serving as a sparring partner and co-sleuth – while sitting at home and contributing ideas. But this is different. This is about Death Eaters. And it may force me to come out of hiding. Believe me, I’d love to be wrong,” he said, and I silently cursed myself for not realising the problem at once. Especially the part about Severus’s hiding place – for La Caunette was just that.

“What was Sybill’s object again?” Severus continued. “A Mandala?”

“Yes – that is to say, her version of it. Mandalas do not usually carry text, but this one had two of her prophecies. Her strongest ones, she called them, but ‘the only true ones’ would have been a better expression. They …. Damn!”

I stared at him in dismay.

“Rose told me about them. Remember? She said one of them was about Harry being the Chosen one, and she hadn’t quite cracked the other, but it was about a Servant and his Master. I don’t know whether Albus told you …”

It seemed unlikely that Albus would not have told Severus, but one never knew. Albus did play his cards very close to his chest.

“He did,” said Severus. “That second prophecy refers to Pettigrew himself. And it was a true one. It happened just like Sybill said. Of course, it was only after the fact that one had any idea of what it was about. But that’s the whole thing about those Seers, isn’t it? By the time a thing has happened, one doesn’t need a prophecy anymore, and when it hasn’t happened yet, the prophecy is too damn vague to be of any use.”

“My thoughts exactly,” I said. With Sybill’s retirement, Divination had finally disappeared from the Hogwarts curriculum. We currently have a visiting Professor from Beauxbatons, who teaches French. It is going very well, and I do not think I’ll encounter many difficulties in making the position a permanent one. I set more store by speaking languages than by speaking in tongues.

“But revenons à nos moutons, said Severus. “Or rather, to our little rat. The prophecy was about him. Mind, it only dealt with the events that took place that night – the night Black and Pettigrew both returned. I don’t see how it could say anything about his current or future plans. But there is a connection between Pettigrew and Sybill’s mandala.”

“There is,” I confirmed. “It may not fit completely. But it … it doesn’t unfit. I know that’s not a word, but you get my point.”

Severus nodded. “That leaves only the clock. How do we set about that?”

“We’ll need to interrogate people,” I said. “Find more facts. But preferably without alerting anyone to what we’re up to.”

“Definitely without that,” said Severus. “Now, who would be a good source of information? The Weasley family suggests itself, but which one? Who knows most about Pettigrew?”

“About the clock, you mean,” I corrected him. “That’s what we need to find out.”

“Yes, but any Weasley can tell that. I’m thinking Pettigrew lived in their household as a pet. Which one might know most about him?”

“Severus, you’re a genius,” I exclaimed. “It completely slipped my mind, but he did! We must definitely interrogate a Weasley – it’ll give us lots of information. Let me think. The last few years Pettigrew lived there, he was Ron’s pet. He went straight from there to Voldemort. I think I should go and do the interview – there’s no need for you to come out of hiding yet. We can discuss everything when I get back.”

“Excellent,” said Severus. “But what excuse will you use? You can’t say you’ve taken up DE hunting in your holidays. Or that you’re Minerva McGonagall, Spinster Detective, on a secret case. And while you might bring up the clock burglary casually, I can’t see how you could throw in a casual, ‘So, Ron, tell me all about your former pet, Peter Pettigrew.”

“One needs a pretext, of course,” I said. “That’s how I always operate – and so does Miss Marple. I’ve told you about the technique.”

“Yes, but you’re not a harmless, nattering old lady,” Severus countered. “That’s completely out of character.”

“It isn’t about the harmless old lady,” I told him. “It’s about prejudices and how to use them. Remember how I used ‘spinster schoolteacher who sees students as substitute children’ in the Cat Show case? Let me think about this. I’ll find a way.”

I sat silently for some time. I wanted to ask specific, detailed information about Pettigrew. Why would a spinster schoolmarm want that? In the middle of her precious holidays? What do schoolmarms do in their holidays? They take educational trips. To see places of historic interest, Baedeker in hand.

Not entirely untrue, but a dead end where Pettigrew fact-finding was concerned. What else do they do? The difficulty is, to most students schoolteachers do not have a life. Their idea of leisure is marking papers. They are only ever interested in their subject.

True, Ron Weasley left school a long time ago, and he may now realise that I am not stored on an empty shelf in my classroom at the end of the day. But what would he expect me to do in my holidays, other than the small educational trip? Read about Transfiguration, probably.

Wait …

That was it!

I looked at Severus, positively beaming. “I’ve found it,” I said, and I must confess that I couldn’t quite hide my pride. “I’m writing an article about the various forms of Animagi. Or better still, a book. Hermione might look out for an article and wonder why it isn’t in Transfiguration Today at some point. A book can take years. And for that book of mine, I want to hear all about Peter Pettigrew, the Animagus who lived in his form for over a decade.”

Softly, almost soundlessly, Severus applauded. “Perfection. You are brilliant at this detective work. It’s all about the prejudice, you’re so right. Not a vague, nattering old lady, but a scholarly old biddy with a pet subject. The way to go.”

So it was. I sent Ron Weasley an Owl at once, to the Wiltshire address. We got a reply two days later, and luck was on my side. Ron and Hermione had taken their children on a trip to Paris, and Molly had forwarded my Owl to their hotel.

Hermione wants the kids to see the city and become familiar with another culture, wrote Ron. I think they’re still a bit young for it, but anyhow, that’s where we are, and the children like it so far. I’ve put my foot down about not more than two museums during our trip. Hermione is a wonderful guide, who really makes things interesting, but she can go on a bit sometimes.

But tomorrow they’ll go to the Carnavalet in the morning – about the history of Paris, I gather. I won’t mind giving it a miss, and Hermione won’t mind my not going if it’s to help you. Do have lunch with us afterwards – she’d hate to miss your visit completely.

*+*+*+*

When I returned from my trip to Paris, Severus had a bottle of chilled rosé ready. “You’ve had a solid, Parisian lunch,” he said, “so I’ve just made a cold supper. And I’ve done some spell-work on that ballpoint. It works like a Quick Quill now; it will take notes while you tell me about your trip.”

He clearly took his side-kick part very seriously. The Quick Quill was inspired, of course – just what we needed. And the ‘cold supper’ was omelettes froides de légumes en terrine, a dish that takes half a day to prepare. I’d practically kill for it.

I sighed with pleasure. “If anything could make me feel better, this would,” I said. “But I’m afraid the news from Ron is not good. Let me tell you first. I don’t want to spoil my dinner with it.”

We sat down with a preliminary glass of rosé and I launched into my tale.

“First the worst bit. The clock does have a link with Harry.”

“What!” exclaimed Severus. “But you said …”

“I did. It used to be just the Weasleys – Arthur, Molly, and their children. But Ron told me how, about a year after the war, Molly and Arthur had it changed to include dials for their grandchildren. Hermione’s idea, Ron told me, was that Molly wanted the clock to be about new life, as well. You see, as it stood, it was the children, but with Fred’s dial hanging limply. It was a permanent reminder of their loss. Molly couldn’t bear to throw it out, but she couldn’t bear to remove Fred’s dial, either. So she added the new life. That explanation does make sense – Hermione’s ideas usually do.

“He, Ron, I mean, was a bit in two minds about it. On the one hand, he understands why Molly did it. “It’s sweet, really, and we all appreciate Mum’s feelings,” he said. “But the thing is – she … well … she’s great, but she can be a bit … interfering. I know Harry and Hermione feel … well … monitored, sometimes. I mean – we’re the parents, not Mum.”

Severus nodded. “So, basically, there was a clock that would indicate when Potter’s children are in danger, and that clock is now gone. You’re right. That’s bad.”

“On the plus side, Pettigrew didn’t have a sweet tooth. I inquired into his eating habits – told Ron I wanted to find out whether as an Animagus he would eat the same sort of things he’d eat as a human. They got him special feed for rodents, of course. But he had a strong preference for anything savoury. Cheese. Sausage. Olives. It was entertaining to see him clutch an olive in his little paws and nibble, said Ron. He would not refuse a piece of cake, but he just loved anything savoury.”

“So the snacks remain a piece that doesn’t fit,” said Severus.

“I’ve also asked about his relationships with the various family members. To … to see who might be most at risk, really,” I continued. Severus nodded again, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. We were reaching the point where we had to prevent an attack – and I could only hope that was what we would end up doing, rather than solving a murder that had been committed despite our efforts.

“Pettigrew came into the household as Charlie’s pet,” I told Severus. “It seemed he liked Charlie, who is, of course, a natural with animals. During a summer holiday Charlie went to stay with a friend, and Bill was asked to look after Scabbers – that’s what Pettigrew the rat was called. But Bill neglected his duties. Ron found out and fed Scabbers instead. And then Arthur found out, and he was absolutely livid. Ron said it was one of the few times he whacked one of his boys.

“Arthur made it painfully clear to Bill that neglecting an animal in one’s care is an utterly despicable thing to do. Bill was punished, and Ron was made responsible for the rat. At the end of that summer, the children all returned to Hogwarts, and Ron and Ginny were the only ones left behind. It was the twins’ first year. Charlie, who noticed how much Ron hated staying home alone with just a younger sister for company, gave him Scabbers.

“Ron told me Scabbers didn’t seem to like the twins much. They called him a ‘big, fat, lazy rat’. Scabbers would do things like leave his droppings on their possessions. Or nibble the pages of their books. But he really disliked Bill. They thought he remembered what had happened, and Arthur used it for years as a further lesson in how dreadful it is to neglect an animal.

“Ron also told me Scabbers defended him once. He bit Gregory Goyle when Goyle was bullying Ron. And he told me something else, too – Pettigrew faked his own death again, at Hogwarts. Ron thought Hermione’s Kneazle had killed Scabbers. They had found bloodstains on a sheet. Ron and Hermione even fell out over it. In the end, they realised it had been a fake.”

“So, methodically speaking – for we are agreed that it does look strongly as if Pettigrew is alive?” asked Severus. I agreed. Severus then started to list the possibilities, checking that the Quick Quill ballpoint did its job.

“Methodically speaking, then, we have:
Molly and Arthur – but Arthur spoke up for Scabbers and defended him, so to speak.
Charlie – Scabbers likes him. And he and Paul have no children.
Bill – strong dislike. And they do have a child, you told me.
Percival? He has children, but is there any indication Pettigrew hates him?”

There wasn’t, and I told him so. “And Pettigrew liked Ginny – Ginny played with him in the year she and Ron were at home together.” I said. “George is still single.”

So Pettigrew might want to attack Bill’s child. But the removal of Potter artefacts pointed towards a hatred of Harry – understandable in Pettigrew’s case. Only, Harry’s children were Ginny’s, too. I put these points before Severus.

“I’ve thought about that, today. After all, Weasley knows about Pettigrew during his undercover years, so to speak, but I lived in the same house with him during the Voldemort period. Unfortunately, we never spoke much. I treated him every inch like a servant. That was what Voldemort expected me to do. And Pettigrew pretended it was an assignment he resented. He needed to hide the fact that he was there as Voldemort’s spy, of course.

“But I did drop the occasional derogatory remark about Order members. So that Pettigrew would have the right sort of thing to report. And on one occasion he did speak up for someone. I was surprised at the time, but your story of Ron being good to him and Pettigrew defending him by biting Goyle was quite revealing. It seems he has some sense of loyalty.”

I noticed that Severus used the present tense in speaking about Pettigrew. It confirmed that we both thought the same thing – he was alive and behind the ScAvenger business.

“I once said something about Lupin. Called him a scrofulous mongrel,” Severus continued. “and Pettigrew got angry. I’ve tried to recall his exact words, and I think I managed.”

I didn’t doubt it. Severus has an excellent retentive memory, and his ability to remember conversations verbatim is astonishing. Severus then started to repeat Pettigrew’s words, and he even sounded a bit like him. Slightly whinging.

”Remus is OK; don’t you call him a mongrel. He can’t help being a werewolf. But he’s OK. He tried to defend you, you know. Told Black and Potter to stop the bullying. It was all Black and Potter – you know it was. Remus just went along. He’d never had friends, you see. And they were his friends.”

“I told him they had all been despicable bullies and that there was no excuse. And that both he and Lupin had been as bad as the others. He claimed again that it was Black and Potter mostly, that Lupin went along because he’d never had friends. I asked him what his, Pettigrew’s, excuse had been. This is what he told me.

”At first, I wanted to be like them. And they accepted me, and it was great. But then I began to understand that they weren’t really my friends. I wasn’t their equal. I was the clown. The stupid one. The hanger-on. The one who was there to make wonderful Black and Potter look even better. Called me ‘Wormtail’, they did.”

“Black was the worst. He sent you to the Shrieking Shack, remember? Remus was devastated when he found out. And Potter wasn’t concerned about you – he just wanted to do the noble, Gryffindor thing and save his enemy. Because it would make him look good.

“Black even tried to blame me. Told Dumbledore I’d suggested it. I had not! Dumbledore didn’t believe Black. But it made Remus doubt. Remus really had been my friend, and because of Black he ended up doubting me.

“Well, I got back at them. At both of them. Potter wanted to be a big hero – and he ended up being a big, dead hero.

“And Black tried to frame me – so I framed him.”

I stared at him. “So you’re telling me Pettigrew ended up hating James and Sirius, and he took revenge?”

“Yes, and there is worse. On one occasion Pettigrew said something about Harry Potter, and I reminded him Potter had saved his life. He said that Potter was just like his father, just like James. Wanted to look like a big hero. Saving people all over the place, but really despising them. And Potter would end like his father: a big, dead hero, because one day he’d fall into a trap, too.”

We both knew what Severus meant. If Pettigrew would attack one of the Weasley grandchildren – Victoire, possibly, which would mean revenge on Bill, as well – Harry would come to the rescue. Would walk into the trap.

+*+*+*+*+

We then talked until past midnight about what to do next. With singularly little result.

The best thing would be to ferret out Pettigrew’s hiding place. However, this was simply not possible. As a rat he could hide anywhere. Once can’t check the entire British rodent population.

The second best thing would be to catch him red-handed at his next attempt – but there was no saying where that would be.

The third idea was to lay a trap for him. But how? We needed to make sure that the place was accessible, contained food and a Potter artefact, and, the most difficult part, we had to make sure he’d go there on a specific date.

In the end, Severus said he’d try to come up with something. A detective he might not be, but he knew how to lay a trap and plan ahead. He mentioned that Elphias Doge’s birthday party had been the occasion for Pettigrew’s first burglary. His reasoning was that Pettigrew had chosen the night after the party because of the large number of guests – each and every one of whom could be a suspect for stealing the Potter picture. Later on, Pettigrew seemed to have grown more confident, as there were no guests at Sybill’s.

This made me sit up straight. “Wait a minute,” I said. “There’s one more thing the burglaries have in common – three of them do, at least. On three occasions, the Weasley tribe was near-by. They all went to Elphias’s party. He’s an old friend of the family.

“They were all staying at Arthur and Molly’s place when Sybill was burgled, too. And you remember that letter Molly sent me? She wrote that Fleur, Hermione, and Ginny and their families all went to Diagon Alley to do the Hogwarts shopping ahead of the end-of-August rush. Before they would set off on their individual holidays. The affair at Florean’s shop was during that time.

“I don’t know about the burglary the Burrow, but …”

We looked at each other. “That’s the most vital one – the one that removed the clock which could warn them,” said Severus. “A sufficient reason to deviate from the pattern. For a pattern it is. And that will help us. We need to create an occasion where the Weasley tribe can be invited –with a possibility to stay the night. Preferably in a public place, with plenty of food. And there must be a Potter artefact.”

“And we’d better not wait too long,” I added. “At some point, Pettigrew may get tired of the ScAvenger act and strike for real. This is one case where I don’t want to end up investigating a genuine abduction – or worse.”

“True,” said Severus. “Now, for this so-called social occasion. We couldn’t set up anything here – in France, I mean?”

“It would be difficult,” I said. “Make that impossible. The Weasleys are on their various holidays, and what could I possibly invent to make them all go through the expense and bother of the trip? It would take something on the scale of a wedding to make people travel that far – a real once-in-a-lifetime event. So it will have to be in September. Hogsmeade suggests itself. School will have started by then, and I can’t be away for too long.”

“I’ve an idea,” said Severus. “What about your birthday? We’d have to wait until October 4th, which is unfortunate, but we must hope that Pettigrew won’t strike before that date. You could give a big birthday party and invite all the Weasleys. It would be a perfect occasion.”

“Except for one thing,” I said, sternly. “I never celebrate my birthday. It’s a well-known fact. It would be utterly out-of-character for me to give a party. I can’t think of anything I’d like less.”

“True, it would be thought odd. Unless – it wouldn’t happen to be a crown year, would it? That might be a reason.”

“I’ll be 87 this year,” I said, with some considerable relief. Pomona and Poppy have told me for years that birthdays can be fun. And for years I’ve agreed with them, pointing out that the ‘fun’ is in celebrating exactly as one wishes. But you don’t celebrate, they would argue. Let me leave it alone, then, I would answer, feeling as miserly as Ebenezer Scrooge himself, but refusing to give in. I knew they would love my change of heart and throw themselves wholeheartedly in the preparations. As would Filius, who is a very perceptive man and has never put any pressure on me, but who does love a good party.

They would have surprises.

They might have songs, even.

The mind boggles.

Severus smiled. “I can see that this would have to be a last resort,” he said. “Is there anything else we can think of?”

“Hermione’s birthday is in September,” I said. “But I don’t see how we can contrive to make her give a big party in Hogsmeade with all Weasley children present.”

“How many are at Hogwarts right now?” Severus asked.

“So far, only Victoire, the eldest girl of Bill and Fleur. Next year, there will be a second one, Dominique, I think, and if I remember correctly Percy’s eldest girl will start as well. But this coming September, Victoire is the only one – and Teddy Lupin, who is almost a member of the tribe. He’s Harry’s godson, you see, and he very often stays with Harry and Ginny. But he’s not on the Weasley clock.”

“It might be feasible to get Victoire to Hermione’s birthday party, if it was in Hogsmeade,” said Severus. “But I don’t see how we can arrange it without taking her into our confidence. And that would mean she’d tell Ron and Harry, and we’d have the whole tribe in a panic.”

“Not necessarily,” I countered. I felt there was much merit in this notion of Hermione’s birthday. It is mid-September, if my memory serves me right, and for all sorts of reasons it would be so much more suitable than my own. Because, for instance, … Well, it would just be much better.

“We would have to confide in those three,” I explained. “Harry, Ron, and Hermione, I mean. But they know how to keep secrets; they can play their cards as close to their chest as Albus, almost.” I sighed. For six years, that particular ability had been the blight of my existence. Why is it always you three? I had asked them once. But in this case, it might work to our advantage.

On the other hand, an enforced collaboration between Potter and Severus might turn this case into the least cosy mystery in the history of cosies.

We discussed the matter for some time, Severus listing arguments in favour of my birthday, I promoting Hermione’s, but with lessening ardour, for I began to see that monitoring the Potter/Snape collaboration might arguably be the one thing worse than having a birthday party.

In the end, we decided to give it a good night’s sleep. And the next morning, Argus Filch came to the rescue.

*+*+*+*+*

Whenever I am away from Hogwarts during my holidays, Argus monitors my Owls and sends on those he thinks important. So far, his judgment has never failed him. And on this occasion, too, I could clearly see why he had decided to send on Neville Longbottom’s Owl – even though Argus could not possibly know just how much it was manna from heaven.

I must begin by explaining that Neville Longbottom, who had always had a marked ability for Herbology, started his career by helping out Pomona Sprout in the year after the battle. Much damage had been done to the conservatories, and Pomona, who had sustained a back injury during the fight, was badly in need of help. In the end, Neville stayed on for two years, and then he decided to take a degree in Herbology. He had assisted Pomona with lessons as well, and he had discussed with both of us the possibility of a teaching position at Hogwarts. We were both more than agreeable, and when Neville returned four years later, with a first, too, he had been given the position of assistant teacher.

It was a part-time position, which suited everyone. Pomona was not ready to retire fully yet, but she enjoyed a lightening of her teaching duties. And Neville used his free time to prepare a PhD, which he had nearly completed when the summer holidays started.

He now wrote to me saying that the thesis was finished, and, moreover, would be printed as a book – aimed at a rather larger audience than is usual for such works. He was modest about it, Neville invariably is, but it was clear to me that he had managed to write a truly seminal work.

Neville would obtain his PhD early in September, and two days special leave had already been arranged before the holidays. But the publisher wanted to present the book at a separate little gathering.

Neville wanted this to take place at the Hog’s Head. Ever since the year of the Battle, he has been very close to Aberforth, and Neville is nothing if not loyal to his friends.

He wanted it to be a small gathering, with just his closest friends present. Since these would include Harry Potter, it would still makeThe Daily Prophet, and the publisher was more than ready to fall in with his wishes.

Augusta Longbottom, however, had other ideas. They involved the Leaky, a party tent, and a guest list of over a hundred people.

Neville wrote to say that he didn’t want to inconvenience Hogwarts further with additional leave of absence, and if only I would confirm that Saturday 8th September would be convenient for the staff, he would inform Augusta that everything was settled.

Augusta Longbottom has been on the Hogwarts Board of Directors for years, and a very active board member she is. Argus knows exactly how I feel about her activities, even though I have obviously never used the word ‘meddling’ in his presence. Hence his forwarding of the letter.

I saw at once that Neville’s book launch was the perfect event for our trap. Much better than Hermione’s birthday which would involve all the awkwardness of a Severus/Harry alliance, and certainly much better than a birthday party for me.

Severus agreed at once that this was an occasion made in heaven. I was faintly surprised at his immediate enthusiasm – his opinions on Longbottom when the latter was still his student had been strong. And misjudged, to my mind. I know I have a sharp tongue myself, and there have been occasions where I later regretted a remark to a student, judging it a discouragement rather the correction I had intended. But Severus sometimes paralyzed students with his sarcasm. They were that terrified they were simply beyond learning anything.

I know that later on, in his La Caunette years, when he no longer needed to teach for a living, he agreed with me. His inability to suffer fools gladly made him not precisely unsuitable for a teaching position, but definitely unsuitable for teaching young children. He always did wonders with his N.E.W.T. students, though.

“I’ve had occasion to observe Longbottom during my year as Headmaster,” Severus said. “I was favourably impressed. I know he’ll agree to help if you put the situation to him, and he’ll be a useful ally. We’ll have to tell him, I think?”

“If we want to make sure he invites the right people, yes,” I said. “He might not invite Bill and Fleur otherwise. Just Ron, Harry, and Hermione. Also, we’ll need a Potter artefact in the Hogs Head. Aberforth doesn’t have one.”

“Aberforth is the salt of the earth,” said Severus. “But where telling Longbottom is concerned ... I was just hesitating because … from what you just told me, it’s his big day. This book, I mean. His achievement. And here we are, risking to mess it up with … well … with a Death Eater hunt.”

I was touched. Severus had thought of something I had completely overlooked myself in my eagerness to get rid of the dreaded birthday party. But he was absolutely right: Neville would agree to help at once, because he is that sort of person, but he also deserved his day in the sun without any DE associations. After everything he has suffered because of them, and he has suffered more than most people, there should not be a cloud on this, his special day.

It showed uncommon kindness and insight on Severus’s sight, and he would not thank me for saying so.

So we simply discussed the possibility of hiding our plans from Neville. I could ask him, as a special favour, to invite Bill and Fleur. If necessary I could invent a reason, but as Neville’s Headmistress, I might not even be obliged to give one.

And it seemed most likely that Pettigrew would make his move after the party. That had been the pattern before – the middle of the night, when everyone in the house was asleep, or an empty house, as in Sybill’s case. The Hog’s Head was rarely empty during the day, so he would go for the night. Neville need not know a thing. Severus and I could stay behind and guard the place.

Aberforth would have to be in our confidence. But Aberforth was taciturn by nature, and Severus trusted him. Severus pointed out that, as a worst-case scenario, Pettigrew might manage to kill one of us, might even manage to injure another, and escape in rat-shape. That would still leave two people aware of the danger. We did not underestimate Pettigrew’s abilities, but the chance that he would be able to kill all three of us seemed strictly hypothetical – we are all quite good at magic.

I was glad to note that on this occasion, Severus had no intention whatsoever of playing a lone hand. It was that tendency of his that had caused a long coldness between us. This time, clearly, it would be different.

It was with some hesitation that I then brought up the subject of Severus’s own participation. I knew how much he valued the peace and quiet he had finally found in La Caunette, and if truth be told, I’d sooner ask Neville to join Aberforth and myself, however much I agreed with Severus that he deserved his day in the sun, than ask Severus to come out of hiding.

But, as I soon found out, I had underestimated Severus’s ability to think of everything.

“I wouldn’t dream of accompanying you,” he said. “You will be accompanied by a Monsieur Dupont – a Frenchman with an English mother, hence his fluency in the language. I am a dab hand at brewing potions, you know.”

I saw what he meant at once. “But will the Polyjuice be ready in time?” I asked. Of course, Severus had thought of that, too.

“I always have a decent quantity ready,” he told me. “Ever since your first visit. Just in case you … well, just in case.”

Just in case I needed him.

I gave him a quick smile, which was about as much gratefulness as he could handle.

“Where did you find Monsieur Dupont?” I asked him.

“At the local hairdresser’s,” Severus replied. “It seemed a good place to collect a few locks of hair.”

I carefully kept a poker face, but I was delighted. There was a hairdresser in this story, after all. Severus Poirot, Master Detective. It was too good to be true.

We quickly drew up the rest of our plans. I would discuss things with Aberforth. Aberforth would have to come up with some sort of Potter artefact, and we would spread the news of it being there. He wouldn’t like it, but he would see the necessity.

I would write to Neville, confirm 8th September, and ask him whether Bill and Fleur were on the guest list, explaining that it would be rather convenient for me if they were.

And Severus would arrive in good time for the party. We both felt that the set-up was too good for Pettigrew to resist. All the vital Weasleys present. Lots of food to be had. A Potter artefact. And, best of all, the possibility to check out the Hog’s Head. If we were right, and Pettigrew was considering Victoire to lure Harry into a trap, he’d want to check out a place that had a hidden corridor to the castle – well, not exactly hidden since the mass-evacuation of the battle, but it would still be very useful for a rat.

After that, we decided to make the most of what was left of my holiday.

*+*+*+*+*

When I got back to Hogwarts, the first thing I did after unpacking my bags was to go through my in-tray. As I had hoped, there was a letter from Neville, thanking me for my cooperation and confirming that he had invited Bill and Fleur. They had both accepted.

Then I went to see Aberforth. 8th September was approaching quickly, and he needed to be informed. Also, there was the matter of the Potter artefact.

While we were sitting in his living room, with two glasses of Firewhisky and the bottle ready on the table, I thought once again how similar Aberforth and Albus really were. True, Albus could elevate small talk to an art if it suited him, and, as Aberforth said when we were both laying out the dead after the Battle, amidst the screams and tears of their bereft families, “I always knew I had no small talk, and now I know I have no big talk, either.”

But he has the same capacity for listening that Albus had. Listening closely, without interruptions, and then grasping all the salient facts.

“Bit about the food is strange,” was Aberforth’s first remark after I had finished my tale. “Prefers savoury – can’t go to a shop for anything – still only takes sweet things, and not all the food. Would have been child’s play to shrink it.”

“That’s true,” I said. “It’s the one thing Pierre and I can’t fit in.” I had told Aberforth what he needed to know about Monsieur Pierre Dupont, my good friend from France, who had been so very helpful working out the details of this case.

“Makes it sound like a prank after all,” said Aberforth. “But I see your point. Can’t very well wait until we’ve found a corpse to make sure.”

I noticed the use of ‘we’. That was Aberforth at his best. Neither small talk nor big – just the immediate acceptance that he was in on this, that it was now his fight, too.

“Now, about the Potter artefact,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen …”

“No. Stupid nonsense. Potter’s a decent chap. Doesn’t like to see his face plastered all over Wizarding Britain. People should think about how he feels, not about their own glory. But that’s people for you. Give me goats any day.”

He paused for a moment, and refilled our glasses. For Aberforth, it had been a long speech.

“Was an article once, though. Few months after the Battle. Skeeter woman wrote it. About the Hog’s Head and Potter meeting his friends here. For that so-called “Dumbledore’s Army”. The Other Dumbledore, she called it. Quoted me at length. Never said a word to her, mind.”

We agreed that I would get the article from The Daily Prophet’s ledgers, on the pretence that Aberforth wanted it for his pub, and that I would make sure the news spread around. Several of my former students work for the Prophet, so getting the article would be easy. And I could arrange to meet whomever would get it for me at The Leaky Cauldron. I would just have to mention Aberforth’s desire to have it during a moment when Tom was at our table. Tom spreads news faster than any paper could.

All seemed in readiness for the night of 8th September. Monsieur Dupont would arrive in the early hours of the 8th, I told Aberforth. He probably wouldn’t need a bed, as he planned to leave as quickly as possible afterwards, but if necessary he’d stay in one of the Hog’s Head’s guest rooms.


*+*+*+*+*

The day of 8th September duly arrived, and Neville’s book launch was an outstanding success. While it has no immediate bearing on this case, there was one surprising event my readers may find interesting.

The launch started as these things do, with a very enthusiastic encomium from Neville’s publisher. His praise was both exuberant and well-deserved. I have not read the book myself yet, but Pomona has read the first draft, and she has assured me it is a work that should be one of the Hogwarts set books for N.E.W.T. level Herbology. That was the short version - her full report on the book’s excellence took three hours.

Then Neville made a very good speech himself. He was brief, with a few warm words for Pomona, his mentor, for Augusta, who had taught him never to give up, and for his mother, whom he thanked for passing on her well-known gift for gardening. I freely admit that I had to swallow a few times when Neville included Alice in his achievements.

He ended on a touch of humour – said he also wanted to thank his good friends Harry, Hermione, and Ron, for listening to his whinging while he wrote the book. Even if they made him pay for a round whenever he mentioned the M-word.

When Neville said “M-word”, everyone looked up in shocked surprise, of course. But all was made clear. Neville explained that, since his generous publisher paid for today’s drinks, he now felt free to tell them that they really should read the chapter on the Mimbulus Mimbeltonia, for the Mimbulus Mimbeltonia was a most interesting plant, and he, Neville, couldn’t understand how people could ever get tired of hearing about it. He ended his speech with a toast “to the Mimbulus Mimbeltonia”.

Amidst general laughter, Neville gave the first copies of the book to his Gran and Pomona, and after that everyone had a lovely time chatting and catching up with each other. I made a point of talking to Bill and Fleur and of making sure Neville saw me do it – I had, after all, asked him to invite them.

It was easy to find a topic for conversation, for everyone mentioned the one, big surprise: Augusta attended the gathering in her trade-mark green robes, red bag at her arm, but… with a new, very fetching velvet hat. Black, with a green band and just one small feather.

We all wondered how that particular miracle had come to pass, and the end Neville told me he had ‘told his Gran that a new hat was in order, and she quite agreed with him’. A feat that puts much more than just one feather in Neville’s cap, in my opinion.

When the party broke up, I pretended to leave for Hogwarts but returned when everyone else had left. Aberforth and I covered the remaining food but left it clearly in sight on the counter. We checked that the article about Potter was still in its frame on the wall and fetched Monsieur Dupont from his upstairs room, where he had awaited the end of the festivities.

And then we settled down to wait. Severus and Aberforth stood behind the counter, ready to duck and hide at the slightest sounds, and I sat on one of the tables, in cat-shape. As Severus had pointed out, “a cat on the premises is useful when it comes to dealing with a rat.”

Aberforth had grunted that a ferret wouldn’t come amiss, either. “A furet? Very true. But we will be the furets, if necessary, Monsieur Dumbledore,” said Monsieur Dupont, fully in character. He had even gone as far as to inquire what the correct word would be for a group of furets.

“A business,” said Aberforth. “And call me Abe. Don’t care for Monsieur Dumbledore.”

“We will be a Business of Ferrets, then, Abe,” smiled Monsieur Dupont, adding that he was called Pierre.

I could see that the title for this case had been decided then and there. The Business of Ferrets it would be.

After that little exchange we remained silent and waited as the autumn evening turned into night.


*+*+*+*+*

It must have been around midnight when we heard sounds on the first floor. Severus and I had checked out the place very carefully earlier that evening, and we were almost as familiar with its lay-out as Aberforth. The sounds were those of the portrait in the sitting room, Ariana’s portrait, opening slowly.

Silently, Severus and Aberforth moved from behind the bar to the main area. Whoever had entered the place would come down the rickety wooden staircase behind the bar. It was surprising that Pettigrew, if it was Pettigrew, would come from the corridor to Hogwarts, rather than from outside. Surprising and worrying.

Had he been present, in rat-shape, during the afternoon? Had he managed to sneak upstairs, in the heat of the party, and used the corridor already? If so – what about Victoire? Was Pettigrew returning from whatever he planned to do – and what would we find at Hogwarts?

We did not have to wait long for an answer. There were footsteps on the staircase – two pair of them. Very soft and muffled, as if the intruders had taken off their shoes.

And sure enough we saw two pairs of legs. Clad in socks and blue jeans. And far too skinny to be Pettigrew’s.

Students!

Severus quickly threw a wordless camouflage spell and withdrew into the furthest shadows, and I jumped silently off the table I had been sitting on and hid underneath. Students might recognize my Animagus form – I use it in class, and it is always a moment when everyone pays attention.

Aberforth struck the pose of a publican who unexpectedly hears intruders in his house, and very convincing he was.

And then the students were fully visible.

I almost gasped.

Victoire Weasley and Teddy Lupin!

The very last ones we wanted to see here.

Aberforth, like the experienced fighter he was, instantly did the right thing. He drew his wand and threw a Petrificus Totalus. The miscreants went down like logs. He then cast a Mufflatio around them, so that we could speak freely.

“There,” said Aberforth. “Nothing odd about a man petrifying an intruder. Headmistress won’t cut up roughly with me for doing that to students – not when I thought there was danger.”

“Nor will the parents; I’ll see to that,” I said, having Transfigured back as soon as the children went down. “Quick thinking, Abe. Now what shall we do?”

“Pettigrew may still come in,” said Severus. “This may just be a coincidence.”

“True,” I said, “but …”

There was no need to spell it out. All along we had told each other that, while everything fitted the Pettigrew scenario (except for that one detail of the sweet snacks), everything still fitted the Teenage Prank case, too. Was this the solution of the mystery? Could we take the risk?

“If Pettigrew shows up, “ I said, “he’ll most likely come from outside. And while he will probably slip in as a rat, for convenience sake he’ll Transfigure as soon as he sees the coast is clear. Rats don’t have opposing thumbs.”

“At which point I can Petrify him,” said Severus. His camouflage spell was outstanding – Pettigrew wouldn’t be able to spot him.

“Meanwhile,” Severus continued, “Aberforth can Levitate these two upstairs and undo the Petrificus. He’ll then question him – as he would, had he found them by accident. That way we’ll know what their story is, and Minerva can listen in.”

“Aye,” said Aberforth. “She’ll be comfy enough under the sofa.”

Given the proverbial lack of cleanliness in the Hog’s Head, that seemed highly debatable. But I’ve fought in three wars, and I’ve known worse. We fell in with Severus’s suggestion readily enough, and Aberforth and I Levitated the students to the sitting room. I took up my position under the sofa, and Aberforth broke the spell.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” he shouted, as soon as Teddy and Victoire had struggled to an upright position. “Sneaking out at night? Up to no good, you are.” And he Accio’ed their wands.

“We … we … we …” stammered Teddy.

“We were … we were just ….” added Victoire.

“Just what, exactly?” thundered Aberforth.

“Doing a kitchen raid,” said Teddy, with the look of someone who thinks he sees a small ray of light at the end of a tunnel.

“Kitchen raid?” said Aberforth. “This is Hogwarts’ kitchen? This is where all those Elves cook dinner for a few hundred people? Fancy that. And I never noticed a thing. Must be my old age.”

“Yes … No … Well … Yes …” said Victoire. She took a deep breath and confessed, “Neville’s – Professor Longbottom, I mean – his party. For the book. We’ve heard all about it. From our parents.”

“And from Harry,” said Teddy, as if that justified their situation. “And we thought …”

“You thought you’d come here and steal my food,” said Aberforth. He said it in a perfectly calm voice, but with such a well-pitched inflexion that the two children suddenly fully realized that what they had been doing was, in fact, stealing. Not a prank at all, but theft. Something to be ashamed of.

And ashamed they were.

I was, once again, strongly aware of the resemblance between the Dumbledore brothers. In exactly such a tone Albus had made generations of miscreants aware of their deeds, whenever a prank crossed the line to a serious misdemeanour.

Albus would then assume the students’ mistake had been a genuine one. That they had truly not realized how unfunny their so-called prank had been, and that, now that they had a more grown-up insight, they were sorry and would never do it again. For they were not, of course, the kind of people who would intentionally commit a despicable deed.

Albus’s skills in achieving a true learning moment for the students had been honed in decades of teaching, but the way Aberforth spoke and looked at the now very red-faced children showed the innate talent that clearly ran in the Dumbledore family.

“Did you take anything from me?” asked Aberforth.

“No, we didn’t. Truly we didn’t,” said Teddy.

“We didn’t have time,” added Victoire. “We came for the party food and …” she stopped suddenly. And for the picture of Harry, of course.

“Good,” said Aberforth, and paused briefly. “Only I’ll have to check that. Can’t really trust you, can I? Get up.”

The two children scrambled to their feet. They were positively puce by now, realizing they were the kind of people whose word one cannot trust.

“Accio,” said Aberforth, with a disdainful flick of his wand. I could not see what came out of their pockets, but I heard the crackling of a piece of parchment.

“Is this note a private one, or does it have to do with you being here?” asked Aberforth.

I could practically hear Teddy swallow, and then I heard him say, “It has to do with us being here. Sir.” Clearly Aberforth’s lesson was working.

I heard further crackling as Aberforth unfolded the note. ”The ScAvengers were here,” he read out loud. “The ScAvengers? You two are behind that business? Best tell me all, then.”

I heaved a deep but noiseless sigh. The Scavengers! A teenage prank, after all. I must admit that my first reaction was to be right royally pissed off. There are no other words for it. All that work, all that anxiety we had suffered, our fears that we would be too late, that we would end up investigating a real crime, perhaps even a murder. And it was a teenage prank after all.

As I had said from the beginning.

Damn Severus!

My only consolation was that Severus, standing at the bottom of the staircase, listening with all his might, would feel as bad as I did. If only I could throw him the look he so very much deserved. It would be a Look with a capital L, as soon as I would have the chance, I promised myself.

“Come on,” said Aberforth. “Out with it.” And the children began their tale.

“It was just a joke,” said Victoire.

“Or we thought it was,” added Teddy.

“Like a kitchen raid, you know, Sir,” said Victoire. “The first one was after Elphias Doge’s birthday party at the Leaky. We all went there. All the Weasleys, I mean. And Teddy, of course. And we were hungry and we felt like a bit of fruit cake and we went down together.”

“And then we took the cake,” Teddy continued, “and we looked around a bit. And we saw that picture of Harry. And he hates those pictures, really, he does. He hates that everyone always goes on about the Battle and him being The Chosen One. He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“But everyone always does,” Victoire added. “Not just to Uncle Harry. To us, too, all the time. And we hate it. I mean, I know it was very important, and that everyone was very brave, and that we live in a safe world because of them. We know that, Sir, really we do. But …”

“You don’t want to hear about it all the time.” Teddy had taken up the story again. They reminded me of the Weasley Twin cross-talk act I had heard so often during their Hogwarts years, and I realized how strong the bond between these two must be.

“I mean,” Teddy continued, “It’s not … I don’t know how to explain, but … You see, my parents died in that battle. That’s a big thing. And then people go and say things like, ‘how dare you climb that tree – that’s dangerous, and your parents died to make the world a safe place.’

“And that’s just it, see? They died for a big thing. For freedom. It wasn’t about me climbing a tree or flying a broom.”

“And I get the same,” said Victoire. “Like, ‘your Uncle died to keep you all safe’. And I know it’s terrible that he died, and that Granny never really got over it, because Mum says it’s the very worst thing in the world to lose a child. But my Uncle Fred didn’t die to stop me from pulling pranks, I don’t think!”

She was absolutely right there. Fred Weasley might have died of shame, had the Art of Pranking died out with the next generation. As to this whole ScAvengers thing, he would have held their coats and cheered them on.

“And then we took the picture. And we left the note.” Teddy’s turn again. “I said we were scavenging, and then Victoire said, no, we were Avenging Harry. And Uncle Fred and my parents and everyone who … who … well, Harry didn’t fight to get his portrait on Tom’s wall.”

I began to feel a warm sympathy for these children. They couldn’t quite put it the way they wanted to, not yet, but they objected to both the use of war heroes for people’s personal glory, and the abuse of their sacrifice for unworthy things.

I remember an occasion during the year Remus Lupin held the DADA post. He informed me that Harry had sneaked out of the castle, despite orders to the contrary, to go out on Hogsmeade Saturday. And he, Remus, had brought up the topic of Harry’s parents and their sacrifice when berating him.

Remus was seriously concerned whether he had done the right thing. “James would have approved of Harry,” he said. “Normally, he would have been all for it. I mean, if it was just those guardians of Harry not signing the note, and him getting out regardless, James would have approved. Hell, he would have given him the … never mind … he would have been fine with it. But now …”

I had to suppress a smile. And at the same time, I had to swallow. That ‘never mind’ of Remus – what was it that James would have given him? Something to do with the Marauders, something Remus had nearly given away. But a Marauder doesn’t grass. For one brief moment, I saw young Mr Lupin and Mr Potter.

Remus was right: James would have approved of Harry sneaking out. In normal circumstances. But in normal circumstances Harry would have grown up with his parents and …

The waste of it all. The sheer, bloody waste.

But Remus had been right, too, in bringing up James and Lily when he did, and I told him so. For the circumstances weren’t normal: there was a killer out there, and Harry didn’t risk a mere detention, he risked the very life his parents had died for.

And I have to admit that, on this occasion, I felt those two children were right. Bringing up the death of relatives for no better reason than tree-climbing, forbidden broom-flying and other childish pranks is emotional blackmail, nothing less.

I happen to think that blackmail is more despicable than theft.

Meanwhile the Teddy and Victoire cross-talk had gone on to the subject of the clock. It was as I had thought as soon as I heard who was behind the ScAvenger business: they had taken the clock because it might give away Victoire. True, there was no spot saying up to no good on that clock. I suspect Arthur’s influence there. A clock to warn for danger, yes. One to warn for pranks – no. Arthur has strong and occasionally quite unorthodox ideas about what freedom means, especially where his children are concerned.

But the children had not taken the risk and removed the clock. It was in the Weasley’s attic, they explained, in an old trunk, safely wrapped in a sheet. They had justified that particular theft to themselves not just by the risk for Victoire, but because Harry hated the clock. Or rather, the monitoring of his children that was the result.

Of course they used the word ‘hated’ the way teenagers do: for everything from mashed swedes to the Voldemort years. But keeping in mind what Ron had told me about his and Harry’s feelings on that clock, Victoire and Teddy were probably right.

I decided then and there to take up the subject of the clock’s whereabouts with Arthur, not with Molly. Arthur would deal with it in the right way.

Meanwhile the children had reached the end of their story.

“Well,” said Aberforth. “I’ll say this for you: I can see your point about those things you took and how Harry feels about them. But they must be returned. If you had realized it was theft, you wouldn’t have taken them.”

The spitting image of Albus.

Victoire and Teddy nodded as if their heads would fall off.

“You two go back and you never say a word about being here. I’ll deal with it. Make sure those things get returned. With the help of Headmistress McGonagall – I’ll have to tell her.”

A wail rose up. “No, Sir, please, no. Not McGonagall, Sir, please. She’ll ground us, like, forever. Please, Sir.”

“That’s Headmistress McGonagall to you,” said Aberforth, sternly. “And she may surprise you yet. Just leave it all to me. We’re old friends, the Headmistress and I.”

I could not see his face from where I was hiding, but I’m certain a conspirational wink was thrown in.

“Now, one more thing before you go,” said Aberforth. I saw his feet turn around. “Accio pitcher and plate!” he called. I heard the faint whiff of things floating through the air.

“Here’s a plate of cold ham and some pumpkin juice,” he said. “You’ll need something to build up your strength, after this adventure.”

No mean feat to Accio those things up a winding staircase without spilling. People often think of Aberforth as less powerful, but they forget he is less powerful only when compared to Albus, not to the average witch or wizard.

“Give me your word of honour you’ll stay quiet about all this,” he continued. The children both promised.

“Now off you go. And if you get caught at the other end, remember your word,” Aberforth told them.

“We will, Sir.”

“We never went here.”

“We went to raid the Hogwarts kitchen.”

“And then we went to the Room of Requirement to eat the things. Which we’ll do, Sir.”

“So that’s why we were caught on the way from the Room to our dorm, see?”

An excellent, on-the-spot fabrication of lies. There is more than a hint of the Weasley Twins in those two, and I will watch them sharply from now on.

Teddy and Victoire left, and Aberforth put the portrait back behind them. Silently, we both descended the staircase. Severus was waiting for us at the bottom, and I am pleased to say that, when I looked at him, he actually stared at the ground.

“Not our most glorious moment,” he said.

I continued to Look.

“Not my most glorious moment,” he amended.

“The less said about it, the better,” I said, and there was a hint of eagerness in his nod.

We took our leave of Aberforth and went behind the back of his pub – a safe place for Severus to Disapparate, well out of sight.

“In the end, of course, it’s a good thing Pettigrew wasn’t involved,” I said.

“So it is,” said Severus. “All these years I was convinced he was dead. It was just … The case against it …”

“The case against it was a believable one,” I agreed. “So believable that we didn’t pay enough attention to the one element that didn’t fit – the snacks. We both thought it was odd, but we felt there was no time to go into it. What if it had been Pettigrew, and what if he had struck again, and quickly?”

I didn’t like admitting it, but it hadn’t been just Severus who was at fault – I had accepted his ideas readily, and I had been as convinced as he was that there was something serious going on.

“I assume,” said Severus, casually, “that people will not want to read a case as insipid as this one.”

So much for being my faithful side-kick.

So much for out-cosying Kipper Malfoy.

I had admitted that I, too, had thought there was a case to investigate. And I had already shown my willingness to let bygones be bygones. In fact, I think my restraint on the subject was verging on the saintly.

But there are limits.

“I can’t see Flourish and Botts rushing in to print it, true,” I told Severus.

He nodded. “The plot just isn’t good enough,” he said, for all the world like a man who has published several Cases himself.

I let him believe in his good fortune for a few seconds.

Then I mentioned that there were, however, other ways of publication. “It’s really too bad that a detective story starring ‘Monsieur Dupont’ won’t sell anywhere,” I said. “But I promise you this, my friend, if this story finds an audience, I will do full justice to the cosiest side-kick a spinster could have.”

And on that pleasing prospect the case of if Minerva McGonagall and the Business of Ferrets came to an end.