Don't Badger the Badger

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil

"And unafraid of toil," he murmured melancholically, shovelling the dirt into a bag. He tied it methodically, turned and took a pickaxe. Eight light hits. He put down the pickaxe, took the military shovel, and with dozen strokes cut the big lumps of solid ground into small ones; opened the next bag and shovelled it in; sitting down on his heels straightened his spine. Five deep breaths and he took the pickaxe again. Only after the bag was full did he take a real rest.

The air was stale and stiff, nothing really surprising, since there was hardly any ventilation. The lights were very dim. He wiped his dirty face, crawled over the bags, grasped the knot and pulled it. Five hundred yards. Three rests on the way, mainly because of the insufficient quantity of oxygen in the long, narrow hole. Finally he reached the end, stopped, lifted the hatch, and enjoyed the fresh air for a while. It was not a luxury, but a necessity. Then he went back and dragged the remaining four bags. When they were all at the entrance, he performed the first magic. A simple diminishing charm made them as small as sugar cubes. He climbed out of the tunnel, cleaned his clothing of the earth and checked the watch. Five-thirty. Perfect. The small village was already awake, but its inhabitants were too busy milking the cows or eating their breakfasts before the morning ride to work to pay any attention to the owner of an old stable, who decided to visit his property at such ungodly hour. Besides, nobody was close enough to hear a crack of disapparation.

*********

The electric light was the thing he was most proud of. His Muggle studies had taught him to use Muggle libraries quite well. He started with "Eyewitness: Electricity", and then worked his way through more advanced publications, until he finally was able not only to understand, but also to apply the knowledge from the handbook of electrical technical school, first grade. He took additional hours at work, and it allowed him to buy hundreds yards of cable, bulbs and sockets. There was light in his stable and he managed to hide the connection quite well. Of course, somebody looking for it would easily find the cable disappearing in the wooden crate in the corner. But who would look for it?

Thanks to the electricity, he could install some provisional ventilation - just a couple of home fans, sucking the air out of the tunnel. It didn't help much, but he needed every drop of fresh air inside, and "no magic" was the main rule.

He managed to also learn enough about computers to find some knowledge in "the Net" as the Muggles called it. Buying necessary things was harder, since the highly caustic substances like sodium peroxide are not available wholesale. But he managed, more by perseverance than by luck. There were shops which would sell anything to anybody and damn the consequences, just not everybody would spend seven months looking for them. The smell burned his nose and make his eyes water, but the substance removed the carbon dioxide and emitted the oxygen and this was all he wanted it to do. Smelling violets could wait; he was patient, as Hufflepuffs generally are.

They are also methodical. The first two years he spent working and saving, so he could buy the burnt down farm, of which only the stable remained. His friends made faces, but he said he wanted to make small lab there.

"As you can see, sir, didn't manage to, run out of money." He looked unhappily around the freshly swept stable. The Aurors were turning their necks to examine every nook of it.

"Any magic residue?" asked the older one.

"Apparition traces, sir" answered the younger one.

He nodded. "Yes, I came here a few days ago."

"Sweeping charm recently performed. And diminishing charm, in this corner." She pointed with her wand.

"What did you diminish?" The Auror was very official, his voice was reminiscent of crisply starched sheets and old, crumbling parchments.

"These, sir." He bent and retrieved a handful of petite chairs with a table and a buffet, not larger than the box of cigarettes, from behind the large crate. "I didn't like them, but my landlord won't allow me to throw them away, so I put them here."

"Aha. Mind if I look into the crate?"

"Not at all, sir."

The Auror lifted the heavy lid and peered inside. Except for mouse droppings, there was nothing inside. He let the lid drop and it fell down with a loud crack.

"Used it often?"

"No, sir, last time maybe a half a year ago."

"No dust, though."

"I don't like dirt sir, and I am not bad with house holding magic."

"Ah, yes, the sweeping charm. Didn't work for the droppings, though." A bit of Slytherin contempt showed, but the Hufflepuff only shrugged with a half-apologetic smile.

"Right. Thank you for your patience. You are his only Wizard neighbour, so we had to check. If we need anything more, we'll send you an owl, but I don't suppose we will. Have a good day."

Yes, taking Muggle studies, so ridiculed by our dear Slytherins, was paying off. If he used a Drilling Charm or simply Air Refreshing Charm, they would sniff it out immediately. Down the tunnel they would go and this would be a really interesting trip for them.

For Hufflepuff, hard workers were
Most worthy of admission;

Buying the stable, then all the supplies, and finally the bottle of prized Amontillado was a great drain to his pocket. And it was not easy to get additional jobs or extra hours with his sleep reduced by two hours every morning. But perseverance made him succeed. He spent mornings and afternoons earning for his living and necessary supplies. In the evenings he was learning, gathering the knowledge he needed. And for two hours every night, six days per week, he was digging his tunnel. Only Sunday was allowed for rest and regeneration.

Before getting started he spent half a year painfully researching all the options. He ruled out using magic, they would catch him immediately. Overtly Muggle ways like blasting the guy's face using a short barrel shotgun would arouse too much suspicion. He turned to psychology then. He studied the man beliefs, quirks and habits. Learned his hobbies and prides. And found his soft spot.

These belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal.

Because even the ruthless and very cunning murderers have their weak spots. And it was not so hard to find one for the man, who was directly responsible, although it was never proved, for death of his two best friends. It was his debt to pay back. The debt of death, not of life, but he considered is as bonding. The man was to pay, to stop walking freely and boasting about his favourite wines.

Yes, the wine cellar proved to be the key. Very old, older than the house, its brick walls mouldy and crumbling, but safe enough. Full of the wooden frames, on which lay rows of dusty bottles waiting for the right time to be opened and consumed from glasses of exquisite thinness. Double high rows of barrels occupied the left side of the vault, barrels of dark wood with a rich smell.

After almost eight months of digging, laying cables, mounting pillars and beams, he reached the wall. He froze when his pickaxe scratched the bricks, but at four in the morning there was nobody in the cellar who could hear him. There was an anti-apparition ward, but it didn't bother him, he was definitely not apparating. There was hardly anything more different from apparating than crawling your way down five hundreds yards of hand-dug, poorly lit and even more poorly ventilated tunnel.

He then turned to work with a set of minute chisels, removing the mortar and replacing it with small wooden wedges. After two weeks he was ready.

Good Hufflepuff, she took the rest,
and taught them all she knew

"Yes, good Helga. I wonder, what would you think of me? Would you be proud or abhorred?" he mused while apparating into his stable. He checked that there was nobody around, opened the crate, lifted the bottom and descended into the tunnel. He switched on the light and moved down as fast as he could. After reaching the wall he sat down to catch his breath, and then started carefully removing chunks of wood and bricks. He eased one after another, until finally he looked into a black hole, large enough to accommodate himself. He crawled through, into a narrow space between vertical barrel bottoms and a vaulted wall, then squeezed his way along the wall. He found the proper shelf using only a small Muggle torch. Delicately, so as not to disturb anything, he took a bottle of Amontillado, and replaced it with the one he brought. Then he searched for the shelf with the Italian wines and exchanged a bottle there too.

Stepping back from the shelves, he switched his torch to the strong light. Good. No footprints. He took his wand and did the only magic, which was necessary. His mother would scold him seeing the Sweeping Charm so badly done, but it served its purpose. The cloud of dust whirled in the triangle of the torch's light and almost made him sneeze. He crept back behind the barrels and proceeded to restore the wall to its original shape. Of course, if somebody looked for it, he or she would notice the disturbed bricks and fresh mortar. These were the chances he had to take.

*********

The man and his friend dined well, celebrating the best business deal they made so far. It was after midnight when they apparated unsteadily into the backyard, slapped each other's backs to congratulate themselves on not getting splinched, and then went inside.

After a few rounds to warm up, the host announced that the day's events merited a special treat. He lit his wand, went down to the cellars and fetched the bottle of sherry. He took a special set of glasses, reserved for the best occasions, and they drank to their health, and to the good old times. They parted company in the early morning.

The man didn't open his eyes before late morning or rather early afternoon. Saturday allowed him a good rest after last, hard-driven weeks. His maid had a free afternoon, but before leaving she washed yesterday's glasses and prepared him a lunch. He bathed, warmed the food with a flick of his wand and ate with gusto. Poured himself a small glass of port to help his digestion and stretched out on the sofa, when a knocking interrupted his rest.

Two Aurors stood at his front door, polite, but insistant on getting in. Their papers were in order, so he couldn't protest. They refused a drink and started to ask him about the previous day evening.

"But why, sir?"

"Your friend didn't wake up this morning."

It took all of his Slytherin self-control not to slump on the sofa. The Aurors went through their litany: where, with who, why, what they were doing, where did they eat, what did they eat, what did they drink.

"Your wine? Is there any of it left?"

"No, I am afraid, we drank it all."

"What about the bottle?"

"My maid has washed it, along with the glasses." The Auror gave him a long glance.

"You are a connoisseur?"

"I pride myself on my cellar."

"May we see it?" They went down to the vault.

"Any magic recently done?" The second Auror murmured a few incantations.

"A sweeping charm only."

The first officer traced his finger along the shelf. "Rather badly done," he remarked, looking at the result. "Right sir, we will need to check them."

"What? You are going to open them all? This will cost you a fortune!"

"Don't worry, we will not ruin your collection. Piffelbuck, contact the MoM and have them send Adams here."

Adams turned out to be rat-like creature, fast and nervous. From his stuffed bag he produced something which looked like a large syringe, tapped it with his wand and went to the bottles and barrels without a word.

"He'll take samples without touching your precious corks," said the Auror with a crooked smile.

Adams was pointing his syringe towards the bottles, and in instant it filled up with a shot of amber, ruby or rosé liquid. With his right hand he was emptying it into a probe and taking the next sample, while his other hand sealed, marked and replaced the probe into the bag. The others watched this juggling show with admiration, except for the host, who would prefer to be marched handcuffed down the street than see his wines... violated.

His wish was fulfilled when Aurors came again two days later, unsealed the cellar and took a bottle of red Roero.

"Barbero vineyards, 2001. Good year?"

"Very good, but it doesn't need more ageing. I planned to drink it soon."

"With your late friend, no doubt. Would not our dear Adams be so meticulous in his tests, you would probably walk freely out of it. Very ingenious, to use the very potion your friend was allergic to. Just asthma, one would say. Suffocated the man to death without even waking him up."

"But he was my best friend!"

"And you owed him a good deal, eh? And interesting parchments we found in his house, too. Were they found earlier, you would have much more trouble in convincing the court that you were under Imperio. Well, try that now."

He didn't try. Although the evidence was only circumstantial, there was a motive, a tool and a cadaver. Enough to send a man for a lifetime to Azkaban, especially with his Death Eater background. The young Auror, who suggested having a second look into the neighbour's stable ("You see, sir, the culprit was allegedly connected with the murders of this Hufflepuff's friends") was patronizingly smiled upon ("Sure, my girl. Just listen to yourself. Hufflepuff. That neighbour is a Hufflepuff . A Hufflepuff framing somebody?").

*********

"Two birds with one stone," murmured the Hufflepuff, reading Daily Prophet article about one former Death Eater sentenced for poisoning another. He stretched his legs and poured himself another glass of Oloroso. He took a liking to sherry, but not to Amontillado. The associations with damp earth, stiff air and cramps in the back were just too strong. He took a sip and looked at the small piece of parchment lying on the desk.

"Two down," he said crossing out the names, "three to go."

*********