Witch Night, or How the Word 'Snitch' Entered Muggle German

Chapter 1: A Discovery

Author's Notes: I borrowed a place from Erich Kästner and everything else you recognise from J.K. Rowling. All OCs traipsing around in this story are fictional except Lotte the walk-on, who really deserves a novel of her own. With much gratitude to my patient beta readers, Kelly Chambliss and The Real Snape.

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Witch Night, or: How the Word 'Snitch Entered Muggle German

by Tetley

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Stoatshead Hill, 30 April 1999, 6:30 a.m.

The woman yawned as she opened the back door of her cottage and stuck her nose out into the crisp, cold morning. Squinting at the horizon, she saw with satisfaction that a thin, peach-coloured lining had begun to creep up above the fields behind Ottery St. Catchpole. Timid rays of whitish light shone into her garden, making the clouds of mist that rose from the dewy grass look like so many tiny thoughts in a Pensieve.

About time the days got longer now.

It had rained that night, and the young day smelled fresh and earthy. The woman took a deep breath, her tired face cracking into a smile as the moist air filled her lungs, and pulled on a pair of wellingtons.

The grass badly needed cutting and de-thatching. Perhaps she could summon the energy to do it today. Old school, Muggle style. Granted, her back, once her great pride, wasn't what it used to be, but an hour with the scythe wouldn't kill her, not if she warmed up decently beforehand. Physical work was good. Repetitive manual labour, a stroke for every thought, a bead of sweat for every memory.

Besides, the animals would love the freshly-cut grass.

She crossed the puddle-dotted meadow and opened the door of the unicorn stable. The mare was eating poorly now, but who was she to blame her? It wasn't as if she had taken in anything that deserved to be called food these past days, either.

She took a bucket of water and placed it under the faucet of the ancient pump. Took a good dozen swings of the creaking handle until clean water came. She'd have to do something about the pressure, and a few drops of oil wouldn't hurt.

The bucket in one hand and a bundle of hay in the other, she went over to the mare and her foal. She mixed some alfalfa and a generous scoop of sugar beet shreds into the hay, hoping that that would make breakfast appealing enough. She forked the whole load into the manger and quietly closed the stable door behind herself.

Her first chore done, she sat down on the bench behind the cottage and took a pipe out of her pocket. She filled it slowly, pensively, taking her time lighting it. And when she took the first puff, she leaned back, the thick boiled wool cloak cushioning her spine against the bare stone wall, and let her yellow eyes trail along the peach-coloured strip on the horizon.

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Berlin-Charlottenburg, 30 April 1999, 9:30 a.m.

Ulla Amtmann was a very proud hotel owner.

As she had every reason to be. The "Pallas Athene" was only three weeks old, and already three-quarters of the rooms were booked. The time of the year certainly helped, with Walpurgis Night - the night the witches were abroad - always being a popular reason for her target customership to take a long weekend. But given the fierce competition in the Capital's hospitality business, 75 percent was a more than respectable booking rate for a new hotel. Especially a women-only one.