The Matchmaker
TanninTele
Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.
I:
The Pronoun Game
The Department of Law Enforcement's Emergency Taskforce was briefed at approximately 4 o'clock in the evening.
Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Riddle sat in front of the profilers, hands folded primly atop his desk. He tilted his head as a poorly-made sketch of the suspect was passed between him and Kingsley Shacklebolt, his second-in-command. Tom took a single glance at the document and rolled his eyes, shoving the drawing aside. It was a haphazardly thrown together composite; an amalgamation of the vague, blurry features that the seven surviving victims recalled of their attacker.
Was the perpetrator a man or woman? Or both, a transvestite, as one of the victims had declared with a goofy grin. Did the unsub have green eyes or brown eyes? Perhaps hazel? Were they a red-head, a brunette, or had it simply been too dark to tell? Nothing was conclusive, and the very word - inconclusive - sent a shudder of revulsion down his spine. Tom hated uncertainty.
He raked a hand down his face in frustration. With the recent death of one of the Matchmaker's victims, he was bogged down with paperwork, trying in vain to keep up the impression that the DLE knew what they were doing. They didn't. It was a case unlike any other he'd encountered.
Kingsley nudged at his side, and Tom tried half-heartedly to fix an expression of attentiveness onto his features.
Hestia Jones, their head profiler, stepped forward. She had stringy brown hair pulled into a pony-tail, and her mauve suit jacket was missing a button. Clenched in her hands was a slim notebook, the cover emblazoned with the DLE logo. She fumbled under Tom's gaze, struggling to find the correct page.
In the back of the room, the rest of the precinct stood silently, understanding that this was not the time for idle chit-chat. Their stares made Hestia stutter through her introduction.
"F - from our research, w - we believe our unidentified suspect is white, in their early 20's. He - " she faltered. "I'm using the masculine pronoun as a filler - " Kingsley, beside Tom, nodded in understanding. "He's young. Unassuming. A cherubic figure, if you would. Seems entirely innocent at first, but his actions - not violent, but certainly traumatizing - may indicate a history of physical and psychological abuse, during his childhood. Being on the receiving end of belts and fists are likely why he shies away from violent means of abduction. We believe his childhood abuse was caused partially, if not totally, by the fact he's . . . " Hestia took a deep breath, casting a glance at her superiors.
Tom hissed a breath out through his teeth. "Go on." That was about as encouraging as he could get.
Hestia, chagrined, lowered her gaze and spoke quickly. "He is a repressed homosexual. His obsession with same-sex couples indicates this."
Kingsley shifted uncomfortably beside Tom, his expression contemplative. Tom barely blinked, gesturing for Hestia to continue.
"He's smart, smart enough to remain anonymous for so long, but lonely. From the testimony of one of the victims - um, Myrtle Warren, I believe her name was - he likely owns a dog, big and black. Man's best friend, someone to love you no matter what. There's a bunch of lore on black dogs being harbingers of death, but that's not really relevant here . . ." Hestia's voice faded, and she let out a small, dry cough. She flipped to the next page, muttering to herself. "I'm more of a cat person, myself."
Tom felt irritation prickle at him, but he allowed her to continue.
"He's . . . voyeuristic, in the way he records his victim's interactions, but he doesn't gain sexual pleasure from it. Heisn't a killer. He isn't physically violent unless his victims struggle. In fact, we believe he's rather small in stature and has honed the element of surprise in order to accomplish what he has," Hestia nodded to a man in the back of the room. "Forensics believes he had help in transporting the bodies, not to mention the coffins, from the city into the country. At the last site, they found tracks of an excavation machine. It - it took time and dedication for him to bury his victims. He works with his hands, and is incredibly intelligent - but he must've had help. There's no way this was a one-man job."
With the scratch of his pen, Kingsley made a note in his file. Tom wondered if he ought to be taking notes too; but most of this, the perpetrator's homosexuality, in particular, he had already guessed in the dark of night when his mind teetered between exhaustion and epiphany.
"But however crass his methods are, he's . . . a kidnapper with morals," her tone was strained with cynicism. "A criminal by any means, but he has a seemingly altruistic agenda. Pairing 'soulmates'," she winced. "Like any matchmaking website, except more . . . hands on."
Tom fought from rolling his eyes at the analogy.
With that, Hestia closed her notebook and stared expectantly at the Detective Chief Inspector.
The man narrowed his dark eyes and leaned back to cross his arms, resolutely silent. There was a long, pregnant pause. A soft cough reverberated through the room. Papers rustled.
"Interesting theories," Kingsley sighed, eventually. His tone turned sharp, and Tom, secretly, was proud of the man. "But how does this help us catch the bastard?!"
In the dark shadow of a closet that was larger on the inside than it looked on the outside, a small tape recorder was rewinding.
A soft buzzing filled the room, seeping into the apartment, where a man was quietly attempting to cook a meal for two. The familiar sound wheedled at his already short patience, like a persistent bug or the whining of a child.
Whimpering at the noise, his shaggy-haired dog writhed, pawing at his ears. The dog was curled up on the ground beside the sink, settled on a clawed and torn kitchen mat.
"Oh, hush," he told the dog fondly, tossing him some ground beef. The dog devoured it ravenously, although his ears were still lowered in pain.
Leaning his head back in exasperation, the man turned off the burner and removed his ratty, stained Kiss the Cook apron. Crossing in long strides into the master bedroom, carpet kissing the callouses of his feet, he knocked politely on the closet door. From within, the tape had begun to play softly, and he could just barely make out the words.
It took a moment for his partner to respond, distracted as she was. "Come in."
He pushed aside the folding doors and sudden light enveloped the secret room.
His partner was sitting in a desk chair, a tape recorder in her lap. She listened intently to an audio recording of two girls, one of them sobbing softly, the other trying in vain to reassure her.
"You keep playing that one," he told her gently, crouching down beside her. This isn't healthy, he fought to add. She wouldn't appreciate it.
He noticed how she mouthed along. "Have you memorized every word?"
"Every single one," she turned the volume up. She tucked a piece of long hair behind her ear, tugging neurotically at her earlobe. "It's my favorite."
The recording was seventeen hours long, and while most of it was stark, echoing silence, with only the labored breathing of the two girls, she savored every second. "Listen."
Pausing it, she rewound the tape, the machine clicking. She pressed the small, faded play button, expression twisting to match the grief in their words.
"I love you, Luna. I've loved you for so long," the woman said desperately, her voice crackling across the recording. The girl spoke loudly, and to their benefit - they could hear every word, every inflection. Her vulnerability surrounded them. Engulfed them.
It was these moments that they lived for. "And if this is the last chance I get to say it - "
"I love you too, Gin," the softer-spoken girl said, trembling, traumatized. "You're my very best friend."
His partner rewound it once more. "I love you too, Gin," it repeated. "I love you too, Gin."
He reached over to halt her. "Stop. You're just going to hurt yourself. This obsession -"
"I'm not crazy," she told him sharply, the tension in the air rising to a crescendo.
He tilted his head at her, pitying, and clutched her hand. It was sweaty and small inside his own. "Repeating things over and over, expecting different results? Isn't that what crazy is?" it was an innocent question, but it must have hit too close to home.
"Right," she spat at him, spittle flying in the dark, hitting his face. He flinched back, dropping her hand as though it burned. "You would know all about that, no?" She gestured toward the walls. "You're the one with the secret murder room."
It was true.
The walls of the room were plastered with photos, taken discreetly from a camera - the best he could afford. Some of the pictures were blurry, but he could distinctly remember the subjects; everything about them, from their hair color to their height, to their habits and preferences. He had heard their deepest and darkest secrets, knew their foibles and idiosyncrasies.
He knew them intimately.
He had helped choose them, after all.
"I only keep this shit here for your sake," he swallowed tightly. "For your mental health."
The girl scoffed. "And for your masturbation fantasies," she shot back. That was a lie. Even as a teenager, he rarely indulged in self-gratification, and used to wonder if something was wrong with him. "Don't act so high-and-mighty."
Irritated, he tore his gaze from her, and instead lingered on the photos. He identified them each, counting them like sheep, to ease his stuttering heart.
Olive Hornby was a highly respected attorney that only drank coffee from her favorite chain store, three blocks from her office. She preferred it dark and bitter, likely reflecting her frankly bitchy personality. She was stern-faced, with a short pixie cut (a strand of her hair was stored in a plastic baggie pinned to a cork-board) and wore the same color lipstick each day. Myrtle Warren was Olive's unfortunate barista, a nervous wreck with a streak for pettiness and a huge, gigantic crush on the woman who ignored her advances.
Gilderoy Lockhart bought his hair-dye online and couldn't tell the difference between men's and woman's perfume. He smelt of lavender when they had liberated him, and he was so very easy to subdue. Mundungus, even easier. Fletcher had been a homeless man, a veteran, a thief, who was as greedy for money as he was for heroin. Lockhart fit the bill just fine.
Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald were old lovers, spurned and despised. Yet every morning, they each prepared a second cup of tea to the other's specifications, simply by habit. He had such high hopes for them.
Lastly, but certainly not least, he couldn't forget Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley. The couple had been their first, and his partner's favorite.
He felt a tug on his sleeve. "Don't ignore me, love. You can't hide from me." She paused. "I know who your favorite is," she sang, pushing out of the chair. She approached a small desk.
Strewn across the tabletop was a large map, dollar store stickers of golden stars marking spots in the middle of uninhabited fields. The perfect place to hide a body, or two. She pulled open a drawer where they kept the other tapes.
"One of these things is not like the other. One, two . . . a third in the recorder. Where's the forth?" She peered up at him with wide brown eyes.
He swallowed, caught. "I - "
"Don't even bother. I read it fresh off the press this morning," she revealed, soft and cloying. Saccharine. A honey trap. "Grindelwald, arrested for murdering his fellow victim of 'The Matchmaker'. Cute name, isn't it? I'll be sure to thank Rita Skeeter, the wench, for coming up with it."
His eyes slipped shut.
'The Matchmaker'.
A term the news had so lovingly dubbed him, noticing the way he paired individuals that oftentimes rose from the coffin deeply in love.
They noticed but they never saw.
His partner continued, quoting the paper from memory. She always had a frightful memory. "Preceding the arrest, an anonymous audio recording was sent to the police, revealing undeniable proof that Grindelwald had killed his partner, Albus Dumbledore within the coffin." She finished, eyes flashing like embers. "Where do you think they might've found that 'audio recording', hm? I certainly didn't tell them."
"You should've," he said without thinking. "It was the right thing to do."
She gave him guileless, triumphant smirk, and tsked. "Your morals are showing, love."
Stepping back toward the door, he knew not to be fooled by her fond endearments. She didn't love him. She only loved one person, and that love was more of a sick infatuation.
"But it was," he said, voice unsteady. "Gellert smothered Albus, and when the police arrived - he claimed Albus had a stroke. He lied!It wasn't right. We - " he shuddered. "We're not killers. It was not our fault!" his tone hit a shattering pitch.
"It was, though," she reminded him harshly. "We're the ones who trapped them together. We're the ones who selected them, knowing full well how they felt for one another. We should've known how they'd react." She wagged a slim finger at him, the nail blunt. "After all, there is a very slim line between love and hate."
You're one to lecture, he wanted to snap.
Instead, he sucked in a deep breath, tampering down the rising anger. It wouldn't do to irritate her. Their partnership - if you could call it that - was rocky enough.
"I couldn't let him go free. He's - he's a psychopath."
"Like us, you mean."
"No," he said, vehement. "No, we don't kill anyone. We just - "
She arched a brow. "Traumatize our victims? Bury them alive? Disappoint our parents?" she asked lightly. He flinched. "What we do is far worse. It's torture, and I can accept that because I couldn't fucking care less about these vermin," she hissed, pointing at collage. "You're the one at fault.
"Remind me, who chose our victims? Who watched them for days on end, carefully manipulating every variable, pretending he had good intentions when he shoved their unconscious bodies into the coffin? I'm not stupid. I'm not blind. The problem is, you don't seem to realize the implications of all this."
He made a wounded noise. "I do -"
She cut off his protests, uncaring. "I know you, remember? You're as insane as me, just a different kind of crazy." Her hand slammed into the tabletop. "Up until now, you thought this was just some silly little matchmaking game, with no consequences. You're antisocial and lonely. You thought that you could live vicariously through others and - somehow - achieve the connection you're lacking? How has that worked out for you, huh?" She didn't wait for him to respond. "You got sloppy, and one of your chess pieces revolted. It doesn't matter who held his hand to Dumbledore's mouth and smothered him to death. We're the bad guys. We drove Grindelwald to kill his match. If it wasn't for you, that man wouldn't be dead!"
He wasn't - She was wrong about him. He wasn't ignorant to his crimes. Oftentimes, blame overwhelmed him, but he always justified his actions. He wasn't a killer. He never hurt anyone. Never.
He didn't know why he stayed when he knew damn well she would throw him under the bus when the time came.
It was only a matter of when.
And damn, if he didn't deserve it.
It had been her idea at first, but he was the one who hand-selected each victim and orchestrated their kidnappings. He may have started this for her, but he continued because he saw the loneliness in the world, he saw his victims for who they were and tried to show them that they didn't have to be alone.
Like he was.
He clawed a hand over his features. She couldn't see him cry.
"The police won't thank you for turning Grindelwald in," she continued, voice dripping with derision. "They think you're playing a game. Mind-fucking them, drawing them into your trap," she spoke bluntly, each word clawing at his chest, leaving burning trails of shame. "And your 'good intentions' are going to lead them straight to us."
"I - " He sounded strangled. "I won't. I wiped the tape clean of fingerprints, I dropped it off anonymously and –" She blinked at him, unimpressed. His jaw snapped shut. He licked his lips. "I – I swear to you. This'll be my last pair. I've got the perfect finale."
He gestured to the most recent set of photographs, showing a tall, dark-haired man with his head bent over a cell phone.
The image was out of focus and blurred; his hands had been shaking when he took it, the thrill of the hunt rendering him nearly incapable. The photo was well-loved, caressed and cared for like a precious child. If this was to be his last victim, it would damn well be his best.
"I promise. We can stop after this." He vowed, clenching a hand to his heart, the organ beating a tattoo against his ribs.
(He felt hollow, sometimes, and it was nice to have proof in the negative.)
He waited several beats for her response, hope flooding him as it did every time, that perhaps this time she would approve -
His partner snorted. That hope shattered. "You're like an addict," she murmured.
Bored of him, she returned back to her tapes, ready to embroil herself in her beloved recording. Pressing play, she closed her eyes to the sound of Luna's sobs. The sound didn't comfort him like it comforted her. It made him feel worse.
Her dismissal came out in a single breath, as though he wasn't worth even an ounce of her focus. "I'm not hungry. Give my plate to the dog."
ONE FOOT IN THE GRAVE
The headline blared.
By Rita Skeeter
A recent picture of the famed author Gilderoy Lockhart grinned up at the Detective Chief Inspector. It was charmingly captioned The Lockhart-Fletcher Wedding; Lockhart's tan hand was curled around the elbow of his husband, a stout, bald man with a toothy grin and dilated pupils.
Tom recognized Lockhart from various galas, the imprint of Lockhart's hideous lavender tuxedos burned into his memory. His fingers curled around the newspaper, his mouth twisting in a disgusted sneer.
The 'Matchmaker', for all that we know of this elusive serial kidnapper, must fancy himself Cupid. His modus operandi consists of pairing two same-sex individuals in a coffin six feet underground with only an air tube to ascertain their survival. But however crass his methods are - burying his matches alive - the Matchmaker's intentions are not to harm, but to help.
The proof is in the pudding.
Gilderoy Lockhart, famous fiction author and four-time winner of Woman Weekly's 'Most Charming Bachelor' award, has recently tied the knot with his fellow 'match', Michael 'Mundungus' Fletcher. (Shown in the picture above.)
The two men were essentially strangers when they awoke, trapped together in a handmade casket; they knew each other in passing, as Lockhart volunteered at a homeless shelter Fletcher frequented.
Resigned to their fates, the men began talking, and the two opposites learned more about each other on the brink of death than they ever had a chance to in the world of the living.
Two other such couples include partners Ginevra Weasley and Luna Lovegood, as well as renown lawyer Olive Hornby and barista Myrtle Warren. Readers might be happy to learn Hornby and Warren have now entered a romantic relationship, and the Weasley-Lovegood couple is closer than ever.
Unfortunately, not all the Matchmaker's couples were meant to be.
Although the Department of Law Enforcement has given little information on the subject, an inside source claims an anonymous tip that leads first responders to his victims. Here at the Daily Prophet, we've come to the incredible assumption that the anonymous tip is in fact sent by the kidnapper. Nearly all the couples have survived the experience unscathed, barring a tragic incident that occurred last month.
Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore were former lovers, torn apart by different career paths. The Matchmaker likely intended for a glorious, passionate reunion, but instead - when the police arrived on scene - only one man rose from the grave.
Grindelwald went on record claiming Albus had suffered from a stroke. However, evidence in the contrary was soon brought to life as an anonymous package was delivered to the Department of Law Enforcement. It was an audio recording of their time in the coffin, from start to finish, revealing undeniable proof that Grindelwald had killed his partner, Albus Dumbledore while inside.
In court, he admitted that he was unaware of the air tube and was concerned about the limited air supply. Charged with voluntary manslaughter, the Grindelwald case was quickly wrapped up.
However, some questions remain. Who was in possession of this recording? Logic states that only three men could possibly know what had occurred in the coffin; one of them guilty of murder, the other dead, and the last, their kidnapper.
A kidnapper . . . with morals?
The public is left to wonder; is the Matchmaker truly a vicious criminal, intent on causing anguish and hurt? Or are they merely a lonely, lovelorn individual intent on bringing people together?
Tom slid his expression into one of anger and concern. He lowered the paper, handing it back to Detective Constable Kingsley. The man was watching Tom carefully, dark eyes sharp, as if waiting for a reaction.
Tom cleared his throat. "What an incredibly fluffy piece," he drawled. "Rita always has written such lovely prose."
Compulsively, he straightened a pencil on his desk. Everything was methodically in its place; papers stacked in neat piles, his computer keyboard recently wiped, the large desk glossy. The walls were a light blue, conducive to concentration, the office decorated sparsely. There were no personal attachments, framed photographs or baubles; he had a strict belief that business and pleasure remained separate.
(Although, safely hidden within several sub-folders on his computer, he had a roll of ten or so pictures of him and his mother, back when he was a naive rookie. Back when Merope had color in her cheeks and was able to walk without the help of a wheelchair.)
"In this, Skeeter is correct," Kingsley padded at his forehead with an already moist handkerchief. "Rather on the nose with most of her assumptions, really." He slumped in his seat across from Tom and nodded toward the silver tea tray. "Fix me a cup of tea, will you?"
Kingsley was a large, dark man who preferred diplomacy to brute force, which is the sole reason Tom tolerated him. The man had a sense of humor Tom could appreciate, although it could occasionally slip into a rudeness Tom was quick to correct. With deep-set eyes and a voice that calmed all those around him, Kingsley was the dedicated, earnest face of the DLE. Tom despised company functions, and often sent Kingsley in his stead, preferring to lock himself in his office with a stack of files and a fresh pot of tea to last the night.
Reaching toward the silver tea tray sitting at the corner of his desk, Tom poured a cup and plopped in two cubes of sugar. Just the way Kingsley liked it. They weren't friends by any means but had worked side-by-side long enough to be familiar with each other's quirks and habits.
Kingsley took the cup with a nod of gratitude. Tom's fingers twitched, tapping his spoon against the rim of his own cup. He took a sip and swallowed. It burned the whole way down.
"What worries me is Rita's supposed 'inside source'. The public wasn't made aware of the anonymous tips. Do we have a mole in our ranks?" Who am I going to have to brutally fire today? was his unspoken question.
"That's what I want to know," Kingsley grimaced. "If not a mole, how else would Skeeter be so damn good at analyzing this son of a bitch? It took months for our best profilers to dismiss the first burial as a hate crime and realize our man is a repressed homosexual, himself. She quoted the briefing almost word for word."
Tom nodded, considerate. "Speaking of. There was a point Hestia made that I would like to run by you once more. She called the unsub's motive . . . a 'match-making service.' But that is so incredibly banal, I have a hard time to believe a criminal of this caliber would have such clichéd inspiration."
Pushing his cup away, Tom brought up a file on his computer. It held a series of photographs taken at the most recent crime scene; fields of serene and photogenic flowers. At first glance, it resembled a stock photo – until you looked closer.
Crime scene markers littered the grass, pointing out splintered wood and nails. Amidst the foliage was a plastic air-tube, flimsier than a child's bathtub snorkeling device, sticking out from the ground.
He zoomed in on another photograph of bent, broken wires; a recording device, placed inside the lid of each coffin, for the Matchmaker's listening pleasure.
Tom sucked in a breath, almost awe-struck. "By burying them alive, he makes his victims flirt with death, but he eventually frees them. Or, allows the police to free them, at least. Once they meet his expectations."
"Is this an - obsession with control? With playing God?" Kingsley asked.
"Perhaps," Tom allowed. "But what I want to know, is what's the catalyst?" he mused aloud. "What's the trigger? Something makes him free the victims - there doesn't seem to be a discernable pattern. His first victims were underground for seventeen hours, the longest yet. The others were noticeably smaller, with Lockhart and Fletcher being underground for only twelve."
Kingsley shook his bald head, the gleam of the overhead light reflecting off his scalp. "Our interviews with the victims have raised no correlations. They have no concept of time when they're under, so as far as we know, he's only satisfied when they confess an urge to piss," he paused, the joke falling flat. "When we received the anonymous call for Grindelwald and Dumbledore, the latter had already been dead for an hour. Clearly, life and death situations do not irk our unsub."
"Or, perhaps he was letting the killer stew," Tom said, forming the words with a tinge of vindictiveness. "Prolonging Grindelwald's torture."
"It must have been quite the shock, to see one of his chess pieces revolting."
Tom shook his head. "The Matchmaker is no mastermind. He has a pattern, we know that much. His victims are not random. They're at the very least acquaintances, if not the best of friends. It's not much of a hardship to spend your last few hours with your favorite person," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Unless that was intentional. The first victims -"
"Are just that," Kingsley said gently. "Victims. The poor Lovegood girl was so distraught when we found them."
"And the Weasley girl?"
"She just seemed irritated by the whole matter," he waved a hand. "I know her father well; the entire Weasley clan are prideful. With six brothers, she would hardly admit to being scared or traumatized."
Tom hummed, bored, and let the matter settle. "Any progress on the Grindelwald tape?"
Kingsley shook his head. "After forensics proved it's verity, we played the tape to Grindelwald in court - he succumbed almost immediately, admitting to everything. The tape seemed to match up with his confession."
"I assume they dusted it for fingerprints, as well?" Tom asked. "Skin cells, dust particulates?"
"It was wiped down," Kingsley so hated to be the bearer of bad news. "Not a single fingerprint, not even on the envelope. We tested for saliva, but – it was no good. The Matchmaker was very efficient. But he has to slip up sometime." Kingsley's lips pressed together. "Sometimes, I think he's playing with us. Other times, I wonder . . . if we give him the chance, do you think he'll turn himself in?"
"He's in too deep now, Kingsley," Tom said, certain. "It's an addiction, but like any addiction, he's grown an immunity to it. His last fix was botched. He'll continue taking one step further, and further, until . . . perhaps, one day, we'll find him in the grave. He's already proved to be voyeuristic - perturbed in the mind. He'll want to inject himself into the case and experience it for himself. If he hasn't already," His voice had petered into a faint murmur.
Kingsley was accustomed to being used as a sounding board, but the silence was unnerving. He clenched the armrests, frowning.
"Not to mention, with Rita Skeeter feeding at his ego, he must be pretty confident," Kingsley added, just for something to say. "She certainly seems intent on making our man a bloodypublic hero. 'Perhaps he'll 'match'you with your soulmate . . . or your killer.'" He mocked, taking on Skeeter's notoriously high, saccharine voice. "What a cunt."
Tom arched a brow at the man's abrasiveness. "Watch your language, Kingsley."
The detective quickly grimaced. "Apologies." They worked on the force together for over a decade; sometimes, he forgot Tom was his superior.
Kingsley decided to change the subject.
"Perhaps we're thinking too hard on the topic." He hoped to segue the conversation to the force's weekly gathering at a nearby tavern; Tom rarely attended them, but Tonks down in missing persons made a hefty wager that Kingsley couldn't convince the man.
Nearly everyone down at the precinct was terrified of Tom. He was alarmingly disciplined, instinctive and sharp, which made him an excellent officer but just terrible at socializing.
In their younger years, Tom and Kingsley were both rookies under the old Detective Chief Inspector Scrimgeour, a man lovingly nicknamed 'the Lion King', for his bristly golden hair and the scar across his right eye.
Back then, Tom was the most handsome lad in the precinct, charismatic and sweet to old women and young children alike. He had sharp, perceptive blue eyes and aristocratic features that endeared him to the upper-class folk. It had been a shock to learn he'd been raised by a single mother in a one-bedroom apartment – especially when Kingsley had placed money on Tom being a lost member of the Royal family.
Tom had been set to take Scrimgeour's position at the young age of thirty when his beloved mother had been struck ill with a debilitating disease. Tom took the promotion and the fattened paycheck with grace, but he became far more reserved, talking less and working more, stringently demanding that his underlings do the same.
Of course, what was that saying? When the cat's away, the mice will play.
With Tom holed away in his office more often than not, and Kingsley known as an incredibly laid-back second-in-command, gossip tended to fly.
Tom was a bachelor - or was he?
Was Tom as good with his cock as he was with a gun? (This one, of course, was not a line of questioning Kingsley encouraged.)
What would Tom look like with his hair down, three sheets to the wind? Would he be just as mean, if not meaner? Would he be a blabbermouth, or was he a lightweight?
Kingsley was unable to stop his devious smirk. Tonight, he hoped, they would find out. He leaned forward on his elbows. "Say, Tom - "
Tom ignored him, talking over Kingsley with a contemplative drawl. "Hopefully," he said loudly, recognizing Kingsley's wheedling tone. "The Matchmaker will be on a hiatus after inadvertently killing one of his 'matches'. Or," Tom mused quietly, looking closer at his computer screen, fingers flying across the keys as he wrote out his observations. "He'll only be more determined. He'll find another couple with more chemistry - or less bad history . . ."
Kingsley sighed, a bit desperate. "Rita Skeeter will have a field day proving to the world that 'not all bad guys are bad'."
Tom hummed in agreement. "Sometimes, I wonder if Skeeter's priming the media to accept her when it comes to light all the crime scenes she's broken into and the officers she's bribed."
Kingsley gave a reluctant laugh, almost fond of the man's single-minded concentration. He resisted the urge to poke the wrinkle growing between Tom's brows."Hey, the story sells."
The office was quiet, with only the soft clicking of a clock marking the time passing. Kingsley had the feeling his presence was no longer required, but he had a goal, damn it.
Kingsley cleared his throat. "Well, that was certainly enlightening. To be honest, I feel we're only going around in circles," Kingsley gestured with his teacup. He made his tone airy, suggestive. "Why don't we take this conversation over-time, eh? Come down to the Leaky Cauldron for a pint, Tom. A few other officers will be there, we can all - er - brainstorm. More the merrier, you know?" he choked out another laugh, tired eyes watching the last drop of tea wobble at the bottom of his cup. "Misery loves company, don't you think?"
"Brainstorming," Tom repeated, fingers stalling. "Oh, is that the slang recruits use for 'getting schnockered'?"
Dark eyes blinked in amazement. Kingsley couldn't believe he'd just heard Tom say 'schnockered'.
He smiled, sheepishly running a hand over his scalp. "Well, are you in or are you out? I don't ask for much, Tom. You need to get out of the office, be with your friends - or your colleagues, at least,"he corrected. "Even the bloody Queen needs to take off her crown every so often." He glanced purposefully at Tom's badge, gleaming proudly at his lapel. Tom polished it every morning with a special lemon polish, and everyone knew it.
High cheekbones flushing, Tom cleared his throat. "I'll . . . I'll think about it," he said quickly, returning his gaze to his computer.
Kingsley waited for a second more, but he suspected that was the best affirmation he could get. He sighed, pushing away his chair.
"Alright, Tom," standing, he towered over the other man, tilting his head. "The Leaky Cauldron," Kingsley reminded gently because knowing Tom, the man had already deleted the information. "Five o'clock."
"Yes, yes," waving a strong, slim hand, Tom dismissed the deputy. "I will . . . " he paused as if the words physically hurt. "See you then."
Kingsley nodded, blank-faced. He left the office with rapid feet, and it was only when he reached the hall that he grinned, already removing his phone to send a quick text to Tonks.
'Drinks are on you, tonight!'
To be continued . . .