A/N: Happy Halloween! This piece has been written for the Dramione FanFiction Forum CLUE Halloween Competition. Thanks to the magic my wonderful beta HeartofAspen has worked, I have been lucky enough to steal away a few awards! Phial M For Murder has won "Best Use of Clue Theme" and "Best Use of Weapon or Spell", and was Runner-Up in "Overall Favourite". Thank you so, so much to everyone who voted for this!
This version will be the Director's Cut of the fic that's already been completed on AO3. I'll be uploading the next 5 chapters every other day or so. If you can't wait, or if you like to enjoy my manips and special formatting, pop over to AO3 and leave me some love! xx
Disclaimer: Everything HP belongs to JKR; anything else to Agatha Christie, Alfred Hitchcock, or Arthur Conan Doyle; and the mistakes are mine.
This story is dedicated to my best friend Jo, with whom I share both my love for HP and detective fiction.
A Great Deliverance
Dim, ruddy evening light flooded through the window slits into his tiny cell; another day in Azkaban was coming to an end.
Antonin Dolohov couldn't care less. He scowled at the wrinkled newspaper clipping in his left hand. A young witch in purple ministry robes laughed from the picture, her brunette mane wafting around her head like a halo; the faded ruby-red letters shone in the darkness.
War Heroine to Lead Department of Magical Law Enforcement in Crackdown on Recent Anti-Muggle Poison Abuse.
For the millionth time, Dolohov crumpled the paper and threw it against the wall. Instead of the paper quietly bouncing to the floor, he imagined the witch's head crashing against the stones.
Mudblood bitch.
She was the reason everything had gone downhill; why he had landed in Azkaban not once, but twice; why he'd fallen from the Dark Lord's good graces; why the Dark Lord had fallen at all; why, even now, he had no hopes of returning to a wizarding society that deserved the name.
But he would rectify that. He would finish what he had started. The Mudblood must die… slowly, painfully.
Oh, yes.
His gaze flickered back to the mangled paper. Crimson capitals spelling POISON illuminated the far corner of his room.
Dolohov grinned. He cracked his neck, relishing the stomach-churning sound as it echoed around his narrow cell.
He would make everything right. He would give that Mudblood a taste of her own medicine. But before that, he would scare her to death. She ought to know that he was coming for her. He needed to taste the fear seep out of her bones, her pores, her eyes…
His body began to tingle with excitement. He ran his tongue across the fronts of his yellowed teeth.
And then, he would drain every ounce of life from her filthy body, oh, so very slowly…
Dolohov adjusted his pants and reclined on his shabby little bed. He listened attentively. Nightfall came early these days. But he didn't mind the darkness, nor the autumn coldness seeping into his skin. Any time now, they should be here for him…