Chapter Forty-nine.
The Matter of Fletcher.
In my so far long and very eventful life, I can easily lay claim to seeing things and witnessing events far beyond the spectrum of the mundane world. Not all of them pleasant, and many downright scary-- like watching Hagrid blowing gaskets as he sent his blood pressure through the roof while yelling at the specter hovering before us.
In life. Mundungus Fletcher had a seedy, unkempt appearance so typical of the lower class ner-do-well thief I find myself associating (however unwillingly) with when there's no other choice. Short and portly in stature, his dark hair was in need of a wash and comb; he needed a shave and desperate shoes. His robe wasn't much better, stains could be seen on its dark surface (especially around the neck) and he had it tied closed with a healthy length of stout rope.
Very easy to pass off as a vagrant, which no doubt the Police did when finding his body in Hyde Park--especially with that foul tobacco smell about him. He was probably expected, by his family, to be much more, (as it's always the case) but fell into that life of 'easy money through gaff'. I'm really not much different, but I mix it with the addiction to adventure with a very healthy dose of common sense gained from many unforgotten experiences—possibly why I'm still alive. Fletcher, unfortunately, went in the opposite direction, and (so horribly) discovered a faster death. Now as a ghost, the only real improvement was a bluish hue.
But to Hagrid, it did matter at all.
"Out of my 'ouse! Out now!" Hagrid was vivid, and Harry himself wasn't looking very pleasantly at the specter. Given what was told he had done, I wouldn't be altogether pleasant either.
"Rubeus please!" pleaded the ghost. "I'm only—"
He, it, whatever, it's difficult to use the correct term with spirits, suddenly flinched and dodged the stone coffee mug Hagrid cannon-balled right at it's head. It only sailed through to slam loudly against the wall.
"Out, Damn Yer! OUT!!"
Ghosts don't appear without reason, especially when in distress. However, seeing how enraged our host was, it was better not to become involved…
Yes, you may call me a coward. But I can easily do other highly dangerous things than getting between a very irate half-giant and a desperate. Not even in a tank would I do such a thing, thank you kindly much. There are just some things that are simply suicide.
"Yer a Bee-trayer, Dungus! A filthy, rotten bee-trayer!" Hagrid raged, pointing an accusing finger at the cringing specter. "'Ow much were yer promised fer bringin' Harry to em, eh? A Thousand gold? Ten-thousand? Ow much was it!!"
Between the rages, I could hear shouting from the outside. If it wasn't the sound of the mug hitting the wall, then Hagrid's yelling would have done it. And with my back to the door, I started sweating out the possibility of getting zapped again by an overeager Auror. Once was bad enough, twice would be too much. I started sliding my chair close to Harry's, figuring that when I herd the sound of steps on Hagrid's doorstep I could dive out of the way taking Harry with me.
"Hagrid, please! Gimme a chance to ex—"
"LIE MORE LIKE IT!!" Hagrid thundered back so viciously that the entire hut shook. "AND DUMBLEDORE TRUSTED YER TEW!!"
I didn't have a chance. The door blew inward, and there were Aurors bustling up against us. I tried to drag Harry under the cover of the table, but both of us were roughly dragged out of the hut as Hagrid continued raging at the specter.
"It's not like…Him… to use ghosts, or anything that reminds Him of Death—if our reports are correct." Auror Dawlish explained to a seated Professor McGonagall. "So on that, it can be considered that his ghost is not an ally.
"But in the other hand, considering his part in the initial abduction, there maybe a third party involved. Parties that may have some measure of, or trying to gain, favor with…Him. It's only a possibility, of course."
"Of course." McGonagall nodded her head in understanding. "My predecessor considered him a valuable ally and source of information against the Death Eaters amongst the criminal element—while he was alive."
Harry just fumed, remembering how Fletcher looted Sirius' home of its valuables, never mind the fact that all he had to do was ask because they were all going to be thrown out anyway, then attempt to use the home to store various illegal items without much regard to what everyone else thought, especially Sirius. Then finally leading him into that trap…While it was mean to think that the criminal got what he deserved, Harry couldn't find much sympathy with in him to feel the least bit sorry for what happened to Fletcher.
"Then again," Dawlish put in, "it's all together possible that Mundungus Fletcher may have come to his end by some other failed criminal enterprise. Perhaps an old enemy seeking vengeance; we'll never know, since considering whom he was testimony from him wouldn't be considered due to his criminal standing."
"Then," McGonagall repeated, "How can you explain his ghost appearing here after all that time? Usually, it's either instantaneous or with in a month—it's been almost five since his death."
"That…I'm not sure of, Professor." The usually tough looking man was quite uncomfortable with being caught off guard by such a question. "The Spirits Office would be much better to answer that question than I am…Its just that now isn't the best of times to be making an inquiry about it."
McGonagall soured slightly at that and glanced at Day, who just nodded. The reformation of the Ministry had everything in turmoil, and any hope for information was simply as lost one until the process was complete.
"You are keeping him here for the time being?" Dawlish asked
"In the Dungeons, yes. Don't worry, Mr. Dawlish, Fletcher won't be going anywhere immediately."
That made the Senior Auror somewhat relieved and he quickly left the room to return to his duties. Then McGonagall turned to Harry and Day.
"Any suggestions?" she calmly asked.
Harry frowned. If alive, he would have loved to see Fletcher get his punishments for what he did. But as Dawlish stated, Fletcher's death could have come from a good many other sources—which left him wondering who else would want to have him.
"Is…he willing to speak?" Day hesitantly asked.
Harry looked up at him wondering why?
"He's willing to talk about anything." McGonagall casually persisted. "The problem is, as you've herd, does he have anything that can be taken as truth? I've always known him as an opportunist, Mr. Day. But to betray Harry's existence would have had to have taken a lot of doing."
"But you don't trust what his answer would be." Day pointed out.
McGonagall looked very tired. It was quite astonishing to Harry, he's been standing there the whole time and never noticed. In fact, everything about her seated there at the Headmaster's desk appeared run down and fatigued.
"Ghost will lie just as they did when alive, Mr. Day." She tiredly replied. "And Fletcher was one who was always vague with the truth with it suited him."
Then, she appeared to rejuvenate right there. Her face holding the intense expression of deep thought.
"But why come back here after so long?" She wondered. "He could have gone to any other place, or stayed where he was killed—as typical in several cases…"
She let the thought wonder for a bit. Harry knew she was thinking, and neither he nor Day said or did anything that would break that process.
Then McGonagall glanced at them.
"I think it's time for a visit." She told them.
Fitch had often spoken of the Dungeons, regarding the numerous punishments available to administer towards wayward and insolent students. But that had always been him, despite his protests in favor of using chaining those students he felt deserved it the Instructors of Hogwarts never allowed him to. So Harry, his friends, and countless many other students through the years, were spared the ancient punishments for the more humiliating suffrage of being responsible for the loss of House Points for their thoughtlessness and bad behavior.
He had an ideal of what a dungeon would look like; they were dark, dank place of cold slime-covered stone and stout iron bars. There was no other reason to think that Hogwarts' dungeon wasn't any better than those depicted in countless movies shown on the television, so Harry figured. What he found, once following McGonagall through the heavy iron door concealed behind a wall panel at the office's far end, was a long spiral stone stairwell leading downward for quite a long ways deep into the depths of the castle and underlying ground before reaching a second and similar iron door that used the same key to open. Only this door didn't squeak upon opening, it glided open without a single sound, and closed the same way when they entered the corridor that lay beyond. There, torches came to fiery life in their hanging brackets, revealing a lengthy stone corridor that was surprisingly clean of any slime, mold, or moisture of any kind.
Nor was it at all cold, but unnaturally warm—almost unbelievably so. But the heavy iron bars were there, some forming doors to smaller cells while others sealed off air passages to prevent any escape from occurring. Harry paid them some attention as they went past, but for the most part his attention was on keeping up with McGonagall now well ahead of them and starting to slowdown.
She stopped before a heavy black door, reinforced with black rough iron bands that were held in place with large round rivets, and pounded three times upon the door.
Then Nick's head appeared through the door, giving everyone a good looking over before relaxing.
"In a moment, Professor." He smiled, pulling his head back through the door.
Then it opened with a sharp snap, swinging inward on its frame.
Fletcher was seated, if a ghost could sit or want to, in the center of the room with Nick, who had his arm's folded across his chest, on his right and the Bloody Baron to his left, with a hand on the pommel of his sword. Neither House Ghost looked thrilled to be there standing over Fletcher, and Fletcher nervously glanced from one to the other while perched there. Harry wondered what they'd do if Fletcher did anything that required immediate action to stop. Fletcher knew, or at least had a very good ideal. But as Harry entered the cell, there next to the doors were two Aurors with an unusual piping on the lapels of their dark robes holding large, club-like black wands longer than normal wands and more sinister appearing. Neither of them acknowledged Harry or Day, as their eyes were focused upon Fletcher, now fearfully watching McGonagall approach.
"You're safe for now, Fletcher." She easily said, stopping before him. "My Banishment skills are rather rusty these days. But cause me frustration, and I'm sure
the special Aurors here with us can arrange something."
"I assure you Minerva," Fletcher nervously smiled, shrinking back as well, "I shall—"
"Enough."
Quite chastened, Fletcher quieted.
"I'll get to the point with you, Fletcher." McGonagall continued with an underlying hint of anger. "Why are you here?"
Fletcher squirmed in his seat. "I…I came to warn…you."
Harry couldn't see McGonagall's face. But she didn't jump at what she herd, standing stiffly as before.
"Harry, especially Harry." Fletcher stumbled along. "The Dark Lord is gathering his minions together for an attack upon Hogwarts…He wants to deal with Harry once and for all!"
Nothing really newsworthy, Harry figured, and McGonagall could have simply brushed it aside. But she asked instead; "When is this attack planned?"
"Soon." The ghost eagerly responded. "It's very soon."
A frustrated sigh that came from McGonagall.
"Fletcher!" she loudly barked at the spirit.
"That's all I know!" Fletcher pleaded. "It's all I could find out. That…monster doesn't like ghosts around him…"
"Quite understandable?" McGonagall crossly said.
"And me old mates don't want me around either…"
"Again, quite understandable." McGonagall harshly grated back. "You weren't entirely trustworthy, or obeying. I don't think it was too difficult for any friends of the Black Family to figure out how much of their personal property ended up in other people's hands, no matter how often you were told to leave it alone!"
That put a smile on Harry's face. Seeing the thief recoil from that remark was priceless. Just a probably hearing who he sold the items to…And who arranged it with him to perform the kidnapping. But the smile soon faded. No, it wasn't right—not right at all. They all knew Fletcher was a thief whose word could be trusted only so far, and they didn't keep checking on him for the fact. So, in a sense, they allowed him to do what he did. Even if more important matters kept getting in the way, they didn't keep a very watchful eye on him.
"But he was thrown' it all out…You cannot call that thieving." The ghost wailed.
"No, you're quite right Fletcher, we can't." McGonagall briskly stated. "But what can we call the storage of improperly made caldrons at the Black Residence then?"
Fletcher winced painfully at that before settling back to sniveling in a pious manner that was simply pathetic.
"But lets say all matters will be forgotten," McGonagall quietly began, "if the reasons why you're here have some validity to them."
Fletcher swallowed nervously.
"So…Why are you here?"
It took the ghost a full minute to finally speak. And when he did, it came as a nervous stammer. "T-there are m-more than just V-vol—that person-- who want Harry…S-some are to-too small, not w-worth the l-lot…But there's one. A-a real looker…A-a real scary one…"
McGonagall frowned, as did Harry, who couldn't figure out whom else would want him dead. But it appeared Voldermort was having to deal with someone with similar aspirations, who was making a serious effort to undermine his authority.
Perhaps, he wondered, this might prove useful, and listened more attentively.
"Who?" McGonagall demanded.
Fletcher swallowed nervously, almost as if he couldn't speak the name at all…
And when he did, Harry jumped within.
"Ber-Bernadine Hazel." He blurted out.
10
