RAMONA MEISEL

MURDERER’S MAZE
 

Copyright ©2019 Ramona Meisel

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced or performed without

written consent from the author, except for critical articles or reviews.

Cover Design, Layout, Edited by Ramona Meisel.


To contact the author, send an email to meisel.ramona@gmail.com

 For You.
Because in every horror
hides a little love.
 Pay attention.

Somewhere, there's a monster waiting in this story.

Once you finish, you'll wonder:

Did you find the monster?
Or did it find you?
 PROLOGUE

In order for the light to shine so brightly,

the darkness must be present.
Francis Bacon
 I'm not playing a major part in this story.
Not yet.

At least not in the first chapter.

I'm mentioned briefly, although it's just a poor reflection of my true potential.
It's not until the third chapter that I truly make an appearance.

The prologue, however, belongs to me alone

?
Thursday, 13th August
7:26 a.m

Remus Lupin woke gradually from his daze, taking in his

environment with burning eyes.
He recognized the outline of his living room and he felt infinite
relief flowing through his veins like the injection of something pure
and nice. For a flicker of a moment, he was convinced that
everything before had been a mere nightmare.
But he was wrong.
His eyes fell on the petite frame of his wife and their six-year-
old son. They were sitting on two dining chairs, back to back,
looking at him with eyes dilated from shock.
Both were pinioned, their mouths closed with adhesive tape;
Tonks' hair was sticking to her sweaty face and cheeks that were wet
from tears. Crusted blood adorned a wound on her forehead.
"Dora!" Remus tried to crawl towards her, but he realised his
hands were bound behind his back. He tried to rear up, but it was a
lost cause.
He raised his face once more to look at his wife, saw the way
her light brown hair fell into her face, terror written all over it. Her
natural complexion was pallid and ashen and there was no trace left
of the rosy skin he loved so much. Little Edward looked much the
same. His small body shook from the effort of screaming against
the tape. Seeing his family so helpless and frightened, shattered his
heart into a million pieces. His whole body was trembling from
blind rage but Tonks wasn’t looking at him.
Remus followed her glance.
There was another man in the room.
He was occupying Remus favourite armchair, an old memento
that he had kept in the family for years. Long legs, encased in an
inflated looking suit, were crossed right before Remus' eyes. Italian
leather graced his feet that looked as frightfully expensive as the
black leather gloves that covered his long fingers, resting on the
armrests of the chair. Surprisingly the face of the intruder wasn't
covered or masked. He was beautiful for a man, even Remus
couldn't deny that, with long eyelashes and an elegant haircut that
made his hair look just the right amount messy to provide him with
a certain kind of flair. His cheekbones were high and his facial
features were overall youthful but masculine, full lips gracing his
mouth. The only indication of the monster lurking within were
those piercing, emotionless eyes and the cruel smile on his lips.
"I'm glad you decided to join the party, dear Remus." The smile
was plastered on the stranger's face as he rose from the armchair
and approached Remus in a light-footed manner. His voice flowed
like liquid honey through Remus' mind. He grabbed the rope that
bound Remus' wrists together and yanked him to a kneeling
position. Then he crouched next to Remus, leaning down to his ear
with one hand on the ropes and the other on the back of his neck.
"Shall we start?"
The stranger gripped the tape covering Remus' lips and
violently yanked it off a second later. The pain was searing and the
skin around his mouth felt like raw flesh, especially in the places
where his moustache had been. He clenched his teeth and his
muscles tightened in rage, but no sound escaped his lips. He didn't
want to tempt the psycho or play into his perverted fantasies. All he
prayed for was that Tonks and Edward survived this.
"What do you think about death, Remus? Do you think our
lives will flash before our eyes when we die? That we'll witness our
mundane existence once again? Do you believe in the story with the
light at the end of the tunnel? Do you think your family will go to
heaven once I've killed them?"
The stranger's voice sounded light, almost amused and it turned
Remus' stomach inside out. He could taste bile on his tongue and
with every breath his nasal wings bloated. He strained against the
ropes on his wrists but failed, again.
Remus felt utterly helpless. They lived near the forest, isolated
from the next village and so nobody would hear their screams. His
last hope was that somebody would miss them. Sirius would come
looking for him. If he didn't show up for work without any
explanation, Sirius would appear sooner or later at their door. But
how long would it take? How much time had already passed?
His eyes followed the man who stepped around the armchair
and leant forward to reveal a big garden tube attached to an iron
barrel. He picked it up with both hands and returned to Remus' side.
Remus finally found the strength to ask, voice a mere whisper,
"Why are you doing this?"
The stranger narrowed his eyes to slits.
 "Are you familiar with the Ten-to-Ninety rule? Ten Percent of
our life are things happening to us and ninety percent are actions we
perform ourselves. That is of vital importance. The answer to why
I'm doing this is insignificant."
The voice was piercing and unlike any sound Remus had ever
heard. It chilled him to the bones. No emotion whatsoever lingered
in the stranger's lifeless grey eyes. All Remus saw was a dead end.
Remus was used to perversion and killers in general. You
couldn't be an MI5 agent without getting your hands dirty with
blood and gore. But he had never met someone that could compare
to the ghastly man in front of him.
A dangerous, manic glint shimmered in the stranger's grey eyes
as he dug his fingertips into a spot on Remus cheek, right under his
eye sockets. Then he started to press until tears gathered in Remus'
eyes.
"Everyone's always whining, but no one really understands the
true meaning of the word pain. When I start to lose  interest in this,
I'll kill you all."
The stranger’s voice was sharp at first, then calm, nearly loving.
The pressure on Remus' cheek increased and the fingers started to
push the flesh apart, tearing at it in the process. Then finally, he
released the face out of his unrelenting grasp.
Remus needed to blink several times until the dark spots
receded from his vision. Everything was blurry and it took him a
second to see the stranger clearly again, just in time to observe him
dragging the armchair closer. The man sat down and took the
garden tube in his hand again, using it as a pointer to emphasize the
words from his thin lips.
"I want to let you in on a little secret, Remus. Just you and me."
There was a pause in which the stranger clacked his tongue
against his palate, a sound that echoed in the tense air.
"You're part of a game. A riddle you could say."
The man grinned as if he had said something terribly amusing,
like a pun Remus didn't catch.
"Let me explain the rules for you. As you may have noticed by
now, you're the only one without tape on your mouth. The reason
for this is simple. I'll ask you a single question. Who will die tonight?
Two of you will die and I don't care who."
The end of the garden tube was pointed directly at Remus' face.
 "Possibility one. You die first. Now if you think I'd have the
generosity to let your son live and kill your wife, let me tell you that
mercy was never one of my virtues. I'll kill you first and your son
dies next."
There was a certain chill to his tone that made Remus believe
his every word. He swallowed hard. The stranger seemed to take his
silent fear as a sign of comprehension because he continued in the
same voice.
"Possibility two. I kill your wife and your son. I'll cut your rope
and you'll be free to go. I think your freedom would leave a bitter
taste in your mouth, but I wouldn't judge you if that'd be your
decision."
There was another pause, as if the man wanted to make sure
the words sunk in.
"Possibility three. I'll kill your wife, afterwards I kill you but
your son will stay alive. I'll call the police and they can pick him up
right here. He may suffer some emotional and psychological
damage, but he’ll be free to live his pathetic unimportant life as long
as God grants it to him."
The man made a dismissive gesture with the tube, but Remus
saw the glint of something deceitful in his eyes.
"Now that's the fun part. You see Remus, this would be the
ideal outcome for both of us. I need you to do something for me.
I'll kill your wife, but I'll let you live just a tad longer. Because I need
you to deliver a, hm…let's call it gift."
His hand reached to the other side of the armchair which was
hidden from Remus' sight and retrieved a box. It was no bigger than
a paperback, carefully wrapped in brown paper. The stranger set the
box aside and focused back on Remus.
"Now that you know the rules and possibilities, I want to make
it absolutely clear, that under no circumstances will two of your
family members get out of this alive. Should you break any of my
rules or refuse to play, I'll make you watch while I skin both of your
loved ones - first your wife, then your son - alive I might add. I'll
take my time. They'll beg me to kill them. They'll beg you to kill
them. And you'll wish you'd have done it yourself to spare them the
agony I'll make them feel. Do you understand?"
Remus cringed under the ferocious hiss. The stranger leaned
back into the comfy embrace of the luxurious armchair, mimicking
his earlier appearance as he crossed his left leg over his right knee.
 "Marvelous. Shall we begin then?"
Remus lifted his gaze from the stranger and looked over into his
wife's eyes and knew they were thinking along the same lines. If just
one of them could survive, it had to be Teddy. Tonks’ eyes spoke
volumes and Remus understood.
I love you. I understand. It's okay.
The love of his life closed her eyes and lowered her head.
Remus opened his mouth but made no sound. He couldn't
bring himself to speak the name and he racked his brain, trying to
find a solution, so all of them could live.
But there was none. Remus didn't have a choice.
He opened his mouth again and spoke hesitantly in a broken
voice, barely above a whisper: "Dora will die first. And afterwards-
afterwards I'll do whatever you want me to do."
At first, the stranger remained silent and the clock's ticking
seemed to become louder with each passing second. Then he started
to laugh; hollow and blaring, a noise that rattled Remus' bones to
the core. The man raised from the chair in a single elegant fluid
move and took the iron barrel in one hand, placing it carefully
before Tonks feet which were tied to both legs of the chair. The
barrel was small but contained at least 5 or 6 liters. Of what?, was the
obvious question and Remus could feel the upcoming terror in his
guts. His stomach flipped.
The stranger took the tube in one hand and pulled a knife out
of his pocket. He pushed it gently against Tonks' cheek and for one
horrible second Remus thought he'd skin her face.
What followed was even worse.
The knife cut the tape on Tonks' mouth with surgical precision,
where her lips met, leaving a small hole behind just wide enough
that he could fit the tube in. The man pushed the tube through the
hole and down until Tonks started to gag, then pulled it back some
millimetres and took the tape-roll from the nearby table to attach his
construction, so that the tube wouldn't slip free.
"Say goodbye to your darling wife, Remus. This will be the last
time you ever see her beautiful face."
Panic was written all over Tonks' face and mirrored in Remus'.
Edward was tearing at his shackles, eyes blown wide. Remus urged
him to close his eyes. The stranger bowed down and loosened the
valve on the barrel. The tube started to fill with something. Remus
could see how it swelled slightly with the liquid that flowed through
its canal. By the time it reached Tonks' mouth and throat Remus
knew that this would end in bestiality he had never witnessed before.
Tonks' insides were consumed with torrid flames and she
buckled desperately, her eyes a plea. She screamed against the tape
and tube, choked on spit and everything that gathered in her lungs.
Her nose moved rapidly, enough to look like a bull panting. Her eyes
bugged out, red-swollen, rolling uncontrollably. The skin of her
throat protruded and melted like wax. She was shrieking mutely.
Remus saw her fingernails scratching the wooden armrest until they
started bleeding. Her face inflated, turning violet and veiny, all the
while the stranger laughed maniacally right into Remus' ear.
He pulled the plug on the barrel and Remus started to scream,
tried to stem himself against the rope on his wrists to reach Tonks
but everything he tried seemed to be in vain. His voice failed when
his throat started to feel raw. Despair filled his bones and he
couldn't continue looking at Tonks any longer, so he pinched his
eyes shut, spilling his tears.
However, the stranger didn't grant him the rest. He heard
footsteps on the floor and then slender fingers dug into the flesh of
his cheeks and eyelids, ripping them painfully apart so he was forced
to witness the savagery in front of him. He tried to press them shut
again but the grasp of the man was too strong.
Tonks' body flailed and then collapsed in the chair. The skin on
her stomach bulged, becoming fat and pink like a sausage. It fissured
and the flesh clung to her organs in raw shreds; spilling oil, blood
and scorched entrails on the hardwood floor.
"Look at it, Remus," the man breathed against his hair. His
expensive aftershave was a biting contrast to the outrageous smell
of burned flesh and hot oil. "Look at the pile of molten flesh.
Perhaps she's still living. Do you think she's dreaming of heaven
right now?"
Remus tasted vomit on his mouth and the man released him a
second later so he could throw up right before his knees. He was
still coughing when the stranger took his place on the armchair
again, completely indifferent to the barbaric cruelty in front of
them. Instead he almost looked smug. Remus threw up once more.
The nerves of Tonks' corpse caused the remains of her dead
body to tremble a moment longer and Remus prayed to God that
she had been dead the minute the oil had hit her stomach. Tears
shook Remus and he sobbed Tonks' name until the sound died and
his lips desperately formed the syllables over and over again. No
sound escaped.
"Let's move on to the second part of our little game."
Excitement swung in his voice as the stranger took the packet
back into his hands and started to tap his fingers in a melodic
rhythm on the cover.
"I told you before I need you to deliver this little package. It's
just a trifle, nothing important." He made a derogatory hand gesture
and continued, completely ignorant of Remus' distress and loss. "It's
a bomb and I want you to take it to the MI5 headquarters. There are
a lot of people I still owe something to and wouldn't it be great to
pay all my debts at once?"
Remus' body convulsed uncontrollably but his sobs had already
died on his lips. His eyes darted to Teddy, but the boy was
unconscious on the chair. The terror and the brutish stench had
pushed him over his limits.
"Do I have to remind you," the stranger said, tone piercing and
face cruelly distorted, "That, if you're not following my orders, your
son will die next? There's enough hot oil left in this barrel to melt
him down to a puddle of his own excrements. I'll make you watch.
Your death will neither be fast, nor easy, but more painful than you
can even imagine. You'll beg for mercy and that's when I'll feed you
the remains of your family. Perhaps if I’m feeling gracious, I'll take
the knife and kill you."
The grey in the stranger's eyes was replaced by a dangerous
shimmer and each word echoed through Remus' numb body. A
hand yanked brutally at his hair and he couldn't prevent the reflex
squeal leaving his lips.
"I'll ask you one last time, Remus, will you do this for me?"
Remus tried to form the words in his mouth, but nothing
escaped. The man's nostrils bloated from the deep breath he took,
then he stepped over to Edward. Gently, his fingers ran through the
child's brown hair that reminded Remus so much of his mother's.
The eyes of the man remained blank, without any emotion.
"Be assured that it'd break my heart to hurt little Edward here. I
love children, I really do. Preferably when they're screaming in
agony. But I'll spare him, as I promised. All you have to do is to
deliver the package."
"A-anything," Remus finally stammered between sobs and blind
panic. He added desperately, as if the words would give him strength
when spoken out loud, "I'll do anything, b-but please spare him,
please."
The leather-coated fingers froze in their movement. The man
looked up, clearly satisfied with his answer. He gave Remus an
approving nod; his voice a sneer, "Good."
A second later the man was at Remus' side, hoisting him up to
his feet, steadying him with one hand on the shoulder, the other
firmly on the rope and his shackled hands. He could feel the cold
metal of a blade between his wrists, a ripping cut and then his hands
fell slack to his sides. Marks of the rope were still seared on his flesh
but he couldn't rub at them to disperse the numbness spreading in
his wrists and fingers. A shove on his back made him stumble over
his own feet but he found enough balance to resist the urge to fall
down. The package was pushed into his hands and Remus took it
without hesitation, clutching it carefully as though it could break.
Another shove brought him close to the door but Remus risked
a last glance at his son, who still sat unconscious on the chair. His
voice broke again and he had to repeat the words twice more until
they were finally audible enough in the sticky room.
"You promise that he'll survive when I do this?"
The man bared his teeth, chuckled as if it was the most amusing
thing Remus could have said in such a situation, and for a moment
Remus noticed how young his face was. No more than thirty he'd
guess. Almost like an old friend, the stranger tapped his hand on
Remus' shoulder and pushed him to the door. He said, "My dear
Remus, do I look like someone who doesn't keep his promises?"
Tears gathered in Remus' eyes once more but he blinked them
away.
"I'll deliver your package."
Then he turned around, and stumbled out of the house without
another look back.
The stranger remained in the empty entrance for another
minute. He waited to hear the distant engine of Remus Lupin's car
drive away. There was no need to follow Lupin, he knew exactly
what was going to happen at the MI5 headquarters once he arrived.
The sensors he'd applied on the outdoor walls some hours ago
would set the alarm on the bomb via satellite. Two minutes later it
would blow up the whole headquarters, leaving nothing behind but
ashes and dust.
 An important note, carefully packed into a fireproof bag, would
also be found, though not until the forensics came crawling out of
their caves to investigate the crime scene.
The stranger turned around, his footsteps resonating on the
wooden floor as he approached little Edward again. His leather-
covered fingers ran once more through the boy's brown hair, the
other hand curled around the infantine chin and cheeks.
Edwards’ eyelids fluttered and a moment later the boy opened
his eyes. He blinked, disorientated, but when he caught sight of the
stranger, the horror returned.
Remus Lupin wouldn't say a word. He wouldn't respond to
direct questioning. He'd be semi-coherent, at best. He wouldn't dare
to betray him. No one ever did.
For a second a cruel smile ghosted over the stranger's lips. Then
he twisted his hands to opposing sides, and snapped the boy's neck
in a fluent motion. He felt the split of the boy's neck through his
leather gloves, as well as the ripping of the still soft, infantile
muscles. The blood-curdling cracks of the boy's breaking spine
didn't bother the man at all.
Neither did the blue eyes of the boy which held no life
anymore.



 Perhaps you read this brief introduction and think you already know me.

You don't.

I'm a shadow behind closed doors. The grim reaper your parents warned you of.
I can do things you can't even begin to imagine. I possess powers, skills and
abilities beyond human comprehension.
You'll recoil in my presence, oppose the agony and anguish I'm raining down
upon you. You'll be challenged and you can see it as a game or a never-ending
struggle.
Soon enough you'll ask yourself: What's the point of this? What's the point of
a game with so much violence, so much bloodshed and cruelty?

I can't explain my motives, not immediately from the start.

Not even the main characters know that they've entered my maze of terror.
But they'll learn.

Pain and agony will lead them on their path through my endless aisles.
And I'll lead you through the same.

'Will it be worth it?' some may ask.

'Not for everyone' I'll answer.

Will you step inside my labyrinth?

 CHAPTER ONE

Who in his mind has not probed the dark water?

John Steinbeck, East from Eden
 Let's do some maths.

The world mortality rate totals approximately 500,000 per day. That equals
348 deaths a minute.
5.7 deaths a second.

No one can say exactly how many people die due to criminal acts. But according
to recent studies, at least every tenth person dies at the hands of a murderer.
Half of these killings consist of single naive opportunists. Mostly with trivial
motives and feelings like revenge, passion, religion or hate. The other half
contains organized premeditated serial killings.

If we align that theory to our previous results, we realize that 17.4 people die
each minute at the hands of a serial killer.

25,000 deaths each day.

Nine out of ten serial killers cite some ulterior motive to satisfy their own
nefarious needs.
The last one, though, is a special kind of creature.
Lupin House
Thursday, 14th August
7:32 a.m
41 Days until the next murder

Lee Jordan's voice sounded strangely distorted over the muffled

crackling of Hermione's old radio in her second-hand Volkswagen
Beetle. Usually, there were no problems in receiving BBC London
94.9, but the closer she got to the Lupin house, the worse the radio
reception became.
"- attack on the MI5 building as the morning rush hour drew to
a close. A bomb went off around 9 a.m at the MI5 headquarters.
Twenty-three people have been killed, and more than a hundred
injured. Let's listen to the recording of yesterday's press conference
by Secret Intelligence Service Chief Albus Dumbledore."
The crackling intensified as Hermione took the next turn to the
right, following the rural path deeper into the woods. Enormous
trees prevented any sunlight from breaking through. Lights were
dancing on the thicket of colourful foliage, illuminating the path
sparsely. The Volkswagen rattled over the stony path, and Hermione
rolled down her window, inhaling the fresh scent of fir trees and
morning dew.
"Yesterday was a crude blowback that showcased the audacity
and brutality some men possess to damage our beloved city and
country. Today, we recognise the incredible courage and leadership
of so many Londoners in the wake of a terror attack at the heart of
our city. We offer our deepest gratitude to the courageous
firefighters, police officers, medical professionals and spectators
who, in an instant, displayed the spirit London was built on and
helped the injured to leave the crime scene. Be assured that we will
not stop until we find the culprit and take him off the streets.
London's streets will-…"
The radio spurred, then screeched. Static was all that followed.
Hermione turned the radio off. She knew the speech already.
She had seen and heard it yesterday afternoon on a little television in
the corner of the E.R, while she was waiting for her medical
examination. After the building had been cleared, all of them had
been transported to the closest hospital: St. Thomas, on the
Westminster Bridge. Fortunately, she hadn't had any major injuries;
just scratches and a bit of smoke in her lungs from running around
and trying to help her wounded colleagues at the heart of the mess.
When crisis came, it was often solved the way they were solving it
now: doing their best with what they had.
She remembered the deafening sound of shattering glass and a
clamorous bang that shook the whole building and her body alike.
The ground was quaking for seconds, and for a fleeting moment,
she thought the ceiling would fall down and crush them all. Then
she started running. She was still new at the SIS, even though she
had worked as a profiler for three months now, but their department
had been on the other side of the building, far enough away for
them to escape without any further incident.
At 28 years, and a newbie to fieldwork, the first few months of
her professional life had been entirely spent behind desks and
archive records under a superior who never took her brightness for
anything more than a coincidence. She was all the more surprised
when James Potter had called her an hour ago and personally asked
for her participation on this special case revolving around one of
the man's best friends. She didn't want to disappoint him.
Hermione shook the memories off and followed the path in
silence until she reached the house at the far end.
The Lupin's home lay between giant fir and birch trees that
warmed them in winter and provided shade in summer. Those trees
also secluded them from their neighbours quite a bit. It wasn't a
mansion, but big enough for a small family. During autumn it
offered a picturesque view of sunrays reflecting on green and
brownish colours. Now, barricades had been erected in front of the
home, starting at the street.
Hermione counted five cars altogether; two patrol cars from the
MI5 branch, two from the forensics and an older Peugeot 406 Break
which she knew belonged to James Potter. She used to be really
close to Harry, James' son, and she remembered this car has been in
the family for ages. College years had made them grow apart but
they still kept in contact through e-mails and phone calls. Last she
heard, he'd gotten engaged to Ginny, which made her happy because
the girl had always brought out the best in him.
She turned off the lights, grabbed her bag from the passenger
seat and got out of the car. She took her MI5 badge out and showed
it to the guards who were standing at the barricades, already waiting
smugly for a reason to send her off again. One of the officers
skimmed the ID with narrow eyes and let her pass a second later.
Two more were waiting inside the perimeter right before the house,
scanning the area with two white-clothed forensics at their side.
They were searching for any hints as to who the murderer was, and
counting the evidence-numbered place cards spread across the yard,
but, they hadn't been all that successful yet.
Forensics was a dirty job. It was all about bodily fluids, decay,
blood. And people at their worst. Sometimes, it was about giving a
report with too little information, and even the most trained crime
scene tech was still never trained enough to deal with everything at
once.
She shut it all out and entered through the unhinged front door.
A stench, so despicable that tears gathered in her eyes, pierced
the room. Bile rose in her throat when the overwhelming reek
reached her nose in hot humid waves, until she felt as if she was
drowning in a sea of innards. Hermione wrinkled her nose,
squinting her eyes in the process.
She kept walking.
The entryway floor was bright hardwood. Quiet, polished,
squeak-free. Three men, clothed in white plastic overalls and latex
gloves, rushed past Hermione to leave the house. The only
remaining one was currently talking to James.
James was already waiting for her, sleeves rolled up and
burgundy tie loosened. The man was in his late forties with
uncharacteristically messy hair, much like Harry's, and it looked as if
he had run his hands through it several times. Wrinkles graced the
dark skin around his hazel eyes, reflecting grief and shed tears. She
could see the tense muscles that tightened the corners of his mouth
and the way his shoulders were slightly lifted, his slender body stoic.
There was another man right beside him, even taller and lanky,
clothed in the white forensic overall, fingers encased in baby-blue
clinical latex gloves. The hood of his overall was down and
shoulder-length black hair hung limply on both sides of his face. A
hooked nose was prominent on his weathered features. The man
had black eyes which held a lot more wisdom than Hermione would
have given him credit for. The moment she stepped closer, said man
stopped speaking and gave her a once over, clearly judging her.

Well, what a start.

 James followed the man's glance and upon seeing Hermione, he
managed to shape his mouth into something almost resembling a
smile.
"Hermione, good to see you. I'm glad you made it." His tone
was hopeful, almost desperate, and it burdened her greatly.
"The traffic was disastrous, but I managed to make it through."
She gave them a small smile and with pain shadowing her eyes she
added, "My sincerest condolences for your loss, James."
Hermione had met Remus and his family only twice. Once, at
one of Harry's birthday parties some years ago and then again last
year at a summer barbecue at the Potter's. She remembered them as
kind and loving people, the ones you would call when you needed
help. She knew James had been close to them, as well as Sirius,
Harry's godfather. It must be hard to lose a friend when they were
as close to you as brothers. She couldn't imagine losing Harry, even
though they’d grown distant.
James took a deep breath and swallowed hard, clearly still
shaken up by the circumstances. But he was brave and thus nodded
before he thanked Hermione for her understanding.
They stood in awkward silence for some seconds before the
man at James' side cleared his throat vigorously and pointed at the
file in James' hand with a single crooked finger. It stirred something
in James because he took the file up once more and finally
introduced them to each other.
"Right. Hermione, this is Chief Crime Scene Analyst Doctor
Severus Snape. He's our counterpart at the Forensic Science Service
for the Voldemort cases. Snape, this is Hermione Granger, she's-"
"I know who she is," Snape interrupted harshly and continued
bluntly, "let's hope Miss Granger's work is even half as promising as
it's reputed to be."
His voice sounded almost hoarse, like a tape that had been
repeated too often and had lost its volume in the process.
Hermione felt her cheeks redden, but it challenged her inner
intellect and she vowed to prove him wrong. His words left a bitter
taste in her mouth and she couldn't completely hide her own
animosity towards him.
"I will try to do my best, Doctor." She forced a smile but even
to her own ears her voice sounded pressed, offended, like it always
did when someone tried to question her work ethic - let alone her
brain.
 She thought she saw Snape frowning, but it might as well have
been her imagination. The man had a strangely stoical face, which
made it difficult for Hermione to read him. But deciphering him was
not her job. Not today at least.
The horrendous stench still clung to her nose when James
stepped forward and lead her to the adjacent living room. The room
was spacious with a darker wooden floor and a vaulted ceiling. A
matching dark couch was facing the entrance door and an odd-
looking armchair was neatly placed beside the couch, but its cushion
pattern didn't really match with the other furniture. Large double-
paned windows looked out over a manicured lawn and brought
bright daylight into the otherwise gloomy room.
It was obvious that the Lupins were trying to impress by
blending in, not by standing out.
Two chairs were set back-to-back in the middle of the room,
covered with white dust sheets, a deep crimson-brown stain on the
wood under them. Like a dried puddle of blood; dark, thick and
congealing.
James stopped awkwardly in the middle of the room and
handed the file to Hermione, his eyes trying to avoid contact with
anything that could stir up unpleasant memories. Hermione took the
file cautiously and flipped it open. Her eyes skimmed the text in a
matter of seconds as she switched into her professional mood with
ease. She took a notebook and a pen out of her bag and started to
ask her questions.
"The corpses were identified as 37-year-old Mrs Lupin and her
6-year-old son. Both were found last night at 10:37 p.m by Special
Agent Black - has he already made his statement?"
Hermione looked up, but James stayed silent. She waited,
granting him a moment, and sure enough, the man started to talk
after a few seconds.
"Sirius found them. After the SIS found out that Remus was the
bomber, Sirius insisted on bringing the message to Dora himself. I
wanted to accompany him, but the mess at headquarters made it
impossible for both of us to leave. When he arrived he found -…
We didn't think that -…" His voice broke again and it took a lot of
effort for him to proceed, shakily. Grief coloured every word.
"Albus sent him to the medical department to undergo a
psychological test before he can return to the field."
 "I'm sorry, James…" She placed a hand delicately on James'
upper arm and pressed her lips into a thin line. It was a small gesture
of solace but he seemed to value the support.
He gave her a small smile and nodded his head in acceptance.
His eyes were locked with hers, and even though his voice was
grateful he seemed miles away. "Thank you."
"Which department did Remus work for?" she asked quickly
and bit down on her lower lip a second later, as if to punish herself
for her intrusive question.
"TOAS."

He worked at the Technical Operations, Analysis and Surveillance

Department - wait.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at that, clearly surprised. Her

voice sounded shocked as she asked, "Wasn't that the department
that got bombed?"
James nodded and grimaced, clearly uncomfortable with the
topic.
"To the world, it will look like Remus really did it. The news has
already leaked, his name was in the online edition of The Sun this
morning."
Hermione could read the denial and wrath in his posture, so she
gave him space to breathe and relax again. But he didn't. Instead, his
words heightened the already heated state that caused him to talk
himself into a rage.
"It won't be long before the media twists his name and actions.
And nothing remains but blatant lies. They're defiling his reputation,
and even if we can link this slaughter back to Voldemort, we have
nothing to link him to the bombing. It's utterly frustrating!" James'
voice was pure venom and he spat the words in frustration, while his
hands were clenched into fists. His body was so tense that the vein
on his neck was pulsating. Hermione took a step back, watching the
outburst from a safe distance.
The fire died as fast as it rose and the man looked suddenly
older, exhausted. The number of wrinkles on his face seemed to
increase, his eyes pleading desperately. Fatigue was written all over
his features. It pained Hermione to look at him and see him so
broken.
 Her voice was calm when she asked, confusion seeping into her
tone, "Voldemort?"
"What?" James snapped out of his jumbled thoughts, as her
question caught him completely off-guard.
"This is the second time you're mentioning that term.
Voldemort."
James curled his fingers into a fist and pressed his lips into a
thin line. "We have reasons to believe that this was the next
homicide of a serial killer who calls himself Voldemort."
"There has already been one?" she asked intrigued.
"More like five."
She abruptly stopped writing on the blanched paper of her
notebook, and glanced up, eyes wide. "Five?" Her tone was a whole
pitch higher, and she bit down on her lip once more to cover up her
obvious astonishment. She was trying to catch James' gaze but he
pointedly avoided looking into her eyes.
"Yes. This…barbarous cruelty bears his signature. The murders
are depraved, disgusting and usually we find a riddle attached to the
victims, signed with an alias. Lord Voldemort. But this time we
haven't found one. Not yet."
"A riddle? About what?" The question was shot right back, and
she couldn't hide her excitement anymore. Some people would find
this news macabre. To her, it felt exhilarating.

Finally a chance to prove myself.

Hermione's interest was piqued, but James looked angry. He

snarled, his voice a strange mixture of fury and horror. "Different
kinds of things. Sometimes he cites a fairytale, sometimes another
book. Once he even sent three full pages of a bloody book and we
needed two weeks to find out which one it was. Even Albus didn't
recognise it."
"So we still don't know what the riddles are supposed to tell
us?"
"Albus has a suspicion," James continued and faced Hermione
for the first time since she had entered the room. His jaw clenched a
few times before he settled on his next words, as though he were
unsure about them. "He thinks the riddles lead to the next victims."
Hermione nodded and scribbled some details into her
notebook. Like intelligence, arrogance, haughtiness and pride.
 "Are there any other patterns he follows?" Or she, Hermione
added in her thoughts.
"He murders every 41 days."
"Why 41?"

Odd number, prime number, n2 + n + 41, Leonhard Euler?

Her brain was working at high speed and she felt a tingle of
anticipation shooting down her spine.
James gave a dry laugh, frustrated. "We don't know."
Circling the number on her pad three times, she made a mental
note to take another look at it once she had all the information
about the other homicides.
"Is there any other relation between the murders? Between the
victims perhaps?"
James shook his head in defeat and Hermione sighed, her own
frustration growing. Pinning her pen to the notebook, she fixed her
determined gaze on James.
"I need to have a look at all the files. The older ones, too."
"Of course. Once the mess at headquarters has been cleared,
your SIL will get raised for the archive-"
A sudden ringing interrupted James' speech and he took the
phone out of his pocket. Reading the caller ID, he held up his index
finger to signal that he needed to take that call, before he left the
room to accept it.
Snape emerged from the shadows next to the wall and stopped
next to the covered chairs. "I think we should start with the crime
scene investigation. Are you ready, Miss Granger?" The man's voice
was as indifferent as his facial expression, his former rudeness
concealed.
"Yes." The agitation was apparent in her eyes; it emphasized the
confidence in her voice. She was ready for this.

My first real case.

Snape looked her over once more, but there was no trace of
derision left in his dark eyes. It was a mixture of curiosity and pity
now. A second later, he grabbed the blanket and pulled it back to
reveal the chairs.
 She waited for a moment until Snape had removed the dust
sheet completely and set it aside, neatly folded. He retracted to the
shadows once more and Hermione blocked out everything else,
concentrating on her job.
Her pen flew over her notebook, taking notes, while her eyes
scanned the room. Everything besides the chairs and the carpet was
clean and nice, but unimaginative.

No luxuries. Middle-class.

She smelled blood, rotten flesh, and the heavy stench of melted
skin. It burned her nostrils, a slightly painful experience that watered
her eyes and made her blink several times until her view cleared
again. A cloying copper taste rested on her tongue, like a mouthful
of pennies that she couldn't get rid of no matter how many times
she swallowed.
Even with every light in the house switched on, the atmosphere
was muted. Something cruel had happened here. Terror had filled
the air. People had been brutally killed.
The fear was still palpable, sharp and strong; the carnage, too.
There were no indications of a fight, even the smallest details
were still perfectly arranged, like the framed photographs on the
wall or the vases containing orchids and lilies on the sideboard.
Hermione saw a man and a woman in the photographs, together,
smiling and getting a bit older in each one that followed, until they
were holding a baby that grew into a young boy. The last picture
seemed to be the most recent.
The living room continued on the right towards the back of the
house, seamlessly blending into the dining room, with the same dark
wooden flooring. A mahogany dining table sat under a chandelier
hanging from a long black chain attached to the high ceiling. A
single white French door beyond the table led into the kitchen.

Again, all very unsurprising. Pleasing, but not personal.

Ahead of her was a stairway, zigging right to a landing, then

zagging left to take you to its destination - the second floor. A door
beside the big windows on the far east of the living room lead to the
backyard.
 How did he enter?

"Did you find any indications of forced entry?" she asked

casually and stepped closer to the chairs, crouching down to get a
better look at the dried stains.
"Aside from the unhinged front door that Black kicked in with
the force of a rampaging bull yesterday night? No." Snape's voice
was dripping with sarcasm and Hermione mentally rolled her eyes,
ignoring the jab at Sirius.
"What about the backdoor?"
"Intact and locked."
"Windows?"
"The same."

What if he had a key? Relative? Friend of the family? No key could

perhaps lead to the postman.

She nodded and her eyes landed on the blood stains again
which were pooled in a way that looked as if the person sitting on
one of the chairs had bled to death. There were burns on the wood
in an oddly brown-reddish colour, probably from the melted flesh
and muscles of a body. Or at least what remained of it.
Hermione flipped through the file once more and looked at the
pictures. Her stomach turned and she could taste the biting flavour
of vomit on her tongue again. The boy's body looked intact, with
bruises from cords around his ankles and wrists standing out
grotesquely against his infantile skin. His head, however, was twisted
at a terrible angle, nearly 180°, so much that the back of his head lay
on his shoulder. His eyes were wide and bright blue, a terrible look
of horror imprinted on them.
The other crime scene photos were even worse. Tonks' torso
had nearly completely been corroded, her body was slumped on the
chair, her face horrifically distorted. The skin hung loose, in shreds,
starting from her cheeks down to her abdomen, where the rest of
her innards had gathered in a puddle of flesh, pus and a thicker
fluid. Her wrists and ankles also showed marks from ropes.
 Two different killing methods. Fracturing the boy's cervical vertebra points
to sympathy for children; unhappy childhood, perhaps negligence. Tonks' murder
was far more perverted; could indicate a hatred for women. Perhaps they're
oblivious of him, leading to a lack in self-confidence - though that would oppose
his other behaviour. But two different MO's could also mean two murderers…

She looked around and inspected the rope around the chairs.

Both had been constrained. What about Remus?

"How many ropes did you find?" She turned her head to look at
Snape over her shoulder, who raised his eyebrows, evidently
surprised.
"Six."

Two adult victims and a child - one of them an MI5 officer - how did he
manage to overwhelm them?

She nodded and focused her attention back on the chairs and
the stains. It looked like some evil creature had used Tonks' flesh as
a lifeless puppet in a sick game. Whoever did this had controlled and
manipulated the body with such ruthless abandon, that Hermione
hoped the poor woman had been dead from the start.
Months of being a profiler, and even before as a student, had
taught her to always keep a pair of fresh gloves in her bag, which
she took out and put on, so that they covered her slender fingers
like a second skin.
With her index finger, she rubbed at the crusted spot, testing
the condition of the substance. It was still moist, nearly creamy, with
clots in it.

Coagulated blood and…oil?

"How long will it take for the laboratory to send the results of
the DNA tests back?" Her voice was curt and professional as she
stood up, flipped back to the main report and read over the neat
handwriting to gather important information like time, clothes and
evidence.
 Snape grimaced. "At least three days, perhaps four. The mess at
the headquarters will cost us some days."
Hermione frowned for a split second, annoyance clearly visible.
She sighed deeply. "Alright. Did you find any sign of the killer?"
"No personal traces." Snape stopped, both turning their head
when James re-entered the room, putting his mobile away hastily.
Hermione continued her consultation undisturbed and stayed
focussed.
"But?"
"We found a five litre can right beside the chairs. It was still half
full."

With oil, she added in her thoughts, and jotted it down on the notebook,
too.

"Did someone take samples? Perhaps we can trace the

distributor."
"Contrary to you, Miss Granger, today's not our first day on the
job."
"No fingerprints, I guess?" she asked only half-jokingly, but
Snape just raised an eyebrow in answer.
James inserted himself into their conversation, moving closer to
both of them. "We never find any trace or evidence that leads back
to him. Everything's always impeccable."

Too clean, almost clinical.

"What about the outside? Tire tracks? Footprints?"

"Nothing." Snape shook his head. His hair hung like a limp
curtain around his face and Hermione wondered whether he just
hadn't had time to wash it or if he simply couldn't care less about
his appearance.

So the killer had observed the family long enough to have known their daily
routine and environment.

James waited for her to speak again, but she didn't have
anything else to ask at the moment, so he continued. "The SID
called me; they have found a fireproof bag amongst the ruins with a
riddle inside."
Snape emitted a strange guttural sound, a mixture between a
grunt and a snort, and when he spoke his voice was strangely
stricken. "So it's official now. This is the next Voldemort case."
For the fragment of a moment both men locked eyes, and
James gave a sharp nod.
Her interest was piqued once more. A strange desire to get her
hands on a personal note from the killer sent a tingle down her
spine.
"What does it say?" Her voice was greedy, her eyes alert and
sharp.
"Don't know yet, but we can have a look at it as soon as the
forensics are finished with it."
"Alright." She felt the thrill flooding her nerves, something she
hadn't felt since having made the decision to become a profiler in
order to hunt killers.
Her gloves made a squeaking sound as she ripped them off of
her hands, crumpling them in the process. She kept them in her
hand to remember to throw them away later.
Hermione handed the file back to James hesitantly, holding
onto it a tad longer than necessary.
"I need a copy of the records, as well as all the documents and
medical reports you have. I need the riddles, the photos and the
liberty to research my own way."
She was already composing a dozen arguments in her mind in
case James refused any of her demands, but the man surprised her.
"Of course," he said as though it was the most normal thing in
the world. She waited another moment but he continued
unaffectedly. "I'll talk to Albus tomorrow, he'll give you clearance for
the security level you need."
"Thank you." Excitement and gratefulness were clearly audible
in her voice. She was determined to find a pattern in the homicides,
or at least a clue in the riddle the killer had left behind. She bit down
on her lip, tearing at the thin layer of skin in the process. It was a
bad habit she tried to control most of the time, but forgot about the
moment she experienced emotional upheaval.
James put the file away and asked curiously, "So, what did you
find out?" His voice sounded hopeful, like he was desperate to hear
details or explanations he hadn't heard before.
 "Not much," Hermione answered immediately. She flipped
through her notebook again and stopped at the last page, shaping
her thoughts and notes into intelligible sentences. The pen rested in
her hand and served as a pointer for her explanations. "Male or
Female, probably around the same age as Remus. Charismatic, or at
least manipulative enough to get a family to let him enter their house
during the early hours. There was no evidence of a forced entry
which tells us someone let him in deliberately - perhaps they knew
him, but it's more likely that they just didn't find him suspicious
enough which again points to charisma." She listed information off
from what she had gathered and her tone and voice grew faster and
louder, thrilled with every word that escaped her lips. "There was
also no sign of a fight, hence he probably took Remus out first.
Afterwards, he stunned Mrs Lupin, then the boy. Perhaps he used
narcotics, but that's for the laboratory to find out. He's likely
mediocre to highly intelligent and holds a high position at work - if
not, his genius is underestimated, but I need more data in order to
be conclusive on this."
She turned away from James to face the chair, pointing with her
pen at it while she continued with her speech. "High intelligence
also accounts for the clinical state of the crime scene. He planned
this meticulously down to the tiniest detail. He feels safe and is
aware of his superiority -"
"How could you possibly know that?" interrupted Snape
blatantly, but Hermione proceeded unapologetically.
"The canister. He left it behind because he knew that even with
the facts right before our eyes we would never find him. Not like
this." She took a deep breath, a smug expression tugged at her face
as Snape fell silent. "Deducing from this crime only, I'd say he has a
flexible job and is athletic, or at least sporty enough to run a few
miles. Perhaps his hobbies contain something similar to jogging or
running. He most likely came by foot, through the woods and
obliterated his tracks when returning the same way. Roughly
estimated, someone with a bit of training needs at least half an hour
to an hour, starting from Wallington."
Her eyes caught the glance shared between Snape and James,
and she took the opportunity to inhale deeply. Her voice got slightly
hoarse but the excitement pushed her on, eager to share her
observations. She turned the page on her notebook and continued.
 "Back to the job. The timing and complexity of the crime tell us
that the killer works on a freelance basis or at least has a job with
flexible hours. The crime happened yesterday. Wednesday, a business
day, in the early morning hours. The boy was still in his pyjamas,
Mrs Lupin's nightgown was found in close range of the chairs. The
bomb exploded around 9 a.m. The distance from here to the
department adds up to half an hour if you take the car. Why wasn't
the boy in school? Why weren't Mr and Mrs Lupin at work? The
answer is simple: the murderer came in the early hours. Probably
even before breakfast. The kitchen table is not set - we could argue
that the murderer cleared it up before leaving but I highly doubt
that, considering that he left the canister behind. I doubt Mrs Lupin
was still alive when Remus drove away. Neither do I believe that the
boy survived for longer than ten minutes after Remus was out of
the house. He needed the boy to convince Remus, but as soon as he
was assured that the bomb was on its way…"
She left the rest unsaid and cleared her throat. The words were
spurting out of her mouth and she suddenly felt like she was back in
college, when her thesis was double the length that had been
requested and her professors rolled their eyes each time she had
another question. But neither James nor Snape, whom she could
definitely imagine as some grumpy chemistry teacher, said a word.
Instead, they listened closely.
"This place is quite isolated. I'm not too hopeful of getting any
information by interrogating the neighbours. This is mostly
conjecture, considering that I don't know anything about his other
murders yet. I'll need to have a look at the other crime scenes and
reports to say more about his choice of victims. In a nutshell: our
suspect is probably male, in his mid to late forties, slightly sporty,
most likely successful in his job but socially withdrawn. He's
intelligent, manipulative, unscrupulous, boastful."
Her cheeks flushed a light reddish-pink as her speech came to
its climax and she stopped at the last syllable, mauling her lip again.
"Of course, everything's absolute speculation as long as I don't have
the remaining facts," she added like an afterthought.
Abashed silence spread over them and Snape was the first one
to find his voice again, but he still sounded just as annoyed as
before. He took a step forward and his arms crossed right over his
chest with ease, a manner he seemed to have refined years ago.
 "I'll apply some pressure on my men and ballistics. If you're
lucky, you'll have the results and reports by Saturday."
James nodded automatically and rolled the file in his hand,
fidgeting with it. A habit to cover up his tension, Hermione thought.
"Miss Granger." Snape tilted his head in what might have been
an appreciative nod, but most likely was merely a sign of politeness.
He left before Hermione could say anything else. She turned to
James once more, the cruelty of the room weighing heavily on their
shoulders. A dark glimmer reflected in the photographs and she
could see how James' eyes rested on the middle one; a picture of
him, Remus and Sirius during their college years. They all looked
incredibly young and she noticed the obvious similarity between
Harry and his father. There was another boy in it, but Hermione had
never seen him before and had the good conscience to refrain from
asking the question.
Instead, she asked something personal and her voice changed
from professional to vulnerable in a matter of seconds.
"How's Harry?" She felt the familiar concern for Harry's
wellbeing. She was used to it by now. You couldn't be friends with
Harry Potter without worrying about a dozen things all at once.
"He'll be fine," James offered, a tad pressed, but voice
unwavering. He ripped his eyes off the picture and looked at
Hermione again, hiding his emotions behind glasses as big as his
eyes. Hermione knew this mode of behaviour all too well. Harry
used it all the time. "You could visit him."
"Perhaps I will." She gave him a reassuring nod, which he
reciprocated after a few seconds.
"Well, let's hope Snape will bring the reports soon. Do you need
a ride back to London?"
"No, it's fine. I came by car." A small, calm smile graced her full
lips as she declined politely but joined James nevertheless to leave
the vile crime scene behind.
They left the house in comfortable silence and fresh air hit her
nose. She hadn't even noticed that her sense of smell had adjusted
to the horrendous stench in the Lupin household; the clean air felt
strange at first and it tingled the inside of her nostrils, leaving an
almost burning sensation at the back of her throat. The officers
standing guard put the crime scene tape back on the door. James
escorted her to her car, where he saw her off a minute later as his
phone started to ring again. The man would certainly be busy these
next few days.
Hermione opened the vehicle door, needing to put a lot of
effort in the act since it jammed all the time. She sat down on the
cushioned car seat, closed the door behind herself and slapped her
bag onto the passenger seat. Seconds passed and she needed to hold
onto the steering wheel for a moment. Nausea from the horror she
had just experienced nearly overwhelmed her.
The odour that filled the car was a mixture of the lemon
concentrate from her windshield washer system as well as her own
perfume. She inhaled deeply, in and out. Several times. But the
disgusting stench of melted flesh and bile that clung to her nose
stayed with her.
She turned on the radio and started the car.
Static was all that followed.
On a scale of cruelty, the Lupin murders certainly reached one of the highest
levels.
However, it isn't the worst I could have let them experience.

In time you'll learn that you should expect much worse from me.

I'm not just any killer.

I'm special.

And I win.
Every time.
 CHAPTER TWO

Nothing is easier than to denounce the evildoer. Nothing more

difficult than understanding him.
Fyodor Dostoevsky
The world has definitions and categories for everything and anything: for plants,
for animals and even for trivialities such as the breeding of paramecia. Since
1880 profilers try to divide murderers in so-called murder criteria; certain key
characteristics that represent the abyss of human nature. There are seven
categories, all with corresponding definitions. The seven sins of murder.

First: Satisfaction of Sex Drive

So-called sex killers kill their victims to reach climax during the slaying.
Sometimes they kill the victim first and satisfy their needs on the dead body - it's
called necrophilia.

Second: Avarice
Here the killer is driven by greed that is increased to an unhealthy, uncommon
and debauched extent. Sometimes they murder to spare expenditures.

Third: Base Motives

This is a vast division. Emotions such as revenge, envy, hate, anger, racial hate,
sexual disappointment, compulsive narcissism, and way more belong to this
category. Something is called a base motive as soon as it's driven by unrestrained
instinctive self-interest. It's reprehensible to common people, despicable even.

Fourth: Malevolence
A murder is called malevolent when the killer considers his victims to be
harmless and defenceless and takes advantage of that during the killing act. It's
also counted as malevolence if you kill someone out of the blue or from behind.

Fifth: Cruelty
When the murderer exposes its victim to particularly severe physical or mental
tortures due to a relentless and callous mindset, it's categorised with the murder
criteria cruelty.

Sixth: Homicidal
Homicidal is defined as using resources that you are unable to control in their
entirety during the killing act. Their application is often used to kill or hurt a lot
of people at once. For example through arson, explosions, gasifications.
 Seventh: Bloodlust
This is the darkest and by far the most gruesome of them all. Someone who kills
out of bloodlust has an unnatural pleasure to wipe out another human life. The
only purpose this person has is the death of another, mostly unknown, human
being. They kill out of curiosity, out of idle boast or pure amusement. The only
silver lining in all of this is the fact that those kinds of murderers are few and
far between.
MI5 Headquarters, Chief Dumbledore's office
Saturday, 16th August
9:11 a.m
39 Days until the next murder

Chief Dumbledore's Office was surprisingly disorganised -

though not really untidy, it was just short of being so. The room was
spacious. However, every little corner of available surface was
scattered with books; his table was cluttered with papers and files,
boxes of chocolates and boiled sweets were strewn everywhere, as
well as a Newton cradle that was still swinging. She couldn't quite
identify which wood the furniture was made of, but it was fair and
nearly yellowish – probably spruce, she guessed.
A quick glance to her watch told her that she had already been
waiting for half an hour. She sighed exasperatedly, huffed through
her nose and crossed her arms.
The door opened just a few minutes later. Hermione rose
mechanically and adjusted her blouse once more before taking the
extended hand of Chief Dumbledore. The man was in his late
sixties, but years as the head of the MI5 had worn him out.
Hermione could see wrinkles and dimples around his eyes and the
corners of his mouth; silent witnesses to the misery this man had
already seen in his life. Surprisingly, his appearance stood in sharp
contrast to his office, almost bitingly so. With his backcombed hair
and trimmed beard, the man looked sophisticated with a certain
kind of wit lurking behind his glasses in those bright blue eyes - the
suit he was wearing only highlighted all of this even more.
"Miss Granger, I'm glad we finally found the time to meet in
person." His handshake was firm and warm, as was his voice.
Hermione could see why people seemed to idolise this man, and
how he could command everyone's attention in any room with ease.
"Chief Dumbledore, the pleasure is all mine, I assure you."
"I'm afraid our time is limited. There are a bunch of interviews
I will need to give later." He sighed as if to emphasise how much he
despised being in the spotlight. Reporters were already asking
obnoxious questions to which there were no answers anyway.
Hermione was almost under the impression those bloodhounds just
sat around in their rooms all day, trying to find questions that
nobody could possibly find an answer to.
 "James told me you were involved in the Lupin crime scene
investigations?" Dumbledore continued as soon as he placed
himself in a large desk chair, which was half-covered in blankets,
worn sack coats, and surprisingly, a lot of ties.
"Yes, Sir." The upcoming pictures of the scene were so
grotesque and savage, yet still so vivid before her eyes that she
needed a moment to dwell on her words, turning them over on her
tongue before she finally added, "It was … nightmarish."
Dumbledore didn't even grimace.
"I saw the pictures." His voice was calm as a river and nearly
emotionless, as if he tried to shut it out. But his eyes were
something else entirely; nearly gleaming with something wild and
determined. "I think we agree that he must be stopped?"
"Of course."
He leaned back and gave her a nod while he searched for
something on his desk. He grabbed a sheet of paper from under a
pile of books. "James gave me a brief summary about your
presumptions of the murderer."
"You mean Lord Voldemort?"
"Yes. Impressive indeed."
A decent blush graced both of her cheeks now, and once more
she bit her lip as her fingers played with the hem of her blouse. Her
fingertips rubbed over the silky material in a nervous manner. She
wasn't used to so much praise from people in higher positions;
mostly she was frowned upon, sometimes even scolded for her
higher intellect and unconventional ways of thinking. A compliment
like this, especially from someone like Albus Dumbledore, felt
awfully out of place for Hermione. Like praise she didn't yet
deserve. So she mumbled, humble and a tad nervous, "It's all just
that, Sir. Presumptions. As soon as I get the older files, I'll be able to
make a better profile."
"Right. That's why I called you here in the first place." A serious
tone mixed with the playful sound of the Chief's voice. His left hand
seemed to open a drawer and rummage through it, but Hermione
couldn't see anything from her position before the desk and her
growing unease increased with every passing minute. A second later
Dumbledore took his hand out of the drawer and revealed a golden
badge. It was the same size as a police badge, with a gilded surface
and a bird of prey Hermione had never seen before; the beak was
longer and a lot more pointed than a hawk's, the tail feathers were
curved and peacock-like and in a delicately curved scroll were the
letters OotP engraved. "This is the badge for an investigative
commission I assembled myself. The Order of the Phoenix."
Her eyes were still entranced by the golden badge when the
Chief reached over the desk and laid the cold metal in her smaller
hands. Reverently, her thumb brushed over the gilded surface,
drawing the peaks and valleys of the medal absentmindedly. Her
mind was racing when she asked hesitantly, "Thank you Sir, but I
don't quite understand?"
"The Order of the Phoenix includes the brightest minds of the
MI5 Miss Granger, all of them chosen to stop Voldemort. The
badge gives you access to the archive and every other information
you'll need."
The answer sounded far too smooth, too rehearsed as if he said
it a dozen times before. Scepticism blossomed in her chest and she
looked up to meet Dumbledore's glance, her voice reluctant. "But
why me? Certainly, you had another profiler - what happened to
him?"
She could sense the obvious reluctance in the Chief's voice, but
his eyes never left hers. A clicking sound reverberated in the hollow
room and she could almost feel how he chose his words carefully
which made her just all the warier.

Something personal?

"Let's say he couldn't handle it anymore. I'm afraid that's all I

have to say about it." Dumbledore stopped any further protest with
a wave of his hand. A sigh left his lips the moment he noticed the
growing suspicion Hermione expressed via her body language. He
cleared his throat and started once more, "Miss Granger, James told
me you noticed clues and evidence in this crime scene that nobody
else picked up on. You're a very clever girl and I'm confident -"
The door suddenly burst open and a second later revealed a
strict-looking woman in her late fifties with rigorous eyes and a
severe sense of fashion - her pencil skirt was tight, her hair in a bun
and small, narrow glasses were perched on her nose. The woman
gave Hermione a mere nod before she turned to Dumbledore again,
voice almost chiding, "Sir? Apologies to interrupt you but your
interview with the Daily Prophet waits."
 "Give me a sec Minerva, I'll be there in a minute." They waited
for Minerva to leave the office again before he resumed his speech,
this time far more concerned than before with an urgent tone. "Miss
Granger, I trust in your abilities, and perhaps you should, too. The
world is a dangerous place to live in, not because of the people who
are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it."

Einstein. He's well-read, but not arrogant.

They rose simultaneously from their chairs. Hermione cleared

her throat and added, "I'll try my best, Sir."
They shook hands once more but everything felt a bit too
rushed; as if he wanted to get rid of her. Perhaps it was just her
imagination, after all the man was the Chief of the MI5 and he
certainly didn't have the time to have afternoon tea parties. Upon
leaving the office, Dumbledore grabbed one of the striped ties.
"I'll attend the meeting as soon as James sets the time. Until
then, Miss Granger."
He led her out of the office with a strong hand on her shoulder
that pushed her out of the door and she followed his lead.
McGonagall was still sitting on her desk when both of them entered
the lobby, rising up as soon as she spotted the Chief right behind
Hermione. A quick glance at the topmost papers was sufficient
enough to realise that they were dealing with Voldemort. Most
certainly a press conference of some kind.
"Goodbye, Sir." She gave a last nod to the head of the office
and retreated to the far end of the lobby where a glass lift was
already waiting to take her back down to her private office. She
pressed the button and waited, the golden badge still shimmering in
her hand. It was obvious that Lord Voldemort had to be stopped,
she needed to find a clue to bring them closer. With a loud ping, the
lift came to a halt and opened. After entering it, she pressed the
button for the archive. As the glass doors were shutting closed
again, she noticed that Dumbledore never once called him Lord.
Just Voldemort.
MI5 Headquarters, Archives
Saturday, 16th August
8:26 a.m
39 days until the next murder

The archives were subterranean and reached from the West to

the Eastern riverside of the River Thames. They had been built in
1884, renovated once in 1947 right after the Second World War, and
a second time in 2012 to relocate the main base where they kept
older files and special folders. There had been a debate some
months ago about whether or not all the files should be exclusively
converted into digital data. But the vote was split, so they kept both.
The lift stopped and Hermione stepped out of it while trying to
wrestle the wild mess on her head into a ponytail - obviously, the
thick bulk of locks wouldn't be so easily tamed and she needed three
more attempts until they finally obliged. Her eyes darted over the
different paths that the hallway divided into and decided to take a
sharp left turn, to the Ongoing Unsolved Cases department.
Upon arriving at the information counter, she showed her
newly obtained Order badge and was led into a separate
compartment by a young man. The room was large but crowded,
with shelves full of boxes and files. A bunch of desktop computers
were neatly placed side by side, forming some kind of wall.
Hermione got closer to the desk and waited until the man wearing a
brown cardigan turned around.
"Hey, Neville." She raised her hand to give Neville a small wave
and leaned over the counter that was right in front of her. Some of
the files needed to be pushed and moved aside so she could at least
have a decent look at Neville, but finally she found a place to rest
her arms.
"Hermione, good to see you. How are you?" The boy in front
of her looked nothing like the boy she met in high school; his
slightly chubby body had matured into an athletic shape over the
years, his round chin had given way to a pointed facial structure with
beautiful eyes that reminded her of a teddy bear. Even the still
remaining geekness added to his charm now. His voice was deeper
than she remembered it, but friendly nevertheless.
"I'm fine, thanks. How are you doing?" She gave him an honest
smile and couldn't hide the excitement that crept into her voice.
 "The usual - coffee and Internet, what could I want more?" A
small laugh left his lips, a mixture between a dark vibrato and slightly
croaky; something that had a strangely nice ring to it and she
couldn't help but join in his laughter. It felt good when the weight
on her shoulders was lifted for a few short seconds.
"Listen, can you gather everything you have in the records
about Lord Voldemort for me?" Without giving further instructions
her hand slid into her jeans pocket and pulled out the shiny golden
badge that still looked like it was fresh out of the press.
Neville's eyes widened in amazement and for a second
Hermione really thought he was genuinely surprised, but then he
opened the top drawer of his desk and took the same badge out
from between some Snickers and staples. Overall, the badge looked
banged up and dusty, the golden shimmer non-existent. It reminded
her of old gold that had dimmed over time.
"Wow, you got promoted, huh? Seems like we're both riding the
crest of a wave. I got my badge some days before Remus blew the
whole department up… I mean, before… you know, the incident."
His tone changed rapidly, excitement and guilt switching and
Hermione needed to suppress a laugh at Neville's clumsiness and
the way his teenage self seemed to come out when he's flustered.
She almost felt thrown back in time to her high school years, when
she constantly paired herself with Neville so neither Ron nor Harry
could take advantage of her intelligence during the tests - after all,
she was the only one of the trio that studied to get good grades at
all. Neville had always been this alien kid with eyes as big as a deer in
the headlights, and it amused her terribly that some things never
really changed.
"Anyways," Neville changed the topic and raced from his office
chair to the front of the counter, his tone far more relaxed than
mere seconds ago. "I put anything from the cases in a special folder,
I'll go and get it."
Standing up he was even taller than Hermione remembered and
she stared disbelievingly at his broad shoulders that seemed to fill
the narrow space between the shelves. She tapped her badge against
the plastic-covered counter incessantly to keep her hands busy while
her eyes cast furtive glances down to the records on Neville's desk.
"Have you talked to Harry, yet?"
His voice surprised her. She looked up to find his brown
cardigan still half hidden behind one of the metal shelves. She
exhaled and put her badge away, being obviously uncomfortable
with the topic. Her mind was racing and a good portion of guilt
crept into her consciousness. She tasted the bitter taste of betrayal
on her tongue. She hadn't spoken to Harry yet. She hadn't even
phoned him.
Clearing her throat, she dwelled on the words that felt biting on
her lips, almost corrosive, trying to walk on eggshells to find the
right words.  
"Haven't had the chance, the case keeps me very busy." A pause
and then, "What about you?"
His head emerged beside the racks. He sighed, then shook his
head. A second later he disappeared again, this time further away
but his voice was still audible over the boxes of cases and
investigations.
"But I met Ginny yesterday, she said he keeps it together. But,
you know Harry, he wants to go after the bastard."

Considering Harry's bad luck he'd just end up dead in a pitch.

She bit her lips and thought about their last summer during
college, when a life like this had seemed far away and no one had
paid their future any mind except her - always the know-it-all, the
reasonable one. Her mind drifted away but was brought back to
reality soon enough when Neville surfaced out of the blue with
records and files on his arm, none of them thicker than a poetry
journal. Wonderstruck at the light literature, she accepted them and
stacked them on her arm, nudging the badge back into her pocket.
Neville was strangely amused and gave her a cocky smile, leaning his
hip against the counter.
"There you go. Oh, the new results haven't reached me yet, but
I think they'll arrive during the day. As soon as I have them, I'll send
them to your office." With his free hand, he opened the door so she
could pass.
"Thanks, Neville. See you soon."
The records in her hand felt strangely heavy and with every step
her excitement grew more and more. Finally, she'd be able to find
something. To get a hint of what might go on in his mind. She was
already halfway down the aisle when Neville's voice followed her,
reminding her of future meetings.
"Bye, Hermione. Oh, and next time bring some coffee!"
MI5 Headquarters, Hermione's office
Saturday, 16th August
11:44 a.m
39 days until the next murder

The coffee mug from Florean Fortescue's was gripped hard

between three fingers and her thumb while her index pressed the
doorknob down to reveal her office behind the door. It was small,
but comfy with a huge empty bookcase at the east wall which
reminded her subconsciously of a box full of books which still
needed to be cleared out. But for now, the spot on the floor right
beside the bookcase seemed like a good place for it. The furniture
was low-key; an office chair from the mall, desk, bookcase and a
shelf from Ikea. Everything else was souvenirs from her travels,
trifles that were gathered from various departments during her first
years as an intern. There was even a mobile metal pin board with
sharpies and pins opposite of the bookcase and Hermione couldn't
for the life of her remember where she got it. By now she was sure
it had just added itself to her collection.
With a loud thud, the records were placed right on top of her
notes from Remus' case while she put the mug on the side so it
wouldn't wobble on top of the files. She peeled the blazer off of
her shoulders and hung it neatly on the little coat rack behind the
door. Her fingers fumbled with the scrunchy to tighten her hair
before she went back to her desk and rolled the sleeves of her
simple white blouse up to her elbows. She granted herself a last sip
of coffee before her hands were grabbing for the records.
Four files were spread out in front of her and covered her desk
as well as the keyboard of her laptop. She started the computer and
a second later the synthetic blueish light lit up the brownish
hardcover-paper that protected each page of the records that they
belonged to. At the head of each record was the name of the victim
as well as the number under which the file was registered - the
handwriting was identical on three of them, the fourth had a
beautiful cursive style, almost italic and Hermione was sure she had
seen it before, but she couldn't put her finger on where she might
recognise it from.
Organisation was her utmost priority, so she started to flip all
the records open and shifted them around until they were assorted
in chronological order - starting with the first victim and ending
with the last. Or rather, the one before Remus.
To her amazement, each sheet was marked with the case's
number so she could easily remove one of the pages for further
investigations and still know to which case it belonged - handy when
she'd have a dozen of sheets on her dash later.
First glances through the records confirmed her thoughts that
they were assorted from pictures to reports and at the end of each
file was a sheet protector which contained the riddle that was found
on the crime scene. The dates were exactly 41 days apart from each
other, the locations sounded familiar - all of them were in London -
but none was connected to the one before, neither to others from
the list.
She opened the last drawer of her desk to take out a map, neatly
folded so that it wasn't bigger than a usual letter. Carefully as to not
rip the paper, she unfolded it and left her desk to advance towards
the metal pinboard - the thing would be useful after all. She spread
the map over the whole surface and tightened the corners with
magnetic pins that Harry had given her as a gift some years ago -
they showed famous little quotes of great minds like Voltaire and
Rousseau. There even had been one with a quote from Queen Mum,
but Hermione had lost it soon after, so she paid them more
attention now.
Some quick steps brought her back to the desk where she
withdrew some smaller pins from the first drawer, just some simple
knobs that she labelled from one to five and applied to the map a
minute later. Each knob showed the place where the victims had
been found - but nothing seemed to connect them. Knob number
five for the Lupin Case still rested in her open palm because the
map showed only the capital of Great Britain and not the outer or
inner boroughs of the county.
Taking a step back helped her to get a better look at the whole
map that was spread out in front of her. The crime scenes weren't
related in any way; neither by distance nor by names or
environment. Instead, it seemed all pretty random at first glance.
The only thing that linked them was the fact that they had all been
found or killed in the capital - with a time lag of 41 days.

All of them had been found in London, so why did he kill Tonks and
Edward in Carshalton? Except…
 Her glance rose upwards and caught the address of the MI5
building; central London, Albert Embankment.

Unless Tonks and Edward weren't the victims in this case. They had been
collateral damage.

She spun the pin between her thumb and index finger a few
more times, but after a while, she realised, that this had to be the
right conclusion - as macabre as it was. She pinned knob number
five right over the bridge on the River Thames. Sadly it didn't bring
her a step closer to a better explanation about how the murders
must be connected, because even with five pins on the pin board
she couldn't find a pattern or a design behind it.
A deep sigh left her lips as she pressed them into a fine line and
suppressed the urge to start to gnaw on the thin layer of skin again.
Another gulp of the coffee helped her to clear her head for a while
and she sat down at her desk, opening the first record. Ready by her
side lay her notebook with a pen so she could jot down some fast
notes should she need to.
The record was titled Lavender Brown, the file reference was
following right after in capital letters and numbers written in fairly
messy handwriting - the same that was on the following two records.
It was by far the thinnest folder of them all, containing a handful of
photos from the crime scene as well as an autopsy report, a report
from the police officers that had found her, a report of the SID and
the sheet protector along with the riddle.
Hermione started with the general facts that were easily
identified in the police report. Lavender Brown. 25 years old.
European. Born and raised exclusively in Britain. Average height and
weight. Intern at a prestigious law firm. Found by a jogger in the
Guy Street Park, near London Bridge Station. The riddle had been
put neatly in the left socket of her eye, laminated so no blood would
smear the paper.
While skimming the text, she took the photos and spread them
out on her desk to get a better grasp on the crime she'd only read
about until now. The girl lay face down on the lawn, arms beside her
head with bent shoulder- and elbow-joints. Her clothes were
immaculate, nothing pointed towards a fight or any other external
forceful impact. No dragging traces. No footprints in the mud.
Nothing.

As if she had fallen from the sky.

Her coat was open, sweater and shirt were slightly dishevelled
and revealed a small strip of pale skin right above her skirt - pale but
unharmed. The report clearly stated that there were no corporal
traces, no sexual imprints.

Not a sexual offender.

Head and face, however, were bathed in blood with extensive

abrasions which covered the skin completely as well as the bridge of
her nose, nasal wings and cheekbones. In addition to the
considerable injuries to her face, the upper and lower lids on both
eyes were heavily discoloured in dark violet and blue due to a
perianal haematoma. The first autopsy report stated that fly eggs
had been found under both lower lids. Flies tend to lay down their
eggs in the first eight hours after death, preferably under eyelids, in
nostrils or in mouths, especially during warm weather. Rigour
Mortis hadn't set in, yet.
Furthermore, the report noted that both her upper and lower
jawbones were unnaturally flexible, as though those joints were
made of rubber hinges. Another glance at the photos showed the
girl's maimed face in all its glory; her oral cavity was filled with
blood and her teeth swam in it, the nasal bone was fractured as well,
the auricle was smeared with blood and there was a note saying that
a dark black liquid had seeped out of her ear when they had turned
her around.

Basal skull fracture.

The most terrifying feature was on the next picture: the officers
had pushed her eyelids back to reveal the eyes - but there were none.
The report read that the murderer had removed the eyes one by one,
carved them out with surgical precision. Furthermore, both eye
sockets had been smashed post mortem and the cerebral area there
had been no more than a bloody, mushy bulk that rested in the hole
of the eye socket like a scoop of ice cream. There had been a foamy
bloody fluid in her trachea and in her lungs - a sign of vitality and
forensic proof that the victim had been fully conscious during her
torture.
It made Hermione sick to her stomach.
More pictures of the autopsy followed but nothing of
importance caught Hermione's eye other than the gouging of her
eyes. It was indeed a known criminal behaviour that profilers called
depersonalisation. A desperately hostile and humiliating act against
the victim. The aggressive and brutal approach of the murderer
often leads to extreme mutilations that make the victim almost
completely unrecognisable. The perpetrator wants to anonymise his
victim, to deprive it of its identity.

Did he know her?

Or she, Hermione added in her thoughts but an instinctive

feeling told her that the killer was male. Next, she grabbed the sheet
protector and carefully took out the paper. It was incredibly
mundane in the end, a clear bleached sheet, no bigger than half a
page with a typed message in its centre. The script was Arial instead
of Times New Roman - or Helvetica if he used a mac – which was
unconventional.

The thing sizzled as hot metal dropped in water while I

twisted it like an auger.
xeupfxbephsyuogmmelphq

Puzzled, Hermione read the message again and again but she
couldn't glean more from it than what the decrypter and Neville had
already worked out. The text belonged to the Odyssey, book nine if
she remembered correctly, when Odysseus gouges the Cyclops' eye
out.

Could be a reference to the murder.

The code, however, was nothing like what she expected at all
when James mentioned it some days ago in Lupin's house. Neither
the structure of the letters nor the length of it gave any hint to
anything on the case - the text didn't either. A quick glance at the
attached report told her that the cryptography department had tried
any known cypher method to decode it - algorithmic, symmetric,
asymmetric.
She made a photo with her mobile camera and jotted the notes
as well as the whole riddle down in her notebook before she
grabbed the next record to continue her investigation - after all, she
couldn't afford to waste any time.
The second record read Mykew Gregorovitch accompanied by
the corresponding file reference number - just like before. This one
was a bit thicker than Lavender's and Hermione suspected it to be
due to the fact that they hadn't anticipated Lavender's murder to
belong to a serial killer. The reports changed from the official
London Police Department to MI5 files right after the first page and
this time there were a lot more photographs than in the one before.
Everything in this file read surprisingly mundane; Mykew
Gregorovitch. 61 years old. Professor at the London Metropolitan
University. Teaching chemistry. Russian. Born and raised in the city
of Kazan and immigrated nearly forty years ago. Found by a farmer
of Freightliners Farm in Paradise Park - or at least what had been
left of him. The only remains they had found, had been his head.
Bulged eyeballs, impaired cornea, pale skin that looked almost
green and grey due to the decomposition, exposed nasal bones and
septum. Both auricles intact, as well as the jawbones and all of his
teeth - they were affected by his age, but not due to the manner of
his death. Unfortunately, no further details were discernible because
of the decomposition that had erased all shapes and contours of his
face. Only his five o'clock shadow identified him as male.
His head must have been preserved in a water tank or
something similar in order to expedite the deterioration of the
visible facial parts, and had been brought to the crime scene after
that. The body had never been found and the agents responsible for
this case identified Gregorovitch through his natural dentition with
the help of his local dentist. For a second, Hermione searched for
the dentist's name and breathed out in relief when she read neither
her mother's nor her father's name.
The photographs were just as bad as the ones of Lavender. The
bright flashlight illuminated the crime scene grotesquely, which
made it look all the more disturbing, yet strangely artistic. The water
had macerated the skin and transformed it into a greyish substance
that reminded Hermione of rubber. The glassy, almost pupilless
eyes protruded from their eye sockets. The left side was distorted in
a ghoulish grimace and looked as though an animal had gnawed on
the flesh, exposing muscles and the edge of a wound on his neck
that looked very clean and sharp, as though the killer had been
careful.
Any vitality signs which would have shown up if the head had
been decapitated antemortem or postmortem, couldn't be found
during the investigations. It was impossible to determine the murder
weapon based on the structure or the pattern of the wounds - for
example, a saw, an axe or anything alike would have left traces on
soft tissue and bones - but the water had washed out all the blood
on the margins of the wound, if there had been any at all.

Damn.

With a frustrated groan she ran her hand over her eyes and
flipped through the record once more to take a look at the riddle.
She stopped midways, however, and gazed at a little note which she
had overlooked the first time. In the same curvy handwriting that
she had already seen on the label of the last record was written: steel
rope, 0.6 diameters.
A mixture of excitement and the thrill of the hunt raced down
her spine. Her hands were already busy searching for the picture of
the wound; if the clean cut on the skin fit, the steel rope would
answer the question as to why the wound was so clean.

But why wasn't it in the official report?

Her notebook almost seemed to fill itself with her thoughts and
observations. When nothing else could be deduced from the papers
she put them away and took the riddle that was still waiting in the
protection sheet.
The first thing she noticed was that the paper and the script
were the same as the other one. However, the riddle was three pages
long this time. Hermione recognised the text after only a few lines.
She remembered talking to James about it and him mentioning that
no one else had recognised this text – not even Chief Dumbledore.
For a second she wanted to call all of them uncultured swines.
 How on earth could they not have recognised Borges?

Again, she couldn't find a connection to the murder so she went

on to the letter, but there was nothing in it that rang a bell.

cozycjbmhbangbpumal - Perhaps I need to consider every second letter?

Maybe every third?

She looked through her notes, but she didn't see anything that
might lead to a solution, so she ripped the page out and threw it in
the bin.
Her shoulders felt suddenly tense so she rolled them a few
times before she reached for the next file and skimmed the page for
facts. You could clearly see that the MI5 took this one far more
serious than the others before. The structure and even all the careful
details that were listed inside pages spoke volumes. Sheets and
sheets of research from the SID were attached but none of them
held any information that would give them a lead in their
investigation.
The victim was female, again, and for a second she thought that
she had found a pattern in rotatory genders - first a female victim,
then a male, female again… a quick glance at the next record
confirmed her suspicion at first - the next had been a male again.
But then she reminded herself that Remus had been male too, and
so her theory went down the drain.
She sighed deeply and started to read again.
Hepzibah Smith. 56 years old. Unemployed. American. Born in
Kansas and raised in Westminster. Average height and obese figure.
Found in the Royal Botanic Gardens by a gardener in the early
morning hours.
Hermione took the photographs out of the file and spread
them all over her desk again. An action that she regretted a second
later when her eyes got caught on the ghastliness and ferocity in
which the woman had been disfigured. Her lower jaw had been
completely broken out of its bone settings, probably with the same
saw that had been used to remove her upper jaw. Both maxillas, as
well as the jaw joints, had been ripped out of their structures so the
killer could scuff the skin from her nasal wings all the way down to
her neck. The vocal cords were exposed, the flesh from chin and
mouth hung in tatters. Because of the missing jawbones, her face
looked like a shrivelled balloon.

It looks like a death mask.

Everything was soaked in blood, especially the grass and earth

underneath her. The blood made it look like a giant red sponge. But
the woman's skin was pale, almost without any colour due to the
high blood loss. Both of her hands had been cut off sharply in the
middle of the wrist bones – both were missing, just like the jaws.
The autopsy report also said that they discovered a blood aspiration
in her lungs - in other words, both jaws had been sawed out while
she was alive and blood had run down her throat and larynx, causing
her to choke on her own blood.
A shiver went down Hermione's spine and she shuddered due
to the sudden coldness in the room. She could taste bile on her
tongue. The disgust she was confronted with right now flipped her
stomach. She took another gulp from her mug. She didn't even
realise that it had gone cold during the last hour.
Whoever killed the woman was no fool, by any means. Many
killers gain their knowledge from detective novels or Hollywood
movies and most of them thought that by pulling all the teeth from
a body the identity of their victims would be veiled. Only a few
knew that this merely complicated an investigation but didn't stop it.
The removal of both the jaws and the hands lead her to believe that
the murderer was a professional.
Another note was attached to one of the pictures of a bleeding
stump, stating the same as in the last file: steel rope, 0.6 diameters.
This could indeed explain the clean cuts but since it hadn't been
confirmed, yet, she jotted it down in her notebook for further
investigations.
More reports and files followed. Hermione skimmed the texts,
read over notes that James had written down in his messy
handwriting, searched for anything that piqued her interest but
nothing seemed to contain a clue or further indications. It seemed
she was just as clueless as James. In the end, she went on to the
riddle.
 This time, the text was far smaller and she wasn't really
surprised to find the same bleached paper, and script. She
recognised the text at first glance.

You think perhaps this is the Duke of Athens, who in the

world put you to death. Off with you, monster, this one does
not come instructed by your sister, but of himself to observe
your punishment in the lost kingdom.
dtuffunlycsocisiku

Dante's Inferno, XII, 16-21. But the letters are still a mystery to me.

The only thing she had noticed so far, was that none of them
had been a prime number, nor did they have anything to do with the
number 41. She googled the quote of Dante on her laptop, but
nothing made sense concerning either the barbarous murder of
Hepzibah Smith or the code at the end of it.

The lines belonged to Virgil, Canto XII is called Inferno, 16-20 in

comparison with the numbers? What am I missing?

She circled Canto XII at least four times with her pencil before
she let out an exasperated sigh. Her eyes felt heavier and heavier
with each passing minute. She rubbed the tiredness from her eyes
and pushed the files to the far end of her desk to reach for the last
one. She wanted at least to have read over all of them today. She
could battle the riddles later.
The last folder was the one with the neat handwriting on it and
astonishingly it was remarkably orderly and tidy - reports were
assorted by date, pictures were accompanied with notes from the
reports and important facts were even highlighted in yellow so she
didn't need to skim the text several times to grasp all the vital data.
It looked almost too perfect - if it wasn't for the horror that was
depicted in those photos that lay right in front of her.
The first thing she noticed was a burned corpse which had been
downright skeletonized by the flames. Arms and legs were bent in a
foetal position, as if the victim had tried to protect itself from the
blaze - but no posture could protect you from such a fire. The
explosion had swept across the victim with such destructive force
that even their incisors were burnt. Bones had splintered from the
cranial roof and charred brain tissue was oozing from the hole. It
was repulsive, at best.
Her first instinct was to flip the file shut and take several deep
breaths to calm herself down again. While her mind was racing so
fast that it made her dizzy, she kept drinking the cold coffee until
her mug was empty. She needed to focus again - and ignore the chill
that crept over her spine from time to time. This killer was far more
dangerous then she had first thought - and she wasn't sure if one
man or woman alone could manage to perform all of these murders.
They were unique, if not exceptional and so impressive that she had
no idea how just one individual could embody all of this. It was
thrilling, certainly, but it was frightening, nevertheless.
Her heart slowed down again and she waited until the silence of
the room stopped to threaten and instead welcomed her. She picked
up the record and read over the first page, the one with the vital
information that she'd skipped half an hour ago.
Cedric Diggory. 22 years old. Sports student at Cambridge.
European. Born and raised in London. Tall. Found in front of St
Thomas Church by a nun in the early hours of the morning.
The heat of the flames had melted off all facial features until he
was unrecognisable, the body was merely a framework of seared
bones over which his charred flesh spread like a patchwork rug. The
whole adipose tissue and muscles seemed scorched - not surprisingly
since the fat of a human's body contained oily components which
burn at high temperatures. The skin was nearly non-existent and the
shreds of flesh that still clung to his bones were burst open and red
underneath a carbonised black surface.

Almost like lava in a volcano.

The report had a remark that stated they couldn't reconstruct

his body size or weight because the fire had burned down all the
important components. Testimonies confirmed later, that he was a
good looking boy with an athletic scholarship.
The whole cranium was ash-grey in colour with empty eye
sockets that reminded her of a skull. Upper and lower jaw were both
in ruins, several teeth were completely burnt and the tongue was
reminiscent of cooked flesh. His locomotor system - elbows,
cartilages, sinews - was singed to a black mass that looked like the
rubber of a car tyre.
The pictures showed a black-brown, molten amorphous masse,
upon which just the skull, as well as the remnants of arms and legs,
were faintly reminiscent of a man. Apparently, the explosion hit the
boy on the front because his chest cavity was blown open. Three
rips were completely smashed from the fire, the others were black
and protruded from the torso like the planks of a burnt down ship.
She could see the lungs and the diaphragm. They were shrunk
to a quarter of their usual size and because the heat had warmed up
the air in the intestines it had caused to pop from the pressure. Parts
of the small bowel had gushed out of the wound. The black mass
lay spread over the whole lower stomach.

Eels.

Along the smell of scorched flesh from the chest and

abdominal cavities, the records talked about another penetrant scent
that had leaked out: petrol. The first thought that came to her was
that this could hint that the killer had used a combustive agent. But
a second glance at the report showed her that someone had already
made a note about this - the same one that had noticed things
before.
More reports and pictures followed, one more callous than the
next and she flipped to the end to have a look at the riddle which
seemed almost innocent in comparison to the sadism she had just
witnessed.

The Abbey burned for three days and three nights, and the
last efforts were of no avail.
llccibrfiofvmflka

She recognised the text but couldn't categorise it at first so she

looked it up in the file and was surprised to see that it was an
excerpt from 'The Name of the Rose'. It had been ages since she
had read that book and it was quite obvious that the first message
referred to the killing method.
 It's pretty obvious that the messages are describing the procedure of the
murders.

A frustrated curse left her lips and she shut the laptop
exasperated, leaning back against her office chair.
The records didn't give away much - or anything at all. The
murders had been savage and brutish at best; no traces had been left
behind, no clues or hints were contained in these riddles. The killer
was very clever, ingenious even and that made him dangerous and
perilous. This one was no normal murderer.

He's not just any serial killer. He's a true predator.

Her hand ran over her hair that was still tightened in a ponytail
and she let it down to lift a bit of the tension that had built around
her temples and announced a soon to follow headache or worse, a
migraine. Her eyes burned from hours of reading under halogen
light and her bones weighed down with weariness.

Better to combat the fatigue with a mug of coffee. Or even better with an
espresso.

She pushed her chair back and stretched her arms far over her
head, blinking several times.
She couldn't fight the yawn that escaped her dainty lips.
MI5 Headquarters, Hermione's office
Saturday, 16th August
10:27 p.m
39 days until the next murder

"Hermione?"
The mess of wild curls jumped up in alarm. Her eyes were
blinded by the bright neon lights and made it difficult to identify the
looming figures standing right in front of her. How could this be
possible? Had she even slept at all? She felt disoriented, her mind
was a bit blurred and she needed to blink several times before the
fuzzy edges finally became sharp.
"James? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you." Her voice was rough from
sleep, almost a slur when she rose and tried to stack the files on her
desk. She was thankful for the shadow that James cast on her,
shielding her from the blinding light. As soon as the tiredness left
the rest of her body she looked up into James' eyes and was
immediately met with concern that was evident in his stare.
"Well, you were certainly busy it seems." A nod in the direction
of her desk was enough to remind her why she had been so tired. A
deep blush started to build on her cheeks and she felt the burning
skin heating up while her fingers were busy bundling the records
back into their usual shape. In the meantime, James put a new
record on top of the older ones labelled with Lupin's ID.
"Here, the new files of the Lupin family and the bombing just
arrived. I thought I'd bring them to you, considering that I needed
to talk to you anyway." His voice was stern, serious and he couldn't
quite hide the grief that was apparent in every word he spoke. For a
second Hermione's sense of compassion kicked in, but she
suppressed the urge to tell James that everything would be okay.
Perhaps it never would be.
"Still the swot, aren't you?"
Upon hearing the gravelling voice that had just entered the
room, Hermione swirled around and found herself face to face with
a beautiful sculptured man: high cheekbones and grey eyes, a top
model haircut with platinum blond hair.
Draco Malfoy.
For years the man had made her life as miserable as it could
possibly be. His rich, presumptuous demeanour, as well as his
boastful and snobbish yet bossy attitude had more than once been
the reason to start an intellectual duel.
Out of habit, her voice turned sour and bitter and she forgot
the good manners she was so fond of.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous, Malfoy."
"And what might I be jealous of, Granger?" His reply was
amused but sharp as a razor blade, the same conceited distance
coloured his tone as it had done years ago. He leaned on the nearby
desk and Hermione closely followed his hawklike eyes, noticing the
way they gathered information from nearby records and loose pages.
She felt her body tensing, her hackles rising at the sudden intrusion,
as if she was a cat waiting for an attack. James stopped her, however.
"Okay, that's enough", James intervened and put a stop to their
childish banter. Even if Draco acted unaffected now, Hermione at
least had the decency to blush. Another sigh escaped James' lips. He
crossed his arms over his chest and pushed the glasses on his nose
up a bit; a habit Harry had adopted some years ago that always made
her wonder why he never bothered to buy a new one that fit better.
"Seems like I don't need to introduce you to each other."
They shared a quick glance but neither dared to answer, so they
kept quiet and waited for James to go on. A comfortable silence
stretched between them. James waited for more protests but when
no one said anything, he continued in a calm voice. "As you surely
know, we work in teams. Always two by two."
Hermione had a bad feeling about this, in fact, the following
was vaguely perceptible and her eyes already begged James to drop
the subject.

Please don't say it out loud.

But of course, she was met with cruel faith in the worst shape
possible.
"Hermione, Draco will be your partner for an indefinite period
of time."
There it was.
She struggled hard to keep her face emotionless but she
grimaced, groaning in exasperation.
"Isn't there any other option?"
"I'm afraid not", James replied but he didn't look worried nor
sorry, instead she thought she could see amusement in his voice.
"Believe it or not, Draco is an excellent Intelligence Officer and has
worked on the Voldemort case since the last victim."
"Splendid." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm as she spared
the supposed James Bond a glance who was still leaning against her
desk. She could sense him observing her out of the corner of his
eyes. Hermione found it utterly disturbing what reactions he could
trigger in her with a single glance. She was neither stupid nor blind.
Draco had always been handsome, even during their college time in
Oxford. But the masculine jawline and the wild hair gave him a
dangerous edge which made her weak in the knees and caused her
pulse to speed up. She hadn’t seen him in years. The last time had
been when she walked out of him with one hand on her suitcase
and the other clenched from unshed feelings.
Unfortunately, while flipping through one of the files, the man
in the leather jacket immediately ruined it all when he casually said,
"Come now, Granger. Your brains, my good looks and LV will be
faster behind bars than anyone can speak his exorbitant name out
loud."
"Perhaps you should start calling him by it instead of
shortening his name to the initials of some inflated fashion brand."
The verbal brushoff left her lips before she could stop herself but
Draco didn't react to it, merely batted it away like some bugging fly
of no importance and continued to read through the record without
a second glance or any indication that he had, indeed, heard her. She
sighed in frustration.
"Anyway." Her hand snatched the file that Draco studied out of
his hands and put it back where it belonged; chronologically. "Let's
get to work. There's still a lot to do."
Even before the last syllable had left her lips, Draco had taken
off his dark leather jacket, that looked far more expensive than
anything Hermione owned, and hung it on the back of a chair
before he sat swiftly down. He grabbed the record again from the
pile that Hermione had just organised a minute ago. James caught
her attention, nodding to the door.
"Hermione, a word?"
She frowned one more time at Draco's direction, but she
refused to let him anger her again, so she turned around and
followed James out of the room.
The door closed with a faint thud and James looked visibly
uncomfortable. He cleared his throat several times, making
Hermione feel out of place and causing her to tap her foot
nervously.
"The funeral will be the day after tomorrow." He stopped as if
to think about a way how to best phrase his next words. "Everyone
will be there, including Harry, and I thought you should be there,
too."
He paused once more and Hermione felt the weight of his
words settle heavy on her shoulders. A subtle question that was
really a demand which she needed to think about first. Funerals were
always a heavy thing. Sympathy and emotions could easily cloud
your perception.
Her mind was racing and when it finally stopped she nodded,
replying in a murmur, "It's alright. Of course, I'll be there."
The uncertainty dropped from James' shoulders at that moment
while Hermione's only increased. The man had already turned to
leave, hand in the air in a waving gesture.
"Good. I'll see you there."
Hermione watched him take a couple of steps when she saw
him stop and turn around, his expression clearly conflicted just like
his voice. "Oh, and regarding Draco; give the man a chance. I know
he can be-"
"Boastful? Presumptuous? Vain?"
"- hard to handle. But he's good at his job. Believe me." His
smile was weak, it seemed almost forced but there was something in
his eyes that made her reluctantly believe his words.
Hermione didn't even try to hide her obvious disdain for the
man with whom she'd be forced to share an office for the
foreseeable future. Her tone mirrored her facial expression.
With a frown, she said, "We'll see about that."
There she stopped and gave him at least a small smile that she
hoped was somehow reassuring because of the fatigue that was
written all over his face and was apparent in his posture. Hermione
scolded herself inwardly that she hadn't noticed it sooner.
"Go home, James. Say hi to Lilly for me."
"I will. Good Night, Hermione."
As she watched him disappear behind the wall on the far end of
the hall, her mind calmed down enough to give her a chance to drift
off for a few seconds. Working with Draco would be a living hell
after everything that happened back in college. But perhaps together
they'd finally find a clue that'd lead them somewhere.
 Minutes had passed but she was still standing in the same spot
James had left her in. An all-consuming silence enveloped her like a
thick cloak of shadows. Instead of feeling afraid she embraced it
gladly. The distant clacking of heels ripped her out of her stupor.
Draco was waiting. A deep weary sigh left her lips as she turned
around and faced the door to her office once more.
She took the handle and pressed it down.
 As a murderer, you should always consider how you perform your killings.

You need to fit the norm because the worst that can happen to any kind of
profiler is when the murderer doesn't fit one of their patterns. They search for
you in the wrong people, in the wrong classes, in the wrong circles. Your case will
be put away to the Cold Cases because it was too hard for them to think outside
the box.
It's hard to be a good killer.
Not everyone has what it takes to be the next Jack the Ripper.

Profilers categorise murderers in seven different groups. This system doesn't leave
a wide margin for killers to make unconventional decisions.

I always wonder which category I fit into.

Which one of the seven definitions is actually appropriate for what I do.

Considering all of the seven categories. I realise that I'm not someone who seeks
satisfaction. I don't care about avaricious or base motives like hate, envy or
revenge. I strictly adhere to my own principles.
I WANT my victims to see me. To recognise me.
They should absolutely know who brought death to their doorstep.
So malevolence isn't accurate either.

With time I noticed that my capabilities are virtually outstanding when it comes
to the categories of cruelty, violence and bloodlust. However, I abhor categories
and the people who try to label me or print my name in headlines just to get the
next scoop. Their dense little brains can't grasp the message behind my work.

They should at least show me the respect I deserve, right?

They should open a new category just for me.
 CHAPTER THREE

Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception.

Niccolò Machiavelli
 Amid the osseous skull lies the encephalon which operates the mental and
cognitive functions alongside the unique controlled emotions of each human
being. They characterise us and enable people to be distinguished as individuals.
No other part of the body shows the true nature of a human being as precise as
the head, which is, alongside the heart, the only other organ whose existence is
essential for the survival of the entire human organism.

Almost every organ can be transplanted or surgically replaced.

All of them - except the head.

Saint Bartholomew's Hospital
Tuesday, 19th August
9:21 a.m
36 days until the next murder

Finding a space in a London car park during the morning rush

hour was nearly impossible. For Hermione, it felt as if half of
London was on its way to make her morning an unforgettable
disaster. She cursed in no less than three different languages as some
upper-class office executive, in a carmine-red BMW roadster,
snatched the last space from right under her nose. It took ten more
minutes, before Hermione finally found a hidden spot behind the
Barts Hospital to park her Volkswagen Beetle. However, the
moment she left the car, her red Converse bogged down in a puddle
of old London rain and dirt on the streets.
She cursed once more.
A text message flashed on the screen of her iPhone, as she
grabbed the mobile from her bag of the passenger seat, shutting the
door with a sway of her hip. She skimmed over the message while
she locked the car.

Where are you?

9:31 a.m., DM

The message in the grey speech bubble flashed brightly on the

white screen of her mobile and she didn't even need to look up at
the name to know that it had been from Draco. Her eyes flickered
up to the digital clock on her phone. The Lupin funeral had already
started, and she would bet everything she held dear that the whole
MI5 department would be present already - everyone except her.
It had been a tough choice, deciding that she wouldn't attend
the funeral with the other members. Seeing the masses of grieving
people and friends would lead to rising sympathy in her; she couldn't
risk her feelings clouding her professional view of the case.
Feelings lead to assumptions, assumptions lead to mistakes and mistakes
lead to death.
 She sighed. Her thumb was already tapping on the screen to
send an answer, while she hurried around the corner to the front of
the hospital.

I'm following a lead. Sorry, can't make it. Call you later?
9:32 a.m., HG

Alright. I'll text you when this is over.

9:32 a.m., DM

His answer followed without any delay, and she wondered if his
fingers were trained due to the year-long texting under his school
desk; she reminded herself, however, that he had never been one for
doing things in secret, so she came to the conclusion that it was pure
bravado and a considerable portion of arrogance.
Droplets of rain started to pelt on her head, so she hurried
along and entered the hospital via two enormous wooden doors,
which creaked at the hinges. She needed to throw the weight of her
upper body against them to push them open. She stumbled in and
switched her mobile to mute while the doors closed with a dull
sound behind her back.
King Henry VIII's influence and ascendancy were clearly visible
to anyone who had a decent knowledge of British history. The age
of the building held a certain kind of charm. The staircase led
Hermione to the hospital's great hall, a double-height, Baroque-
styled room with a few paintings on movable stands to adorn the
walls. In the middle stood a circular desk which served as the
reception. Hermione approached a thin, dark-haired woman with
energetic strides, while her drenched Converse left squelching
sounds with each step on the cold tiles.
"Good morning, I'm searching for Dr Riddle?" She took her
badge out of her back pocket, and the woman's eyes widened, which
gave her a horrible horse-like look. Hermione's eyes rested on the
name-tag for a second, a habit she had maintained throughout the
years to memorise the names of the people she met.
Petunia, as the woman, with a neck twice as long as usual, was
named, pursed her lips and pointed towards the far end of the aisle.
Her voice was jarring and for a second Hermione thought of nails
scratching over a chalkboard.
 "Follow the hallway to the right and take the elevator down to
-2. Dr Riddle should be in his office."
It was obvious that the woman was interested in what someone
like Hermione could possibly want from one of the doctors, but
Hermione didn't bother to carry on with the conversation. Instead,
she bid her goodbye and followed Petunia's instructions until she
reached the elevator, which was, unsurprisingly, out of order. An
annoyed huff escaped her lips as she turned around and took the
stairs.
The basement was dark and narrow, far darker than Hermione
had expected. Flickering, yellowed neon lights were casting gaudy
shades on the ceiling. She followed the aisle past a bunch of doors,
which lead to exam rooms and other offices that were currently
unoccupied, until she reached a metallic double door with little
windows to grant a look at what lay hidden inside. A bright light was
filtering out from the inside and she spotted a patch of dark hair
that was bent over a table, obviously in the middle of some kind of
examination. She pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
The room was, to her utter astonishment, modern and clean,
almost clinically sterile with white walls and tiles that covered the
whole room. She could spot a metallic autopsy table in the middle
of the room with several delivery boards that held medical and
scientific equipment. A man was hunched over the corpse on the
table, his blue-gloved fingers buried inside the chest. The room was
enormous and the voice of the man who dictated something to a
nearby voice recorder echoed, making a hollow sound. Her
unannounced arrival didn't seem to startle the doctor at all, because
he continued with his examination unaffected, almost ignorant of
her presence.
"Female, central European, estimated age due to the status of
her internal organs between fifty and sixty," he said, and Hermione
wondered for a second if he hadn't noticed her entrance. She
cleared her throat, but his slender hand, still clothed in a sky-blue
medical glove full of blood, shot up and silenced her before the first
syllable had even left her lips. She pursed her lips, sulking, but the
man exuded indifference once more and continued.
"Objective criteria, such as rectal temperature and performance
measurements, as well as the ambient temperature at the crime
scene, point in conjunction with rigour mortis and cadaveric lividity
to the onset of death, which was a maximum of thirty-six to forty-
eight hours ago." He lifted the skin on the stomach to reveal little,
white eggs that nestled on the pinkish raw flesh around her navel.
Hermione suddenly felt sick and she turned her head around to
rest her gaze on a set of metallic instruments, all of them clean as a
whistle and almost innocent-looking. Looking at crime scene
pictures was one thing but it was another to stare at a corpse seated
right before her eyes, close at hand. After all, she was a profiler, not
a pathologist.
Five cases, seven deaths in total, and little time left before the
next victim showed up at their front door. The profiler before her
hadn't found any clues. They had no Behavioural Analysis Unit in
Britain, sadly, so she was mostly on her own. They had already
crossed the time limit four times; she'd make certain they wouldn't
cross it a fifth time.
After a while, the doctor straightened himself and flipped both
external skin-flaps over the opened stomach and intestines again. He
didn't stitch it back up, so Hermione assumed that he hadn't
finished the autopsy yet, but rather stopped it out of politeness. She
observed out of the corner of her eyes how the man took off his
gloves from his long, slender fingers with a squeaking sound, before
he reached over the steel sink to wash and disinfect his hands with a
special kind of liquid soap. It held the typical clinical hospital smell
that seemed to cling to the walls and staff in the same way cheap
perfume stuck to a stripper's skin and hair. Hermione could smell it
even though they were standing some feet apart.
When he turned around to finally face her, hand outstretched to
turn off the tape recorder in one fluent move, he was not what she
had expected. All the online articles and pictures could never do
justice to the beauty of the man's actual face. His nose was
incredibly straight and aristocratic, and split his face into two
perfectly symmetrical halves, with high, razor-sharp cheekbones. His
eyes were of a strange bright grey colour, with dapples of steel-blue
around the iris. They seemed focused, highly attentive of her, as
they roamed over her body and stopped at her face again. They were
shielded by long black eyelashes, which would make any girl jealous.
Perfect, full lips graced his overall sculpted face and Hermione
didn't even notice that she had stopped breathing the moment he
had stepped closer.
"I don't recall any reporters or student interviews scheduled for
today. This place is usually closed off for lurking spectators, so I'd
suggest you leave the building before I'll call the security guards,
Miss." His voice was suave but smug, almost thick like honey and
something warm spread through her body, something pleasurable,
even though his tone was clearly dismissive. An expensive cologne
floated around him and she found herself ensnared by the delicious
scent.
"Forgive me, Mister Riddle, but I'd have introduced myself
sooner if you-" she started, but was interrupted mid-sentence by his
snarl.
"Doctor. And I'm not interested in your excuses, just leave."
Even though the words were meant to be polite, the chill in his tone
was unmistakable.
"Doctor Riddle," Hermione corrected herself, wondering if he
had got out of bed on the wrong side this morning. She fished her
badge out of her back pocket and hastily flipped it open. His eyes
shortly glanced at the shining metal and she suddenly felt as if his
behaviour had got even colder than before - if that was even
possible. "My name is Hermione Jean Granger, I'm a special agent
for the MI5 and I'd like to ask you a couple of questions, Doctor."
"Special agent?" he asked, almost a tad derisive, which felt an
awful lot like an insult to her. She was almost sure that his intense
gaze had darkened just seconds ago, but it vanished almost
immediately, so she dropped it. Slowly, he extended his hand
towards her and she took it in a short, firm shake. His grip around
her delicate fingers was firm and solid; confident. "And how do I
deserve such an honour?"
"I'd like to have your opinion on a recent case," she said matter-
of-factly, and pushed a single strand of her bushy hair behind her
ear.
"So the MI5 can't even find consistencies on its own?" A dark
chuckle accompanied his sarcastic words and she noticed that his
tone hadn't changed; it was still frosty and confrontational. Almost
gleeful.
"That's not what I meant!" she countered immediately, feeling
her frustration with the man growing with each passing minute.
Perhaps flattery would ease his mood. "You are an expert on the
decay of the human body, as well as on anatomical and forensic
autopsy. I have read a lot of the papers you have published and I'd
like a second opinion on some of the victims."
 A strained silence fell over the room and Hermione started to
count the seconds ticking by on a nearby clock. Their eyes were
locked and she didn't know what exactly the doctor was looking for,
but he seemed to have found something because after an endless
amount of time he straightened even further.
"I see." His eyes never left hers and the gaze from his pale grey
eyes was more than just intense. It was intoxicating, devouring, and
something far more powerful, something hard and stoic. Something
dangerous. He didn't avert his gaze, not once. He mentioned
casually while pointing to the still-open corpse on the autopsy table,
"Unfortunately I don't have any time to spare today. As you see I'm
quite busy. Call the department office for collaboration on police
investigations and get an appointment." He had already turned
around and left her standing like a little child.
"You don't understand, Mister Ri-" she started again, and was
promptly interrupted once more, this time with far more venom and
spite in his voice.
"Doctor," he emphasised the word while facing her with a hiss,
almost as if he was trying to teach her some respect. The white coat
swirled shortly as he turned around, but then the thick fabric laid
flat against his body again. His temper died soon after.
"Doctor Riddle." She gritted her teeth, and the word left a bitter
taste in her mouth. She didn't know why he was so obsessed with
the title.

He's 32. A genius, but still young, far younger than most doctors with the
same achievements, working in the same field as him. Could mean that he
constantly feels the need to prove himself to the world.

Hermione snorted, dissatisfied. "I don't have any time to waste,

Doctor Riddle. Clearly you read about the bombing in the paper a
few days ago?" She waited for the man in front of her to nod, once,
shortly, before she continued in the same accusatory tone, "National
security depends on this."
"National security is always in danger as soon as the MI5 is
attacked," he said, and it sounded as if he didn't take the matter
seriously. Not in the slightest. To cap it all, he sneered, and with
sarcasm dripping from his voice, replied, "So let's see, how can a
humble pathologist like me help the Crown, Miss-?"
 "Granger." This time Hermione was sure the doctor had
mocked her; there was no way that he hadn't caught her name at the
start of the conversation. Her mood had reached point zero by now
and she didn't even try to hide her disdain for the way he treated
her. Her eyes slid shortly over to the corpse, but found their living
counterpart again soon enough. "Could we perhaps move this
conversation to your office? I'd find that a tad more comfortable."
Slowly, he turned his head to have a look at the corpse, then his
eyes wandered back to look down on her with a good portion of
scorn.
"Of course. Follow me." His tone was still charming, but
something else swept around the edges, something taunting and
scoffing, almost as if he was speaking to a child.
A sudden blush crept into her pinkish skin and reddened her
cheeks.

Splendid. What a start.

Riddle turned around but never took his eyes off of Hermione,
pointing to a nearby door which was strangely hidden next to a
cupboard - she hadn't noticed it before. He led the way through the
wooden door and she followed blindly, putting away her police
badge in the process. Her childish nature rose to the surface because
she was tempted to make a face or a grimace and she barely
refrained herself from doing so. There were too many glass walls
and mirrors in the room that could give her away and she didn't
want to push the man's ego even more.
Upon entering the office she first noticed that it was
astonishingly small and unfurnished. It couldn't be bigger than a
storeroom, which surprised her, considering his name and
reputation. The room held a desk with a leather office chair, as well
as a couple of lockable file cabinets. It was flooded with tomes on
nuclear medicine, as well as autopsy reports, handwritten papers and
notes, neatly glued yellow post-its which were written in such a
straight and accurate way that it looked like someone had held a
ruler underneath it while writing. Riddle pointed, most likely out of
politeness, to the office chair, so Hermione could sit, before he went
on to the rearmost wall, which contained something like a kitchen
unit; a little sink and barely enough space for a fully automated
coffee machine and a small fridge underneath.
 "Coffee? Water?" he asked, while he had already pushed the
button on the coffee machine so it could warm itself up. It began to
grind the beans with a nasty, raucous sound and Hermione waited
until the noise had died down before she addressed him again.
"Water, please."
She grabbed her bag, opened the zip to take the files out and
then put them on her lap. She didn't want to push the things on his
desk aside and jumble them in the process; she detested it herself if
someone just suddenly messed with her desk. Better to let a person
sort out their own belongings.
She had heard about the man before. Read about him, too, but
this was the first time she had encountered him and got to
experience his magnetic personality for herself. Not much was
known about his past. He was a prodigy and came from old money.
The name Riddle was known in many fields: medicine, law, politics.
They practically owned Little Hangleton, a little town just outside of
London. It intrigued her, the name Tom Marvolo Riddle, one
known and spoken about all over Britain, with people falling over
themselves to talk about the man. Charisma was a dime a dozen
with doctors, but with Riddle, it was almost cheap to call it mere
charisma.
She could see why now.
A quick glance didn't give much away about the man. Just a pair
of reading glasses that lay on top of a pile of books, one of which
was written by himself.

Bloody Narcissist.

Unfortunately, she was the one who wanted something from

him, not the other way around. She needed to cut the man some
slack.
"May I ask why of all people you chose me to help you with
this?" Riddle drawled, almost amused, putting a coaster under a
fresh glass of fizzy water. The cup of coffee he had made for
himself rested in his left hand. It hardly even trembled when he
bowed down to draw out a wooden stool from underneath the desk.
He sat the cup effortlessly on the only place on the table which
wasn't covered with any documents or files and made just enough
space for her to deposit her records.
 It was clear that he wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of
helping her out. She could read it not only in his tone and
behaviour, but even more in the way he pressed his lips together and
furrowed his brows. Or the way these long, perfect legs were crossed
next to her. He was dominating the room, too.

Chin up, chest out, shoulders back, enigmatic smile. Clearly dominant
posture. He feels annoyed for some reason. No, not exactly annoyed. Rather …
doubtful.

"I was given this case myself just mere days ago. I would prefer
to have another pair of eyes. A neutral doctor's. Take a look at it to
see if you can catch something that no other has. This killer is highly
unusual, so I need one of the best doctors around. And your
records speak for themselves."
Flattery usually helped to ease the mood, but the man didn't
take the bait. Instead, he took the first case from the pile in
Hermione's lap, pushed the elegant reading glasses onto his nose
and started to skim over the words and pictures.
The silence brought peace to the room and it felt strangely
comforting to watch Riddle's facial muscles work in perfect unison.
She leaned back in the, admittedly really comfortable, office chair
and observed the way his grey eyes read over the lines with a
rapidity she had seldom seen before.

Speed reading.

She remembered that she had read, in one of the online articles
that Google spit out, that he had attended Oxford and graduated
with some of the highest grades ever, with the best first-class
references one could hope for. For a split second, she wondered
whether he ever strove for more than this position at St. Barts,
publishing a book or two and making ingenious scientific
discoveries now and then.
"No external corporal harm besides the obvious basal skull
fracture, extensive abrasions on the skin and nasal wings. Perianal
haematoma on both eyelids due to the removal of her eyeballs." His
tone was casual, almost bored, while he recited the obvious wounds
and his conclusions. Then he added thoughtfully, "It's a rarity,
though, to see someone killing with such brutal force and yet such
precision."
He arched a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow as soon as
Hermione started to rummage through her bag. She had found her
notebook easily, but the cheap ballpoint pen she used was missing
from its usual spot. She gave a sheepish smile as long, slender
fingers held a sleek, silver Montblanc pen out for her that looked far
more expensive than the entire contents of her whole bag. She took
it hesitantly and started to write down her notes.
Riddle's eyes fixed on hers again and he added, a tad cynical,
"Usually, predators like him would more likely prefer to leave their
victims in one piece to marvel at them. Such a rush of anger and
rage that led him to smash their heads to a pulp doesn't match with
the precision and patience he clearly showed while cutting the eyes
out of the sockets."
"Well, he's no Charles Albright, that's for sure," Hermione
snorted, fiddling with the clasp of the pen.
"No, he's not," Riddle replied reluctantly, frowning. He paused
and then added, "How about Albert Fish?"
"Fish was a paedophile." She wrinkled up her nose in disgust,
but writes the name in her book, nevertheless. More comparative
data and analysis could always help the case. In the end, if he'd
prove unnecessary she could just cross him from the list again.
"But his perversion and sadism resemble that of your cases,
don't they?" Riddle prompted, taking a sip of his coffee. A challenge
flashed through his pale grey eyes and Hermione was suddenly
reminded of her time in college when she immersed in a debate.
This felt like mental warfare and she realised that he wanted to test
her intelligence.
"But Fish was a lust-killer. This one is … different." Her hands
were still busy with the clasp of the pen and she had started to
gesticulate with it, turning it between her fingers.

Voldemort is no lust-killer. He doesn't seek sexual satisfaction in his acts.

At this point, Hermione even doubted that he sought any

emotional satisfaction in his kills.
"Oh?" The grin on Riddle's face widened. He lifted his chin
even higher in the air.
 Mimicking body language, firm and precise movements, straightened spine.
What a clever man.

Hermione wished she could punch the smugness off his face.
"Well, it's too early to make assumptions of course, but nothing
indicates towards anything of a sexual nature in his murders so far."
That seemed to be enough because the man returned his
attention to the file in his hands.
"How do you know so much about the cases?"
He arched a perfectly curved eyebrow and regarded her with a
side glance. "I read The Times, Agent Granger."

Of course you do.

Her hackles rose, but she didn't take the bait.

He closed the folder shortly afterwards and reached over the
distance between them to hand her the copy back.
"For more precise answers I'll need to have a look at the corpse
myself." Even while his voice was back to its usual distant tone, his
posture was still attentively directed towards Hermione.
"That's impossible," she admitted hesitantly while shifting
uncomfortably in the chair. Her tongue ran over her teeth. "No one
knew at that point that the girl would be the first in a line of victims
of a serial killer, so the parents cremated her."
For a split second Riddle's face went completely blank.
Hermione wondered if he had some kind of neurology-based
opinion on cremating; sometimes pathologists reacted strangely,
almost attacked as soon as the topic came up.
He composed himself quickly enough though, before closing
the discussion around Lavender Brown.
"Well, I'm afraid that on the basis of these pictures I can't tell
you any further information." It almost sounded belligerent to her
ears, but she didn't comment on it.
She flipped through her files and handed him Diggory's record,
the thickest so far, and leaned back again to wait for further
deductions. Riddle scanned the pictures, as well as the medical
reports, and she wondered, not for the first time that day, what went
on behind those highly vigilant eyes of his. Her gaze wandered over
the piles of books and records on his desk. Medical books mixed
with mythology ones and even a rare edition of Anais Nin. It was
tempting her to run her fingers over the old leather.
"Even experienced and highly intelligent pathologists, like my
humble self, can't deduce anything from victims with a burn above
the fourth degree, besides the fore accelerant or the location of the
impact of the explosion. An identification of the victim is extremely
rare," he finally said, faster than Hermione expected.
"Depersonalisation of his environment seems to be an
important subject in his works," she retorted immediately. But
Riddle looked smug, his smile sharper than a butcher's knife, that fit
perfectly with his high cheekbones. It was a mix between a sneer and
a smile; Hermione wasn't sure if she should feel praised or
offended.
"It's a superior form of art, Miss Granger. It's a concept that
modern performance artists like Gormley or Abramovic love to
push and showcase nowadays, but its roots go way back, in literature
and human nature, too. Take Eliot's for example." He pushed his
reading glasses up and tapped thoughtfully on the thin, metallic
frame.
"If you're talking about T. S. Eliot's theory here, you need to
include Freud's as well and then we have a whole other subject.
Freud was clearly stating that every human being has the need to
express their natural instincts through some form of neurosis, while
T. S. Eliot was talking about the distance a poet brings between
himself and the view presented in his poem - Eliot depersonalised
himself in the act." She huffed and leaned forward, ready to defend
her point of view if necessary.
But Riddle simply shook his head in some strange sort of
sadistic amusement, and when he spoke his voice was darker than
before, deeper, with a certain kind of bite at the edges.
"Eliot depersonalised his subject, not himself. It doesn't matter
if we're talking about a poem or a contemporary art piece depicting
the decay of the human body in modern times; in the end, both end
up depersonalised and stripped of any connection that's left to the
human world."

And Voldemort does the same.

 Hermione's mind started to race. With a flick of her tongue, she
wet her dry lips and suppressed the urge to tear on the sensitive skin
there again.

If depersonalisation is not just a part of him that tries to bring distance

between the victims and the world, instead, if it is some kind of way to arrange
his murders so as to bring distance between himself and the victims, then it'd
mean-

"So you're basically saying that he's trying to talk to us through

his art?" She felt the dots connecting in her mind even before she
could grasp the vital information herself.
"Merely offering another point of view. Wasn't that exactly what
you were asking for, Miss Granger?" Riddle said, closing the file
once more. He reached over the table, eyes fixed on her, almost
hawk-like. Even though Hermione was busy scribbling down notes,
she noticed the way his previous behaviour vanished under a cover
of interest.
He almost sounded sorry when he added, "As far as
identification goes, however, I'm afraid I won't be of much help,
considering the state of the body."
"We already identified him," she shot right back, then added
casually, once his eyes widened in surprise, "We were lucky that
some of his fellow students could help us out. A DNA test
confirmed it."
"Huh. What a coincidence." His tone was flat and didn't give
much away, but Hermione didn't notice either way; she was too busy
completing her notes before handing over the next two files. Riddle
took the record out of her delicate hands and flipped it open, but
his eyes rested secretly on the woman in front of him for a few
more seconds. He observed the way she bent over her notebook,
eyes transfixed on the words that came pouring out of the pen. His
eyes traced the veins in her neck that were throbbing slightly faster
than they were just mere minutes before. He savoured the moment,
then focused on the folder in his hands.
"Our investigations reveal no clues about the murder weapon. I
was hoping you could help me out with identifying it." The silver tip
of the pen pointed to one of the pictures, which showed a terrible,
weathered head on special foliage, with a small evidence-numbered
place card right beside it. Riddle seemed to be searching for all the
vital information in the files because it took some time before he
spoke again.
"Clean, precise cuts. No fringes or shreds of skin on either side.
No recesses, most likely dissevered in one blow. Knives and swords
always leave behind little edgings of skin - no blade is sharp enough
to make such a clean cut. Not even a guillotine. Besides, a guillotine
would be rather incongruous for the murderer's needs. Hm." He
stopped abruptly, and his pupils dilated for a split second. His face
was strangely blank again, and the fake fluorescent light made him
look unhealthy and even paler than before. When he finally spoke,
his words were carefully chosen, almost weighed with a good
portion of respect, "Your idea, Miss Granger?"
Hermione followed his indication and spotted the memo at the
edge of the paper, small and in perfect, clean handwriting.
Steel rope, 0.6 diameters.
"Yes," she said, the lie on her tongue solid and firm. She didn't
even blink. She didn't know who had written the memo, but she
didn't really care at the moment. No one would mind if she'd
borrow it.
Riddle leaned back, the file light in his hands, and gave her a
calculating look.
"I'd definitely consider your method. It's an unusual method but
it'd explain the clean ends on the stumps. Butchers often use this
method to cut meat and steaks in perfect portions. It's also used in
car repair workshops to cut windscreens out." When he spoke, his
voice was dark and admiring, accompanied with a genuine note of
respect.
His eyes darkened further and the balance in the room shifted
noticeably for both. Hermione wet her lips once more. Had the air
in the room been this stifling before? She took a sip of water, which
had long stopped fizzing by now. All her attention was on Riddle,
who leaned forwards now, clearly showing interest.
This man knew how to use his body. He was seductive,
mesmerising; he was a weapon.
"However, to make a better deduction, I'd need a comparable
cutting wire, as well as both parts of the body to examine." His
voice finally cut through the tension in the room, and he added,
almost immediately, words thick with sarcasm, "Please tell me the
MI5 has at least these two corpses and their components to do a
professional autopsy?"
 "I'm afraid we don't," Hermione murmured, rasped almost, so
she drank another gulp of water and then set the glass aside on the
coaster. She suddenly felt hyper-aware of his presence around her,
so she straightened up, cleared her throat twice, before addressing
him again. "The murderer took the stumps from the second victim
and the third… well, let's just say we haven't found the body, yet."
She wouldn't dare say that they didn't have any hope of it turning up
now, not after nearly ninety days. "I could arrange for you to take a
look at the remaining body parts if that would help," she added
hesitantly, while her fingers were busy toying with the clasp in her
hand.
Riddle stopped her with a wave of his long, bony hand. A small
frown appeared on his forehead and he said, lips pursed, "I'm afraid
it won't. Without the stumps or the torso, it's almost impossible to
deduce the murder weapon with certainty."
Nodding absentmindedly, she flipped through her notebook,
which contained pages of differential equations as well as coding
systems to break the code on the riddles, but also some questions
she had put down for herself to remember later on. It was a bit
disorganised and she decided to sort through it in the near future,
when she found the page she was looking for.
"Is it possible, as a woman, to procure the required strength to
chop someone's head off with the cutting wire? Or am I right in
assuming that the killer must be male?"
"Well Miss Granger, Newton's Second Law teaches us that it's
not a matter of the gender. Neither of them would be able to do it
alone." There it was again, the flicker of something curious and
dark, something challenging.
Hermione frowned.

So does this means there are in fact several killers? No, that doesn't make
sense. The profile clearly points to a single offender. Newton's Second Law…
Wait. Force is the product of mass and acceleration. So that'd mean-

"The killer used the body weight along with high acceleration as
some kind of mechanism to behead the victim," she said, voice
barely above a whisper. Her right hand tightened around the silver
metal clasp until her knuckles stood out, white.
"A human alone would never be able to find the strength to
decapitate someone, as funny as it looks in the Sleepy Hollow
movie. We always need a force or movement that provides the
strength for the act. It doesn't matter if it is a woman or a man who
pulls the trigger," he retorted smugly, the sly grin on his features
almost invisible. Riddle, once again, looked strangely satisfied, which
gave her the feeling of being in a tutorial rather than an MI5
consultation.
"And we don't have any lead to determine the secondary driving
force behind it?" For a split second she kept her hopes up, but the
man shook his head slowly. He leaned further towards her and
grabbed the bright yellow post-it notepad, which brought an
exquisite scent into Hermione's nose. His aftershave mingled with
something else this time; the scent of a fresh and dewy cleaning
agent that pleasantly tingled her nose and embedded itself in the
back of her mind. It was delicious.
"Not if the torso is missing. With the aid of the body and the
head together I could have determined what kind of force was
needed to separate both body parts. With neither the body, nor the
murder weapon, we don't have all the data needed for our equation."
His fingers touched hers briefly, as he withdrew the pen from her
hand. He started to draw and write an equation on the post-it
notepad to explain his words. When he was finished, he took the
liberty to pull the note off and give it to her along with the pen,
before he concluded his theory. "It differs from the guillotine, where
the weight of the body didn't matter."
Hermione took a look at the post-it in her hand.

F=m*a. Basic physics. What does he think I am? A child.

She huffed annoyed and stuck the note neatly in her notebook.
She twirled the pen between her fingers; it was still warm.
"Well, if I remember correctly, the guillotine wasn't always
reliable enough to kill a person with the first blow, either. Not to
mention that I doubt that it'd leave clean edges," she said and lifted
her gaze back to Riddle's pale grey eyes.
A dark chuckle left his lips and she spotted a row of perfect,
white teeth. He seemed to think for a moment, then he said,
perhaps a tad too enthusiastically, "Did you know that French
doctors made some macabre experiments during the French
Revolution? They took recently severed guillotined heads - which
were a dime a dozen during that time - and exposed them to light
and sound stimuli to document any possible reactions."
"What did they learn from it?"
The tension in the small office - better, storeroom - was thick
and overwhelming, almost touchable by now, and she felt her pulse
speed up whenever Riddle's dilated pupils wandered from her eyes
to her neck, or worse, to her lips. She wet them in a ludicrous
attempt to cool down the heat that had risen in her cheeks. When he
finally spoke again, his voice was a dark rumble, almost seductive.
"What do you think, Miss Granger?"
She cleared her throat twice before dwelling on a reasonable
response. She had read statements by several persons who had
spoken of Riddle's impossible allure, an especially profound effect
he had on anyone who dared to come too close to him.
Like a fatal attraction.
She felt almost like a fly caught in his web, but she wasn't ready
to be the fly.
"I think modern medicine has proven to us that a head can't
survive without its body," she finally replied and the answer must
have been good enough because he nodded once, thoughtfully, and
not as sharply as before, then leaned back again.
"True."
He observed the way she tapped the clasp against the files on
her lap for a couple of seconds, "You can say decapitations run like
a golden thread through art and literature alike. Caravaggio, Luini,
Gyula - they all painted Salome with Saint John's head. Caravaggio
also painted Judith Slaying Holofernes."
"Gentileschi drew that, too."
"Gentileschi had a whole other perspective of the female nature
and power balance which she used in her work," he countered
immediately, and even though the tension between them was still
palpable, he refrained from misusing it again.
Hermione's eyebrows lifted, surprised.

He thinks women are equal to men; gender doesn't matter to him. That's
rare, coming from someone in his field of work with so many privileges.

"I think we should keep that topic for another time. Is there
anything else you want me to look at today?" Riddle added
nonchalantly and far more conversationally than a few minutes ago.
She noted that his posture had completely changed, too; his legs
were no longer crossed anymore, his attitude still dominating, yet
also intrigued.
Remus' case came to her mind and she could feel the weight of
its presence in her bag, but the papers hadn't been approved for
further investigations, yet. She shook her head and put the cap on
the pen.
"No. That's about all for now."
Out of the corner of her eyes, she observed how he took the
reading glasses off his perfect, straight nose to put them back on the
table. She arranged the files neatly again, before placing them in her
bag and when she closed the notebook in her lap her eyes fell on the
outline of her leather wristwatch; it was almost 12:30 p.m.
The funeral must be long over and a quick glance at her silenced
phone showed new messages from several people - Draco, Harry,
Draco, her mother.
"Wow, I didn't notice how quickly the time went by," she
murmured, and threw the notebook, along with the pen, hastily into
her bag. "Thank you for your time, Doctor Riddle. This will be all."
"I'll give you my mobile number," he said and reached over her
head into a hidden clothes rack, to pull a shining, silver étui out of
his coat. It had a nice embossing on the top, some kind of emblem,
with a snake that bit itself in the tail. He flipped it open with his
index finger and revealed a set of high-quality business cards. He
handed her one.
"Should there be any new questions don't be afraid to contact
me again."
"You helped me already," Hermione took the card from his
long fingers. The paper was heavy and thick, a creamy ivory colour,
while his name stood out in black. It was minimalistic, yet mirrored
him perfectly. She smiled and put the card into a special pocket on
her bag, so it wouldn't fold or crease. "It was a pleasure meeting you,
Doctor."
They shook hands once more and the warmth of his skin felt
strangely comforting.
"The pleasure was all mine," Riddle said, letting go of her hand.
He accompanied her to the door that led back into the hallways of
the basement and he opened them chivalrously to let her pass. For a
second he remained at the door and surveyed her thoughtfully. His
voice was strangely strained, almost a bit excited, when he added as
a final statement, "Let's hope this time you'll be one step ahead of
him, Special Agent Granger."
A brief pause hung between them as Hermione left the room.
She turned around once more to give him an encouraging smile,
which was meant more for herself than the man before her. "I'm
trying to. Have a nice day."
Hermione turned around and proceeded along the corridor at a
fast pace. Her footsteps reverberated, hollow and noisy, from the
walls. An uncomfortable chill gnawed at the back of her neck,
almost as if someone was observing her.
She hadn't heard the door closing behind her. Neither did she
dare to turn around and check.
The pen, however, rested warm and intrusive in her bag.
 A body without a head - this spectacle terrifies and fascinates people since the
beginning of time.

Did you know that a head can at least operate its motor skills for some seconds
after decapitation? It is scientifically proven that a large number of decapitated
people have blood deep in their respiratory tracts. Which is theoretically
impossible, since the separation between head and body cuts any communication
between the respiratory centre in the brain and the remaining peripheral nervous
system. Any breathing activity should stop abruptly, as soon as the head is cut
off.

However, during autopsies of decapitated people, we often find blood that

continues to the pulmonary alveoli - for which a functioning brain is usually
required.
Hence, it's ultimately proven that even victims which are killed by a train
running over them are actually, for a split second, still alive.
Almost like chicken, when you decapitate them and their nervous system still
works. They start to twitch and some of them even run without a head through
the streets until they finally collapse from exhaustion.

Hm, interesting.

Do you think Gregorovitch twitched, too?

 CHAPTER FOUR

Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.

Albert Einstein
 Humans.
Mammal. Primate. Homo Sapiens.

Humans are lower animals, a non-relevant species that lives by convincing

themselves that they are some higher form of existence. No other species thrives
on a sense of superiority alone, as does the human being.

Stuff food in your mouth during lunch hour.

Break bones and back for your family to make a living.
Satisfy your partner in bed so they won't cheat on you.
Wake up. Work. Get home. Wash. Sleep.

Humans are in a frenzy.

Like puppets, they're letting society pull their strings, trying to reach the next
level.
No one is truly satisfied with what they were born with.
It's a myth.

Humans always long to be more.

It's simply in their nature.

Humans need. Humans crave. Humans ruin.

And so the cycle continues.
Three Broomsticks Nightclub
Friday, 22nd August
5:23 p.m
33 days until the next murder

"Listen, I've already told your colleagues everything I remember

the last three times they've asked me."
The metallic clatter of the tray was barely audible over the
deafening vibrations caused by rhythmic drums that made up the
background noise of the nightclub and sounded like the beat of a
90s house song. Parvati Patil looked tired, Hermione noticed, as the
girl pushed a strand of blue-dyed hair behind her ear. Her dry
complexion was accentuated by a fine layer of makeup on her dark
brown skin, while slightly violet circles were visible under her eyes;
not even the thick layer of concealer could cover them. With one
hand, the girl wiped over her sweat-covered forehead.
The Three Broomsticks would open in a few hours; the DJ was
already setting up his equipment and Hermione could see the
manager of the nightclub running around with his phone glued to
his ear. The club wasn't exactly exclusive, but the last few months
had been good for business. People talk.
"Miss Patil, please be assured that we wouldn't ask these
questions if they weren't absolutely necessary."
Parvati Patil was a skinny, Indian woman, who looked far
younger than she really was; their information said twenty-six, but
Hermione felt certain that she was barely of age. A little silver ring
pierced her nose and the girl brushed her knuckles against it each
time a new question was raised by either Hermione or Draco.

She's nervous.

The internal turmoil was visible on the girl's face while she was
busy wiping the bar counter with an old, white rag. She gripped it
harder than needed. Again, the brush against the nose ring.

Fear? Shame?

"Miss Patil, you were the last person who saw Lavender before
she encountered her killer. Please, help me close this case." Softly,
Hermione laid her hand on Parvati's and stilled her wiping
movement.
Parvati froze. She studied Hermione with apprehension and
narrowed her dark brown eyes to slits. They stared at each other for
a while; Parvati growing calmer, Hermione growing more impatient.
A nagging voice in the back of her head reminded her constantly
that lives were at stake here – it was hard to fake composure when
you had such a burden on your shoulders.
The girl behind the counter, however, seemed to finally grasp
the urgency of Hermione's tone. Parvati sighed and nodded weakly,
before chucking the old rag under the counter. She rounded the bar
and sat down on one of the stools. Nervously, she wet her lips
twice. "All right, all right. I'll try my best but… it's been so long, I
don't really know how I can be of assistance. I barely remember
anything."
Different neon colours, blurred and hazy, cast Parvati's face in
shadow as someone adjusted the spotlights. Eyes wide, arms
crossed, chin down; she looked scared.

Alarmed. Frightened.

A second later they passed and the tinted ceiling lights dipped
the room into a soft, yellow glow again.
"Just tell us what you know," Hermione prompted cautiously,
taking her notebook out of her pocket. She searched for a pen and
grabbed a sleek, silver one that stopped her dead in her tracks.
Slowly she pulled it out and watched with growing horror as the
recognition sunk in. On its front, in swirling, curved letters was Dr
Riddle's name.

Oh God. I stole his pen.

"We had an appointment," Parvati started hesitantly. Hermione

grabbed another pen and flipped to an empty page in her notebook.
She started writing.
"You know, we didn't have a lot of contact in the months
before– before–" The girl made a vague gesture in the air.
"Before she died?" said Draco, helpfully.
Parvati took a deep breath and swallowed. Another weak nod.
 "Yeah." She wet her lips again and continued. "She was always
busy. Law school. Her internship. We've known each other since
third grade. Been friends ever since. So when she called me the day
before- and said she felt lonely, I just – I thought it'd be good for
her to–" Parvati's eyes glistened with tears; blurring her vision. She
furiously brushed them away.

No, she's not annoyed. She feels guilty.

"Miss Patil–" Hermione started, but Parvati raised a hand and

stopped her mid-sentence. The girl swallowed and took another
breath.
"I know what you want to say, Agent Granger. I've received the
pity and heard all those insincere words of comfort already. Save it."
She flexed both hands over her thighs, which were clad in black
skinny jeans. "I told her I was free at 11 p.m. Lavender showed up
around 9 p.m and asked me to make her a Bloody Mary. She ordered
a second one right after and went to the dance floor. I lost sight of
her shortly after."
"How many people were here that night?" Draco asked.
"I don't know," Parvati replied, with a sigh. "Around 300
maybe. We had a lot less traffic back then compared to now, but 200
at least."
"And you didn't see her after that?" Hermione asked as she
wrote the times down in her notebook, marvelling at how they
matched the ones in the case folders. Even though they were similar
she noted them down, since she liked to have her own notes ready at
hand, too.
"She came back to the bar at around 10. She said she'd met
someone and well... she asked if I'd mind delaying our plans for the
next day. I said that I wouldn't and that she should go and have fun.
She was so overworked that I thought it'd be good for her to just let
it go for a while, you know?"
"Did she mention anything about the person she had met?"
Parvati thought about it, but shook her head slowly – then
suddenly she halted mid-movement, as if she had just remembered
something.
"What is it?"
"N-Nothing. Just…" Another brush against the nose. "She
didn't say his name or where they wanted to go, which was pretty
obvious at that point, you know? But… she said something really
strange."
Hermione looked up at that. "What was it?"
Rattled, the girl started to fidget with a yellow elastic bracelet
around her thin wrist; she pulled at it and let it snap back against her
skin several times, until it looked raw, red and swollen.
The nervousness increases.
"His eyes." A flick of a wet tongue over her dry lips. "She
mentioned his eyes. She said they were– wait, what did she say?
Piercing. Yeah, she said piercing. As if his eyes alone could kill."

A rather macabre metaphor in light of her death.

Wordlessly, Hermione jotted the piece of information down in

her notebook.
"Anything else? Colour perhaps?" Draco was flexing his hand
rhythmically beside her. Parvati shook her head in defeat once more.
Suddenly, the girl looked more exhausted than ever. Her dark skin
had taken on a strange ashen colour, and her eyes were still red and
glazed from withholding tears. There was nothing more to press the
girl with, except...
Hermione fished a couple of pictures out of her pocket. "Just
one more question, Parvati." The girl took the pictures carefully out
of Hermione's grasp, with cold and sweaty hands. Her nails were
brittle and had been bitten here and there. "Take a look at these
pictures. Do you recognise anyone?"
Patil looked at the pictures diligently, but then she passed them
back to Hermione. Not a flicker of recognition had crossed her
face.
"I'm sorry. No one seems familiar."

She hasn't met any of them before.

"All right." With a crestfallen sigh, Hermione took the pictures

back and put them away. Draco gave her a sideways glance, but
made no further comment.
Parvati cleared her throat. "Is that all? The club will open up in
an hour and I still have a lot to do until then." The girl on the bar
stool looked incredibly small. By then, her exhaustion was almost
palpable.
"Yes, Ms Patil. Thank you for your cooperation." Hermione
nodded and tried to muster up an encouraging smile.
Parvati was up and behind the counter before anyone could
have said another word.

It must be hard to blame yourself.

Draco was the first to turn around and leave the obscure
building. Hermione followed closely behind.
They were both greeted by fresh air and bright sunlight as they
left the world of the Three Broomsticks behind them. Draco
inhaled deeply and pushed all the air out of his lungs with a single
breath. He turned around, fixing his gaze on her face; his eyes
shimmered warm and golden, reflecting the sunlight. But the cool
shade of icy-grey that lingered beyond gave them a tainted, almost
muddy look. Nevertheless, they were still beautiful.
"So, piercing eyes, huh?"
"Well," Hermione started and took a black, satin, elastic hair tie
out of her pocket to gather her hair in a complicated looking knot.
"Psychopaths often make very intense eye contact with their chosen
victims. Depending on the gender, preferences or even eye colour,
people may feel strongly attracted to a psychopath. Victims often
report this kind of looks to resemble that of a predator about to
consume their prey – 'reptilian gaze', 'laser beam stare' and the
infamous 'piercing' eyes are just a few names for this phenomenon."
"So let me guess, women often confuse this gaze with sexuality
and find it attractive."
"Just for the record, men are affected by it as well."
"Yeah," Draco snorted and pushed a pair of silver Ray-Ban
aviators up his aristocratic nose. "Still creepy."
"Well, many films depict seductive yet immoral creatures as
having a very strong, psychopathic stare. Psychopaths are parasitic
after all – almost like vampires."
They reached their separate cars and Draco stopped right
beside Hermione, his face showing disbelief.
"So what, you're telling me that Edward Cullen was a
psychopath now?"
 For the first time, in what felt like forever, Hermione felt the
weight of the dead lifting from her shoulders. She threw her head
back, baring her throat and laughed.
The soft smile playing on Draco's lips was entirely worth it.
Hepzibah Smith's old flat
Saturday, 23rd August
11:40 a.m
32 days until the next murder

At first glance, Isleworth looked like any other London suburb.

The truth, however, revealed itself once you saw past the manicured
lawns and white, picket fences. At the far end of the town,
Twickenham Road had plenty of older brick houses; rusty buildings
crammed together without the usual suburban flair. Moss broke
through from between the concrete slabs and not even the warm
August sun could brighten up the cold neighbourhood.
Hermione exited her car and closed the old door with enough
force that the whole vehicle shook. The second round of
interrogations of Lavender's parents and the staff of the law firm
hadn't brought forth any new clues. In fact, Hermione hadn't
believed for a second that they'd just randomly stumble across some
new evidence. The officers working on this case were professionals
and had years of experience under their belts. Sometimes, though,
trying to put yourself into the victim's shoes by reconstructing their
lives as best as possible helped a profiler to get a clearer picture of
the killer.
Hepzibah Smith had led a lonely life in Isleworth. She had
shared the block of flats with five other families; her's was the third
flat on the right. Unfortunately, none of the original tenants was still
living here, aside from the janitor. People had taken to calling it the
'House of Hell', even though she hadn't been killed here. Nowadays,
word spread fast and with the aid of the internet, the police weren't
always able to withhold all critical information. On top of that,
Hepzibah's, as well as Lavender's, old flat had a new tenant by now,
making the situation even more difficult.
Shouldering her bag with one hand and typing on her iPhone
with the other, the girl stepped onto the tiny, dirty, overgrown path
that led to the house.

You're sure you don't need me?

11:21 a.m, DM
 I can handle this. Is the weekly Malfoy family dinner getting out of
control?
11:45 a.m, HG

You should send me words of encouragement so I don't end up murdering

someone.
11:45 a.m, DM

Just remember there's no Netflix in prison.

11:46 a.m, HG

Smiling, she put the phone away and knocked on the janitor's
door. The door opened just an inch and an old, wrinkled eye
regarded her suspiciously from within.
"Mr Filch?" Hermione asked, and took her badge out of her
back pocket. "I'm Special Agent Hermione Granger from the MI5.
May I come in and ask you some questions, sir?"
The pale eye widened considerably, but he shut the door.
Hermione could hear the metallic clatter of a door being unlocked
before Filch fully opened the door again.
Argus Filch, as Hermione knew from the records, was a strange
creature. Tall, but bent over, he was almost at eye level with
Hermione; his curved back gave the old man a crow-like
appearance. His hair hung down in filthy, grey clumps; almost thin
enough to look through. Spots and wrinkles were visible on his skin.
He had prominent bags under his eyes and the dark circles were so
violet they looked bruised; the white of his eyes was as yellow as the
couple of teeth he still had left. Instead of moving aside to let her
in, he just stood there and stared at her; like the reincarnation of an
Irish gnome. Hermione sighed.
"Mr Filch, I want to talk to you about Hepzibah Smith–"
"Smith, you say? Never liked her. But at least she had been a
good tenant; kept the staircase clean and always knew the dates for
the litter service. No loud music, no special visitors at night. Not like
Peeves, the little punk who lives in her flat now. What a waste." The
man had an Irish accent and he slurred the words while talking in
such a high-pitched voice that it became difficult for Hermione to
follow him. As if to prove a point he jerked his head up towards the
staircase and clicked his tongue. "The scum doesn't even pay his rent
on time. Can't you do something against that, officer?"
"Special Agent, sir," Hermione said with a sigh. Perhaps Draco
had been right about nothing good coming from this. "And I'm
afraid that's not my division."
"Ah, yeah you wanna know about Smith, the kidnapper huh? I
told your colleagues already, everything I knew."

Kidnapping? There had been no remark about a kidnapping – not in the

entire record.

Filch snorted snarkily, but stayed silent. A grey-striped cat

appeared between his legs and the man picked her up in his arms
with the greatest care Hermione had ever witnessed.
"Poor Mrs Norris here had to endure half a day in Smith's flat
before daddy found her - yes, my sweet, daddy found you, didn't
he?" His hand was constantly busy fondling the cat's fur. The animal
thanked his efforts by rubbing her head along his arm.

Great. I'm talking to a crank. This will lead to nothing.

Forcing an investigation under these circumstances would lead

to false information from the victims, perhaps even to false facts in
the murderer's profile. Hermione couldn't risk that – not every piece
of information obtained could help in an investigation. Visiting old
neighbours or family members could help to create a better profile,
but that did not always help the case.
Sometimes, it was better to stick to the simple facts.
And well, Filch was obviously one of those kinds of
neighbours, ones that lived to snoop and gossip about you as soon
as they had the chance.
"Mr Filch," Hermione interrupted his heart-breaking
monologue about the kidnapping of Mrs Norris. "I'm sorry, sir, but
could you take a look at these pictures, please? Have you seen any of
these faces around perhaps?" Not giving him the chance to protest –
or worse continuing his kidnapping-story – Hermione pressed the
same pictures into his hands that she had given to Parvati before.
They were simple photos, about three inches high – enlarged
passport photographs of all the victims, including Remus. For a
profiler, pictures were important to form a bond with the victim. To
connect. Hermione liked to know about the wrinkles and creases on
someone's face – as well as their habits or quirks. Understanding
your victims was usually the first step in understanding the killer.
Perhaps some relative would see a connection to one of the victims.
It would be a start, at least.
Filch's eyes darted over the pictures, not really paying attention
to the details. He dismissed everything with a quick glance and
pulled back his shoulders, pressing Mrs Norris to his thin chest in
the process. The cat mewled, satisfied.
"Never seen them around here. Are these the suspects?"
"No." She put the pictures and her badge away. "These are the
other victims." That silenced the man, even if it was just for a while.
There was no pity in his pale eyes.

What a sad world.

"I'll take my leave now, Mr Filch. Sorry for taking up your time."
Argus Filch had had nothing to offer. Malfoy had been right,
this was a complete waste of time. She turned around to leave
when–
"Will you do anything about the kidnapping now?"
Hermione stopped dead in her tracks and looked slowly up
again, where the man was still leaning against the doorframe, the cat
tightly held in his hands. Hesitantly, she said, "Mr Filch, Ms Smith is
already dead. There's nothing I can do about … the kidnapping."
"But someone needs to be punished." The man watched her
eerily, his pale eyes even wilder in the half shadows of the staircase.

He can't be serious?

Hermione sighed deeply and rubbed her face. This was really
not what she had signed up for when she'd started studying
criminology.
London Metropolitan University
Monday, 25th August
9:18 a.m
30 days until the next murder

Draco arrived twenty minutes late; she could hear the engine of
his car as soon as he rounded the corner. The car was a sleek, black
monster with a wide-mouthed lower bumper, smoke-patterned rims,
white stripes like a racecar and other minor tweaks – just as
pretentious as its owner. Recaro bucket seats, wrapped in an
expensive material, held Malfoy in between; he stopped the car right
in front of her in the no-parking zone.
An Aston Martin. Of course.
"You're late."
It was the first thing Hermione threw at him, once he finally
stepped out of the car. Draco didn't let her harsh tone bother him
but instead closed the car with a button on his keys. Slipping into his
leather jacket, he came to a halt beside Hermione, who was still
leaning against the dusty bonnet of her Volkswagen Beetle.
"Morning, sunshine. I'm still amazed your rust bucket made it
through all these years." He flashed her a row of perfect, white teeth
– probably bleached. "Isn't the job paying you enough to get a
decent car at least?"
"Perhaps, I just don't see the appeal of paying for designer
things when the normal stuff does its job just as well. Besides, the
car still works fine–"
"You said so back in university too." He ignored her statement
from before and jerked his head in the general direction of the
London Metropolitan University. "Ready to go?"
Boy, was he grating on her nerves. Annoyed, she pushed herself
off the car and made her way across the campus. She could hear his
footsteps echoing in sync with her own on the gravel a second later.
They didn't talk again until they reached Flitwick's office.
"Special Agents Granger and Malfoy," Draco said, as soon as
the professor opened the door. He flipped his badge open, long
enough for the professor to see the shiny, golden medal, before he
put it back in the back pocket of his skinny jeans. "We have a few
questions we would like to ask you."
 Filius Flitwick eyed them both over the rim of his round glasses
as he opened the door eagerly. He gestured enthusiastically with his
unoccupied hand and waved them in.
"Ah, yes, we spoke on the phone, didn't we? Please come in, my
time is precious and I don't want to waste a single minute." He
didn't even wait for their answers, but turned around and marched
right back into the room. Draco shrugged beside her and closed the
door once they had entered.
Flitwick was a small man; a thin, brown patch of hair laid flat
on his head and covered the growing baldness that showed on the
back only sparsely. A rather impressive straight nose held his glasses
up over dark brown eyes, while the man shuffled books and papers
energetically into his dark leather satchel.
"I knew you'd return sooner or later– not that your colleagues
haven't done a great job already, but since his office is still closed for
further investigations I figured I haven't seen the last of you. Nice
to see you again Mr Malfoy – you look good, been on a holiday
recently?"
It was startling to hear the man talk with such rapidity in such a
short period of time without stumbling over the words. Draco made
a weak affirmative noise from the side, but the man was already
talking again, all the while moving books around on his desk.
"But let's get back to Gregorovitch - glorious, brilliant
Gregorovitch - do you know how many lessons I have had to cover
now that he's gone? This university has been understaffed for a few
years, and God forbid if we talk about hiring another teacher; the
administration would rather spend more money on the useless
netball team than use it for another tutor. When the director asked
who would take on Gregorovitch's lessons I was the only one who
dared to give it a try – and I haven't even studied chemistry. How
sad is this?"

Sarcasm has it hard on him, huh?

Hermione blinked, confused. Then, she asked incredulously, her

voice a whole octave higher than usual, "Wait, you haven't even
studied chemistry?"
"Of course not, I studied history and linguistics. But I had
perfect chemistry grades during high school. And I have faith in
myself that I can do it. Besides, the students need me now. More
than ever."

Unbelievable.

During your short life span, you meet a whole range of

different people. Hermione knew this all too well. As a profiler, you
are trained to notice a person's quirks and edges. To learn their
habits, their ways, their thinking patterns. To study them. But one
thing Hermione was absolutely sure of: she had never met a person
as utterly self-centred as Filius Flitwick. Sadly, the man thought
himself to be some kind of saint; scientists called this kind of
behaviour covert narcissism. Covert narcissists are very good at
pretending. They pretend in order to get what they want, be it
power, success, money, fame – they are the proverbial wolf in
sheep's clothing.

Typical aggressive behaviour – no, annoyance. Gregorovitch was popular

amongst the students and a rather admired colleague – Flitwick seems to hold a
grudge. But would he be capable of killing Gregorovitch?

The little man descended from a wooden stool and battered the
dust off his knees. Then, he continued right away. "You shouldn't
waste your time with the Voldemort cases, I'm sure he wasn't a
victim of this lunatic. I knew that something would happen sooner
or later; keep coming drunk to your lessons and–"
"Why do you think that?" Hermione interrupted the man mid-
sentence and got a rather nasty glance from the small man in return.
"Well, I didn't want to say anything, but you leave me no choice.
I see things, Miss Granger." Flitwick rolled his eyes as he
approached her, until the peaks of his polished shoes nearly brushed
Hermione's. "Mykew Gregorovitch was not just a simple tutor. He
was involved with the Bratva."
Three things happened simultaneously after this statement:
Hermione glanced dumbly towards her partner, Draco beside her
just rubbed his face in annoyance and Flitwick in front of her still
nodded to himself as if he had said something momentous.
Annoyed, she bit back a comment and let a long, noisy breath out
of her nose.
Lord give me patience or an untraceable gun.
London Metropolitan University
Monday, 25th August
10:44 a.m
30 days until the next murder

"I've never seen any of them, I'm afraid." The boy handed the
pictures back to Hermione. He was honest, that much could she tell,
but she felt like he was still keeping something from her. She
remembered his name from one of the records.
Oliver Wood. He plays netball, goalkeeper. Saw Gregorovitch
on the day of his disappearance. Said he was throwing some balls
with a friend on the courtyard then. Height and build could match,
but the boy's far too mediocre and not bright enough to kill
Gregorovitch.
"Okay," Hermione said with a sigh and added with a small
smile, "Thanks for helping me out, Mr Wood. Have a nice day."
She was already turning around when the boy stopped her with
a hand on her elbow.
"Miss Granger?"
Hesitantly, he retracted his hand and scratched at his clean-
shaven nape, reluctance reflected in his stance. The boy nibbled at
his lips. Granted, he looked rather posh, clothed in designer jeans
and a white Yves Saint Laurent polo shirt, his skin a flawless mask
that screamed of upper society, with a golden - no, honey brown -
choirboy hairdo.
"My mother always says you shouldn't speak bad of the dead–"

You don't say.

"–but well, you know, people talk." Oliver stopped and wet his
lips; his hand was still busy at his nape, scratching nervously. "Some
say that Gregorovitch would give you special treatment if he liked
you."

This boy is no threat. This boy is a goody-two-shoes.

"Special treatment?"
 "Yeah." Quickly, he glanced around, as if to make sure no one
was paying attention to them, before he continued, "Well, I won't
mention any names but– he was giving out dope."
Hermione's eyes widened in surprise.
There were cracks here. She just had to make sure she found
them.
London Metropolitan University, Gregorovitch's office
Monday, 25th August
11:29 a.m
30 days until the next murder

"Wood was right." Hermione pointed to a perfect row of plants

which stood on the windowsill of Gregorovitch's office, standing
together like an army of dope. "He really did have cannabis."
Draco snorted and didn't even look up from his place at the
bookshelf, where he was pulling out book after book to flip
through. "I doubt any one of the students will confess that their
teacher drugged them."
Hermione hummed in agreement, then turned around and
focused on Gregorovitch's old desk.
The room was sticky and stale – no one had aired it in the last
month. A trace of the pungent odour of moss was lingering in the
air, alongside the typical, rotten smell of something that was dead.
Gregorovitch's study was neither large nor comfortable – it gave the
feeling of something ancient. Dark, walnut wood all around made
the already small room seem even smaller. Books and papers were
scattered all over the place and a couple of dirty cups were already
stuck to the wooden surface of the table.

What a mess.

Draco sat down on an old, ragged leather couch that presided

in the corner and threw a hideous tartan Oxford over the armrest.

Gregorovitch's?

"Were there more lying clothes around when you were here the
first time?"
"Yeah, I think another shirt and a couple of ties. The forensics
took them to see if the DNA matches the one from the head."
"So he probably slept here."
"Brilliant deduction, Granger," Draco drawled amused, his lips
curving into a taunting smile. "I see the Commonwealth hired you
for your amazing powers of observation and keen attention to
details. Perhaps you should read the records once more, I pointed
this out already."
"Oh fuck you, Draco," Hermione muttered, pushing a wild
caramel brown lock behind her ear; it didn't stay there and sailed
down her cheek again. She hadn't meant to attack him this bluntly,
but god, did he grate on her nerves sometimes. He didn't need to
remind her about his intelligence. She knew that all too well.
Draco wit-is-my-middle-name Malfoy smirked at her from the
other side of the room. He watched her from beneath his half-
lidded bedroom eyes, and lowered his voice deliberately a whole
octave.
"Volunteering?"
A sudden deep, peachy blush crept onto her cheeks and
coloured her creamy skin. She was momentarily furious and lashed
back, both hands pressing down on the cool wood of
Gregorovitch's desk.
"Instead of throwing around half-hearted innuendos you
should make yourself useful and search for something that will help
move the case forward." With a sharp twirl, she turned around and
started to go through the drawers, paying no attention to the man
on the other side of the room. She was furious and her mind was
clouded by anger.

About time to calm down.

Draco eventually got up and examined the rest of the books

and shelves. She could feel his grin on the nape of her neck. She
ignored it.
They searched in silence for a while. Silence was fine with her.
Her mind was already racing – not just because of Wood's remark,
but because she needed to focus on putting herself into
Gregorovitch's shoes.
Hermione was already going through the last drawer and was
just about to close it, when she saw an unusual indentation, not
bigger than a knife point, between the bottom and the front of the
drawer.

Could it be...?
 Carefully, she took the sleek, silver letter opener from the desk
and pushed it into the small opening. A single, strong push was
enough and the thin piece of wood indulged her. Hidden beneath
was a second compartment with a variety of letters; medical bills,
hospital bills, examination records.
"Draco, look," she called him over, as she flipped through the
pages. He stood behind her and read the letters over her shoulder.
"So, Gregorovitch was sick."
Hermione shook her head and said impatiently, "No, not just
sick. He was seriously ill."

Dihydroergotamine. Triptans. Patient requires nerve blocking anaesthetics

and pure Oxygen inhalations–

"Cluster headaches," she whispered slowly, her voice barely

audible in the room. Draco took the papers out of her hands and
flipped through them himself before he handed them back with a
sharp nod.
"Yeah. Judging by the dosages, they had been getting worse
during the past six months."
Hermione nodded hesitantly and packed the papers away.
"It explains the cannabis–"
"But?"
But something felt off. Something itched her; a nagging
suspicion that something was still lingering under the surface.
Something she hadn't cracked yet. She wet her lips and started to
chew her chapped lower lip.
"–but it could also change the profile. Were any other victims
sick?"
Draco narrowed his eyes but seemed to catch onto her trail of
thought pretty fast because the pale grey of his irises widened a
moment later.
"I don't think so. Neither the forensics nor we have found
anything."
"We should make sure to verify that."

Because if the illness is important to the killer, it means he kills people

who are already pretty much dead. This would make him some kind of Angel
of Death, which narrows down the profile quite a bit. The medical experience
would speak for him once again.

"Kind of ironic how he was killed, don't you think so?"

Hermione snorted.
"Ironic or intended."

Beheading. Cluster headaches. Yeah, Voldemort does seem like the type for
this kind of inside joke.

"Did you know," Draco started again, leaning his long body
against the desk, "that beheadings were actually reserved for the
upper class? At least after the guillotine had been invented. Having a
fast and nearly painless death was what the rich people wanted for
themselves. Thieves and murderers were usually killed in a far more
painful way."
This piqued Hermione's interest.
"So you think he used a guillotine?"
"Why not? It would be easy if you know how. Just a couple of
wooden pillars, a rope and a sheet of metal from the next hardware
store."
"I'll have to pass on that. I'll take my chances with the steel
rope."
"Steel rope?" Draco looked up, surprised.
"Yes." The girl raised her nose triumphantly in the air and
smiled defiantly. "A steel rope would explain the clean cuts."
"Oh?" Amused, Draco crossed his arms over his chest and
flashed his pearl white teeth like a shark's bite at Hermione. The
grin spread wider across his face as he tilted his chin upwards. "By
all means, please explain how you came to that conclusion."
Something was off about the way he said it, as if he knew more
than Hermione was aware of. It ticked her off and challenged her
inner know-it-all.
"For one, the head was most likely dissevered in one blow. But
no blade is sharp enough to make such a clean cut without leaving
behind little edgings of skin – not even a guillotine. I consulted a
specialist on that subject–"
"You consulted a specialist? Who?"
 "Doctor T. M. Riddle. He's pre-eminent in the field of human
decay and–" But Hermione couldn't finish her sentence because
Draco had already rolled his eyes in disgust and snorted in a way
that showed his contempt. His whole posture shifted from
nonchalant to tense in under five seconds.
"Riddle doesn't even live up to his reputation."
"Doctor Riddle. And I don't think you're in the position to
judge someone like him, Draco." She pushed a single brown curl
behind her ear, the one that always slipped free. Her tone was
defensive – belligerent – but by all means, she couldn't hold it back
anymore. Who was Draco to judge?
Draco, however, was fairly unimpressed and appeared more
annoyed than ever. Hermione couldn't quite understand where this
sudden anger and hate was coming from, but it seemed to radiate
from the blond in waves. He was pissed.
"Riddle's a farce, Hermione. You, as a profiler, should have
noticed it." Draco fixed his eyes on her and clicked his tongue. He
clenched his teeth until his jaw was unusually pale.
"You don't even know him!" Voice jarring, her exclamation
echoed loudly in the stuffy, abandoned room. Draco observed the
way her shoulders rose and her breath hitched from the sudden rage
that flared up in her; her face brightened up to a delicate, dark red
and he suppressed the urge to wrap his long, slender fingers around
her chin and cheeks and push her dainty lips up to meet his. He
blinked.
With a dismissive wave of his hand, he turned around, throwing
the papers on the desk. All Hermione could see, was his leather-clad
back that disappeared behind the door as soon as it closed. As the
minutes passed, she finally took a deep breath and rubbed her hands
over her tired eyes, before she started to put Gregorovitch's letters
in special evidence bags that she always kept in her purse for such
occasions.

What's the matter with him? Why does Riddle rile him up so much?

The scent of Draco's far too expensive aftershave still clung to

the inside of her nostrils, long after he was gone.


Diggory House
Wednesday, 27th August
2:01 p.m.
28 days until the next murder

They were sitting pressed close together on a monstrous double

couch that was coated in a creamy, pastel coloured cotton cover to
protect the fabric from possible dirt and dust. Across from them,
Mrs Diggory was sobbing uncontrollably into her already wet
handkerchief, while Mr Diggory held her tiny hand between his
own. They were both still devastated by the death of their only son.
Meeting relatives tended to make it difficult for a profiler to
distance yourself emotionally from a case. Keeping a level head
when facing people who loved the victims is imperative – your own
personal emotions should never taint the act of gathering evidence
and facts to complete your profile. On that account, Hermione tried
to suppress any feelings that cropped up inside of her at the sight of
Diggory's parents.
Somewhere an old grandfather clock chimed two o'clock.
"I don't want to interrupt you, Mrs Diggory," Hermione started
hesitantly, observing the way the woman pushed another plate of
citrus scones towards Hermione and Draco, "but we really need to
have a look at Cedric's room now." Draco beside her stilled in his
movements as he leaned forward to grab another biscuit and
watched her with a mixture of confusion and amazement.

Perhaps he thinks I'm impolite. Well, I don't care.

If you find the cracks in something, you need to push until it

breaks. If you can't find any cracks, keep searching.
The Diggorys didn't present any cracks to push into right now.
That's why Hermione needed to see Cedric's room.
Mrs Diggory pursed her lips and straightened her back. The
incredibly complex knot on the top of her head looked flawless and
severe, not a single hair was sticking out of it. Age had clearly
nothing on the woman's face, who still looked like she was in her
mid-thirties. Mr Diggory looked far older by now with a flat, lifeless
patch of grey hair on his head. Both of them were still clothed in
black, their grief palpable in the thick air around them.
 "Of course. Please follow me." Mr Diggory rose from his place
and accompanied both of them up to Cedric's room on the second
floor. There was a strange tension between them and Hermione was
glad when the man took his leave and she could close the door
behind him. Once inside Cedric's room, she pressed herself against
his door and took a single, deep breath.
The air in the room was neither stuffy, nor did it smell of death
like Gregorovitch's study did. In fact, Cedric's room looked,
surprisingly, completely the same as it did in the pictures in her case
file.
They've made a shrine out of it. Parents often tend to do this
once their only child dies to preserve their memories.
A book about sports medicine laid properly beside the keyboard
of his iMac. Hermione flipped through the post-its that flooded out
of it, but nothing special was to be seen.
"The forensics confirmed the use of a combustive agent when
they analysed the debris from the blaze with a gas chromatograph."
"A what?" With a thud, she closed the thick tome in her hands
and turned around to face Draco, who was in the middle of
checking out Cedric's drawers.
He looked up once he felt her gaze tingling the little strands of
hair in his nape and shrugged, his tone nonchalant.
"A gas chromatograph. Snape said they use it to separate
different substances from each other. Different materials have
different boiling points. A chromatograph can point them out."
"Huh." She watched Malfoy curiously and observed how he
turned back to the drawers again to keep looking for anything that
might connect the cases. They had already asked the Diggory's
before, but none of them had recognised any of the other victims.
Draco busied himself with going through Cedric's mail once he had
finished looking through the drawers. Sometimes, the man was a
mystery to her.
The room was spacious, but rather modestly furnished. There
was nothing extraordinary or rebellious that personified Cedric;
everything looked too clean, too perfect for his age. His wardrobe
was filled with tons of different jerseys, all of them in the bright
colours of the Chudley Cannons. Nibbling at her lower lip,
Hermione examined the rest of the room with a rather clinical view.
She ended up at the window and watched an idle breeze rustling the
reddish foliage of a nearby cherry tree.
 Wait, didn't Marcus Flint say something about a campus party?

Flipping through the record to Flint's testimony, she read it

twice.

So if Cedric really wanted to go to the party, as Flint claimed, and his

parents last saw him at 8 p.m, that means that he could have just climbed down
the tree and made his exit that way, instead of going through the front door – a
bit cliché, but still possible. This means that Cedric could have been abducted on
his way to the party, too.

"Was it Cedric's car?"

"Yes. Brand-new. His parents had just paid for it."
"So this Flint guy," Hermione started, and turned around to
face her partner again, who was still busy with Cedric's wardrobe,
"was he honest during his testimony?"
Draco gave an affirmative grunt and murmured, "Yeah. Don't
think he lied. After all, he was still on probation when Cedric was
found."
"Cambridge takes convicts now?"
"He's not a student at Cambridge. He's just someone that
Cedric knew."

What? You don't say. Seems like Cedric wasn't the good old goody-two-
shoes mummy and daddy think he was.

"Why do you ask?"

With a jerk of her head, Hermione nodded to the tree that
grazed Cedric's window.
"Do you think he could have climbed that?"
Draco appeared beside her and took a long look at the tree,
before leaning against the window frame and shrugging.
"Who knows? Reminds me of an American teen film, you
know?"
"Your obsession with films never ceases to amaze me, Malfoy."
Draco huffed and twisted his mouth into a pout, but didn't say
anything else. Hermione took it as a win.
 "I think we have everything we can get." Hermione completed
the notes on her notebook and put the pen, as well as the pad, back
into her bag. Cocking her head to one side, she looked back at
Draco, who was still leaning against the windowsill. "We need to
start on Remus' case now. I think I have a good idea of the murder
profile so far."
"So we should start with Potter and Black then."
"Yeah, and maybe Harry and Lily, too," she mused, more to
herself.
"You really think saint Potter can help you there?"

Oh yeah, the feud. I almost forgot.

"We'll see. I can talk to him alone if it bothers you so much.

Considering your history. Tell me, how many times did Harry beat
you at tennis?"
"He didn't beat me. It was a draw."
"At tennis?"
A snide snort was the only thing that came her way from the
man beside her and she couldn't help the grin that spread over her
features and lightened up her eyes. Her wild, untamed hair was still
entwined in thick curls and they fell around her face in cascades.
Draco was mesmerised; he wet his lips unconsciously and raised
his hand, almost as if to brush her hair behind her ear – but
Hermione turned around without noticing. Her phone started to
chime with the ludicrous melody apple devices are set to use and she
took the call without a second glance, signalling him to wait for a
second.
"Doctor Riddle, thank you for returning my call so soon. I have
a question that–" The rest of her voice was drowned as soon as the
door clicked shut.
Draco's hand stopped mid-air and dropped, clenching at his
side. Riddle. Of course.
He sighed, deeply. "What are you doing to me, Granger?"
He waited for another five minutes. Then, he followed her
silently out of the room.
 Have you ever killed someone?

No?

You should try it.

Humans are so … fragile. So extinguishable.

How often have you thought about killing your annoying neighbour who washes
his car every Sunday at 8 a.m? How often have you thought about wringing your
mother-in-law's neck when she nags you? Your boss? Your siblings? Your
spouse? Your children?
A lot of people fantasise about it, but they'd never do it.
They follow reason and so-called common sense like all the other human beings
on the planet.

They're weak.
They're boring.

Can you imagine how satisfying it feels to see the light in someone's eyes die out?
To feel their last breath rattle under your fingers? To see the terror in their
widened irises when you're about to slash their guts?
Can you imagine it?

The human life is such frailty in another human's hands.

Killing is nothing more than a small gesture – a gift.
The rush of something forbidden, the extreme sense of striving towards a larger
goal, to make this world a less monotonous place -
your hand is able to make a difference.

Do you understand?

Human lives are ephemeral.

Death is eternal.
You depart this life and leave a sea of nothingness behind.

So, do you want to stay weak?

Or not?
 CHAPTER FIVE

I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind.

Edgar Allan Poe
 Everyone has three versions of themselves: a public life, a private life and a
secret life.

Watch any kid and see how he acts with his friends at school. Ask his mother
what he's like at home. Try to get her to believe the same kid robbed the corner
store. "Not my boy", she'll say.
And she's right.
Because her boy wouldn't do that.

But we are different things to different people, in different contexts.

If you're bad, people think you're evil. If you're evil, you're not a human being
anymore.
You're a monster.
And evil monsters need to be destroyed to save the good humans.

Unfortunately, it's not as simple; we don't fall into good or bad people.

An example of this pointless stereotypical thinking is the black civil rights

activist Martin Luther King. He risked his life to ensure that future generations
of black Americans wouldn't suffer the same cruel racial discrimination as he
had. He was one of the good.
But did you know that he had a lot of affairs?
His wife knew about them, and suffered silently.

Isn't it "bad" to cheat on your partner, hurt her in the process, but still not stop?
Was Martin Luther King a womaniser who hurt his wife deliberately and for
whom sex was more important than her suffering?
Or is he a hero who sacrificed his life for a worthy cause? Or is he both?

Does one good deed balance out a bad one?

Let me answer this question for you.

Martin Luther King was human. Not good, not bad. Just human. A person
with unique flaws and quirks.
Now, you should ask yourself, if you're really as good a human being as you
secretly believe yourself to be.
MI5 Headquarters, James Potter's office
Friday, 29th August
9:32 a.m
26 days until the next murder

Can we meet?
9:16 a.m., HP

Hermione?
9:21 a.m., HP

I have work to do. The case needs my full attention and I still have to work on
the profile.
9:22 a.m., HG

I haven't seen you in months.

9:23 a.m., HP

Hermione.
9:31 a.m., HP

Hermione's eyes darted over the slick surface of her iPhone.

Her thumb traced rhythmic circles over the screen, smudging the
thin layer of grease over the reflecting glass. It wasn't fair to ignore
Harry, she knew that. But meeting Harry would lead to emotions
and emotions would let her conscience reign instead of logic - and
that would mean she would start to feel. The stakes for feeling were
simply too high at the moment.
Behind her, Draco entered the room. She put the phone in the
left pocket of her navy blazer without another glance.
As usual, Draco took a seat at her side, a package of books
neatly tucked underneath his left arm. Hermione could see an old,
rusty-looking cover peeking out from under the rough fabric of his
dark leather jacket, but she tore her eyes away, fixing them on James.
The silver nametag in front of her supervisor shimmered warmly in
the yellowish light.
"Now that everyone's here we can finally start." After a short
glance and a nod at Draco, James went back to business mode.
 Being the inspector in these investigations must be hard when
faced with such a personal tragedy. Above all, when you're being
interrogated by one of your subordinates.
Hermione absorbed these observations as swiftly as she ignored
another buzz in her pocket from Harry.
Draco made no move to start the interrogation, and instead
crossed his legs and put the books in his lap. There were three now,
Hermione saw from the corner of her eyes, but she didn't pay too
much attention to it. Instead, she focused on James again.
"It's important to know if Remus had any known enemies."
James shook his head, but then–
"Never. Everyone loved Moony."
For the first time since Hermione had entered James' office, she
turned around to face another man, sitting hunched over, at James'
desk. Broad shoulders and narrow hips, clad in black jeans. A white,
fancy v-neck that stopped right over the waistband, showing a dark
walnut leather belt, obviously from some kind of designer brand.
Simple, wooden beads hung around his slender neck and the shaggy
hair looked dishevelled; he had run his hands through it a few times.
The usually blue eyes were bloodshot and glassy, almost as if he had
rubbed them too often. Sirius Black.
"Moony was a good guy. No fights. No debts." His voice was
shaky, thin flinders on the frozen surface of a sea. He clenched his
hands a couple of times, determined and guilty, both at once. "If I
had… If I just… I could have saved him–"
"We don't know that," James interrupted, but Sirius didn't
believe him. It just further inflamed him. Surprisingly, Sirius
clenched his jaw but remained silent.

Suppressed sense of guilt, anger towards close ones, denial. Obvious

reactions for the loss of a close friend.

"What about the pictures?" asked Draco from the side, cocking
his head in interest, while Hermione was still busy writing down her
observations on a fresh page in her notebook.
This time, both inspectors shook their heads.

No recognition, like all the other times. Does this mean the victims are not
connected at all?
 She tucked a strand of stray hair behind her ear.

Serial killers without a pattern are rare. This one's far too intelligent to
ignore the idea of a bigger pattern behind his kills. And considering all the
different riddles that he has left behind, he's definitely up to something. The
question is just, what exactly? Choosing random victims may smudge and blur
the links, but I will find him. I will.

Draco started with the obvious questions – Did Nymphadora

have any enemies? Has Remus mentioned any changes in his life?
Has he been sick? – but none of the questions had helpful answers.
As Hermione had already noticed in the Lupin household, Remus
and his family were completely ordinary. Nothing special. Nothing
outstanding.
When Draco asked about his health status, James kept silent
while Sirius informed them that all three had been as fit as fiddles. It
was painfully obvious that Sirius tried his best to defend his friend.
There was more than just adoration in his voice. There was love.
"Remus drank," James suddenly said, interrupting Sirius mid-
sentence and getting a nasty glare in return.
She didn't doubt that James loved Remus to the same extent
that Sirius did, but he was the one who had his feet on the ground,
anchored to find the truth. Not putting his friend up on some kind
of pedestal. For that, Hermione was glad.
Suddenly, the atmosphere changed. The squeamish feeling of
touching delicate subjects with weary minds and careful questions
was branded and tainted by the stark contrast of Sirius sudden anger
that lashed out against James. Hermione cast a sideways glance at
Draco, who returned the look hesitantly. It was getting harder to
breathe.
"After hours, never during work time. And, come on Prongs, he
never drank that much."
James grimaced.
"He used to drink a lot, Sirius. After the accident during
college–"
"That was ages ago. He didn't start agai–"
"Yes, he did. Remember Tonks calling when he went missing
last year? Three days without a word–"
 "Everyone's allowed a low moment at some point." Frustrated,
Sirius slapped his flat palm on the wooden surface of James' desk. A
couple of pens vibrated in a gigantic, ceramic bowl that was shaped
like a rubber duck and was being used as a jar to keep them
organised. James looked at him with a mixture of frustration and
exhaustion. Neither Hermione nor Draco said anything for a while;
the only sound made by Hermione's pen - Riddle's pen - scratching
over blank pages.

So Remus was an alcoholic. Does Voldemort consider alcoholism as some

sort of sickness? We still don't have the results on Lavender and Hepzibah's
health status.

"Did Remus work on the Voldemort case?"

"Barely. He was not knee-deep into it as we are, but he knew
some pieces here and there. Dumbledore put him in the Order, but
well." James fidgeted with some files in his hands. "He wasn't used
to this kind of psychopaths like Sirius and I am."

So he could have been a random victim. I doubt it, but we shouldn't drop
that possibility entirely.

A quick glance at Sirius and then back to James, and Hermione

decided to drop the interrogation for now.

Sirius is obviously biased; it will only taint our investigation if he keeps

twisting or hiding things like that. Tonks and Edward were not the victims, that
much is clear by now. Remus had been the target.

"I think we have everything for now." With cool finality, she
shut the notebook on her lap and ignored the questioning look
Draco threw in her direction. This would lead to nothing. Better to
stay out of their fight.
Sirius didn't move an inch, didn't even budge, his face hard and
bitter. James, at least, had the decency to look apologetic. And tired.
The exhaustion was clearly written on his face. Hermione could
swear the man had aged since she had seen him the last time at
Lupin's house. Considering the circumstances, he probably had.
 "I appreciate your enthusiasm. Do you two think you'll have a
profile up by next week? Albus wants us to have an official
statement for the press ready when the conference of the European
Commission for Terror Attacks is over this weekend."

How could I forget? It was an attack on an official British building after

all. Of course, they'd hold a conference.

"I think we'll be good," Draco answered for both of them, and
Hermione agreed, nodding silently. They said their goodbyes and
left the office, side by side, shortly after. Draco strode along, as
usual, the tomes jammed between his arm and body. Sirius stayed
behind. As soon as the wooden door closed with a final thud behind
both the agents, Hermione let out a long breath.
"That was weird," Draco broke the silence.
"One of the worst feelings in the world is having to doubt
someone that you thought was unquestionable."
"You mean the saying people use? That loyalty makes you
family?" Draco murmured into the corridor, to no one in particular,
but Hermione still felt herself agreeing.
"A person that's truly loyal – that utterly loves you – will never
let that image of you go. No matter how hard the situation is."
Draco hummed, but remained silent for the rest of the walk.

Could I be as loyal as Sirius?

She thought about it, while her feet dragged her to her office by
default, the small messenger bag at her side swaying with each step.

I cut people out of my life with no explanation, no hesitation and no

warning if I have to. I make mistakes and I don't hold onto people and things
that I don't want when I can feel them ruining me. No. I'm not made to be
loyal.

The buzzing cadence of her iPhone reminded her, that she still
had a conversation to finish. She fished the device out of her blazer
pocket and put her code in, blind. The screen flashed and a second
later, green and transparent bubbles appeared. Harry again, of
course.
Please
9:51 a.m., HP

Yet...

With a sigh, she finally gave in and texted back.

Perhaps, I am. Perhaps, it's already written on my bones.

Sunday, at Fortescue's, 2 p.m. Don't be late.

10:03 a.m., HG
Florean Fortescue's
Sunday, 31st August
12:35 p.m.
24 days until the next murder

Harry was late.

Of course, he was.
Annoyed, Hermione glanced down at her wristwatch. One
minute passed, then the next. Five minutes over the scheduled time.
Couldn't hurt to go and order a coffee already. At least she'd have
something to drink.
Sunday was a busy day for Florean Fortescue's. Couples and
groups gathered in the large hallway of the coffee shop, flirting,
chatting and spooning ice cream in the corners. Young and old were
both enjoying a quiet day off in the warm August sun. Florean
Fortescue was a chain of coffee shops spread all over the world.
Generations of people swore daily by their pumpkin spice latte and
butterbeer frappés.
Hermione queued up behind an elderly couple, and let her gaze
wander around the room. She found a flat screen in one of the
corners, flashing news and reporters, as well as important, well-
known faces, from all over Europe.
The European Commission for Terror Attacks.
In the rush of the last few days, she'd completely forgotten
about it. Keeping track of Voldemort got harder and harder with
each passing day, instead of easier. They still had no clues, still no
more leads. It was devastating.
Absent-mindedly, she watched the rapidly changing faces of
arriving heads of states or their representatives. Some of them were
easily recognisable, like Dumbledore, who arrived in a suit similar to
the one he had worn when Hermione had met him – hideous pink
tie included. Then Pomona Sprout, the current Chancellor of
Germany. On the bright blue glare of the flat screen, she looked like
a nice, older lady in an olive suit, chubby but elegant. Probably
grandmother material. The type that slipped sweets in their
grandchildren's pockets.
The screen flickered back and forth, between Russia's President
Karkaroff, to Britain's Prime Minister Slughorn, and finally,
President Delacour from France - all of them set for the upcoming
terror of Voldemort. Europe didn't often face such horrible terror
attacks like the MI5 bombing. For now, the threat of Voldemort had
not spread all over Europe. Great Britain, or more precisely
London, had been his playground. But who knew how long it would
take until he'd change the country. Hence, it provoked hatred in
people's minds – the fear and the anger due to the unknown. Terror
attacks were always handled with particular caution, so as not to
enrage the wrong people – or worse, looking like not having acted
fast enough in the face of obvious danger. A conference with the
head of states of different European countries, together with the
current leaders of their secret intelligence agencies should help to
calm the people. Hermione bit her lip in frustration, dragging the
hard, straight line of her teeth over the soft cushion of her lower lip.

Do they not understand that giving him so much attention will just turn
him on? He's a narcissist, for God's sake.

She couldn't understand the commentary from her place in the

queue, but she doubted it would be informative at this point. After
all, the members were still arriving at the scene of the crime, so to
speak.
"Miss Granger, what a nice surprise to see you here."
Hermione spun around in a swift motion, alarmed and startled
by the smooth, deep voice. Her eyes widened as soon as she realised
who had addressed her; pristine, white oxford, sleeves rolled up to
the elbows and the top button open, which revealed the slightest
hint of a slender neck. Dark jeans, perfectly coiffed hair, his build
tall and lean, and just as devilishly handsome as she remembered
him to be – Riddle.
"Dr Riddle." She gave him a small smile.
He shot her a sharp, knowing grin and a deep, probing look
from his steel-grey eyes. That kind that made a girl's heart beat
faster. The one that meant that he could look right into your soul,
know your darkest parts and turn them against you. The one that
meant trouble.
One of the customers behind him cleared his throat with an
annoyed huff and a pointed look, indicating that they move along
the queue. Hermione did. Riddle followed right behind.
"Not protecting national security along with the other members
of the government today, Miss Granger?"
"Can't save the Queen every day, Dr Riddle."
 He gave her a smug smile but didn't comment on it. Instead, he
pointed elegantly towards one of the signs. She wondered if there
was anything Tom Marvolo Riddle didn't do elegantly.
"Coffee, Miss Granger?"
She looked around for Harry, but he still hadn't arrived.
"I'd love that. I had an appointment, but he's running late
anyway. And I can't say no to free coffee, can I?" She tried to flash
him a charming smile, but failed miserably. Flirting had never been
one of her strengths. "How about you, Dr Riddle? Are you enjoying
a day off ?"
"Pathologists never have a day off, I'm afraid; it's a full-time
business. People die every day." The man said it with such causality
and apathy that Hermione had the urge to look into his eyes. The
look of disgust present therein was noticed by her, but it was half-
ignored and half-overlooked.
They both moved further along and gave their orders; a latte
cappuccino for her, black, two sugars for him. He paid for both of
the drinks before Hermione could even attempt to take out her
wallet.
While they waited for their orders to be readied, she felt him
staring at her, with an intensity that burned through the layers of her
clothes. Piercing. Fine, drizzle-like sweat was forming at her nape.
"A gentleman should never run late on a date."
The statement made her laugh, dry and humourless.
"By all means, he's no gentleman."
Riddle raised one of his perfect, straight eyebrows and
Hermione felt as if his dark stare got even more intense. Then, as if
in a moment of clarity, his eyes followed swiftly after.

Oh no, he thinks Harry and I–

As if to brush off any other assumption, she said, perhaps a tad

too hasty, "He's just a friend. Someone I knew from school, a long
time ago."
"I see." Riddle's smirk was as sharp as a razor, eyes glinting with
something mischievous, as if she had said something really funny or
stupid. Probably both in his eyes. Bastard.
"I would never let a woman wait in line."
She snorted at that.
"Of course you wouldn't."
 Hermione doubted he was anything less than perfect under his
tailored shirt and his 500-pound shoes.
She turned halfway to get her steaming paper cup, but Riddle
beat her to it. His tall, slender body leaned gracefully over the long
counter to clasp both cups between his long, bony fingers. He
reached over and she took hers out of his waiting hands.

Cuts on the fingertips, healed and covered by new skin. Most likely from
some kind of scalpel. 5-6 weeks old, new ones less than three days. Leading
back to his job as a pathologist. Serial killers who just start out tend to have
cuts all around their fingers. Someone who kills regularly knows his instruments
and knows how to hide these injuries. Does Voldemort have–

She stopped, startled, eyes wide open. She reminded herself,

harshly, that she couldn't go on seeing Voldemort everywhere. At
this rate, she'd suspect Draco in a week, Dumbledore in a month.
Riddle leaned over, his expensive aftershave catching in the back of
her throat, sticking like warm honey. Musky. Manly. Fresh, like
peppermint.
"I could prove it to you, Miss Granger. Dinner?"
A deep peach spread over her cheeks, heating her skin rapidly.
She pushed him aside, taking some steps away from the counter to
let the next customer get his drink. The warm paper cup steamed
with the scent of freshly brewed beans. Riddle's aftershave stayed.
"Dr Riddle I don't–" She stopped mid-sentence, brushing a
single strand of curly hair behind her ear. Of course, it didn't stay
there and sailed right back, lying against her cheek. Unnerving. Even
her hair betrayed her at such a moment. "I don't think that would be
a good idea. I have a lot of work coming up in the next few
weeks..."
Riddle didn't say anything else, just looked at her with the same
intensity as before. His fingers started to tap against the cup of
coffee in his hand. Something calculated flickered in his gaze and
she was reminded of their first meeting, when he had dominated the
room with a flick of his hand. Now, here in Fortescue's coffee shop,
Riddle was once more the one in power. The people all around them
didn't bother him at all. His voice was a singsong, deep baritone, like
a sweet melody.
"Of course."
 The worst part was, she didn't even know if he had really asked
her out or whether he was joking.
She didn't find out either, because suddenly someone called out
for her from the end of the queue. A young black man, with dark,
corkscrew curls on his head, sides shaved and hideous hipster
glasses balanced on his nose.
Harry.
Hermione gave a small wave, something tentative, accompanied
by a smile. Riddle turned around and glanced over him once, then
addressed himself back to her again.
"I see he finally found his way around."
"Yeah." The answer was lame, but she didn't know what else to
say. The blush was still creeping at the edges of her golden skin.
Riddle gave her a nod, a sign that he'd take his leave. Before he
bid her goodbye, however, he said, "My offer still stands, Miss
Granger."
Every inch of her was frozen to the ground, her heart
hammering almost painfully against her ribcage. Between the
closeness and intensity that Riddle was radiating in waves, Hermione
felt terribly, terribly small. She didn't like it. She didn't know what to
do of it either. The man was a mystery to her. Outside of his study,
he was everything her mind desired. Hesitantly she nodded, curling
her fingers almost painfully around the paper cup until her knuckles
stood out, white.
"I will think about it."
"A man knows when to take his best offer. Good evening, Miss
Granger."
As fast as Riddle had appeared, he vanished between the masses
of people, like a shadow escaping from the living. The place he
occupied a second before filled with people as if he had not been
present at all.
Hermione breathed in, deep and rich. Slowly her skin stopped
to tickle with anticipation.
Harry joined her a minute later, a bright orange tropical
smoothie in his hands, slurping on the straw.
"A friend?"
She considered the question for a second but shook her head in
defiance.
"Not in the slightest."
Her heart, however, this treacherous thing, missed a beat.
Hermione's flat
Sunday, 31st August
19:56 p.m
24 days until the next murder

Sometimes a hot, steaming shower could do wonders for tensed

muscles and those little knots that had built up over an exhausting
and stressful week. Mostly, Hermione liked the feeling of fresh skin;
scrubbing dirt and dust off your overworked flesh was the first step
to feel alive. To feel reborn.
As any profiler knew, distancing yourself from the facts and
gruesomeness which you were confronted within your work was
important to keep your sanity intact. Hermione also knew, from
experience, that she tended to forget everything else around her as
soon as something intriguing caught her interest. Call it macabre or
not, Voldemort was by far the most intriguing thing that had ever
happened to her. So the showering ritual was even more important
to clean her mind.
The meeting with Harry had been... rough. First, they had dealt
with the common questions – What have you been up to? How are
you? Anything new in your life? How's Ginny? Oh, you're working
with Draco now? – before Harry had finally mustered up the
courage to ask her about what he wanted to from the start. The
funeral.
A profiler's view can easily get tainted as soon as personal
emotions and feelings start influencing the case. One wrong
equation, one wrong guess and the profile crumbles. It's the same as
Edward N. Lorenz' Butterfly Effect; the slightest miscalculation can
lead to a whole other end. Once it is in motion, you can't stop it. It's
inevitable.
She turned the water off.
Crookshanks rubbed his shaggy fur along her bare legs and
made her skin tickle. She threw on a pair of comfortable shorts and
a simple, honey-mustard coloured, sleeveless top. It was a hideous
thing that she had bought at a market in Ankara, but she liked the
thin cotton on hot days like these. It was form-fitting, yet light.
Ten minutes later she was already sitting cross-legged on her
sofa, a piece that was far too big for a single person alone. She had
to admit, it was more for the aesthetic purpose than it was
necessary; a large piece of furniture went with the open room. Her
flat was in the middle of London, merely ten minutes away from the
MI5. It was in one of the most expensive areas of the city, and she
had been lucky enough to find it right after college. The landlady
was nice and the rent was surprisingly affordable; sometimes she
thought about moving, but she liked the claustrophobic feeling of
her own little paradise in the midst of the city.
A cup of freshly brewed coffee was sitting ready on the table,
bearing 'Keep calm and drink coffee' in bright colours of the Union
Jack. A gift Ron had given to her ages ago, right after she moved in.
The cup was slowly steaming and she breathed it in, deeply, and out.
Crookshanks was already making himself home in her lap, rubbing
his shaggy fur along her thighs this time. She was too tired to be
bothered about it.
With an exhausted sigh, Hermione carefully grabbed the first of
the tomes Malfoy had lent her. They were neatly stacked alongside
her notebook on the wide surface of her sofa, waiting to be used.
First Edition releases, all of them. Quite valuable. She had asked
Draco to bring them along for comparison and investigations one
night, when they had worked over the riddles for long hours, in her
office. Of course, she had all the books herself too – The Aleph
and Other Stories, The Name of the Rose, Dante's Inferno – but
often, first editions held some bits and words that had been changed
during the time of new releases. She wanted to see for herself if she
could spot any differences. Unfortunately, even the Malfoys didn't
have first editions of the Odyssey or House of Leaves.
Remus' riddle flashed in dark ink from the bright, white
notebook pages.

Here then – the aftermath of meaning.

A lifetime finished between the space of two frames.
dajlkunkfgzzsqgkiy

House of Leaves, author Danielewski. Years ago, when it was

first being passed around, it was nothing more than a badly bundled
heap of paper which would occasionally surface on the Internet.
The format and structure were unconventional with unusual page
layout and style. Ergodic Literature. It contained footnotes,
references of books and films and articles and every few words or
lines of text arranged in strange ways to mirror the events in the
story.
 Claustrophobic effect, multiple narrators, nearly countless plotlines growing
into each other. A horror story at its best. Danielewski's sister made a
companion piece if I remember correctly. What a mess.

She opened the first book to search for the passage of the
riddle.
Lost in the books for about an hour, flipping carefully through
brittle pages while comparing them to her own notes, she stopped
without any new clues. Without the code, she couldn't do much
about the riddles.

Time to read them all again. Psychopaths – the prototypes of evil.

Charming, intelligent beasts. Why a psychopath? Couldn't it have been a
normal killer for once?

She had worked on smaller cases before, none too prominent.

A profile here, an opinion there - when the MI5 asked for her
expertise less than 6 months ago she had seen the chance of finally
doing some good with her degree.
Forcefully, she tried to rub the exhaustion off of her face,
pushing her skin up and down, left and right. Both eyes opened
reluctantly, staring absently at the iPhone lying on the crystalline
table in front of her.
She tried to imagine a life in which she hadn't chosen to
become a profiler. Would she have lead a normal life? Working eight
hours a day, having the weekend and evenings off, going out,
meeting friends, having dinner with a charming someone – Riddle,
for example.

In another life, would I have been able to accept his invitation?

Hermione snatched the phone from its place, the cool metal
steady in her cold hands.

A profiler should never lose their mind over a case. A profiler should be
able to separate their work and private life.
 She wet her lips once, and her other hand started to fondle
Crookshanks' fur, at the special place behind his ear, the one he
loved so much. He purred. Her heart started to pound between her
ribs, her breath caught, behind a row of sharp, white teeth.
Hermione was used to it by now. Being that girl. The one who
read books while other girls were sunbathing in a public pool. The
one who helped Harry and Ron through secondary school instead
of going on a road trip through Europe with Victor when she had
had the chance. The one who stayed at home on a Sunday evening,
alone.
Her fingers found Riddle's number in her recent caller list by
default and she couldn't help the terrifying, claustrophobic feeling
of her heart swelling. It was disturbingly hypnotic to feel the beat of
her pulse drumming in the tips of her fingers. Crookshanks in her
lap meowed once, then started to purr. He threw himself on his
back, giving her more space to fondle the thick, shaggy fur on the
underside of his belly.
She didn't want to end up alone.
Or worse: lonely.
So why not enjoy life at least?
She pushed the green phone button on the sleek screen and
waited until the electronic dialling sound echoed from the line. The
striking sound of the phone ringing on the other side started.
The swelling crescendo of her heart between her ribs, however,
didn't stop. Instead, it felt as if it would tear her apart.

It's not too late. I could just hang up.

Riddle answered on the third ring.

"Riddle." The voice on the other line was a smooth, velvety
baritone, that not even the static could taint.
Her mouth dried out instantly. She swallowed around a lump in
her throat.
Some people make you feel special. Deftly layered. Intrigued.
Striking. Hypnotic. When she heard the steady breathing on the
other side of the line, she wondered, what it was that made her feel
so utterly engrossed in Tom Marvolo Riddle.
 There are no good or bad people.
But what are you? What am I?

It's like the question for the meaning of life. There's no real answer.

People have tried again and again to dictate certain standards upon us as human
beings. They claim we need rules and prohibitions to live a safe life. All together.
It's a lie.
They control us.
They control you.

I don't rate humans as good or bad.

We are what we are. We do what we want. We're animals.

Ultimately we're all just a group of strung-together atoms and raw instincts.
Those instincts are deep-rooted in our veins. Long before our atoms even collided.
When we didn't knew how to differentiate. When no one was around to tell us
that what we do has consequences;
take some rules, shape yourself into a better being.

The essence of our existence has always been brute force. Society just covered it.
Covered by faith like the burning of witches, inquisitions and crusades.
Covered by politics like in wars, revolutions and freedom.
Covered by justice like in the death penalty.

They all kill.

So then:
Why not me?
Why not you?