Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Spoilers: None from canon.

Rating: G

This started out as a cookie in the FictionAlley Park Cookie Jar. I'd been meaning to expand it, and suddenly it started fitting in with other things I'm working on. So here it is - and by a happy coincidence, I'm posting it on the anniversary of the day I posted my very first fic!

They came down the path that afternoon as they had done every month for as long as she could remember. When she was smaller, she'd had to scramble to keep up with her father's longer legs. Now that she was nine, she could walk in a more dignified manner, though dawdling still wasn't a good idea.

Her father delivered his standard lecture on the way. "Don't wander off. Stay within calling distance. Don't talk to any Muggles. If one asks you a question, let me answer. Don't - Minerva, are you listening to me?"

"Yes," she said quickly, sidestepping a patch of melting snow before it could soak her shoe. She hadn't been, really. Why should she, when she knew it all by heart? It was silly. She was more than old enough to look out for herself, even in a village full of Muggles.

They never went anyplace but the street where the shops were anyway. Her father hated dealing with people and avoided it whenever he could, but food could not be conjured out of thin air, and so they had to keep coming back to buy more. Minerva, being young and curious, enjoyed the opportunity to get away from their small property and see new faces, not to mention the pleasure of spending a few hours of uninterrupted time with him. It was more than worth hearing him grumble about the necessity for two days before and after each excursion.

The trip proceeded smoothly until they reached the third shop on their list, which was always a trouble spot - Minerva's father thought the woman who ran the place charged outrageous prices, and never failed to get into an argument over it. This time the argument seemed to go on forever. After a while, she got bored with listening to them quarrel (though it was amusing to hear her father telling the woman that he would sooner kiss a troll than pay that much for a pound of sugar) and slipped into the chilly outdoor air to see if she could find anything more interesting to look at.

She didn't mean to roam far, really, but one street led to another, and before she knew it, she was down a lane where cottages squatted side by side, separated by narrow yards full of clotheslines and tools and pecking chickens. No one seemed to be about. Still, she had an uncomfortable impression of eyes upon her. A moment later, at the front window of the nearest house, she saw swift movement as a hand let a yellowed lace curtain fall back into place.

Where am I? she wondered, and then answered herself: It doesn't matter. Just get back quickly, before Dad finds out you're gone.

She was turning to take her own advice when something hit her hard and suddenly in the middle of her back. It knocked her off balance, and she fell on all fours in the mud. Cruel laughter erupted around her.

"It's the witch-girl from up the hill," called a voice. "Hit her again!"

Minerva pushed herself up, skinned knees and palms stinging, hurt, angry tears already welling in her eyes. Just as she got to her feet, another blow came, this time to her upper arm, and she let out a yell of pain and surprise. People were throwing rocks at her. Rocks. Like a bunch of savages, like the superstitious Muggle mobs in the magical history book her father used for her lessons. A picture from the book popped into her mind - a woodcut of a frail old witch curled up on the ground, pleading for mercy as Muggles attacked with sticks and stones. The animation in the picture was crude and jumpy, but the violent intent it conveyed was unmistakable. Was something like that about to happen to her?

Not if I can help it, she thought, and straightened up to face her attackers.

There were four of them, all boys a few years older than she. Off to the side, near the house of the unseen watcher, some girls of about the same age stood clustered like a flock of hens, whispering and giggling to each other. She saw not a single friendly face in the group.

"You leave me alone," she said. "I haven't done anything to you."

"You're here," said the tallest boy. "That's enough. My ma told me about you and your father. Freaks, she said you were. You look like a freak to me." His eyes swept scornfully over Minerva's dark cloak and boots. "You shouldn't be down with the rest of us. You don't belong."

"We do. We're buying things," Minerva said. "We've got to eat, just like you, unless you want us to starve to death."

"Wouldn't bother me if you did," said the boy. As he spoke, he took a step forward, confident in his physical superiority over a scrawny little girl, and reached to grab her. But before he could complete the act, the magic inside her surged up - electric, elemental, uncontrolled - and burst out at him, leaving her dazed with its power.

I hope it doesn't kill him ... she thought as it went.

For an instant, she was terrified that the magic had done just that - he and the other boys lay sprawled flat in the mud, where she had been a few minutes before. Then she saw what had happened and nearly burst out laughing. All four of them were bound hand and foot by thick, rough ropes with prickly bits sticking out all over. They were flopping from side to side, trying to squirm free, but to no avail.

"You look like fish!" she told them gleefully. "Fat stupid fish out of water!"

Two of the smaller boys realized they were stuck and began to sniffle. The tall one, however, was too angry for that. He said a few words that Minerva recognized as dirty ones, though she didn't understand them, and craned his neck to look at the watching girls.

"Don't just stand there! Get her!" he yelled.

The girls dithered among themselves for a minute before apparently deciding they had a chance after all. As one, they pounced on Minerva, shrieking and scratching and pulling hair - and, typically, her magic chose this moment to abandon her. That was the trouble with it. It was strong, but it was unreliable. She had to defend herself the best she could by hitting and kicking, and as there were more of them, she came out by far the worst. Within seconds, she was prone, with two girls holding her arms and legs, one sitting on her back and another shoving her face into the sucking mud.

Just as she was thinking that she was going to smother there, a furious, familiar voice boomed "Enough of this!" It seemed to come down from the very heavens. The weight of the girl on Minerva's back vanished, and a new pair of hands seized her, and lifted her up, flailing madly, out of the fray. Then she was safe in her father's arms.

Everyone froze as Malcolm surveyed the situation with the jaded eye of a man who had taught four generations of Hogwarts students. His gaze took in his mud-caked daughter before flicking to the other children. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Are you all right?" he asked Minerva. She nodded - she hadn't cleared out enough of the dirt yet for talking - and he turned his attention back to the trussed-up boys.

"It's no more than you deserve," he said. "Be glad she didn't do anything worse to you." He shifted Minerva's weight to his left arm and fired a spell from the wand in his now-free right hand. The ropes vanished. All four boys sprawled in the muck around his boots, trying to rub abraded wrists and ankles without letting him see that they were doing it.

Malcolm glared down at them through his bifocals.

"I could erase your memory, but I believe I won't. You'll be better off to remember. And be sure you remember this - if you come within a hundred yards of my daughter again, I'll fill you with stones and throw you into the nearest loch. Good day to you." With that, he turned and stalked away, still holding Minerva.

"They aren't the only ones in trouble, little lady," he said. "How many times have I told you not to go roaming around on your own when we're down here? What do you think your punishment ought to be?"

"I don't know," said Minerva, who was so relieved to see him that she wouldn't have cared if he wanted to lock her in her room for a week. She tightened her arms round him and buried her face against his neck, taking comfort in the familiar scent of smoke that clung to his hair and cloak. He'd been smoking Muggle cigarettes lately while he waited for a fresh shipment of his favorite pipe tobacco to arrive from Diagon Alley. They made him short of breath; he was wheezing a little with the effort of carrying her.

"I know," said her father. "You like these outings of ours, don't you? Well, you won't be coming with me next time, or the time after that."

"Is that all?" It was probably a stupid thing to ask - why remind him that he was letting her off lightly? - but the words had slipped out before she could stop them.

"That's enough. What just happened was a good lesson; staying home will give you time to think about it. I don't think you realize how lucky you are, Minerva. They could have hurt you far worse than they did."

"I could have hurt them worse too," she pointed out. "You said so."

"I suppose I did," he said. "It's true. Tying them up was a good compromise. You must have tried not to harm them even as you were losing control. That was well done."

Well done. She sighed happily. Words of praise from her father were more rare than Galleons, and worth twice as much to her.

"Thanks," she said.

"You're welcome. Now, down with you," he said, letting her slide to the ground without breaking his stride. "I'm too old to be carrying a girl your size up a mountain, and besides, anyone who can fight a gang of Muggles can walk on her own two feet."

"You're not that old," said Minerva. He was walking very fast now that he was free of her weight, and for the first time in ages she was worried he'd leave her behind. To prevent it, she caught his hand - creased and swollen-knuckled with age, despite her denial - and held tight. "You're too handsome to be old."

Flattery never got her far with him, but sneaking an upward glance, she saw him smile at her attempt.

"Older than you think, Minerva my love," he said. "A century and more. You'll be the one taking care of me soon."

"I will," she vowed. "Just wait and see."

The sun had already begun to set behind the trees by the time they got home. Her father's protective spells showed up in the twilight like silver threads joined with glowing blue pinpoints, surrounding their house and holding evil and danger at bay. He had assured her many times that she would always be safe as long as he was there to keep that net of magic intact. It seemed to be true - she spent whole days alone sometimes, when he was busy with his potions, and no harm had ever come to her.

Inside the house, he swept a pile of papers off a chair and sat Minerva on it to have a look at her. The rock that had hit her in the back had caused no more than a bruise. The other, sharper-edged, had cut her arm through her robe sleeve, and he muttered darkly about bullies and cowards as he examined the wound. With an angry flick of his wand, he conjured a wet cloth to clean it, then moved on to attend to her scraped hands and knees.

She watched him work, feeling overwhelmed by one of the waves of love for him that struck her now and then - for once he was here, really here, without anything on his mind but caring for her, and it was so wonderful that she wished it would never stop. Why couldn't he be this way all the time? Why couldn't she be a better girl so he would want to be?

"There," he said. He'd finished the cleaning, and now he laid the cloth aside, uncorked one of his little glass vials and dribbled some of its astringent-smelling contents onto her injuries. The clear liquid fizzed and foamed for a few seconds. When it evaporated, the flesh beneath was unblemished again.

Her father did not look as pleased with this as he ought. Running a fingertip across her knee, he mused, "It should act faster - maybe a touch more arnica next time - well, anyway, it worked. Does that feel better?"

"Yes."

"Good," he said. "You can go off and play, then. I have things to do downstairs. If there's time later, I'll show you a few ways to control accidental magic. You need to work on that - we don't want you doing the Muggles a serious injury, after all."

"Why not?" asked Minerva. Without the pain of scrapes and bruises to distract her, she was better able to reflect on the unjust way she'd been treated, and was beginning to wish that she had hurt the attackers. Not too much; just enough to pay them back.

"Because they don't deserve it," said her father, conjuring up another cloth to wipe his hands. It didn't make much difference in their appearance - his skin bore permanent stains from the powerful substances he worked with - but he was as fastidious about his personal cleanliness as he was sloppy about his housekeeping. He threw both dirty cloths at the sink; missed; shrugged, and started buttoning up the back of Minerva's robes for her.

"They do so deserve it! They're mean - and stupid - and -"

"Stop wriggling," he said sharply. "They're a pack of little monsters, I'll grant you that, but they act that way because they're afraid of us."

"But there's nothing to be afraid of!"

Malcolm let out one of his rare, dry snorts of laughter.

"I'm not surprised to hear you say so. You're not frightened by much, or you wouldn't have been roaming around and getting into trouble, would you? But not everyone is like that - Muggles in particular. They are, and always have been, terrified of things they don't understand. If they were sensible people, they would try to understand - to look for explanations - but they're not. All they want to do is attack."

"Then we ought to attack them back," said Minerva, "or do it first."

"No, we ought not. Magic is dangerous, Minerva. I've told you so before. And it's even more dangerous in the hands of brave, bold people such as yourself. Boldness can turn to impulsiveness, and impulsiveness can lead to actions with terrible consequences. Your mother -"

He broke off, looking as if he wished he could snatch the final two words out of the air and stuff them back into his mouth. Minerva could not remember the last time either he or she had mentioned her mother. Young as she was, she knew the subject hurt him - the few times she'd brought it up, he'd given her terse answers and ended the conversation as soon as possible.

"What?" she asked. "What about her?"

"Never you mind," he said. "Just listen to me, and believe that I know what I'm talking about. Be careful with magic. Don't do anything that can't be undone. And don't jump to conclusions, even about Muggles. They have some good qualities. You love their stories, don't you?"

"Yes ... " His hawklike features were still pinched with pain. If only there were something she could do to ease it, the way he'd eased hers with his potion!

Suddenly, an idea came to her, and she asked "What if we read one now?" Reading was a passion they shared; their best moments together were spent sitting side by side as he read to her from his endless supply of books. Maybe that would make him feel better. It would certainly make her feel better.

"Not now," he said. "I have work waiting downstairs. And you can read every bit as well as I can. Go read a story yourself and tell me about it later."

Minerva saw him retreating into the private world that did not include her, and made a last, desperate effort to draw him back.

"Can I come down and help?

"No, you may not. I'll be busy, and you're too young to do that sort of work."

"Then I could just watch and be very quiet, and not bother you."

"No," he said. She flinched at his tone - the kind father had gone, leaving the stern, fearsome, incomprehensible father to take his place. Quickly, she slid off the chair.

"All right, I'm going now."

"Thank you very much," he said. "And don't make me tell you more than once the next time."

As she brushed past him, he relented a little and gave her a quick one-armed squeeze.

"Here - if you want to help me, you can put these away. I'll only forget if I leave them lying around." Pulling a collection of miniature boxes and parcels from the deep pockets of his robe, he commanded "Engorgio!" and stood back while they swelled to full size.

Minerva looked down at them disconsolately, recognizing the results of the day's shopping. She was still standing there, staring, when he closed the basement door behind him and left her alone.

~end~

Thanks to Thespia, A Class Superior, Phoenix Flight, anime-girl mika, bibphile, Ozma and Ariana Deralte for reviewing the final chapter of "Serpent's Tooth!" (And thanks to Eilan for reviewing it at FictionAlley.)

(To answer the big question, Tom was too worn out from the triple Killing Curse to do anything awful to Ellen, his innocent Muggle accomplice. But he did sleep in her bed, and quite peacefully at that, considering that he'd just slaughtered his family. He was Apparating away the next morning at just about the time the Riddles' maid was discovering their bodies. A bad boy, that Tom.)