I do not own, or receive any profit, from the Harry Potter properties.
Remus Lupin P.I. Part 6: Residency Roulette
By Larry Huss
That Harry Timmons had a cashiers cheque for over £20,000 in pocket wasn't surprising to Minerva McGonagall on the day she picked him up to shop at Diagon Alley. Over 3,800 Galleons; evidently Remus had been doing well over the years, or at least was practicing frugality in anticipation of his son's school costs. Minerva had always remembered him as the "sensible" one of the boys. It was more than enough to pay for the year's tuition, and all the needed supplies. Harry, of course, just said it was "family money" and left it at that. To the goblins who exchanged the Muggle cheque for a small vault, transferred the tuition to the Hogwarts account, and gave them enough for the day's needs, it didn't matter. The motto of Gringotts, "Geld nicht Gestank,"(1) was more than a few words to them; it was a creed.
As opposed to most children raised in the Muggle world, Harry took the Alley in cheerful stride. He didn't give away a familiarity with magic by any words or actions so much as by his complete and easy acceptance of everything he saw. What pleased Minerva most was how eager he was to see all the other children getting kitted up for the coming year. She was sure that he was going be one of her Lions, eager to rush out and meet new experiences!
Like most of the Muggle-raised, he had a few awkward moments getting fitted for robes (they left a bit extra on his for future growth), and there was Ollivander's odd behavior. After a large number of false starts the wandmaker had simply told the boy to reach out from his magical core, and mentally 'grab' the one that felt best. After that it was ten seconds before a wand came flying out from a back room of the shop and smacked into Harry's hand. Ollivander's face was grimacing as he gave its specifications: "Rowan stock, Simurgh quill core, 12 inches, unyielding(2). Twenty Galleons please. I give you no guarantees on this one; it's a Gregorovitch I was doing some research on. Alright, for Continental work, I suppose. But still, not an Ollivander's!"
That was the first time, in Minerva's experience, that someone had left Ollivanders without having an Ollivander-made wand in hand. It was positively exciting, and would be suitable for a tidbit at her next cocktail hour with the girls.
Aside for that adventure things were very normal indeed: Harry had covertly fingered his wand every chance he got during the rest of the shopping trip. He tried to be covertly cool in eying each child he saw going by with their parents; would they be his new classmates? The pickup arrangements with the Andersons went perfectly, and Minerva McGonagall knew that she had started another young wizard on the path to their future fulfillment. When she used Apparition to get back to Hogsmeade she put Mr. Timmons out of her mind until the sorting in September. She had no idea that after returning to their home the Andersons, Harry, Lupin and Romanesque went to the upscale Frog and Peach Innand had a full (but sober) blow-out.
?
Well-briefed, Harry Timmons had no trouble leaving the Andersons at King's Cross Station, and going through the barrier at Platform 9 3/4. To the Andersons, it looked like he just sank into the thick brick and tile pillar, waving a cheerful goodbye. To Harry, it was like walking through a thin bank of very thick fog, into a kaleidoscope of brightly (and to his eyes, eccentrically) clad parents and children. Some were running around and shouting out to school friends they hadn't seen for months, some moping along, and a fair number of little ones looking panicked and clinging to their parent's hands as they were led to the train. Actually, Harry was one of the smaller ones, but he was self-confident to an extent few others were. In his youth league team he was a centre midfielder of note: according to Mr. Lupin and Mr. Romanescu he was a broom rider of immense potential, and he was already the survivor of a nasty curse. Harry was certain he could handle anything, and he was a certainly eager to try.
The trip up to the school was dull enough that Harry dug out NovoParaceleus's Table of Potion Interactions and Disasters rather than try to join in on the fake confidence and bravado of his First Year train compartment companions. He wasn't going to hold it against them; he understood how it could be a bit scary, especially for the Muggleborn now being thrown in at the deep end. The trip from Hogsmeade Station to the school itself beat anything (except the EuroDisney's Big Thunder Mountain) he'd ever seen, and the quick inspection the Giant Squid gave his boat on the trip in was marvelous!
It was the Sorting Hat that gave him (as it did many, once they learned troll-wrestling wasn't on their agenda) some trepidation. Where would it place him and what would it say once he had it on? He didn't have anything he was particularly ashamed of, but he did have a whopping big secret that he'd prefer to have kept quiet about. Both Mr. Lupin and Mr. Romanescu had tried to give him advice, but their experience was long ago and poorly remembered. "Don't let it push you around," was balanced with "Try to reason with it if you don't like where it seems to be placing you." Of course Mr. Romanescu had included, "Anything but Slytherin!" as his final advice. The Hat itself had some other thoughts on the matter.
After hours of waiting… with over a hundred students to sort these things take time… Harry made his way up to the stool with the Hat on it. Putting it on, he heard a mellow voice in his mind:
"It's been three generations since I've seen a cunning little bugger like you! You'd own the House in three years if you became a Snake; put them through their paces too. They've been needing a bit of hard discipline."
"Well, Mr. Hat, I've got nothing against snakes, they had an interesting view of life, when I used to speak to them; but it sounds like I'd have to be more than a leader, I'd have to be a bossy Boss, and that's no fun. I want to be able to sleep at night without wondering about a knife through my back, in fact, and you know… symbolically. So if I'd be good somewhere else, please consider it, I'm sure I'd be happier where people would be wanting to work with me, rather than afraid not to."
"My job isn't to make you happy Mr. Timmons… since you want to be known as that… it's to put you where you'll flourish. So…
"Huffflepuff!" rang out in the Great Hall. Harry Timmons took off the Hat, and carefully placed it back onto the stool. As he went to the proper set of tables the last to be sorted for the year crept up to find out her fate. Minerva McGonagall was disappointed that the boy wouldn't be in her House; he seemed to have all the confidence and energy that shouted out 'Gryffindor' to the world. Still, even if he wasn't one of hers, she would look out for him, and keep his secrets. Somehow, she felt he would be one to keep track of during his years in school.
?
"So, how do we find Peter, and can a man live after all his skin is peeled off and he's been rolled in salt?"
"Of course he can, he just never gets a good tan ever again. And we don't know that Peter is currently alive; if we find his corpse it would be nearly useless to us unless a date of death a year or two after your jailing can be proved," Lupin replied to Romanescu's questions.
Cesar shot back, "We could raise his spirit; try at least. If nothing comes, either Hell has a strict furlough policy or he's alive. If we get a spook, at least we know."
"Can I recite to you the seven separate statutes that we'd have to violate to do that, for inconclusive evidence? A simple mathematical formula will tell us the amount of time we'd have to spend behind bars if we're caught."
"So, we're back to the first thing, finding little Peterkins alive and kicking," Cesar Romanescu finished.
"No records, Wizarding or Muggle, for our Peter Pettigrew since the Day. I've checked, including spelling variations and acrostics. Assuming he's alive, aside from the fun of torturing him, it would ease your legal situation some. The only really useful way of looking at things for us is that he's gone into deep cover."
"You're making him too noble, foxy almost. Not to cover, more like a rat down his hole."
Lupin became contemplative. Like a rat down his hole. Literally, Peter had done that on more than one occasion, his value as a spy on their pranking expeditions had been essential before they'd made the Map, and often useful afterwards also. A Rat down his hole; and pull it in after himself? No, that was being a bit melodramatic. Perhaps… just never leave it. Ratty Peter didn't have to hide his features, if everyone was looking for a fattish, balding young man. Not if he was a portly, thinly furred rodent, perhaps (no, certainly!) with a digit missing. Living in the sewers, or even the fields of Britain? Too dangerous for little Peter; too many hawks and cats and poison-tainted meat-baits around. A household pet? Perhaps; certainly worth adding to the list of possible approaches, near the top in fact. Being fed regularly, a chance to snoop around and peek in at females in undress, and having his belly rubbed; certainly a fate Peter could handle.
If Peter was dead they were wasting their time. If Peter was somewhere else in the world (he'd been poor at languages, and language-learning spells at school, though) they'd never catch up with him. Their only reasonable course of action was to assume that he was alive, and in Britain. If Peter was in Britain he'd be in some form of disguise, so a method of discovering him either as a man or rat would have to be developed. That would be a task for Cesar Romanescu, a noted dabbler in the Grayish Arts, seemingly possessed of a useful bankroll, and much free time.
?
While Cesar Romanescu cut down on his social calendar (much easier to do now that Harry was at school), Lupin devoted himself to business. He was getting a more few cases from the magical side of the street; things that the underfunded Aurors couldn't devote staff to, or were being shooed away from for political reasons. The better ones ( Moody, Shacklebolt) would give him a tip about who to contact for the commission, or where there might be a reward if something undeniable was brought in to the proper authorities. Lupin wasn't surprised at how many times the proper authorities were still unable to move on open and shut cases. How many Wizarding families were willing to pay him for either closure or a clear idea of who to get vengeance on was rewarding. He was becoming, if not respectable, at least semi-notorious. In most cases he still had to come in through the Servant's Entrance, though.
They called if they really needed him, even if he was a Dark Creature. In fact, some of them preferred him that way. If he hadn't gotten up a reputation, and worked the hard-bitten (in several ways) private eye mystique (thank you Sam Spade!) he'd have never gotten Lucius Malfoy's commission to stop the thefts from his gardens. Considering what was growing in them, and the inabilities of the Malfoys' only staff (House-Elves, for Merlin's sake!), the only way the theft of the precious… and questionable… materials could have ever been stopped had been to call in a professional, and the Aurors the Malfoys could trust weren't exactly the pointiest wands in the rack.
It was interesting to observe the Noble House of Malfoy. Lupin had noticed them as Slytherin upper classmates at school; pointed out by Sirius as everything he was trying to not become. Lucius was maturing well, looking more and more an artist's interpretation of a human-like thing as the years passed on. Narcissa (née Black) was actually looking older than her years, and becoming somewhat haggard. A shame; she had been the object of more than a few adolescent fantasies back then. Their sprog was a little bundle of arrogance, insecurity, bluster, and secret timidity; all with Lucius' looks. To think, if Harry had gone to school in his normal year he'd have had little Draco for a playmate! All-in-all they were not that great an advertisement for the superiority of the gracious upper-class. With only one child, it seemed they were letting down the cause of keeping Pure Bloods as the major part of British Wizardry, as well.
He'd wrapped up that case when he'd realized that the most likely reasons the long-nosed elves couldn't get the scent of the thieves from the soil around the garden was that they'd never set foot there. Which meant they'd hovered in mid-air while pilfering the stuff. The quantities taken, and the lack of a magical imprint from a lightening or shrinking spell (and the fact that too much alteration of form would often harm the magical properties of fresh potions ingredients) meant a bulk carrier was being used. That meant either the Persian embassy (which had diplomatic permission to use magic carpets), or someone at the Ministry or a suitable museum was the culprit. Then it was just a process of elimination (3).
Doing more work on the magical side meant both that he had less time for the Muggle investigations, and that he had a good bit more cash. This led to another expansion of the business, with the hiring of an ex-cop (not too burned out, hopefully) and an eager young semi-intern. The semi-intern was his first female agent hire, and had seen too many detective shows. Teaming her with Bill Davies seemed about right. He wasn't going to harass her (too much), and was thoroughly married. Lupin had become the "Old Man"; no one wanted to call another human being "Remus," that just sounded silly. The fact that he was younger than everyone else there except new-hire Marcia didn't seem to matter; he accepted it philosophically. He'd been called worse things, after all.
R. Lupin, Private Investigations, LLC, had slowly built up a reputation for doing the odd, or incredible, with utmost efficiency and discretion. The day Lupin realized that he had just faked the bloody murder of a young woman, on a commission of her father, was an eye opener on how far he had gone. For social reasons (in his local community), the father had to be known as the man who killed her. For legal reasons there couldn't be enough positive evidence left for an indictment to be brought. As the man wasn't going to harm his child, there was left only one course of action; call in the talented Mr. Lupin. How he did it… not only did no one ever figure out, but no official agency ever knew he had been involved. What counted was the girl was safe, the father accounted a man of honour, and Scotland Yard had another folder of paperwork and investigation that went into the room where they kept what they were starting to call their 'X-Files'(4).
?
Marcia McCartny did not have a crush on the Old Man. He was too old, too mild, too quiet, too much her boss for her to do such a thing. He reminded her more of one of her professors from University than anything else, and she certainly hadn't had a crush on that creep Dylan who taught Middle English Literature (bloody stalker!).
When she discovered that he was only thirty, she had only felt a certain distant sympathy for the hard life he must have lived to have that worn look. Like quality leather that had broken in perfectly and would last forever.
When she heard from Bill Davies that Mr. Lupin was the most dangerous man on the staff when the chips were down, she had been surprised at first. Later, she realized that he was always so polite and quiet voiced because wherever he was, he was the Big Dog, and had no need to make a scene to get attention.
When she became curious, after noticing that he was the only one of the staff (even that pig Evans) who never talked about his private life, she had turned on her considerable charm in order to get a little personal background on her boss. After all, her specialty on the staff was that she could get anyone to talk to her, no matter how crusty or guilty. All she got out of him was that he was an only child. Researching records didn't do much more. She had tried to get somewhere by flirting with his friend, the exciting Mr. Romanescu. When she realized that she was this close to becoming the man's third bed-mate of the week she had beat a quick retreat. Though not without a good deal of regret and wistful speculation.
The only reason the Old Man was so quiet about himself must be that he had a tragic, dramatic, romantic, beautiful past and… oh my God! She did have a crush on him!
?
Severus Snape didn't know what to make of Harry Timmons. In the joint Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw Introduction to Potions class the boy was consistently the only one that he dared turn his back on. Timmons' end product might not always be the class best (though it was usually there, or close to), but he never blew up his cauldron or put his neighbors' lives at risk. No matter how much pressure Snape put on the boy, he never cracked, never flared up. The child was cold as ice; why was he a 'Puff?
Pomona Sprout thought the boy was a good addition to her House. He wasn't pushy, but people tended to cluster around him, following his lead. The only trouble with that was that his sense of humor, while not dangerous, was a little… childish. He had a good knowledge of Muggle gardening too, which helped with his coursework.
Minerva McGonagall found Harry everything she had thought he would be; a quick study with plenty of magical energy, as well as the other sort. He was helpful with those who were slower, but sometimes he couldn't help pulling a little prank in class. Sometimes he was good enough that she couldn't catch him at it, a high compliment from one who had taught the Marauders. What puzzled her was… why was he a 'Puff?
Professor Binns never noticed anything odd about Harry Timmons, but then again, what else was new?
Each of his teachers in the academic core (except for Cuthbert Binns) found him diligent and competent, and slightly odd. Albus Dumbledore heard little about the boy, and was interested in him less. Harry Timmons was not the Harry he was looking for.
Among his Housemates there was no mystery about Harry Timmons; he talked often about the Andersons (it was assumed they were his care-taker grandparents) and was always (allowing for assignments) up for a game or secret exploration of the school grounds. Hufflepuff was the House with the highest percentage of Muggleborn (a secret and unspoken reason for the low opinion the House had from the others) so Harry was able to get up a game of football on more than one Sunday. After all, no Firsties, and few enough of the rest of the student body, ever got a chance to get up on a broom except for class, or the few on the Quidditch team. Occasionally even a Slytherin Half-Blood would sneak in for an afternoon's scrimmage.
Harry Timmons liked Hogwarts. The only thing keeping him from loving it was the fact that he couldn't see Remus and Cesar and the Andersons and his friends… his people… as much as he wanted to. Exploring the school at night was fun; finding his way to the Kitchens an unending supply of snacks, and pranking the stuffy, was still the greatest. Making the Potions Master confused was one of those pleasures that kept on giving.
He was making lots of friends, and he had been right that not being worried about girls meant that he could make twice as many friends as the more childish boys. Still, the tendency of Second, Third and even Fourth year girls to sit down with him to 'tutor' him was a little disconcerting, especially when he saw them putting on lipstick before coming over. He thought it was because he was the shortest boy in the House; girls liked small and cute things. They didn't know his family got late growth spurts (and that he was a year younger than the records showed); when he got tall they'd probably start 'tutoring' some other little guy. Uncle Cesar, undoubtedly, would have told him to enjoy it while he could. So he did.
?
Lupin had noticed that Ms. McCartny was shadowing him some time ago. Whether he had caught her on her first attempt he couldn't be sure, but she was developing better skills so he didn't haul her over the coals. Cesar thought it was hilarious, of course. He called her "The Iron Virgin" since he hadn't managed to bag her.
Lupin did his best not to let his frequent and distant companion inhibit his social life. The first day after the night he had met a drunken lady solicitor wanting to cheat on her frequently adulterous husband had been a bit awkward at the office for McCartny. She was trying to be mature, worldly, and deeply interested in the case briefing she was getting; all the while feeling outraged (presumably by his lascivious behavior the night before), embarrassed (she knew it was none of her business), and dog tired from lack of sleep. Lupin remembered when he had been that young.
When he had taken the gang out for an office Christmas party at a nearby pub, he made sure not to get anywhere near the hanging mistletoe when she was around; he had been knocking a few back himself, and it wasn't as if she was bad looking. Having kept everything pretty much under control while inside he wasn't prepared for the leap and lip-lock she surprised him with as he was unlocking his car to go home. After they finally broke contact, the look on her face showed she had also been more than a bit surprised at both the act, and how very well it had gone.
As he quietly, but firmly, told her of his opinion of in-house romance (or even worse, mere fooling around) she took a step backward and pointed out with a nod of her head the tenting of his trousers. In an irritable voice he acknowledged that she a far from uninteresting feminine person, but that his earlier statements still stood, and if she could not abide by the policy she would have to leave. He did say her references would not reflect the reason for her termination. Only sniffling a little, Marcia nodded, and turned down the street to hail a taxi to take her to her lonely bed.
After Harry had returned to school, and the holiday rush had subsided, Lupin allowed himself to think about his life:
Would he spend his remaining years of virility chasing (and hopefully catching) drunken, stacked, lady solicitors? Phyllidia had certainly made it seem a worthwhile activity; still, would he never get to give domestic tranquility and a family a try?
Why did he feel that Peter Pettigrew, Harry's curse, and the whole damn slaughter at Godrick's Hollow were somehow still an active and important part of his life. Beyond a certain person's vindication and another's punishment?
Why, when he heard the talking-around of the Dark Lord's name, did he still feel something still had to be done?
Why was he alive? Everyone knew that a werewolf in full transformation was a ravening killing beast (unless the recently-developed Wolfsbane Potion was used, or in his case tranquilizers and/or whiskey). Why then hadn't Fenrir Greyback killed him so many years ago, instead of just infecting him with the disease? Before his death, Lupin's father had told him it was in revenge for an argument he had had with the werewolf. Greyback was famous for trying to turn children; evidently he, at least, was able to control himself enough to injure, rather than kill. Could vital parts of the werewolf lore of Wizards be wrong?
Finally, he forced himself to acknowledge he was very angry at Marcia McCartny, and desired to discipline her strictly. He had no problem with that; it was that his honesty compelled him to admit that afterwards he would have then treated her like a certain occasionally drunken lady solicitor (except for making breakfast the next morning), which would have been a bit hypocritical after his speech of Christmas last. He hoped that events would resolve this dilemma; certainly he had no answer for it.
?
Harry Timmons' second semester at Hogwarts passed with even less incident than the first had. He was still being 'tutored,' and had to physically resist being set in a girl's lap on more than one occasion. But it was all in good fun, and he never treated it as anything but a joke.
The rumor of a curse on the DADA position came up again. The school's current Professor was leaving, and the grapevine had it that Quirinus Quirrell, the Muggle Studies Prof, was going to be getting the post, beating out Professor Snape. Harry thought the calm and self-assured Quirrell might be more useful in that position than in Muggle Studies; after all, as a Pure Blood he actually had no experience of the Muggle life-style!
When summer break came Harry was eager and willing. After another long holiday with Remus and Cesar in Shropshire, he spent most of the rest of it with the Andersons' eldest and his family as a part-time babysitter/gardener and full-time local pool denizen. He had learned how to hide his textbooks from Muggle eyes and did some studying; much neater was that Peter Anderson was a policeman, and taught Harry Muggle self-defense (including the important "If in doubt, run away!"part).
This year, CD (that's what they called Cedric Diggory) would be going for Seeker, and Harry would be trying out for Chaser. Being (maybe) on the same team as CD; that would be something to remember!
That September, Harry went through the platform barrier like an old campaigner and got his gear stowed in a compartment with another early arriving 'Puff, then went back out onto the platform to have a little fun. Finding a few obvious first-timers wandering around lost, and a few others obviously trying to separate themselves from their parents, he put on his most officious face (at his height he needed all the presence he could muster) and packed a bushy-haired girl, a blond pretty boy and his two bookends, a redhead, and a lost looking chubby boy in one compartment. Giving them strict orders not to leave, except for a rest room break till they got out at Hogsmeade Station, he left them staring at each other in bewilderment. Satisfied that he had reduced some of the crowding in the train corridors, he went back to his own compartment and settled in for the long trip up to Scotland. By the time the Prefects were called in to sort out a mess in a completely different compartment than his, filled with Firsties, Harry was taking a nap and only heard about the collision of egos from his little experimental seating arrangement after the sorting that evening.
Author's Notes:
1-"Gold Doesn't Stink"
2-Rowan is a traditional tree of protection from evil. Simurgh is a benign, almost angelic, magical creature in Persian lore. 12 is a mystic number familiar enough to need no introduction, and unyielding is clear enough. Good for charms, and dispellings.
3-Siena Granton, docent of the Gallery of Wizarding History, had a desire to live beyond her means.
4-The father was present somewhere else at the time the girl was apparently murdered, but with help from his family he might have found a way to fake the time. There was her blood at the scene, and her body with horrific wounds. A Confounded Medical Officer pronounced her dead at the scene, while her family's religious objections prevented an autopsy when there were such obvious reasons for her death. By the time someone thought to try for one again a very thorough cremation had taken place. The girl's (more a young woman) new and false identity was ironclad, and she was intelligent and strong willed enough to keep in character. Seventeen-thousand thirty-eight pounds of pure profit in that one, the fee a little high to compensate that the case could never be publicized.