Gryffindor Investigations

Harry still had contacts among the Aurors; these had gained him copies of the report on the murder of Cedric Cryne, Esq. He and Ron were in the sitting room, reading them carefully, but they raised more questions than they answered.

“I can see why the Aurors fastened on Michael,” Ron commented, thumbing through the report. “He was the only one with opportunity. But doesn’t the way he did it—”

“IF he did it,” Harry corrected.

Ron made a face. “Fine. IF he did it—why would he use his wand? Why not just dump the stuff into his father’s lemonade by hand? He had to know the Aurors would check his wand, and there’s no way to hide the fact that a wand has cast a spell.” He cocked his head inquiringly. “Is there?”

Harry shook his head. “No. Casting a spell with a wand leaves a residue in the wand itself—just like firing a gun leaves traces of the powder in the barrel. One difference is that there IS a spell to transfer magical residue from one wand to another, but it completely exhausts the user—drains their strength to the point where they can’t even get out of bed.”

Ron frowned. “Can’t get out of bed………hang on………isn’t Mrs. Cryne bedridden?”

“Yeah, I thought of that too—the only trouble is that Catherine told us her mother had been feeling ill BEFORE the family had lunch that day.”

“What difference does that make?”

“The other big difference,” Harry explained, “is that you can’t place gun residue in time—you can’t say a gun had been fired exactly three hours before—but you CAN place a cast spell in time. Michael’s wand last cast a spell during the lunch party—after Mrs. Cryne had gone upstairs to lie down because she felt ill. If she had cast the transfer spell at that point, it would have killed her.”

“Well, I guess that lets her out,” Ron said, “which leaves the other daughter, who was miles away, and the other son………where was he, anyway?”

“Out walking,” Harry said with a snort, “with, of course, no witnesses.”

“Couldn’t HE have done it?”

“He could have,” Harry mused, “but again, I don’t see how. He managed to get back to the house on his own—if he’d cast the transfer spell, he wouldn’t have been able to do that?”

Ron crumpled up the report and flung it away in disgust. “I still don’t get why the hell Michael would use magic when he didn’t need to,” he snapped.

“Maybe he couldn’t have gotten hold of it,” Harry suggested. “I sent an owl to Neville, asking him to drop by. It’s one of the things I want to ask him.”

“Well, since Neville is here,” said a voice from the threshold, “ask away.”

The years had been good to Neville. His adolescent plumpness had been replaced by a tall, lean muscularity that Harry found very becoming. He was also dressing better, too, wearing clothes that actually suited him rather than things his grandmother had picked out.

Harry and Ron launched themselves simultaneously at Neville; Ron got there first and wrapped the botanist in an exuberant bear hug. Harry was there half a second later, and the three ex-Gryffindors laughed and pounded each other on the backs.

“Gods, it’s wonderful to see you two,” Neville said as they disengaged from each other (was it Harry’s imagination, or did Neville’s hand slide down Ron’s arm?). “I’m just surprised Hermione isn’t here!”

“I asked her,” Harry grinned, “hell, I begged her—but she’s doing some amazing research, and wasn’t about to leave it for anything!”

“No!” Neville goggled in mock astonishment. “You two without Hermione??? That’s like chips without fish!”

“Tell me you did NOT just say that,” Ron groaned.

Neville looked at him in puzzlement—and then awareness dawned of why using “fish” to describe a woman might not be in the best taste. “Still sticking my foot in it, aren’t I?” he grinned sheepishly. “Some things never change.”

“And some things change for the better,” Ron said firmly. “You look great, Nev—better than ever.”

Neville blushed. “Thanks, Ron. So—what can I help you two with?”

Harry quickly outlined the facts of the case, and Neville frowned in concentration. “It definitely sounds like aconite poisoning,” he said thoughtfully. “It would be easy for him to get the stuff—wolfsbane’s very common in that part of England. But Ron’s right, Harry, there’s just no reason for him to use magic to put it in the glass.”

“But isn’t wolfsbane poisonous even to touch?” Harry protested.

“Yes, but not very,” Neville replied. “Latex gloves would have protected him when he was gathering it, and then all he’d have needed to do would be to carry it in a plastic bag and dumped it in when he was alone. No, Harry,” he said firmly, “I agree with your client—if Michael Cryne really killed his father, he didn’t do it the way the Aurors said he did.”

Harry nodded. “All right, then—now all we have to do is prove that he didn’t do it. Stay for dinner, Neville?”

“Absolutely!” Neville said.

Kreacher was almost as happy to see Neville as Harry and Ron had been. As a result, the three ex-Gryffindors were treated to a meal that would have put the finest chefs in Europe to shame. Neville was the first to push himself away from the table, groaning, “I think I ate too much.”

“You’re not alone,” Ron agreed. “Harry, you’re going to have to carry me up to bed. I don’t think I can move.”

“So you two ARE a couple now?” Neville asked quietly. “Hermione mentioned it the last time I talked to her.”

Harry and Ron looked at each other. “Well, yeah, we are,” Harry said slowly. “Is that a problem?”

“No, no problem!” Neville flushed an embarrassed pink. He got up quickly and started for the front door, stumbling over everything even remotely close to his path along the way. “Well, I really should be hitting the air (crash!). Thanks for the dinner, guys—and good luck with the (ow!) investigation. Let me know if you need (whoops!) any help. Bye!”

Harry and Ron just stared at each other. “Call me mental,” Ron said, “but did you get the feeling that Neville wasn’t telling us something?”

“You think?” Harry said with a sardonic look. “But we can’t worry about that now. I’ll call Mrs. Cryne tomorrow and ask for an appointment.”

“That should be fun,” Ron said sourly.

“Oh, come on,” Harry reminded him. “We did six years with Snape. How bad can the Cryne family be?”