Cook's Journal

(Parts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, and Ten.)

Yes, mes amis, after a very long hiatus, Rumpole and Company are back and faffing about in the Potterverse. For those of you who are just starting to read, this story was started pre-DH and was nearly derailed by it; however, after much prodding from A Certain Canadian, I've decided that ignoring DH is a Good Thing and have picked up the story again:



"Events are building to a resolution," Dumbledore informed us, She Who Must and myself, as we sat with various restorative beverages in the lounge. It was a raw afternoon in late October, the sort of day where a hot toddy would not be amiss; wind-lashed rain intermittently tapped upon and pelted the windows of Froxbury Mansions.

"Indeed?" I said.

"Indeed. Severus has succeeded in tricking Voldemort into forcing the issue before he was truly ready to strike. He plans to orchestrate a takeover of the Ministry of Magic, using his moles and various Ministry agents who are slated to be put under the Imperius Curse." Dumbledore smiled. "What Voldemort doesn't realize is that the loyal Ministry officials have been secretly dosed, by Severus, with potions to increase their resistance to Imperio."

"I see."

"The Dark Lord has picked Guy Fawkes' day for his move against the Ministry. I will try to keep you apprised, but it may be difficult as I will likely be spending most of my time communing with either Severus or Hermione from this point forward. In fact," he said, consulting his watch, "I need to pay a call on Severus right now. If you will excuse me..."

He winked out of the picture frame, taking his tea things with him. Outside, the pounding of the rain suddenly seemed all the louder for his absence.

"So we wait," said She Who Must, staring at the wall.

"Exactly," I replied, sipping the last of my formerly-hot toddy. "Wait, and hope not to draw the wrong sort of attention."

She nodded.

-------

The next few days were an exercise in waiting for the other shoe to drop. Hilda and I went about our business much as we had during the Blitz lo those many years ago. Any phone call, any visitor on the door-step, any stranger met on the Tube could presage disaster. Or disaster could simply come with no warning at all, like a Luftwaffe bomb dropped during the night-time on a block of flats.

To tell the truth, it was unnerving at first. But, just as we had done during the Blitz, we learned to live with it, after a fashion.

Affairs continued in this manner until well over a week after Guy Fawkes' day had come and gone.

----------

It was a brisk but clear evening in mid-November, a welcome break in the usual pissing-down that is a natural part of that cruelly grey month. It had been a wonderfully sunny day, a day of the sort that lulls you into thinking that perhaps the next few months of winter won't be as dull and dreary as they always are.

I had just come home to 25B Froxbury Mansions after a somewhat frustrating day spent in front of the Mad Bull, and a somewhat alcoholic afternoon licking my wounds -- or rather, sousing them in cheap wine -- at Pommeroy's plonk purveyorship. Hilda was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal, and there were hints that my assistance with the spuds would soon be required.

"Rumpole," said She Who Must, could you please come here and--"

There was a loud bang and a flash, the herald of an Apparating person, in the hallway near the door to the basement stairs.

One of the few perks of life at 25B is living on the ground floor of an establishment where the successive owners had not thought it worth the bother to try and turn the basement space into apartments. This meant that we have access to several hundred square feet of extra storage space, whereas the persons living above us do not. I've got into the habit of using it as a place to compose my stories, so as not to disturb Hilda with the noise of the typewriter should inspiration strike in the middle of the night. There is a slight problem in that the space is prone to rising damp, but one can't have everything.

I was up on the instant, my aged legs moving me towards the disturbance faster than I had thought possible. There was a clatter of metal in the kitchen; Hilda had, quite literally, dropped what she was doing, and she met me in the hallway. My hand was out, ready to cast the Shield of Tranquility, when I saw who our visitor was.

"Snape," I said, once I could get my wind back. "What are you doing here?"

"Hiding," was the curt reply, through gritted teeth. The reason for the gritted teeth was soon apparent: a widening stain of red soaked through his robes around a three-inch-long gash in the left sleeve thereof.

Snape jerked his head towards the basement. I followed him down, supporting him, and led him to my typing chair, which was my favorite overstuffed chair until Hilda banished it from the lounge for being too old and worn. He fell into it with a sigh, just as the sound of Hilda's shoes hitting wood reverberated on the stairs. She carried a small washbasin filled with water in one hand and a bottle of antiseptic in the other; one of her older bath towels was draped over an arm, along with a flannel and some bandages. For the briefest of moments, I thought I was looking at a head waiter.

Together we rolled up the sleeves of Snape's outer robe and shirt -- it was a blessing that the wizarding world was given to loose-fitting clothes -- and soon had his wound cleansed and dressed as only Hilda Wystan could do; she had had much practice on our son Nick when he was an energetic, adventurous youngster. Snape winced slightly as the antiseptic splashed his arm, but bore up well otherwise.

"As you can probably guess," he said, once he used his wand to clean and repair his vestments, "the Dark Lord has fallen."

"And you nearly with him?" I said, handing him a shot of whiskey, which he downed at one gulp that set him coughing.

"It was too close for comfort," he averred, once he could speak. "I was lucky to escape with this calling card from one of the Aurors. Fortunately, I Stunned him before he could try anything more, found a safe spot and Apparated away to Paris, then to Beijing, then to San Francisco, then to some hellhole in Samarkand, then to here."

"Covering your tracks, I take it?"

"As best I can. I did some locality-obscuring spells, but that was just gilding the lily; no one can trace an Apparating path through five successive --"

The door-bell upstairs interrupted him; Hilda excused herself to answer it, with me following quietly behind, just far enough to be able to signal to Snape if there were any problems.

A delighted exclamation on the part of Hilda eased my fears, though I suspected that they wouldn't ease Snape's. Nevertheless, I came back down the stairs to let him know that all was well.

"Who is it?" he breathed, not willing to take my word on faith.

I smiled. "Who, of all the people alive today, could track you here?"

Snape stared at me, first in puzzlement, then in something closely resembling dismay. "No -- she didn't -- she couldn't --"

"Could and did," I replied, as Hilda led Hermione Granger down the stairs.

To be continued...