Disclaimer: see chapter 1.
Help! by Katta (KET on ff.net) (katta_t2002@yahoo.co.uk)
Chapter 5
The photo was not a very good one. It was in black and white and appeared to have been cut out of a group photo and enlarged, so it was very grainy. And being a muggle photo it didn't move. That was probably why Hermione didn't see it straight away. She started reading the text about the young robber, Micky Maguire, who was on the run from the police. But then her eyes fell on the photo and as soon she looked at it properly, she suddenly knew that this was what had caused both Snape and Dumbledore to behave so oddly. The young muggle in the photo was scowling. His black hair fell greasily round his face. And his black eyes exuded hate. And he was the spitting image of Snape.
Numb to the heart, Hermione forced herself to read the whole article slowly. Micky Maguire was on the run after being suspected of a string of violent robberies from country houses. He had a history of petty crime and had been in and out of young offenders' institutions and prison since his early teens. The implication of the article was that he was so beyond repair that he might as well be locked up for ever. The News of the World hadn't quite gone as far as advocating the introduction of capital punishment for theft, but the phrase 'throw away the key' appeared several times. Hermione felt sick.
Despite the three pages of the feature, it contained very few actual facts. After reading it, Hermione was really none the wiser as to where this young man had come from or what he had done. But what really frightened her was a passing reference to a strange hologram appearing over one of the burgled houses - like a scull said the paper. Like a scull. A death mark, more likely. Hermione wondered whether the Ministry knew about this. Dumbledore must have read that bit. Oh Gods, Voldemort was dead, but the nightmare continued!
When the numbness wore off, she began to consider things logically. She needed more information. Where could she get it? Newspaper archives said a voice in her head. Newspapers keep archives of cuttings, indexed and cross- referenced. If the crimes have been reported in the past, then that will be in there. But how could she get access to newspaper archives? Did she know any journalists?
Well, actually, yes, she did. Ron had recently landed a summer job on the Daily Prophet. With only a moment's bad conscience over using her friend in this way, she strode over to the fireplace and opened the small silver box she had placed there so that her parents could contact her whenever she was somewhere where the magical field was too strong for cell phones to work. 'Daily Prophet,' she said firmly. Moments later, she was speaking to a snooty receptionist, who had never heard of Ron Weasley. After a bit of insisting, she got the woman to check and was put through to the fireplace on the news desk floor. The weather beaten hack who answered the call didn't even bother to take the cigarette out of his mouth to call out Ron's name over his shoulder. But seconds later she was at last speaking to Ron. She wanted to blurt out her request straight away, but with great difficult restrained herself. Instead she asked how he was getting on. Ron was gushingly enthusiastic. 'Please come and have lunch!' he said with the flourish of a real journalist. Hermione smiled and accepted. Her father was asleep by now so she left a note to say she had had to go to London for the day and would be back that evening.
The Daily Prophet, ever the defender of traditional values, was now the only newspaper still based in Fleet Street. Hermione apparated into a small lane around the corner and soon spotted the pub that Ron had mentioned. She found it dark and dingy and was relieved to see Ron waving to her from a far corner. 'Hermione! Over here!' She went over and sat down at his table. 'What do you want? I'm buying,' he said proudly on the strength of his first pay cheque. 'Oh, I'll just have a Coke,' said Hermione, mindful of the need to apparate home. Ron returned with a coke and a pint of beer. Hermione who didn't approve of drinking at lunchtime, looked disapprovingly at the pint. 'Won't you get into trouble if you drink that?' 'Oh no, everyone has a liquid lunch here. Most of the hacks won't even come in until after lunch and they'll already be half-cut by then.' Hermione made a mental note to strike journalism off her list of possible careers. As if to confirm her feelings, Ron continued, 'In the heyday of Fleet Street you wouldn't have been served here unless you were a regular - or at all if you were a woman.' Then he added, 'Mind you, they used to be open all night', as if that excused the cliquishness and misogyny.
Hermione sighed and embarked on her real errand. 'Does the Daily Prophet have newspaper clippings archives?' she asked. Ron nodded with a moustache of beer foam above his mouth. 'Do they have muggle papers in the archives, too.' Ron nodded again. 'Yes, we sometimes have to cross-refer to what the muggles think.' 'I'm doing some research,' Hermione continued, safe in the knowledge that Ron was unlikely to quiz her on what her research was all about. 'Do you think I could have a look in the archives?' Ron looked a bit dubious, but finally agreed to take her back and introduce her to the librarian.
As it turned out, the archives were very quiet in the summer and the librarian had no objection at all to the pretty girl browsing there for a while. He explained how the indexing system worked in rather more detail than was really necessary, leaning over Hermione's shoulder pointing out what to do. Hermione drew a sigh of relief when he finally ran out of things to explain and retreated to his desk in the corner. Quickly, she looked up Micky Maguire and struck gold. A few years back, after an earlier car theft spree, one of the local papers had carried an interview with his mother - a Mrs Maguire - complete with photo of said lady outside her front door on a Liverpool council estate. A surreptitiously whispered revealing charm gave Hermione the address in no time.
Hermione rose, thanked the librarian as politely as she could manage and walked out into the hot London afternoon and disapparated to Liverpool.
***
Since she wasn't entirely sure where the flat was on the estate, Hermione had to apparate to a nearby alleyway. The alleyway itself as empty, if filthy, but as soon as she turned a corner she was faced with a large man dripping in gold rings and chains. He was vaguely dangling a small plastic bag in his hand and went to grab Hermione's arm. 'Where did you spring from, little lady,' he drawled. Hermione ducked and threw a mild stunning spell which caused him to pause while she dashed past him to the tower block. Mrs Maguire's flat was on the twelfth floor and the lift wasn't working, but Hermione didn't dare try an apparition, since she didn't know the layout of the building. Five minutes later, hot and flustered, she knocked on the door.
The door was opened a tiny crack by a worn looking woman with a cigarette in her mouth. Hermione had her opening line ready. 'Mrs Maguire. I'm from one of the newspapers who want to do a feature on how young delinquents are never given a second chance. How they are hounded until they become full scale criminals. I believe your son has suffered from this. Can I talk to you about your son for a moment?' She felt bad about the lie, but justified it by telling herself that she really was trying to help Micky Maguire.
The woman opened the door fractionally wider. 'You really want to tell it the way it was?' she asked. Hermione nodded. Something greedy came into the woman's eyes. 'Will your paper pay? The last one paid.' That had Hermione caught. She had no paper behind her paying, of course. 'How much were you thinking of?' she asked nevertheless. The woman seemed to calculate and finally said, 'I owe the loan sharks downstairs £100.' . There was a frightened expression on her face as if £100 was an outrageously large sum. Hermione quickly calculated the conversion to galleons and sickles and decided that her bank balance could probably stand it. She smiled. 'We'll pay £100 if you give an interview,' she said. 'Well don't be standing there on the doorstep then,' said the woman and let her in.
Hermione took her through the dismal history of her son's descent into crime. Problems at school. Bright but unable to learn to read and write properly. (Dyslexic, Hermione thought). Then defiance and expulsions from school. Truancy when not actually expelled. Shoplifting and other crime. Young offenders' institutions. That led directly to drugs. The woman was particularly scathing about that . He had gone in a scared little boy and come out a drug addict. The need for drugs led to burglaries and street robberies. He had fought the drug habit and finally shaken it off. But by then he was well on his way to adult prison. He had come out a year ago, but he hadn't been home since his release and she hadn't seen him for nearly two years. She had been completely startled by the News of the World expose, which her neighbours had delighted in pushing through her letterbox. She really didn't know why he was doing violent robberies of country houses.
'Do you have a cigarette?' she asked. Hermione shook her head and said she didn't smoke. The woman disappeared into another room and came back with a half full crumpled packet of cigarettes. She shook one out and lit it with a cheaper lighter. After she had drawn a few breaths of smoke, she continued. 'He was always such as strange boy. No one but me ever really understood him. When he got angry, windows would break and things would fly around the room. It frightened other people.' Hermione had stopped paying close attention and almost missed it. But suddenly she sat bolt upright. 'You mean, windows broke without him touching them. Things flew the air without him throwing them?' 'Yes,' said the woman surprised that someone understood. A cold shiver ran down Hermione's spine. She had been there herself. A talented wizard (or in her case witch) in a muggle school. Untutored magic wrecking havoc. Only, she had been a happy well adjusted little girl from a loving home and so hadn't thrown temper tantrums very often. She was now quite convinced that Micky Maguire was a rogue wizard. But there were even more startling revelations to come.
Help! by Katta (KET on ff.net) (katta_t2002@yahoo.co.uk)
Chapter 5
The photo was not a very good one. It was in black and white and appeared to have been cut out of a group photo and enlarged, so it was very grainy. And being a muggle photo it didn't move. That was probably why Hermione didn't see it straight away. She started reading the text about the young robber, Micky Maguire, who was on the run from the police. But then her eyes fell on the photo and as soon she looked at it properly, she suddenly knew that this was what had caused both Snape and Dumbledore to behave so oddly. The young muggle in the photo was scowling. His black hair fell greasily round his face. And his black eyes exuded hate. And he was the spitting image of Snape.
Numb to the heart, Hermione forced herself to read the whole article slowly. Micky Maguire was on the run after being suspected of a string of violent robberies from country houses. He had a history of petty crime and had been in and out of young offenders' institutions and prison since his early teens. The implication of the article was that he was so beyond repair that he might as well be locked up for ever. The News of the World hadn't quite gone as far as advocating the introduction of capital punishment for theft, but the phrase 'throw away the key' appeared several times. Hermione felt sick.
Despite the three pages of the feature, it contained very few actual facts. After reading it, Hermione was really none the wiser as to where this young man had come from or what he had done. But what really frightened her was a passing reference to a strange hologram appearing over one of the burgled houses - like a scull said the paper. Like a scull. A death mark, more likely. Hermione wondered whether the Ministry knew about this. Dumbledore must have read that bit. Oh Gods, Voldemort was dead, but the nightmare continued!
When the numbness wore off, she began to consider things logically. She needed more information. Where could she get it? Newspaper archives said a voice in her head. Newspapers keep archives of cuttings, indexed and cross- referenced. If the crimes have been reported in the past, then that will be in there. But how could she get access to newspaper archives? Did she know any journalists?
Well, actually, yes, she did. Ron had recently landed a summer job on the Daily Prophet. With only a moment's bad conscience over using her friend in this way, she strode over to the fireplace and opened the small silver box she had placed there so that her parents could contact her whenever she was somewhere where the magical field was too strong for cell phones to work. 'Daily Prophet,' she said firmly. Moments later, she was speaking to a snooty receptionist, who had never heard of Ron Weasley. After a bit of insisting, she got the woman to check and was put through to the fireplace on the news desk floor. The weather beaten hack who answered the call didn't even bother to take the cigarette out of his mouth to call out Ron's name over his shoulder. But seconds later she was at last speaking to Ron. She wanted to blurt out her request straight away, but with great difficult restrained herself. Instead she asked how he was getting on. Ron was gushingly enthusiastic. 'Please come and have lunch!' he said with the flourish of a real journalist. Hermione smiled and accepted. Her father was asleep by now so she left a note to say she had had to go to London for the day and would be back that evening.
The Daily Prophet, ever the defender of traditional values, was now the only newspaper still based in Fleet Street. Hermione apparated into a small lane around the corner and soon spotted the pub that Ron had mentioned. She found it dark and dingy and was relieved to see Ron waving to her from a far corner. 'Hermione! Over here!' She went over and sat down at his table. 'What do you want? I'm buying,' he said proudly on the strength of his first pay cheque. 'Oh, I'll just have a Coke,' said Hermione, mindful of the need to apparate home. Ron returned with a coke and a pint of beer. Hermione who didn't approve of drinking at lunchtime, looked disapprovingly at the pint. 'Won't you get into trouble if you drink that?' 'Oh no, everyone has a liquid lunch here. Most of the hacks won't even come in until after lunch and they'll already be half-cut by then.' Hermione made a mental note to strike journalism off her list of possible careers. As if to confirm her feelings, Ron continued, 'In the heyday of Fleet Street you wouldn't have been served here unless you were a regular - or at all if you were a woman.' Then he added, 'Mind you, they used to be open all night', as if that excused the cliquishness and misogyny.
Hermione sighed and embarked on her real errand. 'Does the Daily Prophet have newspaper clippings archives?' she asked. Ron nodded with a moustache of beer foam above his mouth. 'Do they have muggle papers in the archives, too.' Ron nodded again. 'Yes, we sometimes have to cross-refer to what the muggles think.' 'I'm doing some research,' Hermione continued, safe in the knowledge that Ron was unlikely to quiz her on what her research was all about. 'Do you think I could have a look in the archives?' Ron looked a bit dubious, but finally agreed to take her back and introduce her to the librarian.
As it turned out, the archives were very quiet in the summer and the librarian had no objection at all to the pretty girl browsing there for a while. He explained how the indexing system worked in rather more detail than was really necessary, leaning over Hermione's shoulder pointing out what to do. Hermione drew a sigh of relief when he finally ran out of things to explain and retreated to his desk in the corner. Quickly, she looked up Micky Maguire and struck gold. A few years back, after an earlier car theft spree, one of the local papers had carried an interview with his mother - a Mrs Maguire - complete with photo of said lady outside her front door on a Liverpool council estate. A surreptitiously whispered revealing charm gave Hermione the address in no time.
Hermione rose, thanked the librarian as politely as she could manage and walked out into the hot London afternoon and disapparated to Liverpool.
***
Since she wasn't entirely sure where the flat was on the estate, Hermione had to apparate to a nearby alleyway. The alleyway itself as empty, if filthy, but as soon as she turned a corner she was faced with a large man dripping in gold rings and chains. He was vaguely dangling a small plastic bag in his hand and went to grab Hermione's arm. 'Where did you spring from, little lady,' he drawled. Hermione ducked and threw a mild stunning spell which caused him to pause while she dashed past him to the tower block. Mrs Maguire's flat was on the twelfth floor and the lift wasn't working, but Hermione didn't dare try an apparition, since she didn't know the layout of the building. Five minutes later, hot and flustered, she knocked on the door.
The door was opened a tiny crack by a worn looking woman with a cigarette in her mouth. Hermione had her opening line ready. 'Mrs Maguire. I'm from one of the newspapers who want to do a feature on how young delinquents are never given a second chance. How they are hounded until they become full scale criminals. I believe your son has suffered from this. Can I talk to you about your son for a moment?' She felt bad about the lie, but justified it by telling herself that she really was trying to help Micky Maguire.
The woman opened the door fractionally wider. 'You really want to tell it the way it was?' she asked. Hermione nodded. Something greedy came into the woman's eyes. 'Will your paper pay? The last one paid.' That had Hermione caught. She had no paper behind her paying, of course. 'How much were you thinking of?' she asked nevertheless. The woman seemed to calculate and finally said, 'I owe the loan sharks downstairs £100.' . There was a frightened expression on her face as if £100 was an outrageously large sum. Hermione quickly calculated the conversion to galleons and sickles and decided that her bank balance could probably stand it. She smiled. 'We'll pay £100 if you give an interview,' she said. 'Well don't be standing there on the doorstep then,' said the woman and let her in.
Hermione took her through the dismal history of her son's descent into crime. Problems at school. Bright but unable to learn to read and write properly. (Dyslexic, Hermione thought). Then defiance and expulsions from school. Truancy when not actually expelled. Shoplifting and other crime. Young offenders' institutions. That led directly to drugs. The woman was particularly scathing about that . He had gone in a scared little boy and come out a drug addict. The need for drugs led to burglaries and street robberies. He had fought the drug habit and finally shaken it off. But by then he was well on his way to adult prison. He had come out a year ago, but he hadn't been home since his release and she hadn't seen him for nearly two years. She had been completely startled by the News of the World expose, which her neighbours had delighted in pushing through her letterbox. She really didn't know why he was doing violent robberies of country houses.
'Do you have a cigarette?' she asked. Hermione shook her head and said she didn't smoke. The woman disappeared into another room and came back with a half full crumpled packet of cigarettes. She shook one out and lit it with a cheaper lighter. After she had drawn a few breaths of smoke, she continued. 'He was always such as strange boy. No one but me ever really understood him. When he got angry, windows would break and things would fly around the room. It frightened other people.' Hermione had stopped paying close attention and almost missed it. But suddenly she sat bolt upright. 'You mean, windows broke without him touching them. Things flew the air without him throwing them?' 'Yes,' said the woman surprised that someone understood. A cold shiver ran down Hermione's spine. She had been there herself. A talented wizard (or in her case witch) in a muggle school. Untutored magic wrecking havoc. Only, she had been a happy well adjusted little girl from a loving home and so hadn't thrown temper tantrums very often. She was now quite convinced that Micky Maguire was a rogue wizard. But there were even more startling revelations to come.