After Harry Comes Peek - Forgiven
"Ministry Managed" was the name given to a sizable population of wizards and witches. They chose the wrong side when "He who must not be named" rose to power and they paid dearly for it when the Potter child seemingly vanquished him. Ten years of poverty and hardship followed, but now, one of their own has been invited to Hogwarts.
FYI, Hermione Granger leaves reviews after every fan fiction she reads - just saying...
Chapter 1 - Forgiven
"Eye of Newt?" said Peek. He held up the clear glass bottle and rolled the contents around with a swirling motion of his hand. His face curled into a scowl as he considered the many eyeless newts that must now be scurrying around London. "'Eye of Newt' is from an old muggle story. I'm pretty sure newt eyes aren't used for anything." He gave a second thought. "Except for seeing with, I suppose, if you are a newt."
Muggles were non-magic people, a part of whom, Peek was not. He was quite gifted with magic in fact, and living on the London streets, surviving day to day, and needing to fill an empty belly, made him particularly good at the thieving, defense, and mischievous sorts of magic. Underage wizards and witches were not allowed to perform magic, strictly speaking, but Peek managed.
The boy's name was Parker Ferris, or Peek for short. He was a gaunt, toothpick of a boy with thin straggled brown hair, sunken cheeks, and tired eyes with the look of not sleeping in ages, if ever. His clothes were old, faded, and threadbare and his shoes were worn and ragged with holes in the bottoms. Sure, he could clean them up, patch all the holes, and repair the opened seams with a couple choice spells, but why pretend to be presentable? Why pretend to be something he was not?
"Mr. Millwater, why do we need newt eyes?" called Peek to the old potions master across the potions shop room.
"I'm using them like cocktail olives for drinks," replied the venerable old man as he busied himself with the exotic teas and coffees that filled the store shelves. "They're fancy," he added.
With a snap of his fingers, Millwater caused all the teas and coffees to shift to the backs of their shelves. In their places slid small bottles, boxes, pouches, and packs of all kinds. These were the remedies and cures for common afflictions in the wizarding world such as shroom pox, brittlethumbs, and worrywarts, and the repellents used to keep away troublesome creatures from garden gnomes and pixies to muggles and their cats and dogs.
Byron Millwater, the potions shop owner, was a man of many, many, years. He was bent at the shoulders, perhaps from age, but more likely from hunching over his cauldrons, kettles, pots, and pans. He favored a gray woolen overcoat, black shirt with open collar, and black trousers. In his breast pocket was a splash of color depending on his mood. Today it was a green handkerchief. Yesterday it was an orange carrot.
Millwater had been a well-known potions-master before the rise of Voldemort and before his advanced age became really advanced. His early credits included the potion of Lustering Locks hair growth, which sometimes had a big surprise for expectant mothers when they delivered. If you knew anyone named "Hairyot" or "Hairy" with unruly and unkempt hair, and maybe a lot of it when they were born, their mom or grandmother might have been a Millwater customer.
Peek rolled his eyes, the ones in his head and not in the jar, and turned his attention to the boy standing across from him, at the counter. "A sickle and twelve is too much for these," he said to the boy.
"I don't make up the prices, Peek, I just deliver." His Name was Steven.
"Fine," said Peek. "Will you take muggle money?"
"Sorry Peek, we can't anymore," said Steven. "Sickles and Knuts only."
"I know we can't anymore, none of us are allowed to, but, the money-changer will be here day after next. She never asks questions. No one will know."
"Mrs. Carter says that money-changing troll-scat can chew on her damn exchange rates. The ministry is cracking down on us using muggle money and she says goblins like that half-pint, toad-faced, gargoyle, her words not mine, will send us all to the bloody poor hovel with their rates. Well, Mrs. Carter says she's done with the goblins and the muggle pounds and pence."
Peek frowned. He looked after the old potions master in his failing years, which included a close watch on the volatile supplies, especially the ones that explode, and a closer watch on the dwindling till. He had a drawer full of British pound notes and a sack of their coins, which was more and more useless for their needs.
"Fine," said Peek with another frown. He paid the boy a sickle and twelve knuts from the muggle-style cash register at the end of the counter. He watched the boy leave before turning to Millwater.
"Sir, what do-," Peek started to shout to Millwater, expecting him to be back at the shelves, but the old man had treaded softly over to Peek and was there behind him.
"Peek, be a good lad and skewer each of them with a toothpick."
"Sir, you never entertain guests. How many people are you expecting for these 'fancy drinks'?"
"None," said Millwater as he shuffled back to the far shelves.
Peek stood there for a moment contemplating the tiny newt eyeballs, of stabbing them with toothpicks, and of garnishing drinks in the absences of guests.
"Sir-" Peek began.
"Look lively," said Steven as he popped his head back through the doorway. "The Ministry is down the street and coming this way."
"Thanks, Steve," called Peek as he rounded the counter to look out the window.
Steven nodded and was gone.
"Mr. Millwater," called Peek, "it's that Morris fellow again. He's three doors down, talking to Mrs. Gunderson."
"Alright then," said Millwater as he thumbed towards the back room, "you know the drill, hide in the back until he is gone."
"Yes sir," said Peek.
Byron Millwater sold potions, sundries, and curatives to the local wizarding community, but it was Peek who made all of them. Millwater's hands shook, his memory was far less than sharp, and his eyesight grew worse by the day. Peek was a child, and by ministry edict, had "no place behind the cauldron" to coin the potioners' phrase. Still, without Peek, the shelves would be bare of all but the simplest remedies.
Peek circled back around the counter and entered the back room through the open door. There were shelves full of pouches and bottles. There were sacks stacked in the corners and barrels lined up between them. A table stood in the center with six boiling and steaming cauldrons, assorted spoons made of silver, copper, and wood in order from smallest to largest, knives of varying sizes, glass vials and ceramic dishes, lead measuring weights, scales, mortar and pestle, and three open potions books; "A Practitioner's Guide to Perfect Potions", "Betty Crocker's Medieval Cauldron Recipes for the Modern Witch", and "Knightsbridge Cauldronry on a Stepney Budget". Of the three books, Betty Crocker was Peek's favorite. She was a little old-fashioned, but goodness, that woman could cook potions.
Peek gave a quick sniff to one of the bubbling cauldrons, gave a measured stir to another, and added a pinch of powdered rancor toenail to another. He ducked behind the room's door just as the ministry agent stepped into the shop. Peek watched through the slit between the door and the wall.
"Good morning, Mr. Morris," said Millwater to the Ministry of Magic agent. I trust you had a good trip?"
The young ministry wizard wore the typical, if not standard-issue, dark suit, dark tie, and dark shoes. His name was Carlton Morris and he was not living the ministry dream he thought he would be living, by this time in his life. He was stuck where the young lackluster agents landed and where the old agents found themselves when their best years were in the past.
Morris was a member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in a unit tasked with managing certain squibs, certain near-muggles, and a sizable population of wizards and witches who could work magic but only under heavy restrictions. They were the "Ministry Managed", or "MMs" because they chose the wrong side when the dark wizard, Voldemort, rose to power.
"Yes, yes, Millwater. The trip over was fine," said Morris. His face gave a look of limited patience and the tone of his voice bordered between boredom and annoyance
"Can I offer you a drink, sir? I have lemonade? Or, do you prefer some tea? I can set a kettle on."
"No, Millwater." The tone of his voice tipped closer towards annoyance.
"Very well sir," said Millwater.
Morris produced a short stack of documents from a black leather folder and sifted through it until he found the one marked "Millwater, Byrin - Potions Vendor". The name was misspelled. Someone would get around to correcting it one day.
"Let's get this over with," said Morris. "Are you Mr. Byron Millwater, Potions Vendor, Number forty-eight and three fifths, Wandsworth Bridge Rd., London?"
"Yes sir," said Millwater.
"And Mr. Millwater, in the last thirty-one days, have you had any visitors to your establishment who by Ministry standards, would be regarded as unsavory or undesirable?
"No, sir," said Millwater, "all upstanding folks, both ours and the muggles."
Peek thought to himself, "We've had more unsavory visitors in the last week than I have fingers and toes." He smiled, "And, we had a dozen of your 'Undesirables' hiding in the cellar during your last raid."
Morris droned on. "In the last thirty-one days, have you ever, even once, sold, traded, bartered, lent, or in any other way affected the transferal of potions, elixirs, or brews deemed prohibited by the Ministry?"
"No sir." said Millwater but he shuffled his feet a little as he spoke and looked elsewhere to avoid the agent's eyes.
Peek smiled again. He had once managed a polyjuice potion for a wizard named Jimmy Fables who used it to make him look like a quidditch star, so he could sell fake autographs. He had also made an invisibility potion, with Millwater's guidance, for old man Hibbs who used it to sneak off with a case of muggle whiskey. "I'm pretty sure those are on your 'Prohibited' list," said Peek in a whisper.
"This includes inferior, counterfeit, or contraband potion ingredients or equipment, as given in the full, unabridged list, published in the ministry sub-document, "Restrictive Componentry, Potion-making", Classes A through G"
"No sir," said Millwater.
On this one, Peek agreed. As Mr. Millwater always said, "Use a bad cauldron to lose a good customer."
"In the past thirty-one days, have you received a request for any potion, confactuary, construct, or product, regardless of whether acted upon by you or another working by factor?
"No sir. No factors and no proxies."
"Except me," thought Peek with yet another smile. "And, I bet 'Confactuary' is a made-up word."
"Very well, by the authority given to me, by the Ministry of Magic, I hereby extend your license for another thirty-one days."
"Thank you sir," said Millwater.
Morris nodded as he stuffed the papers back into his folder.
"So then, Millwater" Morris continued in a less official tone, "any trouble with muggles?"
"No sir," Millwater replied. "I have my regular customers, and the curious sometimes, but the rest leave me alone."
"Uh huh," replied Morris with a note of disinterest. "Any trouble with owl traffic? The Muggles get suspicious if too many come and go at a time. What about owl droppings or missing cats?"
"None sir, that I know of. We still take our mail up on the roof. There is an empty pigeon coop we use as an owlry. A couple of the older kids keep it clean and running."
Morris nodded again. "Very well, let's get a look at your work and I'll be on my way."
"Of course sir."
Morris skirted the counter and entered the back room as he did every month. Millwater stepped in behind him and stood between Morris and the door behind where Peek hid.
"What are you making today?" asked Morris.
"Remedies for aches and pains, mostly," said Millwater, "and muggle deterrent."
Morris leaned over the nearest cauldron and gave a light sniff. He pulled back quickly with a sour expression.
"Sorry sir, that would be the 'Wet Dog' muggle deterrent. It is mostly aroma-based."
"You might have told me sooner, Millwater," said Morris. The tone of his voice tipped further towards annoyance. "And, what is this one?" He pointed to the next cauldron in line. "Some sort of pain relief, yes?"
"Indeed sir, that one is for aching joints. Mrs. Bedgood says her knee is acting up."
"Margo Bedgood on 5th Street?" asked Morris as he turned his attention to the containers lined up on the shelves.
"No sir, Liddy Bedgood near the park."
Morris nodded again as he checked the expiration dates on the pickled toadstools and the virgin hemlock.
A loud fluttering and the beating of wings in the shop ended the inspection. A tawny owl had swooped in through an open window and had landed on the counter.
"Empty chicken coop on the roof, eh?" asked Morris with a matter-of-fact tone.
"Pigeon coop, sir, and a pardon if you will. I expect she's a ministry owl. They are not ones to wait in a coop, in the company of other owls."
"Indeed," said Morris with a final nod. "Until next month, Millwater."
"Very good sir."
Carlton Morris left the potions shop on his way to other routine checks. Peek waited for several minutes before coming out from behind the door, lest the "M-Man" ("M" for "Ministry") returned with some forgotten ministration.
"She's not from the ministry," said Millwater as he fed the tawny a bit of owl kibble and sent her on her way. "Someone official knows you're here" he continued as he handed the letter to Peek.
"Maybe it's the Chudley Cannons again," said Peek with a laugh. "They're a great quidditch team but I do grow tired of their pestering."
Millwater smiled. "Right you are. They'll need to look elsewhere for a five-star, five stone, beater."
"Five and a half stones," said Peek in mock indignation. He puffed out what little he had of his adolescent chest.
"Five and a little at best," chided Millwater, "and only with a full belly and you soaking wet." He ruffled Peek's hair. "Go on, let's have a look."
Peek tore open the letter addressed, Mr. Parker Ferris, Number forty-eight and three fifths, Wandsworth Bridge Rd., Fulham, London, and read it aloud:
Dear Mr. Ferris, We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress
"Hogwarts?" said Peek. His face curled into a look of astonishment. "Is this for real?"
"Hogwarts," Millwater repeated. He felt his legs wobble beneath him. He leaned against the counter to steady himself. "Are we forgiven so soon?"
Peek did not hear his old Potions Master speak or his reference to ten years past when the promises of a smooth-talking deatheater convinced hundreds of witches and wizards like him to rise up against the establishment, caused the deaths of most, and condemned the survivors to a life of near-servitude. Instead, Peek stood within a whirlwind of excitement. "Mr. Millwater, am I going to Hogwarts?" His voice was barely contained. "Am I going there?" He pointed towards the North and a little West.
"I believe you are, lad" said Millwater. "Merlin's beard, I believe you are."
End of Chapter 1