A/N: Originally posted on HPFF on 11/15/15. This story is an Adaptation of Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None. As such, some chapter and character patterns will have a strong resemblance to the original content. I have, of course, taken my own liberties, and whatever you may think you know of the original novel or these characters, I have done my best to ensure that this story remains true to its nature as a mystery.
Cho Chang stood in front of the restroom mirror, taking slow deliberate breaths.
"I am confident. I am good at my job. I am going to be fine."
As she spoke to herself in the mirror she looked not at her eyes, but at her lips, watching them shape the words that she wanted to believe were true.
She might not need such reassuring if so much didn't rest on this job. Cho had spent the last several years trying to convince everyone else that she was fine, that there was work to be had as a freelance Wizard-Muggle Emissary. But truth be told, the Ministry's reforms since the war had actually worked, and there wasn't much place left for skills learned in a broken society.
But then the owl had come, and it seemed she may not be condemned to uselessness after all.
Cho's fingers slid into her robe pocket and pulled out the note that tempted to change her life.
Miss Chang, I have received your name and recommendation through the Mandragora Employment Agency. I am prepared to pay your requested salary for services beginning Friday after next. If you choose to accept, please arrive at Hartshire Dock Two at 10:30AM for further instructions. With Gratitude
The Blishen Family
And just like that she had work. The exact nature of the work remained to be seen, but Cho was not in a position to be turning her nose up at any opportunity.
A self-assured smile on her lips, Cho looked back to the mirror to reassure herself once more. In moment of false confidence her eyes made contact with their reflection, sending an involuntary shudder throughout her body.
Eyes. Her eyes. His eyes. Last glimpses at the only eyes you could ever love. The laugh of confidence in eyes that would do anything for you.
No, look away. Don't see those eyes, don't say goodbye.
Deep breaths. Slowly in through the nose, hold it, then slowly out through the mouth. Don't look back.
Andromeda Tonks did not turn her head as the countryside flew past her window, alive with the dance of fall colors as the sun took the rare liberty of peaking out through Autumn clouds.
The train car was densely occupied, but silent with the uncomfortable stiffness of strangers packed close together for too long. None among them could be said to be more stiffly uncomfortable than Andromeda, whose dignified motionlessness could be mistaken for rigor mortis by any of the others.
Andromeda had always prided herself for the ease with which she could blend into any muggle surroundings, and while her fellow passengers may suspect her near death, they would never suspect that she was in fact a witch traveling in secret among them.
In fact, she thought with the shadow of a smile on her lips, there would be little in the events of this weekend that could give her away. Her mind wandered to the letter she had received, now tucked into a corner of her travelling case.
My dear Madam Andromeda, It's been years, I know, but that's no reason for us old survivors not to stick together. I've rented out Muggle Island for the second weekend in September and am inviting a few friends for a little getaway. It will all be very casual and tasteful, and lord knows we could use the time. Hoping to see you,
Andromeda had never been able to decipher the signature. The already messy handwriting had been smudged by the time she opened the letter.
She did not waste too much time speculating on the mystery of her hosts or that of the unusual choice of Muggle Island as a weekend escape.
No matter, escape was what mattered. She had just sent her grandson off to Hogwarts for the first time and couldn't spend another moment alone in that old empty home. At least this way she'd be getting a free weekend away. And if it came to hiding out alone in these folks' guest room, it beat hiding out alone in her own room.
Harold Minchum sat in the solitary confines of his study, calmly sipping his morning tea. No need to rush, he told himself, who knew if they would have decent tea on that confounded island.
Still, he had agreed to go. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. He received so few invitations these days that weren't political, but still, Betty Braithwaite? The woman was as frivolous as her letter had been, her handwriting so full of extravagant loops and tails that he could only make out half of it: Darling Harold… Missing you dearly… Simply must catch up… weekend away… delightful Muggle Island… passes for September 12th… wonderful peace, simply divine… Meet at Hartshire dock… Don't let me down, doll…
Betty may be a frivolous journalist, but she was also a loyal friend. Well, a friend insofar as he didn't neglect her completely. And if a weekend of her twittering was what it took to encourage her to keep her friends t the Prophet to give him space, he could survive the weekend.
Setting his empty cup down, Harold thought over what he'd read about Muggle Island. He had thought the whole thing was in poor taste, but apparently that wasn't enough to keep the novelty-seeking families from pushing money into opportunistic hands. Well, if this supposedly forward thinking regime had no complaint, who was he to object?
In the end, Harold failed to see the attraction of a resort designed as a magicless island when there were any number of ordinary muggle towns inherently serving that purpose. Leave it to the wizards of England to create the first muggle locations where no muggles could step foot.
Well, for better or for worse it was yet another contradiction of society that he would soon be wrapped up with. Just a few days of silliness, and then peace.
The alarm spell blared through the bedroom as Miriam Strout fumbled at her bedside for her discarded wand.
"Just five minutes…" she mumbled to herself, as she reached her wand and waved it in a circular sweep, silencing the alarm. "Just five…"
But she knew it made no difference. She was awake and there was no going back from that. Still, she lay motionless in bed in rebellion to the morning. At any rate, she was lucky. If she had been going to the hospital today, she would have been up hours before.
She told herself to think of it as a weekend off.
"Owl turds," she muttered to herself as she pushed her legs over the side of the bed. She didn't get weekends off, and disguising a rich patient summoning her as that was nothing short of delusion.
Delusions indeed. That was probably all that Miranda Blishen had. The woman was cooped up with her island and privilege and had nothing better to do than worry about her health. No matter. Miriam would attend to her for the weekend, and then it would be back to life as normal at St. Mungo's.
A smile came over Miriam's face as she indulged in one of her own little delusions. She liked to imagine life as normal at St. Mungo's as in the days when she was a Healing student. Those were simpler times. Before the demands and the deaths nobody thought to hold her responsible for and the success.
She was fortunate, of course. That was the only word for it. And today her good fortune was taking her to Muggle Island.
Charlie Weasley's mind was alive with possibilities as he packed his bag. Dragon-hide gloves, definitely. An assortment of anti-venom potions just in case. He considered, the remaining space, then slid in the Encyclopedia of Magiczooligy to cover his bases.
He rubbed his hands together in anticipation as he surveyed the things he'd packed . He'd been waiting all week, and Friday morning had come at last. His curiosity had been peaked since he had been tracked down by name in Knockturn Alley with a fascinating proposition.
"A hundred galleons," the little man had said with a grin, revealing a mouth of mixed haggard and gold teeth. "And a hundred more when you see it through."
Well, if they knew anything about Charlie Weasley they knew that he couldn't possibly resist mystery and gold. He'd taken the offer and the gold, and had been told to be waiting at Hartshire Dock come Friday morning.
"You understand I can't agree to anything illegal," he had put forward cautiously.
The toothy grin came again as the man leered, "All I asking is you take a look at the little island. Nothing illegal there."
Charlie had not pressed matters further. Truth be told, he was truly curious to see what they could be hiding on that secluded island. The place was only open for visitors during the summer months, and otherwise was totally unregulated. It was the perfect place to breed something illegal, and he couldn't wait to find out just what it was.
This promised to be an interesting weekend worth remembering.
John Dawlish shaved the stubble from his face in careful strokes. As he cleared away the cream the mirror reflected back his familiar tired face. That was all it was, another familiar face. Dawlish scowled at the thought. He'd had enough of familiar faces lately, all saying the same things when in earshot, saving their whispers for when his back was turned.
Well, thank goodness for this weekend invitation from the Blishens. He didn't know them personally, of course, but that was part of the charm. The letter had mentioned the names of a few of his old Hogwarts pals.
That's what he needed, alright. Time with some proper mates aside from those vipers in the ruddy Auror Office. Well, they may not have been his mates for years, but that was part of the relief. No sideways glances, no hushed tones, no polite excuses. He welcomed the direct savagery of schoolmate competition.
And Muggle Island, that would be interesting at any rate. He wasn't normally the resort type, though he couldn't help but wonder what all the talk was about since it's opening. It was said to have every luxury muggles could afford, whatever that was worth.
Dawlish brought his face down to the sink, rinsing it clean. When he straightened up again and dried himself with a wave of his wand he didn't bother observing it in the mirror. It was the same old face from any angle. All that remained was to see if it made a difference who was looking at it.
A stream of dirt formed into a cloud as Stan Shunpike skid his broomstick to a halt in front of the Dancing Druid.
"I've got time," he said confidently to himself as he slung the broomstick over his shoulder and swaggered into the pub.
"Pour me a firewhiskey!" he called before he had reached the bar.
The barman looked up carefully and jerked his head towards the broomstick. "You're not flying, are you?"
"Don't you worry your sweet bottom about me," Stan grinned. "The Ministry and I have got us an understanding."
The barman squinted suspiciously at him, but shrugged and poured the drink as requested. Stan downed it eagerly, shaking his hair back as he laid the empty glass down on the bar. "You're a good man," Stan called out as he dropped a pair of sickles on the counter and slid back off his bar seat.
A minute later he was in the air again, the barman and the children of Magton following him with their eyes as he disappeared into the coastline sky, a firework of confidence and charisma that the barman recognized in young men who had cheated death.
When Dennis Creevey opened the door to his flat, the first thing he saw was the owl waiting on the other side of the window. He stood in the doorway for a solitary moment before letting out a disgruntled sigh. "Of bloody course."
It had been a long night, and all that he had been thinking about for hours was getting home and shutting the world out. And here he was at home, with the world tapping its beak on his window.
"Yes, yes, I'm coming." His feet dragged as he crossed to the window, which he opened just far enough for the owl to squeeze in.
Dennis snatched the package from the owl, which ruffled its feathers in annoyance.
The heavy envelope was plain and unmarked, but as he tore it open he instantly saw the Blishen crest and knew what was coming. Below were five words:
Today. 10:30 A.M. Hartshire Dock.
Dennis promptly set the note inside and investigated the rest of the envelope. Yes, every galleon promised was accounted for. He glanced at the rising sun and cursed its timing. There would be no rest today.
Grabbing the envelope, Dennis went into the next room and bent over the safe that sat between his bed. Counter-spell, combination, counter-spell, and it was open. He removed the galleons from the envelope one by one, tucking them securely away.
Standing still, he thought over the guest list for the weekend. There would be the old Minister, Cho Chang, Charles Weasley, John Dawlish, Stan Shunpike, Healer Strout, Andromeda Black, and then of course the staff, Madames Rosmerta and Trelawney. It would be an interesting weekend alright, all familiar faces, several of which knew his face as well. Nothing he couldn't handle. He might even have a little fun in the process.
Giving a little nod to himself, Dennis reached into the safe once more and pulled out the muggle handgun. He regarded it carefully for a moment before concealing it in his robes.
With another swift movement he closed the safe, re-cast the protective charms, and straightened up. Without sparing his home another glance, he took a last deep breath and turned on the spot, disapparating with a hollow pop.