The Despicable Dozen – Chapter 1
A/N: 1920's murder mystery ala Agatha Christie. [Octavia/Blaise. Hermione/Draco]
Steam from the train poured and billowed around the station as travellers waited patiently on the platform. The crisp autumn air surrounded the cluster of strangers, women sticking close together as the men stood in their own groups. Women travelling alone was definitely an unseemly event, but as Hermione glanced around her, she noticed that she wasn't the only solo traveller in her sex.
No more than twenty people occupied the platform, half of which were women clad in the latest fashions to overtake the 1920's. Cloche hats of all shapes, colours and sizes adorned many ladies; T-bar shoes, purple suitcases, stockings, the lot. There were more women waiting for the train doors to open than she had anticipated. It was a welcoming realisation. At least she wasn't the only lady travelling alone.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was only seven minutes, the train doors opened, granting access to the travellers and offering sanctuary from the winter gusts of wind. Hermione tightened her grip on her brown leather suitcase as she entered the train with a little difficulty, holding onto the barriers for support. Three women clad in colourful, costly attire brushed passed her with ease, making their way down the suddenly crammed corridor. She sighed as she scanned the busy train, searching for a place to sit amidst the chaos of people storing away their luggage and blocking the pathway.
"Hermione Granger?" A feminine voice spoke from behind.
Hermione whipped around to face the mysterious woman. But the mystery of the woman's identity quickly dispersed the moment she laid her eyes on bright red hair, more crimson than the blood that coursed through her own veins.
"Ginevra Weasley," Hermione greeted with a smile, grateful for the familiar face. "What a pleasant surprise."
"Indeed," Ginevra Weasley agreed, inclining her head politely. "Shall we find a seat?"
"We shall," Hermione conceded, turning to face the aisles of benches and open compartments.
The two acquaintances walked unevenly down the aisle, Hermione grazing her free hand over the railings to ensure balance. She came to a stop halfway down, two men clad in suits blocking her path as they stuffed their suitcases onto the railing above the seats.
Hermione waited patiently for the men to finish their tasks, politely averting her gaze to the floor. Ginevra Weasley, on the other hand, was a notoriously outspoken lady, waiting only three seconds before clearing her throat pointedly.
The men finished their tasks, the blond-haired man glancing over his shoulder at the two women. Hermione met his gaze, her lips parting improperly at the sheer sight of his attractiveness. Stormy silver eyes captured her full attention, light blonde hair combed to the side, a defined jaw to die for, and muscles that were almost visible through his crisp white shirt.
The blond man regarded her wild mild interest for a moment before stepped to the side and allowed her passage down the pathway. His comrade – a handsome man with a tanned complexion, jet black air and even darker eyes – didn't spare either Hermione or Ginevra a single glance as he took his seat.
Inclining her head in a polite gesture of gratitude, Hermione walked passed the blond man, feeling his silver eyes following her every move, gaze burning into her back as she took the only seats left.
Two women in colourful dresses and hats sat at the small table, the only two available seats across from them.
"May we join you?" Hermione asked politely.
"Of course," the brunette smiled, Ginevra and Hermione storing away their luggage before joining the two strangers.
"I am Hermione Granger," Hermione introduced. "And this is Ginevra Weasley."
Ginevra smiled tightly as she unpinned her cloche hat without much care. Hermione couldn't help but notice that Ginevra suddenly seemed a little tense. What was peculiar about it, however, was that she was staring at the brunette intently.
"Octavia Sinclair," the blonde curly-haired girl smiled, unpinning her purple cloche with delicate movements.
"Pansy Parkinson," the brunette introduced, shrugging off her white cloak, briefly meeting Ginevra's intense gaze.
The train began to vibrate, emitting loud noises to indicate that it was about to depart the station. Moments after, the train took off at a slow rate, steadily increasing its speed, leaving the four women to sit in a relatively awkward silence. It was always incredibly uncomfortable to sit with strangers.
Hermione fleetingly found herself wishing that she had taken the window seat instead of Ginevra, for it would at least allow her to gaze out of the glass at the passing scenery. The English countryside was always a spectacular sight to behold. Alas, she had taken the aisle seat and found her eyes wandering around the other occupants of the train instead.
Honey brown eyes rested on the blonde man from earlier, noticing that he had already spotted her. Without shame, his gaze burned into her thigh, his expression that of stone. Hermione's gaze shot down to her thigh, noticing that her dress had hiked up improperly, displaying the straps of her stockings to the blond observer. Filled with humiliation, Hermione quickly pulled down the hem of her modest dress, outraged by his wandering eyes.
The man's silver eyes snapped up to hers instantly, a devious smirk twisting at his lips. Her cheeks flushed noticeably, but Hermione dared not entertain his inappropriate gaze and, instead, returned her attention to her acquaintance.
"May I inquire as to the purpose of your travels?" Hermione asked politely.
Ginevra tore her gaze from Pansy Parkinson's, meeting Hermione's eyes. "I have been invited to attend an interview," Ginevra explained modestly, a little embarrassed at the admittance that she was a woman of employment. "A secretary position has become available, but I must travel to the owner's home for the interview. Apparently, the employer is quite poorly and is unable to leave his home for the time being."
"A shame," Hermione said. "I do hope he recovers, and I wish you the best of luck."
"Thank you," Ginevra smiled. "Yourself?"
"A similar situation," Hermione admitted. "I have been invited to attend the home in which I hope to be employed at soon."
Hermione felt no shame in admitting that she was a woman seeking employment. As a governess, her career was considered somewhat respectable, but the employment was temporary as children inevitably aged.
"Where, if I may ask, are you travelling to?" Pansy Parkinson drawled, her voice slick with refined aristocracy.
Hermione raised her brows in surprise, completely shocked that the stranger was bold enough to address them directly. It contrasted greatly with her graceful manner that indicated her upper-class nature.
"Durrem Island," Hermione and Ginevra answered in perfect unison.
The table fell silent, Hermione and Ginevra gazing at one another in surprise, Pansy's brows raising to her hairline. Even Octavia gaped slightly.
"Why that is a marvellous coincidence," Pansy drawled. "Octavia and I are journeying to the same destination."
"Surely not," Ginevra said, a hint of bitterness to her tone.
"Indeed," Pansy nodded, ignoring the red-head's evident disappointment. "Although, Octavia and I have been invited to attend a dinner party, to be hosted by Lady Sarina Koppsynn."
"The employer who I expect to meet must be Lady Koppsynn's husband," Hermione said. "Lord Koppsynn is the title of the gentleman who sent me a letter in regards to the position."
"Interesting," Pansy droned, her tone contradicting her statement.
"Are you acquainted with the Koppsynns?" Hermione asked.
"We have yet to become friends," Pansy replied. "This will be our first meeting with the Koppsynn family. I believe they are new to England, if their foreign surname is any indication."
"The world is a small place," Octavia smiled, seemingly bored of the topic. Her tight blonde tresses appeared to be more interesting, for she set to twirling one curl in her slender finger distractedly.
Hermione was hardly a judgemental sort of person, but it took her little more than a few seconds to come to the conclusion that Octavia was a stereotypical rich girl – wealthy, pretty and vein. Friendly enough, but apparently superficial.
The foursome fell into a silence at the close of the conversation, finding nothing else to discuss to pass the time. They were worlds apart, in class and upbringing, so it was hardly surprising. Octavia and Pansy were evidently wealthy young women from refined families, perhaps a little on the snobbish side, whereas Ginevra and Hermione were working women, trying to make a living in a patriarchal society. Hermione was only acquainted with Ginevra for that very reason: They had both worked for a wealthy family in the countryside of Surrey a few years back. Times had changed, Ginevra had suddenly resigned from her position as house administrator, and Hermione had never seen her again. Until now.
Octavia was right. The world was certainly a small place.
As the lengthy train journey ticked on, Hermione couldn't help but wonder though. Coincidences were widespread, but it was quite strange that she and Ginevra found themselves on the same train, on the same day, travelling to the same location, to meet the same Lord, all in the name of employment with the same family. A coincidence, yes, but a strange one at that.
Hours passed, broken by short rounds of small talk, the occasional powder room break and snacks, but the atmosphere amongst the four remained stiff. Hermione couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there appeared to be some tension between Ginevra and Pansy, which was ludicrous. The women didn't know one another, nor had they been acquainted until that day. They hardly ran in the same circles, so why Hermione felt unease and tension radiating from the two, was simply beyond her comprehension.
After the incredibly weary six-hour journey had passed, the train halted to its final stop.
"Durrem Island!" The conductor announced to the few people left on the train.
Although, the journey wasn't over yet. A small boat ride to the island was called for once the invited guests had gathered at the port.
Hermione forced her stiff body to rise from the chair, all other occupants in the large compartment following suit. She expertly fastened her relatively cheap and modest cloche hat to her curly brown hair, the other girls performing the same routine before they each retrieved their suitcases from the rack above.
With a quick glance down the aisle, Hermione noticed that the blond man was still on the train, lazily slipping on his suit jacket. His black-haired comrade retrieved their luggage from the rack before fastening his own jacket to protect his body from the cold air outside, as well as his modesty. It would be unseemly for a man to walk around, jacket unbuttoned, in the presence of ladies, even if strangers.
As the four woman walked in perfect formation – Pansy and Octavia in front, the lower class ladies behind – toward the gentlemen ahead, Hermione stole a glance out the window. The sea was visible from the train station, giving her a small reprieve. For it meant that the journey to the port would be relatively short in distance, and for that she was grateful. Travelling surely took its toll on a lady.
A squealing sound caught her attention suddenly, gaze darting ahead, watching as Octavia tripped over luggage on the floor. The blonde went tumbling over, almost colliding with the tacky carpet, but didn't reach the ground. The black-haired, tanned man caught her just in time.
Hermione watched with mild interest as the obviously middle-class gentleman helped the snooty rich girl to her feet, his hands improperly gripping onto her waist. His near-black eyes were fixed intently on Octavia's face as she righted herself, the pair evidently staring at one another in silence before Octavia recalled her manners.
"Thank you, sir," Octavia muttered, brushing stray curls from her face importantly.
"Blaise Zabini," the man introduced himself, extending his hand toward the woman who was above his standing, so much so that she he should not have introduced himself at all.
Octavia blinked at his extended hand for a moment, entirely taken off guard. A few awkward moments passed, in which nobody spoke, but only watched. The blond man who Hermione had encountered earlier didn't watch – he stared unashamedly at her.
Apparently deciding on the best course of action, Octavia sniffed snootily before striding passed Blaise Zabini, ignoring his offered hand. Hermione noticed that Mr. Zabini watched her strut down the aisle with a smirk on his handsome features before he grabbed his suitcase from the ground – the very same suitcase Octavia had tripped on.
A one hour wait at the port, followed by a thirty minute boat ride and twenty minute hike over grassy hills, and Hermione found herself entering the grand doors of the château she had been summoned to. It was peculiar, however, that she was not alone. Hermione knew that Octavia, Pansy and Ginevra would be journeying to the same château with her that day, but not the others. Blaise Zabini, his blond friend – and pervert – had also arrived at the château with them, accompanied by four other men who Hermione did not know.
In total, ten guests stood in the lavish foyer of the grand home, each carrying luggage with them, and all greeted by the staff members. Strangely, only one maid and one butler were on staff at the château. For a home this huge, Hermione would have expected at least ten staff members all up.
A pudgy looking man stood in the centre of the foyer, hands clasped behind his back, adorning the standard butler attire. A maid stood beside him, a few inches back, demonstrating her lesser rank to that of the butler's.
"Welcome to the Koppsynn Château," the butler greeted formally. "My name is Neville Longbottom, and I will be at your service for the duration of your stay. To my left is Luna Longbottom, who acts as the cook, maid and handmaiden of the home."
Hermione glanced around at her fellow guests, almost daring to glower as she noticed the blond man eyeing her like a piece of meat. He stood close to Blaise Zabini, Hermione ascertaining that they were familiar prior to the trip.
"When can we expect to meet our hosts?" A man asked, round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.
"We will be at full house by morning," Longbottom responded.
"Morning?" A red-headed man repeated incredulously. "You mean to say that our hosts are not here for our arrival?"
"Apologies, sir," Longbottom bowed his head. "I received a telegram an hour ago to inform me of their late arrival. Auto-mobile problems, you see. They were unable to reach the final train on time. I do apologise."
"And what are we to do in the meantime of their arrival?" Hermione interjected, polite as ever.
"I have strict instructions to ensure that you are comfortable for the evening, and to see to it that you each have everything you should need. Dinner will begin at precisely seven o'clock in the dining room," Longbottom answered. "Now, if we could have the ladies follow Mrs. Longbottom, she will show you each your lodgings. If the gentlemen will follow me, please."
A few shady glances took place amongst the guests, but the two upper-class women – Octavia and Pansy – seemed perfectly at ease. Perhaps situations such as these were common in their class, but to Hermione, it was all very untoward.
Alas, nothing could be done about it. For she was stranded on an island with ten strangers and one acquaintance, awaiting the highly anticipated arrival of her prospective employer. Until the Lord of the house arrived, or the boat returned to port, Hermione had no choice but to accept the extended hospitality.
Even if it all did seem a little suspicious.
The long mahogany table displayed generous amounts of various foods, ranging from bowls of roast potatoes to racks of lamb and platters of liver. Crystal wine glasses were filled to the brim with either white or red wines, a few snifters of brandy for the men. Hermione sat between Ginevra Weasley and Octavia Sinclair, Pansy Parkinson on the other side of the blonde snob. Across from her was the man who had eyed her thigh with extreme indecency on the train, seated by Blaise Zabini.
The atmosphere in the dining was room was thick with impatience, unease and discomfort. Everyone remained silent as Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom served up the last platters of food before departing for the kitchens. Presumably to ensure that dessert was prepared.
"Well," Pansy cleared her throat, catching the attention of all guests. "Given that we are to dine together, and there are no hosts present to perform the introductions, perhaps we should take the initiate to do so ourselves."
"Introduce ourselves?" Octavia Sinclair repeated, looking simply aghast at the suggestion. It was an improper thing to do for people of her standing. That much was clear from the horror sparkling in her big hazel eyes.
"Have we another option?" Pansy quirked her brow, delicately clasping her jewelled fingers around her wine glass.
"I suppose not," Octavia responded bitterly, her cheeks a little on the rosy side.
"I will begin," Pansy smiled falsely, glancing around the table. "My name is Pansy Parkinson, but you may all refer to me only as Lady Parkinson."
"Lady Octavia Sinclair," Octavia introduced with a drone, definitely less than pleased.
"Miss Hermione Granger," Hermione smiled politely, avoiding the intense stare of the blonde man seated across from her.
"Miss Ginevra Weasley."
"Ronald Wilby," the red-haired man gruffed, swirling his brandy with too much vigour.
"Sirius Black," a scruffy looking man said, his voice just as hoarse as his unkempt appearance.
"Theodore Nott."
"Harry Potter."
"Draco Malfoy," the blonde man said, silver eyes locked onto Hermione's gaze.
"Blaise Zabini," the handsome olive-skinned man introduced into his glass of brandy, black eyes fixed on Octavia Sinclair. The latter, however, appeared to have no interest in the gentleman of lesser status whatsoever.
"Is anyone acquainted with the Koppsynns?" Mr Potter asked, black hair a little dishevelled. Certainly working-class.
The guests at the long dinner table glanced around at one another, waiting for one of them to respond – to hold their hand up and declare a familiarity of sorts with the family of the home they resided in. But no such thing occurred.
"I believe they are new to Britain," Pansy piped up after a few moments of silence. "They are yet to forge any connections, it appears."
"What makes you think that?" Mr Ronald Wilby frowned, speaking with his mouth full of mashed potatoes.
The sight had Octavia Sinclair avert her gaze to the table, a fierce blush on her cheeks, rage shining in her bright hazel eyes. Hermione, however, had been witness to such indecency over the years of unemployment, associating herself with men in the lower classes via the occasional barmaid position.
"Their peculiar surnames for one," Pansy drawled, ever the aristocrat, showing no signs out outrage at Wilby's lack of manners. "The complete lack of decency at arriving late to their own home. Very European, is it not? And then there is the matter of the introductory dinner party that we were invited to, and the interviews for potential employees."
Waving her hand in the direction of Hermione and Ginevra, Pansy clearly indicated to the others that the two women were there for employment. The lady had made it very clear that she was in no way associated with either woman.
"What's a dinner party got to do with them being new to our country?" Mr Potter asked in thick London accent.
"Introductions," Octavia answered coolly, raising her little upturned nose in the air. "When a family of high position wishes to acquaint with others of the same status, introductory dinner parties are customary."
"Well I wasn't invited to that," Ron gruffed. "I'm here for business."
"May I inquire as to the nature of this business?" Pansy asked, disdain reeking from her pores.
"The private sorts," Ron grumbled.
"Are any more of you here for the dinner party?" Octavia frowned, glancing around the table. No one spoke, only waiting for another to pipe up. They didn't.
"How very odd," Pansy quirked her perfectly sculpted brow.
"There is something out of sorts," Ginevra commented, gaining everyone's attention. "When I received a letter inviting me to the island, it clearly stated that the owners were too poorly to leave their home. Yet, they are not here."
"Perhaps they made a quick recovery," Octavia suggested, the weak excuse not even convincing herself.
"Were we all invited directly by the Koppsynns?" Hermione asked.
"I wasn't," Mr Potter admitted. "I got told about my business with them from someone else."
"Argus Filch?" Mr Wilby frowned, side-eyeing the bespectacled man curiously.
"Aye," Potter nodded. "You?"
"Same," Wilby said. "Weird, innit?"
"Hardly," Pansy smirked. "This man – Mr. Filch, I believe you said – must be the estate advisor for the Koppsynns. It isn't unusual for a wealthy family to employ an estate adviser to see to their mundane affairs."
"It's who we spoke to," Draco Malfoy said crisply, swirling his brandy expertly. "Myself and Mr Zabini here were invited to the island by Mr. Filch."
"For mysterious business?" Ginevra queried.
"As it happens," Blaise Zabini smirked, his black eyes fixed on Octavia. "Yes."
The doors to the dining room opened, the butler and maid waltzing in, carrying platters of desserts for the guests. The occupants at the table fell silent, waiting patiently for their scarcely touched meals to be replaced by the greatly appetising sweet dishes.
"This looks divine," Pansy complimented, regarding her bowl of crème brûlée approvingly.
"Indeed," Hermione concurred, inclining her head at the blushing Mrs Longbottom to relay her praise.
"Thank you, ma'ams," Luna Lovegood smiled.
Once the trading of the meals was complete, the two staff members departed the dining room once again, leaving the guests to themselves.
"Well," Ginevra breathed. "If you don't mind me saying, this is extraordinarily uncomfortable."
Octavia almost laughed at the truthful statement, but quickly caught herself, maintaining an expression of complete indifference. Hermione inhaled deeply, suddenly embarrassed by association with the untoward woman, but Ronald Wilby and Harry Potter snickered in agreement. Sirius Black grunted, concurring with Ginevra's claim, while Mr Zabini and Mr Malfoy showed no reaction whatsoever.
"It is an odd bunch," Pansy agreed with an aristocratic drawl. "However, I am certain that we will make do until our hosts arrive."
"Speaking of our hosts," Hermione interjected. "Does anyone know when we should expect them?"
"The morning boat," Mr Malfoy answered, stormy silver eyes meeting her indifferent gaze. "As we were informed upon our arrival."
Hermione didn't miss the sarcasm in his tone, but chose to ignore it entirely.
"I merely mean to inquire as to the estimated time." Hermione countered coolly. "Morning is such a general term, wouldn't you agree?"
"I would," Malfoy smirked, a glisten of brandy on his bottom lip.
Hermione glanced at the drop of brandy, watching as he slowly licked it away, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. Completely ashamed of her inappropriate staring, Hermione blushed and averted her gaze to her glass of wine, Malfoy continuing to stare at her without care of proper conduct.
"Well," Octavia sighed, placing her dessert fork on her plate neatly. "It is no matter to me what time of day our hosts arrive. As long as they return before the dinner party, it is of no inconvenience to me. My only concern is the staff."
"Yes, they are clearly quite incompetent," Zabini grinned, teasing her with his blatant sarcasm.
Octavia met his gaze, her face like stone as he grinned deviously at her. Hermione noticed that Octavia's nose raised in the air again, as though it was a defence mechanism of sorts, demonstrating her higher status than that of whom she spoke to.
"As competent as they are," Octavia retorted coldly, "I must admit that I harbour concerns. I require a handmaiden for the duration of my stay, however the only woman on staff appears to be far too distracted by lesser duties to assist me. Without a handmaiden, I will have to dress and bathe myself, sir. So forgive me if I am concerned about the meagre number of employees at such an estate."
"Call me Blaise," Zabini grinned, Pansy gasping at his sheer nonchalance and familiarity.
"Pardon me, but I will not." Octavia sniffed snootily, her cheeks the colour of crimson. "And you may address me as Lady Sinclair."
Entirely unaffected, Blaise Zabini's grin faded into a smirk as he continued to stare at the blonde beauty, but Octavia averted her sparkling enraged eyes immediately.
The doors to the dining room opened again, much too early, for most guests at the table had yet to make a dent in their desserts. Mr Longbottom entered, pale as a ghost, looking rather sickly. A piece of beige paper was clasped in his shaky hands, the butler hesitantly stepping toward the long table, all patient and interested gazes on him.
"My apologies," Longbottom muttered, his voice shivering, much like his hands. "I do not wish to intrude, but I have just received a most disturbing telegram."
Blaise stuck out his hand, arrogantly appointing himself as the leader in that moment, taking the telegram from the nervous butler. His gaze darted across the paper, all signs of humour fading from his black eyes with each passing moment. Once finished reading the telegram, he handed it to his comrade, Draco Malfoy, remaining silent as the blond read the message.
"What does it read?" Pansy inquired, mildly interested.
Malfoy and Zabini shared a glance for a moment, communicating silently as the others watched with palpable intrigue. A few seconds passed before Draco Malfoy nodded, rising from his chair to address the ladies.
"Perhaps it will be best for the women to retire to the parlour room," Mr Malfoy advised, his tone severe.
"I do not agree, sir." Ginevra countered. "The telegram seems to bear less than pleasant news, and I wish to learn of it. I am in no way obligated to depart this room so that the men may convene amongst themselves."
"It is for the best," Zabini said, his gaze on a frowning Octavia. "I am sure that Mr. Longbottom will be more than happy to escort the ladies to the parlour room."
"Yes, of course, Mr. Zabini," Longbottom bowed, but no lady rose from her seat.
"I am comfortable where I am, thank you," Octavia drawled, making a show of sipping leisurely at her sweet wine.
Draco Malfoy clenched his jaw slightly, meeting the defiant stare of Hermione for a moment. Once it was clear that the women would not depart, he nodded once and re-seated himself, palpably bristled by their disobedience. But as two of the ladies were of a considerably higher status than all of the men at the table, the men were in no way able to control their actions or behaviours. Hermione and Ginevra were allowed to stay in the dining room merely by association with Octavia and Pansy.
"Wonderful," Pansy smiled. "Now that that is sorted, let us move on, shall we? I am most excited to learn of this telegram."
"Mr Longbottom," Draco summoned, handing the butler the piece of paper. "If you will."
Longbottom nodded as he took it nervously, clearing his throat, a sheen of anxious sweat glistening on his pudgy face.
"I apologise for what I am about to read," the butler muttered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I want to make it known that I, in no way, agree or concur with the accusations in this telegram."
"Continue," Pansy waved her hand dismissively, harbouring no interest in the butler's speech.
"Ahem," Longbottom began, hands shaking so violently that the paper shook along with them. "Welcome to Durrem Island. I, Lady Sarina Koppsynn, has gathered you all here under false pretences. Ten guests, one maid and one butler. Eleven of you are guilty of crimes too sinful to speak. Eleven of you have committed atrocities, but have yet to pay the price. Eight of you are guilty of murder, but have never been convicted of your crimes. Two are liars, adept at the despicable skill of deceit – actions that led to the deaths of two innocents. One of you is guilty of infidelity, but only one of you is innocent."
Shock vibrated around the occupants of the table, Hermione's heart beating so wildly that she was certain that it could be heard through the blanket of silence. Octavia gaped like a fish out of water, Pansy as white as the walls, Ginevra looking horrified. Most of the men seemed to on the brink of rage-induced fits, while Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini seemed to be perfectly at ease. Although, the two had read the telegram before the others, so had been given a few moments to process, whereas the others had not.
"There's more," Longbottom whispered, his hushed tone shattering the silence consuming them. "To survive your stay on Durrem Island, truths must be unravelled. For to leave, the innocent must be identified and protected. But heed caution, for even the innocent amongst you is the victim of all of you. Exercise sharpness of mind, for one by one, you will all pay for your crimes until the innocent is saved and sins are forgiven. Play by the rules, and you may survive. The first will die by morning. Enjoy your stay at Murder Island."
Absolute chaos ensued. Potter and Black jumped from their seats, roaring over one another about the madness of the circumstances. Ginevra screamed hysterically, shrieking that they must find a boat to leave the island. Hermione shook in her chair, sickly pale, unable to understand what had transpired from a simple job interview. Octavia and Pansy sat frozen in place, like stone, completely motionless. Wilby verbally assaulted Longbottom, claiming that he must know a way off the island. But Blaise and Draco reclined casually in their chairs, waiting patiently for the bedlam to simmer.
It took a while.
And then the accusations began.
"It's him!" Ronald Wilby bellowed, pointing his finger at the nervous butler. "He works here! He's in on it!"
"I'm not, I swear it!" Longbottom shouted. "I swear, I had no idea this would happen! I just work here!"
"For the Lady who set us up!" Harry roared, teaming with Ronald instantly. "You're her servant! You're in on this whole thing, aren't you?!"
"No, no!" Longbottom cried, holding his hands up as Potter rounded on him. "I don't know what is happening, I swear on it, sir! I have never met my employers! We were hired only last week! You are the first people we have seen since we arrived, I promise!"
"Liar!" Ronald roared, lunging at the butler.
Octavia shrieked, scrambling out of her chair as Ronald punched Longbottom square in the face, the butler soaring back onto the table. Glasses of wine and brandy, half-finished desserts, cutlery, it all went flying in the air, splattering on Octavia who couldn't stumble back quick enough.
"Barbarians!" Octavia cried, standing still uselessly, covered in custard and wine. "Enough! Cease your savage behaviour at once!"
Ronald Wilby didn't hear her hollers, or – more likely – didn't care. He quickly straddled the butler on the table, punching into the side of his face brutally, looking like a deranged madman.
"Stop it!" Pansy shouted, whacking her hand against the table. "There are ladies present! Enough of this useless violence you brutes!"
Hermione just sat there in her chair, wide eyes fixed on the squabble right in front of her, seemingly unaware of the brandy dripping from her hair.
"Do something!" Octavia shrieked at Blaise Zabini, the European man standing with his hands in his pockets, watching the fight with mild amusement. "Can't you stop them?!"
Blaise met her frantic eyes for a moment before he sighed and stepped forward. Draco Malfoy followed suit, the both of them hauling Ronald off the bleeding butler without much trouble. Ronald was thrown backwards, away from the table, colliding with the wall. His expression was wild with rage, blue eyes sparkling madly, chest heaving from sheer exertion.
Ginevra ran around the table to help Longbottom to his feet, lowering him onto a chair before checking his wounds. Superficial cuts from the repeated blows to the face, but no severe damage it seemed.
"I believe we are all in dire need of a cocktail," Draco Malfoy announced, wiping brandy from his face with a napkin.
*.*.*.*.*
Everyone occupied the drawing room after the bedlam in the dining room. Mrs Longbottom tended to her husband's wounds in the corner, fussing over him with concern, her hands shaking with the fear of their circumstances. Blaise and Draco stood by the bar, clutching their tumblers of whiskey, gazes scanning the others in the room, assessing and calculating.
Hermione sat with the other three women on the wide plush sofa, each one of them holding onto hot cups of tea, all silent. Ronald and Harry paced up and down the room, whilst Sirius and Theodore sat at the small chess table by the wall.
Nerves remained frayed from the telegram and brawl, only twenty minutes after the chaos in the dining room. Mostly, the women appeared to be in states of shock, but that was to be expected given their delicate sensibilities. Still; there was business to take care of, and it all started with figuring out a way off the blasted island.
"Are there any telephones in the château?" Pansy asked shakily, staring at the two staff members huddled in the corner of the room.
"No, ma'am," Luna Longbottom shook her head sadly. "We only communicate with the Koppsynns by telegram."
"And the next boat will arrive tomorrow morning?" Hermione pressed, hope shining in her honey brown eyes.
"I – I am not sure, ma'am," Mrs Longbottom murmured.
"You are not sure?" Pansy repeated incredulously.
"It depends on the weather, ma'am. No deliveries are due for another week, and if we are no longer expecting the arrivals of the Koppsynns, then the boat will not come."
Octavia released a shaky, almost hysterical laugh as she gazed down at her steamy mug of tea. "That's great," she whispered, on the verge of a breakdown. "We're just stranded here, then? Splendid."
"Weren't you listening?" Potter snapped, speaking to a lady of higher standing without respect. But it appeared that all decencies went out the window the moment that the telegram was read aloud. "It said that we can get off this island if we figure out who is innocent. And since I haven't caused any deaths by lies or murder, and I haven't shagged a married woman, then it's pretty clear that I'm the innocent one here."
The woman all flinched in perfect unison at the improper word that spat from his tongue, Octavia and Pansy in particular.
"I would appreciate it, Mr Potter, if you reminded yourself that ladies are present," Octavia whispered, cheeks flushed. "I do not wish to endure your despicable language, so if you please, control yourself."
"Oh, get off your high horse!" Potter barked, Octavia frowning down at her mug. "There are more important things going on right now than me offending you. Unless you have something valuable to add, then might I suggest that you shut up?!"
"Enough," Mr Zabini interjected, pushing himself from the bar. "While our circumstances are unusual, in no way does it permit you to speak to a lady in that manner. If you are unable to prevent vile profanities from escaping you, Mr Potter, perhaps it would be wise of you to remain silent altogether."
"Thank you, Mr Zabini," Octavia inclined her head, daring to meet his gaze for a moment.
"This is preposterous!" Sirius Black announced, slamming his hand on the chess set. "I came here to meet with Lord Koppsynn, not to play some ridiculous party game!"
"As ridiculous as it may be," Draco Malfoy interrupted, sipping from his tumbler, "the fact of the matter remains. We are here, and we are not leaving without a boat. A boat that won't dock at port for at least a week when the next food deliveries arrive – if they arrive."
"I didn't kill no one," Ronald declared with absolute injustice. "I shouldn't be here, and sure as hell don't want to play this game. I haven't killed a soul."
"Perhaps you are the liar?" Zabini suggested, lighting an all-white cigarette for himself.
"I ain't no liar," Ronald spat.
"So none of us have killed?" Mr Potter asked, glancing around the room. The shaking of heads and averted stares answered his question.
"That's curious," Zabini grinned, cigarette hanging from his pink lips as smoke billowed out of his nostrils. "It seems that I am the only killer in a room of innocents."
Everyone's gazes snapped up to the handsome man at the bar, his black eyes fixed on a gaping Octavia. With an air of nonchalance, Blaise inhaled a long drag from his cigarette before taking his from his lips and exhaling.
"You're a murderer?" Hermione breathed, stiff a board.
"If you wish to put a label on it," Blaise shrugged arrogantly. "I am a man with a select few skills, with services for hire. Call it what you will, but it changes nothing. Either I am the only killer in this room, or I am the only one admitting to my crimes. So, everyone else must be lying, except one."
"What about him?" Hermione asked, pointing her finger at Mr Malfoy as he sipped casually from his tumbler. "You are both obviously acquainted with one another, so it only stands to reason that you are likely both guilty of the same crimes."
"I never claimed otherwise," Mr Malfoy smirked, swirling his tumbler, without a care in the world. "Mr Zabini and I are partners in our field of expertise."
"Oh!" Octavia laughed bitterly, slamming down her mug of tea on the side table. "Well, that's just great, is it not? We are stranded on an island with two professional killers."
"Eight," Zabini corrected with a puff of his cigarette.
"Pardon?" Octavia raised her brows.
"The telegram said there are eight killers on the island. You are stranded with eight killers," Blaise explained indifferently. "I am only one of them."
"You are despicable, is what you are, sir." Octavia sniffed.
Blaise grinned widely as he took a drag from the cigarette, the sound of the thin paper burning audible to the other guests through the thick silence. He pushed himself from the bar, stuffing one hand into his pocket, the other holding the cigarette as he strolled toward the seated Octavia.
"And what is your crime, Lady Sinclair?" Blaise smirked, Octavia scooting closer to Pansy. "Are you a liar? A whore? Or are you a kindred spirit of mine?"
"I am none of those things!" Octavia gasped. "How dare you insinuate otherwise!"
"Oh, I dare," Blaise grinned. "In case you haven't noticed, we have been presented with a mystery. And to leave this island, we must solve that mystery. So I will ask whatever I like to whomever I like, My Lady."
"I have no blood on my hands," Octavia snubbed snootily, stray curls framing her pretty, yet offended face. "And I am no loose woman, Mr Zabini."
"If most of us are innocent, why are we here?" Mrs. Longbottom asked without a trace of sarcasm to her tone.
"A game," Mr Nott said, speaking for the first time since the telegram was announced. "A game of cat and mouse. Whoever has lured us here wanted this – He or she wants us to turn on each other, accuse and point the finger. They want us to eat each other alive. That's the fun in it for a twisted mind."
"I think it best that we retire for the night," Mr Malfoy advised, placing his tumbler on the bar. "Too much excitement will only feed paranoia. Everyone will lock their bedroom doors, and we will reconvene in the morning to discuss our options."
Everyone seemed to be in agreement, mostly due to the shared desire to escape the company of killers and liars. Fear was widespread, but the need to flee surrounding danger was stronger. So everyone agreed, prepared to retire for the night. Prepared to figure out a way to leave the island in the morning.
If only they could.