One

Burying the Wand

Mary Anderson walks into her building, a bag of cat food swinging from her hand, grey hair bobbing about her bony shoulders. The bag lineates back and forth as she takes the stairs, too proud to take the lift.

She opens a purse, releasing a puff of stale, old lady perfume into the corridor and fishes out a set of keys. She unlocks the door, goes inside, takes off her coat, and hangs it up. She turns back to shut the door and the killer strikes.

She gurgles as blood jets from her in burbling fountains of crimson, painting the lintel and umbrella stand and the garbage bag the killer has wrapped around himself.

His wand falls, still smoking, and he examines his work with a critical eye. He smiles and resists the urge to kick at the pile of intestines oozing from her belly.

He shoots one last look around the small flat, notices a cat perched on the windowsill. Cat pellets lie strewn about from the bag which has split open, vomiting its contents in a cloud of crushed cat pellet dust.

Then he turns and leaves, raising his wand to lick a bead of blood from the shaft, and vanishes the plastic bag with a flick. He walks back out, nobody the wiser.

Or at least that's what I was told. Most of it is speculation.

I get the memo two days later. People in the neighbouring flats reported a "bad smell" coming from the vicinity of poor old Mary's flat. First, they called in the security guard/doorman who went to go check it out.

He unlocks the flat with a practiced twirl of the master key he always keeps dangling from his belt like a war trophy. He steps in, squints in the darkness, flicks on a light switch. Light comes on, a cheap sixty-watt bulb humming to life. Flies rise up in a swarm and begin to assail him immediately, flying into his eyes and open mouth. He sees the body, screams, stumbles backward, and slams the door behind him. He reaches for his mobile, dials nine-nine-nine.

Cops show up twenty minutes later, a single squaddie that disgorges the fattest constable he has seen in years.

Little does he know, DC Dan Matthews is our liaison and it's a lucky break that he is first on the scene. He strides inside, boots scraping flakes of coagulated blood from the chequered hardwood. He takes one look at the body, rings for someone else to come fill in while he makes the call to our DMLE office.

XXXXX

The paper airplane flies smack into my coffee, nearly toppling the cardboard cup onto a stack of unfinished reports. I open it.

"Case no. 1042232 (Auror assigned, Harry James Potter).

"Auror Potter is to report to number ten, Fairlane, Newcastle."

I push my chair back and dash for the appearition point, wand already out, ready to perform the motions from deeply ingrained muscle memory.

I appear in a back alley, toss the memo into a dumpster over-flowing with fastfood cartons, and head round the building to the front entrance where cops are gathered. I spot our liaison immediately and beeline for him.

"What's the story?" I ask, cutting to the chase.

"Woman, late seventy's, early eighty's, chopped to bits. Some sick bastard got in, did the job and left."

"Don't s'pose there's any witnesses?"

"Na," Matthews says, glancing towards the entrance as two more detectives come strolling out, hands diving for pockets to light fags. "It was clean. Neighbours didn't hear a thing."

I sigh. "Let's have a look, then, shall we?"

Matthews leads me up a flight of stairs and to a flat with the number eight stencilled on the door. He prods open the door with a boot and I step in and take in the scene, bringing my hand up to cover my nose and mouth. Some thoughtful copper had opened the window but the smell still remains fresh in the room. Well, not fresh exactly. More pungent but the principle's the same.

I crouch and examine the body.

Her arms are by her sides, riggermortis having set in and faded, leaving her muscles atrophied. Her skin sags around the bones, what little blood she has left draining toward her back and legs where gravity has taken its toll. Her belly gapes open, unzipped like a handbag, her shrivelled intestines dried out and deflated. Dried bodily fluids makes the floor sticky and my boots squelch as I shift into a more comfortable position.

I draw my wand, which I had put away as soon as I spotted the entourage of cops outside, and begin flicking, spells tumbling from my lips and rolling off the tongue.

I think I already know what I'm going to find - the spell that did this - but I need to make sure.

My hunch is proven correct. The only spell I know that could have done this (caused this much extensive damage - is the sectum sempra spell.

Snape is dead and Draco Malfoy wouldn't be that stupid to cut up a muggle just for the laughs. Hermione knows the spell, Ron knows the spell. I think about it some more. Ginny, Neville, Luna... well, I guess, anybody who used to be in the D.A. knows it.

"Did you guys find anything of use around the scene? Any... I dunno, evidence that might help me out?"

Matthews, who has been leaning against the doorway, watching me work with that gleam of fascination in his eyes as lights popped and flashed from a wooden stick, shakes his head to clear it. "Na. All we found was cat fur and a split bag of pellets."

Indeed, on the other side of the body, I can see the sludge that used to be pellets but that now resembles something Ginny would make out of tennis biscuits and condensed milk.

It isn't so much the colour as it is the texture.

"What's her name, by the way?"

"Mary Anderson," Matthews says.

"Anderson," I muse aloud. "M.A., A.M., I really don't feel like doing this right now. I'll play with her name back at HQ."

"Where is your HQ?" Matthews asks.

"Never you mind..." I say, taking out a square of parchment and a quill.

I begin to jot notes. Luckily, the cops have done most of the dirty work so all I need to do is-

"How did you know it was a wizard-related crime?"

"The edges of the wound," Matthews says. "They're blackened."

"A heated knife?"

"Na, a heated knife or axe couldn't have done it this clean - especially not through bone."

"And the clincher?"

"The bag of pellets. Who would cut into a bag of pellets?" Matthews shakes his head as if such an idea is unheard of and I sigh and turn around, tucking my quill away.

"Thanks for your help, DC Matthews."

"Dan," he says, holding out a pudgy hand for me to shake. "And it's no problem."

"Harry. And I'm glad to hear it. Obliviate."

XXXXX

Back at my desk, I add the folded square of parchment to my notes and sit back. I glance around to check if anybody's paying any attention. Seeing that the coast's clear, I draw my wand, tap my drawer to unlock it, open it, dismantle a few nasty surprises, reach in, and draw out a bottle of vodka.

I tip my head back and let it glug fire down my throat and into my belly. I rise to my feet and tuck the bottle away. I head for the cafeteria and snatch up a bacon and egg sandwich and another cup of lukewarm coffee. I chase down a headache potion with it and hurl the cup away.

I'm really not in the mood to sort out this report but I brace myself, hunch over my desk, and get to it.

"Daddy!"

Lily bounds out of the living room as soon as I appear in the entrance hall to my humble abode. She leaps into my arms and I kiss her cheek and hair and put her down. "Hey, Lily," I say, stepping back to look at her.

"Mum's cooked supper if you wanna come eat..."

"Well I'm fine, too, thanks for asking."

"So how was your day?" she says, her voice a perfect melody of innocence.

"Busy, as always."

I walk into the kitchen and greet Ginny.

"How was work?" she asks.

"Busy," I say, parroting my earlier statement.

She sets a plate of food in front of me and I pick up my knife and fork and cut into the chicken.

The layers of meat part, tender enough to fall limp off the bone. I stare at it, thinking about that woman's body, how clean the cut was.

How her eyes looked, sunk in so deep the sockets appeared empty at first glance, how her bodily fluids dried, making her dress cling to her like an abrasive scab.

Clavicle to pelvis. I can never match that precision on my best day with that cutter...

I bite into the chicken.

Ginny makes tea, the pot curdling on the stove, like coagulated blood curdling in the crumpled veins of Mary Anderson, squashed rose stems.

I don't ask why he did what he did because I know. He did it for the same reasons I would've. He was enraged. Something about her had just set him off. Maybe it was the way she walked - that snooty limp-strut with a knitting cap hammer-cocked, giving her that lopsided shadow that stalks after her? Did she even wear a hat? Na - couldn't have. They - I never found one.

I'm sitting there, fork poised, trying to put myself in his shoes.

I watch as she strides down the deserted street, that bag of cat food swinging from her hand. I had seen her come out of a fruit and veg and stuck to her like glue ever since.

I'm a wizard so hiding in plain sight is easy. I watch and wait, feeling the anger churn in my guts like a volcano about to erupt. My hands itch to cut her spine from her body, to leave her there, twitching, deflated, dead, corpse rotting in the sun for the-

"Harry."

Her voice is neutral, but my name rings out, a cacophony of two syllables grinding and crashing against each other.

I look up at her. "Yeah?"

"You're spilling on my tablecloth."

"On your..."

I look down and see a splotch of gravy spreading around my plate in a widening circle. Lily looks at me from her position beside her mum and I can see concern in her eyes.

"Dad?"

"Leave him," Ginny says, getting up from the table, her chair clattering back, "he's thinking again."

I look at her as she stands there, hands on hips. Her hair is still as red as the day I first laid eyes on her but I can see streaks of grey snaking down from her roots. Her eyes are brown and the skin around them hangs in two folds. Gravity pulls the corners of her mouth down into a perpetual sneer whenever she smiles.

But behind those eyes is still the sparkle of a little girl I once knew, waving to me from the platform, chasing the train that held her Boy Who Lived and lived again and rose and conquered and married her. He bore her sons and a daughter, gave her a life she always dreamed of.

And now he - I sit and gaze at her and her attempts to get my attention that mean little to me.

I look at Lily, everything her mother isn't. Lily's real, never pretentious. She knows where she stands in life, knows what she wants, even at the tender age of fifteen. She's got purpose and direction and a plan B if A should combust.

"Yes, Lily?"

Without missing a beat, she asks, "Are we going to that Quidditch game on Saturday?"

"What Quidditch game?"

"No, Lily, we aren't go-"

"Shut up, Ginny!" Lowering my voice, I say again, "what game, honey?"

"The one between the Harpies and the Saints?"

"Oh! Er..."

"You said you had gotten the tickets. Remember, Harry?" Ginny has that challenging look in her eyes.

Blood. Blood on the floor, pealing like paint. Blood pounding in my head.

"Oh, those."

"Yeah, those," Ginny says.

"Sure thing, Lily. Be up at sunrise and we'll go."

"Shall I invite James and Al?"

"Sure..."

I pick up my fork again and dive in.

In the study, I lock my door and take a nip or three of firewhisky. Sit there and stare out the window at the sky, dotted with stars and through the grey, I see the approaching shape of an owl, a letter dangling from its leg.

It soars through my open window and lands on my desk, talons digging divots into the mahogany.

It holds out its leg and I'm reminded of a hitchhiker sticking out a thumb for a ride. I pull open a draw and retrieve the letter opener Hermione had gotten me as a fathers' day present. I thumb open the blade and cut the thong. The bird soars back out the window, evidently not expecting a reply or not willing to stick around for one.

The address says from Hermione Weasley to Harry Potter.

I slit open the flap and reach my hand into the belly of the envelope.

Ow, damnit! I pull my hand out and see teeth marks; use the finger and thumb of my left hand to squeeze the sides of the envelope to the centre so that it gapes open.

The letter, its edges crumpled, lays innocently in its binding. I draw my wand, cursing, scan it for charms, hexes and spells.

Goddamned finger-biting hex.

I 'finite' it and pull the letter out and begin to read.

Dear Harry.

How are you doing? It's been ages since we've last spoken and, you have to admit, there's a lot to catch up on.

Azalea Smith, your boss's secretary, told me during lunch break today that you got assigned to a murder case. I know this might sound awful, considering that someone was killed, but if you catch the person who did it, this could mean a promotion! So I hope you're working hard and handling it to the best of your ability.

The family is well and Ron, Rose and Hugo send their love. Ron's doing really well for himself. He's taking his job very seriously and a part of me, the jealous part that still wishes I was young and vibrant again, thinks that it's because he's trying to impress the new clerk - fresh out of Hogwarts - they've got working there. Although, I will grudgingly admit, it's probably because she's taking up some of the slack so that Ron can do what he does best, invent.

Mrs. and MR. Weasley say hi, too, and to bring the family around for one of her huge pot roasts. I think you should heed her advice, Harry. Ron needs an excuse to gorge himself and he's too proud to go over there and ask dear old mum to cook for him. I do cook, of course, but come on, nobody has the Molly touch.

And, speaking of family, how is Teddy?

I heard he's left grounds keeping to become an Auror? This is a rumour so forgive me if my source is incorrect. But wouldn't that be great? He's following in the footsteps of his godfather and, I guess, what Remus would have been in another life.

I still miss them, you know: Remus, Tonks, Fred and all the others. I bet you do, too. I still think of them when I get a moment alone... but enough of that.

Seriously, though, Harry, I think we should go to lunch or something. Just you, Ron and I. Have us a little trio fun. I can just imagine that smirk playing about your lips. I don't mean that, Harry! And if I was there, wherever you happen to be brooding in that house of yours, I'd smack it right off your face, glasses or no.

But anyway, I'm running out of ink - I forgot to pick up some more on the way from work - so I'm going to finish off by saying lots of love and please, please let's do lunch.

Love,

Hermione.

PS: Sorry for the finger-biter. Constant Vigilance!

I really don't need this right now. I hook the metal waste paper basket with my boot, dump the letter into it and let it burn. I'll reply when I'm in a better mood.

I turn to the fireplace, point my wand at the grate and the fire sputters to life.

I lean back in my chair and stare long and hard into the flames, willing the scene to play out again.

She leaves the fruit and veg store, a little corner thing tucked almost out of sight behind a fish and chip restaurant, chairs out front and back. She doesn't buy anything, she's just inventorying the stock to see what she's gonna need for the summer.

She comes out with that bag of cat food dangling, swinging with her every stride. There's some significance in that bag, I just know it. I can't seem to catch it, though.

The killer doesn't seem to think so, but it registers in his subconscious where whatever he sees dwells there.

Something about her is familiar - that iron-grey hair, that walk. She's brisk, flat-soled shoes eating up the distance between the shop and her old-lady flat.

'Yes,' he thinks. 'This is it.'

He follows her up, charms carefully kept in place. I imagine a disillusionment, a silencing charm around his shoes, and a scent suppressant if he's smart and clear-headed which I imagine he is.

He moves, an animal through an urban jungle. Artificial lights neon flowers and lampposts the trees he skulks behind out of reflex.

She opens the door, then, and the moment arrives - the moment that changes his life forever.

It's his first kill. I'm sure of it.

I will the flames to speak to me. To tell me a tale of how her life would have gone if not for her killer.

The flames change shape and she walks into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar to catch the draft that blows down the corridor, whistling through the gaps. She swings the bag onto the counter with a mighty heave and calls, "Olive. Ksst, ksst. Olive."

The cat leaps onto the counter and rubs up against her, its face bumping her purse, causing it to swing in a short arc. She fills the food bole, the water bole. She lays them down in two opposite corners, that whole mantra of having to work for your food that she had heard as a child governing her actions

But the flames change shape again, showing me reality.

A figure, dressed in something to protect his clothes, steps into the flat. Her back is still turned until she senses something. She turns and the curse catches her in profile, cutting her from collar to groin. Her organs spill to the floor and the cat, lounging on the windowsill, watches with impassive eyes as part of the spell splits the bag of food and as pellets cascade onto the floor in a torrent.

She takes maybe twenty seconds to die and he stands over her, wand poised, ready to cut her again if she so much twitches an eyebrow.

He closes the door behind him and stands in the hallway. He vanishes the protection from his clothes and listens carefully for approaching footsteps, for squeaking hinges, for the grind and ding of an approaching elevator. Clear.

He bounds down the stairwell and stops outside and leans against a dumpster in a back alley, the adrenaline rush wearing off.

Merlin, what has he done?

He's killed an old woman that means nothing to him.

Why did he - I - just do that?

His knees begin to tremble, his joints creaking and the ground undulates under him as he loses his bearings for a spell.

What have I done?

And, standing there, he gets a holy shit flash of him doing it again, this time to a better, more well-chosen victim. He knows he's capable and plans begin to unravel in his head.

I return to that place I occupy in my chair, my fantasy obliterated and the flames crackle unsympathetically.

"Burn in hell," I say to the fire.

A log tumbles, spinning end over flaming end, and the fire hisses at me.

"You, too," I say and laugh.

I reach into the drawer again and knock back a healthy four slugs of firewhisky.

It's gonna be one helluva long night.

XXXXX

In contrast, this one is young and, dare he think it, pretty. She hops from club to club, pub crawling, never staying in one place. She's a club gypsy, her flight on a whim. He supposes he can admire her for that.

He leans against a wall and considers how to take her. Girls, young girls in particular, do have a lot to offer and he'd be mad not to take advantage of her.

Two A.M. dew clings to his hood and he activates a warming charm to keep his balls from frost-biting. Merlin knows how these girls do it. He watches her leave and she's got a guy with her. No matter. Two for the price of one. Maybe a little demonstration will... well... demonstrate to her the wonders of terror, of remaining passive.

He curses as they climb into a car and thinks of a plan. It's too late to select another victim and he's already feeling weary from standing out here too long.

So he's desperate. Okay, he admits it. But desperate doesn't always mean stupid.

He disillusions himself again and slowly, ever so carefully, he settles himself onto the car's roof near the back. He allows his weight to sink gradually so that the suspenders don't creek and give him away all at once. The car will be riding low.

He's seen firsthand how fast these beasts can go, so he sticks his boots to the roof just in case the slipstream has other ideas and tries to hurl him off.

The car fires up with a roar and a belch of smoke and he nearly screams in terror. Oh, God, he doesn't expect this. A machine, with a mind of its own, bellowing like a dragon with a wounded leg.

He becomes used to it, though, and they stop outside a house where they open their doors and get out. He unsticks his boots, checks his charm work, and follows them inside.

XXXXX

A/N:

This story is odd, combining a lot of writing styles.

It's sloppy, I'll admit, but I hope it can be redeemed by chapters that proceed this one.

So enjoy and please, I beg of thee, faithful reader till the end since you've obviously got to the author's note, to review.

OC