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drachenminaTitle: The Riddle of the Grange
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
drachenmina
Giftee:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
empathic_siren
Word Count: ~18,800
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter,
.Warnings: Character death (not Severus/Harry)
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Sherlock Holmes and the plot of The Devil’s Foot (His Last Bow) aren’t mine either.
Summary: Non-magic AU set in the late Victorian era. Chief Inspector Severus Snape of Scotland Yard comes to Hogsmeade to investigate a most baffling murder at the Riddle house. Fortunately PC Potter is eager to assist him in all matters.
Author's Notes: Thank you,empathic_siren, for easing my fest wibbles with a very user-friendly prompt! I hope you like what I’ve done with it. *wishes you a happy Snarry Holidays*
Huge smooches to my wonderful betasgin_tonic and blpaintchart!
Part One
Chief Inspector Severus Snape of Scotland Yard sat at his breakfast table in 111c, Haberdasher Street, London, and glared at his bacon and eggs. “Dammit, Filch, I thought I told you to give me kippers this morning!” he called out, irritated.
His manservant slouched in and leered in a manner that was no doubt intended to be ingratiating. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but they was off. That’s a loverly bit o’ bacon, though, I ‘ad some meself. Anyfing else, sir?”
Severus waved him away. “No, no. Wait – why is this ringed in red ink on my morning paper?”
“That’ll be Dr Lupin’s wedding announcement, sir. Dint think you’d want ter miss that, sir. Don’t know why yer dint go along, mind. You bein’ ‘is best friend, an’ all.”
Severus’ face darkened. “That will be all, Filch!” Angrily he folded the paper so as to obscure the offending announcement. Until recently, Remus Lupin had always shared his breakfast table; they had been roommates, and Severus had entertained the fond belief that they would be so until the day they died, bachelors together.
And then Lupin had to go and meet that accursed harpy, Miss Tonks, and before you could say “in the family way” they were wed, and Lupin had moved out, never to return. Apparently they planned to run a pig farm in Kent. Well, Severus washed his hands of the both of them. He scanned the newspaper, seeking distraction from his melancholy thoughts. Suddenly a headline caught his eye: Horror in Hogsmeade. Severus read on, his excitement mounting. Yes, this would be just the thing! A seemingly insoluble mystery, in a sleepy market town in the North of England, hundreds of miles from Kent. Severus had never been more grateful for the foresight which had led him to accumulate a wealth of incriminating material on his superior, Chief Superintendent Fudge. Having himself assigned to this mystery would be a mere formality. “Filch! Pack my bag. I shall be travelling to Hogsmeade!”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Police Constable Harry Potter strolled along the lane to the Hogsmeade Police Station, accompanied by his best friend, PC Ronald Weasley. Ron groaned as they turned the corner and saw the figure of the suffragette waiting for them.
“Bloody hell, she’s there again. Can’t you have a word with her, Harry?”
Harry grinned. “Sorry, mate, you’re on your own, there.”
Ron squared his shoulders and marched forthrightly up to the young woman. “Look, Hermione, this is getting a bit embarrassing, you chaining yourself to the police station railings all the time. Everyone knows you’re my fiancée. Couldn’t you, I dunno, go down the road to Hogchester to do it?”
Hermione’s chin was in the air. “Ronald Weasley! Do you really want the disgraceful disenfranchisement of half of humanity to be swept under the carpet?”
Ron shrugged. “Well, no, but does it have to stay in the front room all the time?”
“Until women are treated equally with men, yes, Ron, it does.” Hermione said firmly, handing them each a copy of a pamphlet written by Emmeline Pankhurst, which they each stuffed shamefacedly into a uniform pocket, Ron’s ears a vivid pink under his uniform helmet.
“I hope she realises I’ll never make Sergeant with her going on like that,” Ron muttered gloomily as they walked into the police station.
“There you two are! About bloody time.” Their superior, Sergeant Hopper, a large, red-faced man prone to sweating profusely whose name appeared to be just one of fate’s little jokes, glared at them as they walked in. “Take it you’ve seen the papers, about the Riddle case? Well, you’re not the only ones. I’ve ‘ad a telegram from London – “
“Is Sherlock Holmes coming to solve it for us?” Ron burst out excitedly.
“No, Weasley, he is not. Chief Inspector Snape of Scotland Yard is who we’re getting.”
Ron’s face fell. “Might’ve known nobody famous would ever come up here,” he muttered. “S’pose Sherlock Holmes is too important to bother with the likes of us. So who’s this Snape bloke, Sarge, and why’s he interested in a couple of local murders?”
“Oh come on, Ron!” Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s a mystery, isn’t it? A locked room, two people found dead with expressions of abject horror on their faces, as if the very fiends of hell had come to collect their souls – “
“Very good, Potter. I see the report in the Daily Mail made an impression. Right, that settles it. Potter, when the Chief Inspector gets ‘ere, you’ll be assisting him, seeing as how you’re taking such an interest already. Better get yourself up to speed with the facts of the case, not that we’ve got a right lot.”
Flicking through the rather slender case file, Harry couldn’t believe his luck – he was going to be assisting a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard! Careers were made out of this kind of thing! Not bad for a boy from Barnardos, he thought, wondering, as always, if his parents were still alive somewhere, and whether they’d be proud of him if they knew. He was sure that only desperation could have caused them to abandon him on the steps of the orphanage when he was a baby, with only a faded plaid blanket to his name. Not that he’d even had a name, actually – he’d been christened by one of the nurses after her home town, Potter’s Bar, and the local pub, the King Harry.
He’d got to know Ron when they were at school together – early on some of the other lads had bullied Harry about being a Barnardos boy, and Ron had stood up for him, and taken him home to be fussed over by his mum. They’d been firm friends ever since, and when Ron had announced he wanted to join the Police, it had seemed natural to Harry to follow suit. Although to tell the truth, Harry had been feeling a little left out since Ron had started courting Miss Granger, whose parents owned the grocer’s shop Ron’s mum shopped at. But Harry liked Hermione, although she had some funny opinions about women’s rights and the class system. Too much education, Ron always said, and he was probably right. Women weren’t supposed to know as much stuff as Hermione did, were they? They didn’t have the right sort of brain, or something. Not that he knew much about it.
Harry gave up wondering about women, and turned back to his file.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Chief Inspector Snape stepped off the train and cast his eye over the mostly deserted platform. A uniformed Constable stepped forward hesitantly. “Er, Chief Inspector?”
Severus nodded, and the boy – for he was hardly more than that – grinned nervously. “I’m PC Potter – I’m to assist you on the case.”
Severus raised an eyebrow at this. “Indeed? Tell me, Potter, do you have extensive experience of solving baffling murders?”
The youth flushed. “Er, no, but I did find old Mrs Figg’s ginger tom for her when it went missing. No one else even thought of looking down the well for it.”
Severus snorted. “I’m sure your input will be invaluable,” he muttered sardonically. Still, he would need someone to relay to him all the facts of the case, as opposed to the sensationalist details he had gleaned from the popular press. And if nothing else, the boy, although barely up to the minimum height requirement and skinny with it, looked as though he might possibly be up to the task of carrying Severus’ bag. Thrusting the valise into the boy’s doubtful grasp, Severus barked, “I trust a room has been secured for me at a local hostelry?”
Stumbling a little under the weight of Severus’ well-filled valise, the boy answered, “Er, yeah. You’re staying at the King Harry. They do a lovely steak and ale pie there, you’ll like it.”
Severus’ lips grew thin. “That, Potter, remains to be seen.”
Once they had conveyed Severus’ luggage to the inn, and Severus had grudgingly pronounced the accommodation to be adequate, he was impatient to be on the job. “You may now conduct me to the Riddle house – although I suppose I must first go through the formalities and meet your superior. Take me to the police station.”
“Right. Er, I’m afraid there’s only the Sarge there at the moment. Inspector Slughorn’s off sick – his gout’s been bothering him something chronic, he says.”
Severus sniffed derisively and was interested to notice a quickly concealed smile on the young constable’s face. Perhaps not quite as dim as he had at first seemed? Well, he would soon find out. “Well, then, Potter, take me to your Sarge.”
Severus’ first impression of Hopper was not a favourable one. Typical sleepy provincial type; probably wouldn’t recognise a clue if you shoved it up his remarkably capacious arse. In the interests of inter-departmental co-operation Severus tried not to let his feelings show too much as introductions were made and apparently necessary pleasantries exchanged, impatiently moving to business as soon as he was able.
“So, Hopper, tell me of this case. The facts, man, not the ridiculous sensationalism of the daily papers!”
“Well, sir, it’s like this,” Hopper began in his maddeningly slow North-country drawl. “Old Mr and Mrs Riddle, of the Grange, were found Thursday morning by the housekeeper, seated around the dining table, dead as doornails, and with looks o’ peculiar horror on their faces. The housekeeper, Mrs Pomfrey, fainted dead away when she found the poor souls.”
“And was there anyone else besides the two deceased in the house that night?”
“No, sir. Lady Dumbledore has given evidence that she was round there earlier in the evening, before the dreadful event occurred.”
“Indeed?”
“’Er Ladyship was invited round for bridge, with Sir Albus, but she only stayed a quarter of an hour, just to give apologies, like. Sir Albus couldn’t come round on account of ‘is trouble.”
“His trouble?”
“Yessir. ‘Is trouble. Anyroad, Lady Dumbledore says as how she saw something outside the window while she was there.”
“Well, what was it?” Severus asked impatiently.
“She couldn’t say, sir. Just a pale shape, that flitted across the window, like.”
“Hm. And who is this Lady Dumbledore?”
“She’s a very respectable lady, sir. Miss Minerva McGonagall as was. She’s the second Lady Dumbledore, o’ course. Married the baronet some fifteen year ago, and a great blessing to Hogsmeade ever since.”
“Indeed. Well, I shall need to speak with Lady Dumbledore, after I have visited the Riddle house. Potter, you shall conduct me there forthwith.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The Riddle house, it transpired, was set somewhat apart from the town. Severus waited impatiently for the Hansom cab that was to convey them there. “Potter?” he asked, more to kill time than for any other reason. “What can you tell me about all this?”
“Um, well, sir. I’m not sure what you’re asking…”
Severus rolled his eyes. “Start with Sir Albus and Lady Dumbledore. What, precisely, is his trouble?”
“Er, I think the Sarge meant his younger brother, Aberforth. Bit of a black sheep of the family. He’s the landlord of the King Harry, actually. And he keeps goats on the side. You can get a cracking goat’s-cheese and apple sarnie down the pub too. Old Abe makes the cheese himself – milks the goats and everything.”
“And Lady Dumbledore?”
“Oh, she’s a real lady.” Potter’s voice was warm and enthusiastic. “Always giving to charity, and making sure the orphanage is run right.”
“And the first Lady Dumbledore?”
The boy coloured slightly. “Well, I don’t really know about that – before my time, really. I know there was a lot of talk about her, but I reckon it was just because she was a foreign lady. Swiss, I heard. Funny maiden name – Grindelwald, I think it was. But, um, I heard old Sluggie – I mean, Inspector Slughorn – talk about her once, and all he said was that she was no lady. Don’t know what he meant, though, sir. ‘Spose there’d been some scandal in her home town, or something.”
“Hmm. And tell me about the Riddle family, now.”
“Well, there’s old Mr Riddle – sorry, I mean there was – and his wife, and their grandson Mr Thomas Riddle, who’s up at Cambridge – except he’s down, now, seeing as term’s finished. But he wasn’t on the night of the murder.”
“What about young Mr Riddle’s parents?”
“Well, it was a bit tragic, really. His mum died in childbirth and his dad died a few years later.”
“So he is the only heir? Interesting.”
“So you think he did it, to get the money?” The boy’s puppyish enthusiasm was almost… endearing. Severus decided to stamp on that right away.
“I suspect everyone!” he snapped. “And no one,” he added more calmly.
“Oh. Right. So all we need to do is to eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains must be the truth?”
Severus ground his teeth. “I see you are acquainted with the writings of that imbecile Watson about his supercilious, posturing friend Sherlock Holmes.”
Potter responded with enthusiasm. “Oh, yeah! Me and Ron read all his cases. It’s incredible, how he manages to do all that stuff – recognise gravel, tell what people do for a living, and all that!”
“Incredible is right, Potter – I for one refuse to be taken in. Thanks to that charlatan and his parlour tricks, Scotland Yard is now expected to solve cases in the manner of some tuppeny-ha’penny music-hall prestidigitator pulling rabbits out of hats and pocket-handkerchiefs from every orifice, and is derided by the popular press as incompetent when she quite naturally fails to do so!”
“So, um, you’re not a fan, then?” Potter quailed under Severus’ furious glare, and looked mightily relieved to see the Hansom cab draw up in front of them.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The driver dropped them at the front door of The Grange, or the Riddle house, as it was more popularly known. It was a large, imposing building, showing some signs of modernisation. The door was opening by a ratlike butler to whom Severus took an instant dislike, who conducted them into an airy drawing-room. Mr Thomas Riddle, a tall, dark-haired, straight-backed young man, was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the gardens behind the house. He turned, and gave them an earnest greeting. He appeared to be about twenty years old, Severus judged, and was blessed with engaging features and a grave natural charm most unusual in one so young. Severus reminded himself firmly he was here to investigate a murder, not to look for a dalliance amongst the suspects.
“So good of you to come so far to help us here in our time of trouble, Chief Inspector. May I offer you some refreshment?” At Severus’ curt nod, he turned gracefully to the cringing butler who had lingered on the threshold of the room. “Coffee, if you please, Pettigrew.”
“Yessir. At once sir,” the butler fawned, and scuttled off to perform his master’s wishes.
Riddle stared after him for a moment with an odd look in his eye, then turned and smiled briskly at Severus. “Well, now, how may I be of service, Chief Inspector? I take it you should like to examine the dining room?”
“Indeed, although I imagine any evidence has been completely destroyed by the bumbling fools of the local constabulary.” Severus tried hard to ignore Potter’s hurt look at this, as Riddle conducted them to the scene of the crime – if, of course, crime it was. The dining room was as dark and gloomy as the drawing-room had been cheerful and bright, with wood panelling and heavy drapery around the high, narrow windows. “Now, you were not in the house at the time?”
“No, Chief Inspector. I was summoned home as soon as the tragedy had been discovered – although as luck would have it, it was in any case the end of term and so I was already packed and ready to leave. It was Mrs Pomfrey, the housekeeper, who found my unfortunate relatives.”
“Then I should like to speak to Mrs Pomfrey, if I may.”
“Of course! Pettigrew,” he turned sharply to the fawning butler, who had returned with the coffee on a silver tray, “Tell Mrs Pomfrey her presence is required here, would you?”
Mrs Pomfrey turned out to be a sensible-looking woman of middle years. Severus pursed his lips in interest. Not at all the kind of person one would expect to be fainting at the drop of a hat, or even at the drop of her elderly employers.
“Mrs Pomfrey, I wish you to tell me precisely what happened when you found the late Mr and Mrs Riddle.”
She nodded briskly and began. “I arose at my usual time, having heard no disturbance in the night. I went directly to the dining room, thinking it would need airing before breakfast, for Mr Riddle had been smoking after dinner – indeed, he was still doing so when I went to bed. Upon entering the room, I saw my late employers sitting dead in their chairs, with expressions of horror on their faces.” She cleared her throat, seeming a little embarrassed. “I am afraid that upon that sight, I fainted. When I came to, Mr Pettigrew had thrown open the windows – I suppose I must have made some sound that led him to discover me. Revived by the fresh air, I left the room, and Mr Pettigrew telephoned the local constabulary.”
“I see. Tell me, Mrs Pomfrey, are you in the habit of falling into a faint upon receiving a sudden shock?”
She sniffed. “I am not.”
As he had suspected. “Thank you, Mrs Pomfrey. You may go now. Be so good as to send in Pettigrew.”
The butler arrived with a speed that suggested to Severus that he had been lurking in the hall, in all probability listening at the keyhole. He stood slightly hunched over, wringing his hands as Severus questioned him.
“Now, Pettigrew. What caused you to enter the dining room, the morning your late employers’ death was discovered?”
Sweat beaded upon the creature’s face as he answered. “I heard a noise, sir. When Mrs Pomfrey fell.”
“And you had not set foot in the dining room before, that morning?”
“No! No, sir. I ‘adn’t.”
“And the previous evening? What sort of mood were the Riddles in?”
The wretched man cast his eyes around nervously, as if searching for reassurance that he could not be overheard. Was it young Mr Riddle he feared? Severus wondered.
“They were – a little agitated, sir. But I couldn’t tell you why, sir.”
Severus seriously doubted the veracity of that. Any butler worth his salt would make it his business to know every detail of his master’s affairs – and certainly an eavesdropping little toady like this loathsome creature would have done so.
“I see. Tell me, were there any untoward occurrences, that evening.”
Pettigrew once more looked around nervously, but this time when he spoke his voice was eager. “It’s funny you should ask that, sir. When I was serving brandy to Mr Riddle, that was when Lady Dumbledore was here, and she saw a ghastly apparition flit across the window – but when we all looked, it was gone. There’s some strange tales, in these parts, about restless spirits – “
“Yes, yes,” Severus huffed impatiently. He had little use for second-hand accounts and hearsay. “And that is all you can tell us?”
The butler nodded, drops of sweat falling from his forehead to the carpet, Severus noticed with distaste. He sighed, and dismissed the creature.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“So what do you think, sir?” the boy asked him excitedly once they were alone. “I reckon the butler did it!” He had listened to Pettigrew’s testimony with eyes as round as saucers.
Severus curled his lip. “Potter, do you survive on an exclusive diet of sensationalist papers and penny dreadfuls? What possible reason could the butler, abhorrent though he undoubtedly is, have for killing his employers? After all, I should think it by no means certain that he will keep his place under their grandson – from the looks Riddle was giving him, I very much doubt there is any love lost there.”
“Wait! What if Riddle did it? He’s the heir, after all – plenty of motive there! Or – you don’t think it could actually have been a spirit, do you? Maybe the ghost of the late Mr Thomas Riddle, Mr Thomas Riddle’s father? I did hear that he didn’t get on too well with his dad, old Mr Riddle, and there was some mystery about his death – “
“If he liked his father so little, I fail to see why he should have wanted to hasten his journey to the afterlife, where they might be in danger of meeting again,” Severus muttered derisively. He was kneeling by the fireplace examining the ashes, a sample of which he sealed into an envelope. “In any case, I am not one of those credulous fools who assert the existence of spirits, or look for visitations from the departed. Dead is dead, Potter, and it would behove you to remember that. Now, outside. I wish to examine the flower-beds.”
“So, um, what are we looking for here, sir?” Potter asked, once they had rounded the house to the dining room window.
“Footprints, Potter. The night of the tragedy was a rainy one – for a figure in the garden to be seen from within, it must have passed very close to the window. If Pettigrew is not lying to us, we should find footprints in this flower-bed, perhaps concealed by the shrubbery.” Severus eyed the still-damp ground with misgivings. He had no wish to ruin his trousers; moreover he suffered from a slight rheumatism in one knee. “You will examine the ground.”
Obediently, Potter knelt down and started to fossick around the shrubs. Severus was treated to a rather fine view of his serge-clad arse as he did so, and congratulated himself anew on his foresight in having had his assistant do the donkey-work. He wondered a little wistfully if the boy was always so pleasingly eager to go down on his knees. “Anything, Potter?” he asked, before he could get too distracted by his fantasies.
“Nope, not a sausage,” Potter told him cheerfully, emerging rather red-faced and muddy-kneed from the rhododendrons.
“Interesting, is it not, Potter?”
The boy’s face fell as he considered the implications. “So, um, you reckon Lady Dumbledore did it?” Potter looked rather concerned about this. Severus recalled his enthusiastic description of her earlier.
“And what, Potter, gives you grounds for that assumption?”
“Well, it looks like she lied about the apparition, doesn’t it?”
“Potter, it is hardly without precedent for an overwrought woman to imagine all manner of things. You would know better than I whether Lady Dumbledore is prone to hysteria. Or perhaps, Potter, she was merely protecting someone.”
“But who? Oh my God, Chief Inspector, you don’t think Sir Albus did it?” The boy looked absolutely appalled at the possibility.
“At this moment, Potter, I cannot say.”
“But he’s – he’s Sir Albus! Everyone respects him, sir, even if he is a bit, well, eccentric. He’s done a lot for Hogsmeade, and he’s, well, really nice. Always got a bag of sweets for the kiddies, and he’ll always give you the time of day, no matter who you are. And he gives talks in the town hall about all his travels to exotic places, and it’s as good as the theatre any day.”
Harry paused for breath, and Snape took advantage, cutting in. “I regret to inform you, Potter, that respectability and affability are no proof of innocence. However, I shall make no judgement before I have seen the lady and gentleman in question.”
They climbed back into the Hansom cab, and Severus instructed the driver to take them to Sir Albus’ residence. Potter was mercifully quiet on the journey, having seemingly exhausted his supply of wild suppositions as to the identity of the murderer, and Severus took the opportunity to study his assistant at close quarters. He was an intriguing mix of youthful naïveté and unusual self-sufficiency. The appalling haircut and dreadful spectacles he wore suggested he had no one who cared overmuch about him at home; and there was something in his demeanour that suggested he had been accustomed to fend for himself from an early age. “Do you live with your parents, Potter?” Severus asked to test this theory.
“Who, me?” Potter glanced around him for a moment, as if expecting to discover some other Potter had hitched a ride with them in the cab. “Nah, I grew up in the orphanage. Got left there when I was a baby. I lodge at Mrs Figg’s now.”
“Indeed? Then I congratulate you upon overcoming a difficult start in life. I daresay there are few in your position who would have aspired to join the police force.” Most, Severus imagined, would tend to gravitate naturally to the other side of the law. He found he was surprisingly glad the young man had not followed the more predictable path – although admittedly, the thought of Potter in handcuffs held a certain appeal all of its own.
The boy blushed prettily – it seemed he was as unaccustomed to receiving praise as Severus was to giving it. “Thank you, sir.” After a moment, seeming to feel the need to make conversation, he asked, “Is there a Mrs Snape, sir?”
“No, Potter, there is not. Nor, I might add, is there likely to be,” Severus said firmly.
Potter grimaced sympathetically. “Never mind, sir. Lots of blokes have trouble getting a girlfriend.”
Fortunately for him, it was at that moment that they arrived at Phoenix Hall.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It might have been called a Hall, Severus thought sourly as they approached the incongruous edifice, but it showed definite signs of wanting to be a castle when it grew up. It looked rather like something Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria might have designed in his infancy, before the delusions really took hold, and gone back to later to add a half-hearted turret or two, before giving it all up as a bad job and going off to do the preliminary doodles for Neuschwanstein.
They were greeted at the door by a white-haired, bearded buffoon dressed in a faded and patched violet silk dressing gown who, Severus realised with a sinking feeling in his stomach, had to be the baronet as no servant could possibly get away with looking such a state.
“Ah! The great detective has come to Hogsmeade! Come in, Mr Holmes!” the old man twinkled.
Severus bristled. “My name is not Holmes! I am Chief Inspector Snape of Scotland Yard!”
“Really? Are you sure, dear boy?” the old buffer asked solicitously.
Severus forced himself to stop grinding his teeth. “Quite positive, thank you. And you would be Sir Albus, I presume?”
“Indeed, indeed. Ah! Harry – my dear boy, I didn’t see you there! Come in, come in.” He beamed moronically at the boy who, Severus was annoyed to see, beamed back.
“Hullo, Sir Albus! I’m just assisting the Chief Inspector.”
“Well, well! That is a turn-up for the books! A Chief Inspector! But come, we must go into the garden, on such a lovely day as this. Come along, come along!” He strode down the hall with a speed surprising in one so doddery, and Severus felt compelled to follow. After a bewilderingly twisty path through the labyrinthine Hall, after which Severus felt sure they must have been through every room in the damned place, they at length reached a set of French windows which Sir Albus unlatched to let them into the gardens. Here, Severus stopped and looked around. At one time, the gardens closest to the house had been laid out in a very formal manner, but they had been allowed to fall into decay (much like their owner, Severus thought sourly), lending them an oddly peaceful air. Sir Albus walked on to an enclosed courtyard, in which stood a stone table and chairs.
“Um, Chief Inspector,” the boy began to speak.
“Not now, Potter!” Severus told him irritably. If he didn’t get the bumbling baronet to stop and actually talk to him soon he suspected he never would.
“Now, Chief Inspector, do take a seat!” As he spoke, Sir Albus seated himself at the head of the table. Severus took one of the other seats, whilst Potter, he noted approvingly, remained standing respectfully, although he fidgeted about annoyingly from one foot to another. “Now, how can I help you? I do hope you haven’t come here to arrest me,” the barmy baronet added, eyes twinkling insanely.
“I merely wish to ask you some questions about the night of the Riddle tragedy,” Severus said cautiously. “I believe you were invited for bridge?”
“Oh, yes indeed! Minerva and I frequently visited the Grange to play cards, particularly when young Master Riddle was away at college. Such a sad business. It isn’t easy, you know, to find a really good couple to play bridge with – ”
Impatiently, Severus interrupted him. “But you did not go?”
“Alas, no! I’m afraid I had received another complaint about Aberforth’s goats, and I was compelled to remonstrate with him on the subject. Minerva went along to convey our regrets.”
“Then I believe it is with Lady Dumbledore that I should speak,” Severus told him, annoyed at the time-wasting.
“Ah! But first, a little refreshment, I think!” Severus barely had time to grow a little uneasy at the mad gleam in the baronet’s eye, before he was suddenly assaulted by a great gush of water shooting up from the middle of his seat and drenching his trousers, not to mention giving him a most unusual sensation in the region of the rectum. Further water-spouts had started in the centre of the table, and all around it, so that as Severus sprang up in outrage, he was soaked once more as he tried to escape. “I do find the trick-fountains so refreshing, don’t you, Chief Inspector?” the senile old idiot called after Severus happily, as he retreated to a safe distance, cursing.
“Um, sorry, sir, but I did try to warn you,” a bone-dry Potter told him, clearly trying not to laugh. Manfully resisting the urge to fling him head-first into the fountains, Severus merely glared and stomped back towards the house, where they were met by a long-suffering servant with a towel. Having dried himself off as best he could – in other words, wholly inadequately – Severus and his irritating assistant were shown into a drawing room to await Lady Dumbledore. Fortunately for the carpets onto which Severus was slowly dripping, she did not make them wait for long.
“Chief Inspector? I must apologise for Sir Albus’ behaviour. I’m afraid he finds it hard to resist showing off his toys.” Lady Dumbledore was a tall lady of uncertain age, handsome in a rather prim way, her hair piled rigidly upon her head and held in place with vicious-looking hairpins. She spoke with a refined Scottish accent. “Harry Potter, how you’ve grown!” She turned to Severus with a severe expression upon her face. “I do hope, Chief Inspector, that you are looking after this young man properly? Young Harry is at such an impressionable age.”
Severus had the uneasy feeling she could see right through him and had, in fact, discovered every half-formed plan and idle fantasy he had conceived regarding the boy, who seemed to be something of a protégé of this frankly disturbing couple. “Madam, he is merely assisting me for the duration of my stay. If you have any concerns regarding his welfare, I suggest you take them up with his superiors at the police station.”
“Of course, Chief Inspector. I did not mean to imply any negligence on your part. I am quite sure that you will take every opportunity to give young Harry the benefit of your experience.”
Severus cleared his throat, feeling a little hot under the collar. “If, madam, we might proceed to the case?”
“Of course, Chief Inspector, I understand you have some questions for me regarding our most unfortunate neighbours?”
“Indeed, Lady Dumbledore. Riddle’s butler, Pettigrew,” and here, Severus fixed her with a piercing stare of his own, “tells us that you saw something outside the window of the Grange, the night of the tragedy. Describe to me exactly, if you please, what it was that you observed.”
He felt a surge of triumph as two tiny spots of colour appeared on her cheeks.
“Really, Chief Inspector, I’m afraid I cannot say with any precision. It was, I suppose, more of an impression than anything else. A pale shape, accompanied by a feeling of great disquiet. I’m sorry I cannot be of more use to you, Chief Inspector.”
Severus questioned her a while longer, but without learning anything more. The lady seemed intent upon persuading him that what she had, supposedly, seen had been some kind of spirit or ghostly apparition – yet he was firmly convinced that she herself believed no such thing. It was with an air of deep frustration that he ordered the Hansom cab to take them back to town, where he dismissed his young assistant for the day and retired to his room to ponder upon the case.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was traditional, on a Wednesday night, for Ron and Harry to pop into the King Harry for a midweek pint and a natter before heading home for tea – Harry to something cabbagey at Mrs Figg’s and Ron to something altogether more appetising at his mum’s, lucky bastard.
Ron was agog to hear how Harry’s day had gone, working with a Real Detective. “Did he get out his magnifying glass? And mutter to himself whilst looking at piles of dirt? And what about disguises? Did he dress up as an old coachman to throw the murderer off the scent?”
“Um, sorry, Ron, but no. He did put some ashes into an envelope, though,” Harry told him, feeling rather defensive of the Chief Inspector.
Ron failed to look convinced. “Well, I s’pose that’s something. Hey, what about drugs? Did he inject himself with a seventy per cent solution of cocaine?”
Harry frowned. “I think he’d be dead if he’d done that. Nah, no drugs. He had some coffee at the Riddle house, but that was all.”
Ron snorted. “Well, he doesn’t sound like a Great Detective to me. I knew we’d have been better off with Sherlock Holmes. This bloke hasn’t even got a Watson!”
Harry felt a little put out. “Hey, he doesn’t need one. He’s got me, remember?”
“Yeah, but Watson’s supposed to have a revolver. You’ll never get Sarge to let you have one of those.”
Harry frowned, playing nervously with his beer mat. “Do you really think it’s all that dangerous, being a detective?” He didn’t like to think about his Chief Inspector getting hurt – or worse.
“Look, mate, if you go investigating murderers, stands to reason some of them are going to get a bit miffed about it. And well, they’ve already killed once, haven’t they? Got nothing to lose now if they bump off a detective or two – you can’t hang ‘em twice, can you?” Ron sat back and burped loudly. “I’d watch your back if I were you, mate, while you’re hanging around with this Chief Inspector.”
Not liking this line of conversation at all, Harry was relieved to see Snape enter the bar room and order a double whisky. He nudged Ron. “Hey, no more talking about you-know-who, all right? He’s just walked in.”
Ron glanced up at the tall figure brooding at the bar, then turned back to Harry with a worried look. “You don’t think he heard us talking about him, do you? He’s got a face on him like the back end of one of old Abe’s goats.”
Harry risked a peep himself. Sure enough, Snape was scowling thunderously at the two of them. Harry raised his pint mug in a kind of half-embarrassed salute, at which Snape’s lip curled visibly and he turned back to his whisky. “Nah, he always looks like that. Anyway,” Harry asked, having taken a swig of his pint, “how’s things going with you and Hermione, then?”
Ron scowled. “She’s put the wedding off again. For three years! Says she wants to go to Oxford, be a bluestocking or something. Dunno what her underwear’s got to do with anything. Mum’s getting right fed up. Says it’s high time she was a granny, what with seven grown up kids. It’s not like the others are doing anything to help – I mean, there’s Bill travelling the world, Charlie only seems to want to breed horses, Percy – well, let’s face it, it’s not bloody likely he’s going to provide any grandkids, for all he’s got that fancy job in the Civil Service and thinks he’s so much better than the rest of us – and the twins say they’re quite happy on their own. There’s only me and Ginny left. Which reminds me, she was asking about you again.”
Harry cringed slightly, wishing he hadn’t changed the subject. “Look, mate, I just don’t think it’s going to work, me and her. Couldn’t you have a word? I’m sure she can do loads better than me, anyway. What about Neville? You know he’s been sweet on her for years.”
“Nah, she’s got this thing about blokes in uniform, she says – an under-gardener just isn’t the same. But anyway, what’s wrong with her? She’s pretty enough, isn’t she? My baby sister not good enough for you now?”
Harry sighed. “Ron, you know it’s not that. She’s just not my type, OK? Look, I’ve got to get going. Mrs Figg’ll be cross if I’m late for tea.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
A little after nine that evening, the light of the sun had almost, but not quite, faded from the sky. Heart thumping, and Mrs Figg’s boiled tripe and cabbage churning excitedly in his stomach, Harry made his way to the Avenue, a tree-lined path that led down from the old churchyard of St Saviour’s. It was where they’d always met – what could be more natural than two old friends meeting by chance on a stroll after dinner? And once they were sure they were alone, they’d take a short detour to the scrubby woodland bordering the Diggory estate.
It had all started when Harry was fifteen, three years ago. He’d been helping out the Diggory’s gardener whilst his arthritis was playing him up, earning a few shillings for his trouble. Cedric had been down from Rugby, and had come over for a chat whilst Harry was eating his sandwiches. It had been a scorching hot summer’s day – so hot and dry that Harry had wondered if he was the only one suspecting old Jarvis of merely using his arthritis as an excuse to take it easy in the sunshine – and Cedric had suggested they bathe in the river to cool down. Knowing it wasn’t exactly right, him mixing socially with his employer’s son, but hugely flattered by the older boy’s interest, Harry had agreed at once.
It had been a revelation. Seeing Cedric, as he casually stripped naked for his swim, Harry hadn’t thought he’d ever seen anything more perfect – only to have to revise that opinion moments later, as Cedric fearlessly plunged into the water and emerged, dripping wet, his torso gleaming in the sunlight and his nipples hard and erect from the chill of the water. Harry had had to wait until Cedric’s back was turned before he could even think of taking off his trousers – but of course, Cedric had just put that down to shyness, which must have seemed confirmed when after they had swum and larked about in the water to their hearts’ content, Harry insisted on getting dressed straight away rather than wait until he dried.
They’d sat there whilst the sun dipped towards the horizon, chatting and listening to the birds singing all around them, until Cedric had suddenly jumped to his feet, saying “Oh, Lord! I’ll be late for dinner!” After he’d made a hurried exit, Harry had sat by the river by himself until dark, trying to make sense of the seething current of his emotions.
He hadn’t dared hope the experience might be repeated – but it had. Jarvis’ indisposition had continued for a frankly unlikely time, and Cedric had kept inviting him to swim, or to stroll in the woodlands – until, one evening, Cedric had confessed that he’d been bribing the gardener to exaggerate his ailment, simply so that Harry could continue to work on the estate. And he’d put his arm around Harry, saying “I really enjoy spending time with you. You’re so different from all the chaps at school.” Harry had leant into Cedric’s embrace, feeling like he was in heaven.
Ever since then, they’d met up every time Cedric was down from school and later, from Oxford. And although he hadn’t thought it possible, it had got even better – first, when Cedric had kissed him, then, when they’d started to do – other things. Harry had felt awkward, at first, when Cedric had first suggested he touch him there, but Cedric had explained it was perfectly natural, chaps at school did it all the time. And it had felt so, so good that Harry hadn’t protested any more.
He’d known, of course, that he mustn’t tell anyone about it, even before Cedric had sternly warned him against it. Even more, when he’d joined the Police Force – technically, what they were doing was against the law. He could get thrown into jail for it. He’d be drummed out of the Force at the very least. But he couldn’t see how they were harming anyone, so although his conscience occasionally worried him slightly, it hadn’t stopped Harry feeling elated when he’d received Cedric’s message to meet him tonight.
When he arrived at their spot, halfway down the Avenue, Cedric was already there. Harry broke into a big grin as he saw him. “Cedric! Bloody hell, it’s been ages since I saw you!”
Cedric flashed him the easy smile Harry had always loved. “Term’s the same length as it’s always been, Harry. How are you, old man? Still keeping Hogsmeade safe for decent citizens to live in?”
Harry grinned again. “Well, you heard about the Riddle murders, right? You know there’s a big shot Chief Inspector down from Scotland Yard? Guess who’s his assistant for the duration!” All right, so he was blowing his own trumpet, but it wasn’t that often he had anything to brag about, and he wanted Cedric to be proud of him. Although it felt a bit odd, for some reason, talking to Cedric about his Chief Inspector. Which was daft, wasn’t it? After all, their relationship was purely professional.
Cedric clapped Harry heartily on the back. “Capital, Harry! This could really be a feather in your cap, you know, if you make a good show of it. I’m damned pleased for you!” He continued, “Actually, I’ve got some good news of my own to tell you. I wanted you to be the first to hear – apart from the family, of course. I’m engaged to be married! Lovely girl – Miss Chang, she’s the sister of one of the chaps at Balliol. Such an exotic beauty! Skin like porcelain, hair like a raven’s wings, and so tiny you wouldn’t believe it!”
Suddenly, Harry’s insides felt like the river on New Year’s Day. “But – but what about, you know, me?”
Cedric looked at him a little quizzically. “Well, you know I’d love to invite you to the wedding, old man, but you know how it is, family and all that.”
“I don’t want to go to your bloody wedding!” Harry knew he was shouting, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “I just – I just want – “ Ashamed of the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, Harry turned away from Cedric and thumped a handy tree trunk, cradling his fist in his hand afterwards. How could anything hurt so much?
He felt Cedric moving up behind him and flinched as an arm laid itself in comradely fashion – nothing more – around his shoulders. “But Harry, you must have known it couldn’t last. We’re two chaps. Chaps can’t, well, marry each other. It was just a bit of boyish tomfoolery, that’s all.” Cedric’s tone was calm, sensible, and matter-of-fact, and Harry felt so stupid, young, and horribly naïve that he couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. As soon as the arm left his shoulders he turned without looking at Cedric and ran into the woods to be alone.
Cedric stared after him for a moment, then, shrugging slightly, sighed, and strolled back towards his parents’ house.
Neither of them noticed the tall figure of Thomas Riddle lurking half-hidden in the shadows, watching them both intently.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Part 2
Author:
drachenminaGiftee:
empathic_sirenWord Count: ~18,800
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter,
.Warnings: Character death (not Severus/Harry)
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Sherlock Holmes and the plot of The Devil’s Foot (His Last Bow) aren’t mine either.
Summary: Non-magic AU set in the late Victorian era. Chief Inspector Severus Snape of Scotland Yard comes to Hogsmeade to investigate a most baffling murder at the Riddle house. Fortunately PC Potter is eager to assist him in all matters.
Author's Notes: Thank you,
empathic_siren, for easing my fest wibbles with a very user-friendly prompt! I hope you like what I’ve done with it. *wishes you a happy Snarry Holidays*Huge smooches to my wonderful betas
gin_tonic and blpaintchart!Part One
Chief Inspector Severus Snape of Scotland Yard sat at his breakfast table in 111c, Haberdasher Street, London, and glared at his bacon and eggs. “Dammit, Filch, I thought I told you to give me kippers this morning!” he called out, irritated.
His manservant slouched in and leered in a manner that was no doubt intended to be ingratiating. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but they was off. That’s a loverly bit o’ bacon, though, I ‘ad some meself. Anyfing else, sir?”
Severus waved him away. “No, no. Wait – why is this ringed in red ink on my morning paper?”
“That’ll be Dr Lupin’s wedding announcement, sir. Dint think you’d want ter miss that, sir. Don’t know why yer dint go along, mind. You bein’ ‘is best friend, an’ all.”
Severus’ face darkened. “That will be all, Filch!” Angrily he folded the paper so as to obscure the offending announcement. Until recently, Remus Lupin had always shared his breakfast table; they had been roommates, and Severus had entertained the fond belief that they would be so until the day they died, bachelors together.
And then Lupin had to go and meet that accursed harpy, Miss Tonks, and before you could say “in the family way” they were wed, and Lupin had moved out, never to return. Apparently they planned to run a pig farm in Kent. Well, Severus washed his hands of the both of them. He scanned the newspaper, seeking distraction from his melancholy thoughts. Suddenly a headline caught his eye: Horror in Hogsmeade. Severus read on, his excitement mounting. Yes, this would be just the thing! A seemingly insoluble mystery, in a sleepy market town in the North of England, hundreds of miles from Kent. Severus had never been more grateful for the foresight which had led him to accumulate a wealth of incriminating material on his superior, Chief Superintendent Fudge. Having himself assigned to this mystery would be a mere formality. “Filch! Pack my bag. I shall be travelling to Hogsmeade!”
Police Constable Harry Potter strolled along the lane to the Hogsmeade Police Station, accompanied by his best friend, PC Ronald Weasley. Ron groaned as they turned the corner and saw the figure of the suffragette waiting for them.
“Bloody hell, she’s there again. Can’t you have a word with her, Harry?”
Harry grinned. “Sorry, mate, you’re on your own, there.”
Ron squared his shoulders and marched forthrightly up to the young woman. “Look, Hermione, this is getting a bit embarrassing, you chaining yourself to the police station railings all the time. Everyone knows you’re my fiancée. Couldn’t you, I dunno, go down the road to Hogchester to do it?”
Hermione’s chin was in the air. “Ronald Weasley! Do you really want the disgraceful disenfranchisement of half of humanity to be swept under the carpet?”
Ron shrugged. “Well, no, but does it have to stay in the front room all the time?”
“Until women are treated equally with men, yes, Ron, it does.” Hermione said firmly, handing them each a copy of a pamphlet written by Emmeline Pankhurst, which they each stuffed shamefacedly into a uniform pocket, Ron’s ears a vivid pink under his uniform helmet.
“I hope she realises I’ll never make Sergeant with her going on like that,” Ron muttered gloomily as they walked into the police station.
“There you two are! About bloody time.” Their superior, Sergeant Hopper, a large, red-faced man prone to sweating profusely whose name appeared to be just one of fate’s little jokes, glared at them as they walked in. “Take it you’ve seen the papers, about the Riddle case? Well, you’re not the only ones. I’ve ‘ad a telegram from London – “
“Is Sherlock Holmes coming to solve it for us?” Ron burst out excitedly.
“No, Weasley, he is not. Chief Inspector Snape of Scotland Yard is who we’re getting.”
Ron’s face fell. “Might’ve known nobody famous would ever come up here,” he muttered. “S’pose Sherlock Holmes is too important to bother with the likes of us. So who’s this Snape bloke, Sarge, and why’s he interested in a couple of local murders?”
“Oh come on, Ron!” Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s a mystery, isn’t it? A locked room, two people found dead with expressions of abject horror on their faces, as if the very fiends of hell had come to collect their souls – “
“Very good, Potter. I see the report in the Daily Mail made an impression. Right, that settles it. Potter, when the Chief Inspector gets ‘ere, you’ll be assisting him, seeing as how you’re taking such an interest already. Better get yourself up to speed with the facts of the case, not that we’ve got a right lot.”
Flicking through the rather slender case file, Harry couldn’t believe his luck – he was going to be assisting a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard! Careers were made out of this kind of thing! Not bad for a boy from Barnardos, he thought, wondering, as always, if his parents were still alive somewhere, and whether they’d be proud of him if they knew. He was sure that only desperation could have caused them to abandon him on the steps of the orphanage when he was a baby, with only a faded plaid blanket to his name. Not that he’d even had a name, actually – he’d been christened by one of the nurses after her home town, Potter’s Bar, and the local pub, the King Harry.
He’d got to know Ron when they were at school together – early on some of the other lads had bullied Harry about being a Barnardos boy, and Ron had stood up for him, and taken him home to be fussed over by his mum. They’d been firm friends ever since, and when Ron had announced he wanted to join the Police, it had seemed natural to Harry to follow suit. Although to tell the truth, Harry had been feeling a little left out since Ron had started courting Miss Granger, whose parents owned the grocer’s shop Ron’s mum shopped at. But Harry liked Hermione, although she had some funny opinions about women’s rights and the class system. Too much education, Ron always said, and he was probably right. Women weren’t supposed to know as much stuff as Hermione did, were they? They didn’t have the right sort of brain, or something. Not that he knew much about it.
Harry gave up wondering about women, and turned back to his file.
Chief Inspector Snape stepped off the train and cast his eye over the mostly deserted platform. A uniformed Constable stepped forward hesitantly. “Er, Chief Inspector?”
Severus nodded, and the boy – for he was hardly more than that – grinned nervously. “I’m PC Potter – I’m to assist you on the case.”
Severus raised an eyebrow at this. “Indeed? Tell me, Potter, do you have extensive experience of solving baffling murders?”
The youth flushed. “Er, no, but I did find old Mrs Figg’s ginger tom for her when it went missing. No one else even thought of looking down the well for it.”
Severus snorted. “I’m sure your input will be invaluable,” he muttered sardonically. Still, he would need someone to relay to him all the facts of the case, as opposed to the sensationalist details he had gleaned from the popular press. And if nothing else, the boy, although barely up to the minimum height requirement and skinny with it, looked as though he might possibly be up to the task of carrying Severus’ bag. Thrusting the valise into the boy’s doubtful grasp, Severus barked, “I trust a room has been secured for me at a local hostelry?”
Stumbling a little under the weight of Severus’ well-filled valise, the boy answered, “Er, yeah. You’re staying at the King Harry. They do a lovely steak and ale pie there, you’ll like it.”
Severus’ lips grew thin. “That, Potter, remains to be seen.”
Once they had conveyed Severus’ luggage to the inn, and Severus had grudgingly pronounced the accommodation to be adequate, he was impatient to be on the job. “You may now conduct me to the Riddle house – although I suppose I must first go through the formalities and meet your superior. Take me to the police station.”
“Right. Er, I’m afraid there’s only the Sarge there at the moment. Inspector Slughorn’s off sick – his gout’s been bothering him something chronic, he says.”
Severus sniffed derisively and was interested to notice a quickly concealed smile on the young constable’s face. Perhaps not quite as dim as he had at first seemed? Well, he would soon find out. “Well, then, Potter, take me to your Sarge.”
Severus’ first impression of Hopper was not a favourable one. Typical sleepy provincial type; probably wouldn’t recognise a clue if you shoved it up his remarkably capacious arse. In the interests of inter-departmental co-operation Severus tried not to let his feelings show too much as introductions were made and apparently necessary pleasantries exchanged, impatiently moving to business as soon as he was able.
“So, Hopper, tell me of this case. The facts, man, not the ridiculous sensationalism of the daily papers!”
“Well, sir, it’s like this,” Hopper began in his maddeningly slow North-country drawl. “Old Mr and Mrs Riddle, of the Grange, were found Thursday morning by the housekeeper, seated around the dining table, dead as doornails, and with looks o’ peculiar horror on their faces. The housekeeper, Mrs Pomfrey, fainted dead away when she found the poor souls.”
“And was there anyone else besides the two deceased in the house that night?”
“No, sir. Lady Dumbledore has given evidence that she was round there earlier in the evening, before the dreadful event occurred.”
“Indeed?”
“’Er Ladyship was invited round for bridge, with Sir Albus, but she only stayed a quarter of an hour, just to give apologies, like. Sir Albus couldn’t come round on account of ‘is trouble.”
“His trouble?”
“Yessir. ‘Is trouble. Anyroad, Lady Dumbledore says as how she saw something outside the window while she was there.”
“Well, what was it?” Severus asked impatiently.
“She couldn’t say, sir. Just a pale shape, that flitted across the window, like.”
“Hm. And who is this Lady Dumbledore?”
“She’s a very respectable lady, sir. Miss Minerva McGonagall as was. She’s the second Lady Dumbledore, o’ course. Married the baronet some fifteen year ago, and a great blessing to Hogsmeade ever since.”
“Indeed. Well, I shall need to speak with Lady Dumbledore, after I have visited the Riddle house. Potter, you shall conduct me there forthwith.”
The Riddle house, it transpired, was set somewhat apart from the town. Severus waited impatiently for the Hansom cab that was to convey them there. “Potter?” he asked, more to kill time than for any other reason. “What can you tell me about all this?”
“Um, well, sir. I’m not sure what you’re asking…”
Severus rolled his eyes. “Start with Sir Albus and Lady Dumbledore. What, precisely, is his trouble?”
“Er, I think the Sarge meant his younger brother, Aberforth. Bit of a black sheep of the family. He’s the landlord of the King Harry, actually. And he keeps goats on the side. You can get a cracking goat’s-cheese and apple sarnie down the pub too. Old Abe makes the cheese himself – milks the goats and everything.”
“And Lady Dumbledore?”
“Oh, she’s a real lady.” Potter’s voice was warm and enthusiastic. “Always giving to charity, and making sure the orphanage is run right.”
“And the first Lady Dumbledore?”
The boy coloured slightly. “Well, I don’t really know about that – before my time, really. I know there was a lot of talk about her, but I reckon it was just because she was a foreign lady. Swiss, I heard. Funny maiden name – Grindelwald, I think it was. But, um, I heard old Sluggie – I mean, Inspector Slughorn – talk about her once, and all he said was that she was no lady. Don’t know what he meant, though, sir. ‘Spose there’d been some scandal in her home town, or something.”
“Hmm. And tell me about the Riddle family, now.”
“Well, there’s old Mr Riddle – sorry, I mean there was – and his wife, and their grandson Mr Thomas Riddle, who’s up at Cambridge – except he’s down, now, seeing as term’s finished. But he wasn’t on the night of the murder.”
“What about young Mr Riddle’s parents?”
“Well, it was a bit tragic, really. His mum died in childbirth and his dad died a few years later.”
“So he is the only heir? Interesting.”
“So you think he did it, to get the money?” The boy’s puppyish enthusiasm was almost… endearing. Severus decided to stamp on that right away.
“I suspect everyone!” he snapped. “And no one,” he added more calmly.
“Oh. Right. So all we need to do is to eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains must be the truth?”
Severus ground his teeth. “I see you are acquainted with the writings of that imbecile Watson about his supercilious, posturing friend Sherlock Holmes.”
Potter responded with enthusiasm. “Oh, yeah! Me and Ron read all his cases. It’s incredible, how he manages to do all that stuff – recognise gravel, tell what people do for a living, and all that!”
“Incredible is right, Potter – I for one refuse to be taken in. Thanks to that charlatan and his parlour tricks, Scotland Yard is now expected to solve cases in the manner of some tuppeny-ha’penny music-hall prestidigitator pulling rabbits out of hats and pocket-handkerchiefs from every orifice, and is derided by the popular press as incompetent when she quite naturally fails to do so!”
“So, um, you’re not a fan, then?” Potter quailed under Severus’ furious glare, and looked mightily relieved to see the Hansom cab draw up in front of them.
The driver dropped them at the front door of The Grange, or the Riddle house, as it was more popularly known. It was a large, imposing building, showing some signs of modernisation. The door was opening by a ratlike butler to whom Severus took an instant dislike, who conducted them into an airy drawing-room. Mr Thomas Riddle, a tall, dark-haired, straight-backed young man, was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the gardens behind the house. He turned, and gave them an earnest greeting. He appeared to be about twenty years old, Severus judged, and was blessed with engaging features and a grave natural charm most unusual in one so young. Severus reminded himself firmly he was here to investigate a murder, not to look for a dalliance amongst the suspects.
“So good of you to come so far to help us here in our time of trouble, Chief Inspector. May I offer you some refreshment?” At Severus’ curt nod, he turned gracefully to the cringing butler who had lingered on the threshold of the room. “Coffee, if you please, Pettigrew.”
“Yessir. At once sir,” the butler fawned, and scuttled off to perform his master’s wishes.
Riddle stared after him for a moment with an odd look in his eye, then turned and smiled briskly at Severus. “Well, now, how may I be of service, Chief Inspector? I take it you should like to examine the dining room?”
“Indeed, although I imagine any evidence has been completely destroyed by the bumbling fools of the local constabulary.” Severus tried hard to ignore Potter’s hurt look at this, as Riddle conducted them to the scene of the crime – if, of course, crime it was. The dining room was as dark and gloomy as the drawing-room had been cheerful and bright, with wood panelling and heavy drapery around the high, narrow windows. “Now, you were not in the house at the time?”
“No, Chief Inspector. I was summoned home as soon as the tragedy had been discovered – although as luck would have it, it was in any case the end of term and so I was already packed and ready to leave. It was Mrs Pomfrey, the housekeeper, who found my unfortunate relatives.”
“Then I should like to speak to Mrs Pomfrey, if I may.”
“Of course! Pettigrew,” he turned sharply to the fawning butler, who had returned with the coffee on a silver tray, “Tell Mrs Pomfrey her presence is required here, would you?”
Mrs Pomfrey turned out to be a sensible-looking woman of middle years. Severus pursed his lips in interest. Not at all the kind of person one would expect to be fainting at the drop of a hat, or even at the drop of her elderly employers.
“Mrs Pomfrey, I wish you to tell me precisely what happened when you found the late Mr and Mrs Riddle.”
She nodded briskly and began. “I arose at my usual time, having heard no disturbance in the night. I went directly to the dining room, thinking it would need airing before breakfast, for Mr Riddle had been smoking after dinner – indeed, he was still doing so when I went to bed. Upon entering the room, I saw my late employers sitting dead in their chairs, with expressions of horror on their faces.” She cleared her throat, seeming a little embarrassed. “I am afraid that upon that sight, I fainted. When I came to, Mr Pettigrew had thrown open the windows – I suppose I must have made some sound that led him to discover me. Revived by the fresh air, I left the room, and Mr Pettigrew telephoned the local constabulary.”
“I see. Tell me, Mrs Pomfrey, are you in the habit of falling into a faint upon receiving a sudden shock?”
She sniffed. “I am not.”
As he had suspected. “Thank you, Mrs Pomfrey. You may go now. Be so good as to send in Pettigrew.”
The butler arrived with a speed that suggested to Severus that he had been lurking in the hall, in all probability listening at the keyhole. He stood slightly hunched over, wringing his hands as Severus questioned him.
“Now, Pettigrew. What caused you to enter the dining room, the morning your late employers’ death was discovered?”
Sweat beaded upon the creature’s face as he answered. “I heard a noise, sir. When Mrs Pomfrey fell.”
“And you had not set foot in the dining room before, that morning?”
“No! No, sir. I ‘adn’t.”
“And the previous evening? What sort of mood were the Riddles in?”
The wretched man cast his eyes around nervously, as if searching for reassurance that he could not be overheard. Was it young Mr Riddle he feared? Severus wondered.
“They were – a little agitated, sir. But I couldn’t tell you why, sir.”
Severus seriously doubted the veracity of that. Any butler worth his salt would make it his business to know every detail of his master’s affairs – and certainly an eavesdropping little toady like this loathsome creature would have done so.
“I see. Tell me, were there any untoward occurrences, that evening.”
Pettigrew once more looked around nervously, but this time when he spoke his voice was eager. “It’s funny you should ask that, sir. When I was serving brandy to Mr Riddle, that was when Lady Dumbledore was here, and she saw a ghastly apparition flit across the window – but when we all looked, it was gone. There’s some strange tales, in these parts, about restless spirits – “
“Yes, yes,” Severus huffed impatiently. He had little use for second-hand accounts and hearsay. “And that is all you can tell us?”
The butler nodded, drops of sweat falling from his forehead to the carpet, Severus noticed with distaste. He sighed, and dismissed the creature.
“So what do you think, sir?” the boy asked him excitedly once they were alone. “I reckon the butler did it!” He had listened to Pettigrew’s testimony with eyes as round as saucers.
Severus curled his lip. “Potter, do you survive on an exclusive diet of sensationalist papers and penny dreadfuls? What possible reason could the butler, abhorrent though he undoubtedly is, have for killing his employers? After all, I should think it by no means certain that he will keep his place under their grandson – from the looks Riddle was giving him, I very much doubt there is any love lost there.”
“Wait! What if Riddle did it? He’s the heir, after all – plenty of motive there! Or – you don’t think it could actually have been a spirit, do you? Maybe the ghost of the late Mr Thomas Riddle, Mr Thomas Riddle’s father? I did hear that he didn’t get on too well with his dad, old Mr Riddle, and there was some mystery about his death – “
“If he liked his father so little, I fail to see why he should have wanted to hasten his journey to the afterlife, where they might be in danger of meeting again,” Severus muttered derisively. He was kneeling by the fireplace examining the ashes, a sample of which he sealed into an envelope. “In any case, I am not one of those credulous fools who assert the existence of spirits, or look for visitations from the departed. Dead is dead, Potter, and it would behove you to remember that. Now, outside. I wish to examine the flower-beds.”
“So, um, what are we looking for here, sir?” Potter asked, once they had rounded the house to the dining room window.
“Footprints, Potter. The night of the tragedy was a rainy one – for a figure in the garden to be seen from within, it must have passed very close to the window. If Pettigrew is not lying to us, we should find footprints in this flower-bed, perhaps concealed by the shrubbery.” Severus eyed the still-damp ground with misgivings. He had no wish to ruin his trousers; moreover he suffered from a slight rheumatism in one knee. “You will examine the ground.”
Obediently, Potter knelt down and started to fossick around the shrubs. Severus was treated to a rather fine view of his serge-clad arse as he did so, and congratulated himself anew on his foresight in having had his assistant do the donkey-work. He wondered a little wistfully if the boy was always so pleasingly eager to go down on his knees. “Anything, Potter?” he asked, before he could get too distracted by his fantasies.
“Nope, not a sausage,” Potter told him cheerfully, emerging rather red-faced and muddy-kneed from the rhododendrons.
“Interesting, is it not, Potter?”
The boy’s face fell as he considered the implications. “So, um, you reckon Lady Dumbledore did it?” Potter looked rather concerned about this. Severus recalled his enthusiastic description of her earlier.
“And what, Potter, gives you grounds for that assumption?”
“Well, it looks like she lied about the apparition, doesn’t it?”
“Potter, it is hardly without precedent for an overwrought woman to imagine all manner of things. You would know better than I whether Lady Dumbledore is prone to hysteria. Or perhaps, Potter, she was merely protecting someone.”
“But who? Oh my God, Chief Inspector, you don’t think Sir Albus did it?” The boy looked absolutely appalled at the possibility.
“At this moment, Potter, I cannot say.”
“But he’s – he’s Sir Albus! Everyone respects him, sir, even if he is a bit, well, eccentric. He’s done a lot for Hogsmeade, and he’s, well, really nice. Always got a bag of sweets for the kiddies, and he’ll always give you the time of day, no matter who you are. And he gives talks in the town hall about all his travels to exotic places, and it’s as good as the theatre any day.”
Harry paused for breath, and Snape took advantage, cutting in. “I regret to inform you, Potter, that respectability and affability are no proof of innocence. However, I shall make no judgement before I have seen the lady and gentleman in question.”
They climbed back into the Hansom cab, and Severus instructed the driver to take them to Sir Albus’ residence. Potter was mercifully quiet on the journey, having seemingly exhausted his supply of wild suppositions as to the identity of the murderer, and Severus took the opportunity to study his assistant at close quarters. He was an intriguing mix of youthful naïveté and unusual self-sufficiency. The appalling haircut and dreadful spectacles he wore suggested he had no one who cared overmuch about him at home; and there was something in his demeanour that suggested he had been accustomed to fend for himself from an early age. “Do you live with your parents, Potter?” Severus asked to test this theory.
“Who, me?” Potter glanced around him for a moment, as if expecting to discover some other Potter had hitched a ride with them in the cab. “Nah, I grew up in the orphanage. Got left there when I was a baby. I lodge at Mrs Figg’s now.”
“Indeed? Then I congratulate you upon overcoming a difficult start in life. I daresay there are few in your position who would have aspired to join the police force.” Most, Severus imagined, would tend to gravitate naturally to the other side of the law. He found he was surprisingly glad the young man had not followed the more predictable path – although admittedly, the thought of Potter in handcuffs held a certain appeal all of its own.
The boy blushed prettily – it seemed he was as unaccustomed to receiving praise as Severus was to giving it. “Thank you, sir.” After a moment, seeming to feel the need to make conversation, he asked, “Is there a Mrs Snape, sir?”
“No, Potter, there is not. Nor, I might add, is there likely to be,” Severus said firmly.
Potter grimaced sympathetically. “Never mind, sir. Lots of blokes have trouble getting a girlfriend.”
Fortunately for him, it was at that moment that they arrived at Phoenix Hall.
It might have been called a Hall, Severus thought sourly as they approached the incongruous edifice, but it showed definite signs of wanting to be a castle when it grew up. It looked rather like something Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria might have designed in his infancy, before the delusions really took hold, and gone back to later to add a half-hearted turret or two, before giving it all up as a bad job and going off to do the preliminary doodles for Neuschwanstein.
They were greeted at the door by a white-haired, bearded buffoon dressed in a faded and patched violet silk dressing gown who, Severus realised with a sinking feeling in his stomach, had to be the baronet as no servant could possibly get away with looking such a state.
“Ah! The great detective has come to Hogsmeade! Come in, Mr Holmes!” the old man twinkled.
Severus bristled. “My name is not Holmes! I am Chief Inspector Snape of Scotland Yard!”
“Really? Are you sure, dear boy?” the old buffer asked solicitously.
Severus forced himself to stop grinding his teeth. “Quite positive, thank you. And you would be Sir Albus, I presume?”
“Indeed, indeed. Ah! Harry – my dear boy, I didn’t see you there! Come in, come in.” He beamed moronically at the boy who, Severus was annoyed to see, beamed back.
“Hullo, Sir Albus! I’m just assisting the Chief Inspector.”
“Well, well! That is a turn-up for the books! A Chief Inspector! But come, we must go into the garden, on such a lovely day as this. Come along, come along!” He strode down the hall with a speed surprising in one so doddery, and Severus felt compelled to follow. After a bewilderingly twisty path through the labyrinthine Hall, after which Severus felt sure they must have been through every room in the damned place, they at length reached a set of French windows which Sir Albus unlatched to let them into the gardens. Here, Severus stopped and looked around. At one time, the gardens closest to the house had been laid out in a very formal manner, but they had been allowed to fall into decay (much like their owner, Severus thought sourly), lending them an oddly peaceful air. Sir Albus walked on to an enclosed courtyard, in which stood a stone table and chairs.
“Um, Chief Inspector,” the boy began to speak.
“Not now, Potter!” Severus told him irritably. If he didn’t get the bumbling baronet to stop and actually talk to him soon he suspected he never would.
“Now, Chief Inspector, do take a seat!” As he spoke, Sir Albus seated himself at the head of the table. Severus took one of the other seats, whilst Potter, he noted approvingly, remained standing respectfully, although he fidgeted about annoyingly from one foot to another. “Now, how can I help you? I do hope you haven’t come here to arrest me,” the barmy baronet added, eyes twinkling insanely.
“I merely wish to ask you some questions about the night of the Riddle tragedy,” Severus said cautiously. “I believe you were invited for bridge?”
“Oh, yes indeed! Minerva and I frequently visited the Grange to play cards, particularly when young Master Riddle was away at college. Such a sad business. It isn’t easy, you know, to find a really good couple to play bridge with – ”
Impatiently, Severus interrupted him. “But you did not go?”
“Alas, no! I’m afraid I had received another complaint about Aberforth’s goats, and I was compelled to remonstrate with him on the subject. Minerva went along to convey our regrets.”
“Then I believe it is with Lady Dumbledore that I should speak,” Severus told him, annoyed at the time-wasting.
“Ah! But first, a little refreshment, I think!” Severus barely had time to grow a little uneasy at the mad gleam in the baronet’s eye, before he was suddenly assaulted by a great gush of water shooting up from the middle of his seat and drenching his trousers, not to mention giving him a most unusual sensation in the region of the rectum. Further water-spouts had started in the centre of the table, and all around it, so that as Severus sprang up in outrage, he was soaked once more as he tried to escape. “I do find the trick-fountains so refreshing, don’t you, Chief Inspector?” the senile old idiot called after Severus happily, as he retreated to a safe distance, cursing.
“Um, sorry, sir, but I did try to warn you,” a bone-dry Potter told him, clearly trying not to laugh. Manfully resisting the urge to fling him head-first into the fountains, Severus merely glared and stomped back towards the house, where they were met by a long-suffering servant with a towel. Having dried himself off as best he could – in other words, wholly inadequately – Severus and his irritating assistant were shown into a drawing room to await Lady Dumbledore. Fortunately for the carpets onto which Severus was slowly dripping, she did not make them wait for long.
“Chief Inspector? I must apologise for Sir Albus’ behaviour. I’m afraid he finds it hard to resist showing off his toys.” Lady Dumbledore was a tall lady of uncertain age, handsome in a rather prim way, her hair piled rigidly upon her head and held in place with vicious-looking hairpins. She spoke with a refined Scottish accent. “Harry Potter, how you’ve grown!” She turned to Severus with a severe expression upon her face. “I do hope, Chief Inspector, that you are looking after this young man properly? Young Harry is at such an impressionable age.”
Severus had the uneasy feeling she could see right through him and had, in fact, discovered every half-formed plan and idle fantasy he had conceived regarding the boy, who seemed to be something of a protégé of this frankly disturbing couple. “Madam, he is merely assisting me for the duration of my stay. If you have any concerns regarding his welfare, I suggest you take them up with his superiors at the police station.”
“Of course, Chief Inspector. I did not mean to imply any negligence on your part. I am quite sure that you will take every opportunity to give young Harry the benefit of your experience.”
Severus cleared his throat, feeling a little hot under the collar. “If, madam, we might proceed to the case?”
“Of course, Chief Inspector, I understand you have some questions for me regarding our most unfortunate neighbours?”
“Indeed, Lady Dumbledore. Riddle’s butler, Pettigrew,” and here, Severus fixed her with a piercing stare of his own, “tells us that you saw something outside the window of the Grange, the night of the tragedy. Describe to me exactly, if you please, what it was that you observed.”
He felt a surge of triumph as two tiny spots of colour appeared on her cheeks.
“Really, Chief Inspector, I’m afraid I cannot say with any precision. It was, I suppose, more of an impression than anything else. A pale shape, accompanied by a feeling of great disquiet. I’m sorry I cannot be of more use to you, Chief Inspector.”
Severus questioned her a while longer, but without learning anything more. The lady seemed intent upon persuading him that what she had, supposedly, seen had been some kind of spirit or ghostly apparition – yet he was firmly convinced that she herself believed no such thing. It was with an air of deep frustration that he ordered the Hansom cab to take them back to town, where he dismissed his young assistant for the day and retired to his room to ponder upon the case.
It was traditional, on a Wednesday night, for Ron and Harry to pop into the King Harry for a midweek pint and a natter before heading home for tea – Harry to something cabbagey at Mrs Figg’s and Ron to something altogether more appetising at his mum’s, lucky bastard.
Ron was agog to hear how Harry’s day had gone, working with a Real Detective. “Did he get out his magnifying glass? And mutter to himself whilst looking at piles of dirt? And what about disguises? Did he dress up as an old coachman to throw the murderer off the scent?”
“Um, sorry, Ron, but no. He did put some ashes into an envelope, though,” Harry told him, feeling rather defensive of the Chief Inspector.
Ron failed to look convinced. “Well, I s’pose that’s something. Hey, what about drugs? Did he inject himself with a seventy per cent solution of cocaine?”
Harry frowned. “I think he’d be dead if he’d done that. Nah, no drugs. He had some coffee at the Riddle house, but that was all.”
Ron snorted. “Well, he doesn’t sound like a Great Detective to me. I knew we’d have been better off with Sherlock Holmes. This bloke hasn’t even got a Watson!”
Harry felt a little put out. “Hey, he doesn’t need one. He’s got me, remember?”
“Yeah, but Watson’s supposed to have a revolver. You’ll never get Sarge to let you have one of those.”
Harry frowned, playing nervously with his beer mat. “Do you really think it’s all that dangerous, being a detective?” He didn’t like to think about his Chief Inspector getting hurt – or worse.
“Look, mate, if you go investigating murderers, stands to reason some of them are going to get a bit miffed about it. And well, they’ve already killed once, haven’t they? Got nothing to lose now if they bump off a detective or two – you can’t hang ‘em twice, can you?” Ron sat back and burped loudly. “I’d watch your back if I were you, mate, while you’re hanging around with this Chief Inspector.”
Not liking this line of conversation at all, Harry was relieved to see Snape enter the bar room and order a double whisky. He nudged Ron. “Hey, no more talking about you-know-who, all right? He’s just walked in.”
Ron glanced up at the tall figure brooding at the bar, then turned back to Harry with a worried look. “You don’t think he heard us talking about him, do you? He’s got a face on him like the back end of one of old Abe’s goats.”
Harry risked a peep himself. Sure enough, Snape was scowling thunderously at the two of them. Harry raised his pint mug in a kind of half-embarrassed salute, at which Snape’s lip curled visibly and he turned back to his whisky. “Nah, he always looks like that. Anyway,” Harry asked, having taken a swig of his pint, “how’s things going with you and Hermione, then?”
Ron scowled. “She’s put the wedding off again. For three years! Says she wants to go to Oxford, be a bluestocking or something. Dunno what her underwear’s got to do with anything. Mum’s getting right fed up. Says it’s high time she was a granny, what with seven grown up kids. It’s not like the others are doing anything to help – I mean, there’s Bill travelling the world, Charlie only seems to want to breed horses, Percy – well, let’s face it, it’s not bloody likely he’s going to provide any grandkids, for all he’s got that fancy job in the Civil Service and thinks he’s so much better than the rest of us – and the twins say they’re quite happy on their own. There’s only me and Ginny left. Which reminds me, she was asking about you again.”
Harry cringed slightly, wishing he hadn’t changed the subject. “Look, mate, I just don’t think it’s going to work, me and her. Couldn’t you have a word? I’m sure she can do loads better than me, anyway. What about Neville? You know he’s been sweet on her for years.”
“Nah, she’s got this thing about blokes in uniform, she says – an under-gardener just isn’t the same. But anyway, what’s wrong with her? She’s pretty enough, isn’t she? My baby sister not good enough for you now?”
Harry sighed. “Ron, you know it’s not that. She’s just not my type, OK? Look, I’ve got to get going. Mrs Figg’ll be cross if I’m late for tea.”
A little after nine that evening, the light of the sun had almost, but not quite, faded from the sky. Heart thumping, and Mrs Figg’s boiled tripe and cabbage churning excitedly in his stomach, Harry made his way to the Avenue, a tree-lined path that led down from the old churchyard of St Saviour’s. It was where they’d always met – what could be more natural than two old friends meeting by chance on a stroll after dinner? And once they were sure they were alone, they’d take a short detour to the scrubby woodland bordering the Diggory estate.
It had all started when Harry was fifteen, three years ago. He’d been helping out the Diggory’s gardener whilst his arthritis was playing him up, earning a few shillings for his trouble. Cedric had been down from Rugby, and had come over for a chat whilst Harry was eating his sandwiches. It had been a scorching hot summer’s day – so hot and dry that Harry had wondered if he was the only one suspecting old Jarvis of merely using his arthritis as an excuse to take it easy in the sunshine – and Cedric had suggested they bathe in the river to cool down. Knowing it wasn’t exactly right, him mixing socially with his employer’s son, but hugely flattered by the older boy’s interest, Harry had agreed at once.
It had been a revelation. Seeing Cedric, as he casually stripped naked for his swim, Harry hadn’t thought he’d ever seen anything more perfect – only to have to revise that opinion moments later, as Cedric fearlessly plunged into the water and emerged, dripping wet, his torso gleaming in the sunlight and his nipples hard and erect from the chill of the water. Harry had had to wait until Cedric’s back was turned before he could even think of taking off his trousers – but of course, Cedric had just put that down to shyness, which must have seemed confirmed when after they had swum and larked about in the water to their hearts’ content, Harry insisted on getting dressed straight away rather than wait until he dried.
They’d sat there whilst the sun dipped towards the horizon, chatting and listening to the birds singing all around them, until Cedric had suddenly jumped to his feet, saying “Oh, Lord! I’ll be late for dinner!” After he’d made a hurried exit, Harry had sat by the river by himself until dark, trying to make sense of the seething current of his emotions.
He hadn’t dared hope the experience might be repeated – but it had. Jarvis’ indisposition had continued for a frankly unlikely time, and Cedric had kept inviting him to swim, or to stroll in the woodlands – until, one evening, Cedric had confessed that he’d been bribing the gardener to exaggerate his ailment, simply so that Harry could continue to work on the estate. And he’d put his arm around Harry, saying “I really enjoy spending time with you. You’re so different from all the chaps at school.” Harry had leant into Cedric’s embrace, feeling like he was in heaven.
Ever since then, they’d met up every time Cedric was down from school and later, from Oxford. And although he hadn’t thought it possible, it had got even better – first, when Cedric had kissed him, then, when they’d started to do – other things. Harry had felt awkward, at first, when Cedric had first suggested he touch him there, but Cedric had explained it was perfectly natural, chaps at school did it all the time. And it had felt so, so good that Harry hadn’t protested any more.
He’d known, of course, that he mustn’t tell anyone about it, even before Cedric had sternly warned him against it. Even more, when he’d joined the Police Force – technically, what they were doing was against the law. He could get thrown into jail for it. He’d be drummed out of the Force at the very least. But he couldn’t see how they were harming anyone, so although his conscience occasionally worried him slightly, it hadn’t stopped Harry feeling elated when he’d received Cedric’s message to meet him tonight.
When he arrived at their spot, halfway down the Avenue, Cedric was already there. Harry broke into a big grin as he saw him. “Cedric! Bloody hell, it’s been ages since I saw you!”
Cedric flashed him the easy smile Harry had always loved. “Term’s the same length as it’s always been, Harry. How are you, old man? Still keeping Hogsmeade safe for decent citizens to live in?”
Harry grinned again. “Well, you heard about the Riddle murders, right? You know there’s a big shot Chief Inspector down from Scotland Yard? Guess who’s his assistant for the duration!” All right, so he was blowing his own trumpet, but it wasn’t that often he had anything to brag about, and he wanted Cedric to be proud of him. Although it felt a bit odd, for some reason, talking to Cedric about his Chief Inspector. Which was daft, wasn’t it? After all, their relationship was purely professional.
Cedric clapped Harry heartily on the back. “Capital, Harry! This could really be a feather in your cap, you know, if you make a good show of it. I’m damned pleased for you!” He continued, “Actually, I’ve got some good news of my own to tell you. I wanted you to be the first to hear – apart from the family, of course. I’m engaged to be married! Lovely girl – Miss Chang, she’s the sister of one of the chaps at Balliol. Such an exotic beauty! Skin like porcelain, hair like a raven’s wings, and so tiny you wouldn’t believe it!”
Suddenly, Harry’s insides felt like the river on New Year’s Day. “But – but what about, you know, me?”
Cedric looked at him a little quizzically. “Well, you know I’d love to invite you to the wedding, old man, but you know how it is, family and all that.”
“I don’t want to go to your bloody wedding!” Harry knew he was shouting, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “I just – I just want – “ Ashamed of the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, Harry turned away from Cedric and thumped a handy tree trunk, cradling his fist in his hand afterwards. How could anything hurt so much?
He felt Cedric moving up behind him and flinched as an arm laid itself in comradely fashion – nothing more – around his shoulders. “But Harry, you must have known it couldn’t last. We’re two chaps. Chaps can’t, well, marry each other. It was just a bit of boyish tomfoolery, that’s all.” Cedric’s tone was calm, sensible, and matter-of-fact, and Harry felt so stupid, young, and horribly naïve that he couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. As soon as the arm left his shoulders he turned without looking at Cedric and ran into the woods to be alone.
Cedric stared after him for a moment, then, shrugging slightly, sighed, and strolled back towards his parents’ house.
Neither of them noticed the tall figure of Thomas Riddle lurking half-hidden in the shadows, watching them both intently.
Part 2
