As long as you didn't look at her eyes, the thin little girl walking along this dark deserted Liverpool street looked about 10 years old. But her eyes, those windows into the soul, had seen things no 10 year old should ever have to see.
She was dressed in a worn plaid schoolgirl's skirt, white knee-high socks that sagged on her thin legs, a white blouse unbuttoned at the top (and missing a button on the part tucked into her skirt), and a dark blue unbuttoned cardigan that moved when she did. Shoulder-length dirty blonde hair hung limply around her face. Her nose was sharp and beaky, her chin pointed enough to be called "fox-like," her cheeks thin and a bit sunken on high cheekbones. Even the most generous observer would probably describe her as "plain, but not too bad, I guess, considering."
The only other things moving in the early evening gloom were a few feral cats and stray dogs, and whatever bits of paper and trash the gentle breeze skittered here and there. This district was mainly old warehouses and small factories, many of them abandoned with missing or boarded over windows, most with big padlocks on their doors. A small flickering in a window across the street showed where some of the local teenagers were sitting around a small fire, smoking cigarettes and weed, drinking whatever alcohol they could steal from stores and parents, and lying about their sexual escapades.
The little girl didn't move to join them. She wouldn't be welcome, and really didn't care about them anyway. Few people in this neighborhood knew her or cared about her, and that was fine with her.
Other parents would be appalled at having their children in this neighborhood at this time of night, especially alone. In the last six months, four other little girls had been raped and beaten very near this area. One had been found with her throat slashed, one beaten so badly the coroner hadn't found a single bone unbroken, one gutted like a fish (while still alive, the autopsy had shown) and hung from a chain inside one of the warehouses. One had actually managed to survive, but had spent the last six weeks in hospital in a coma, and wasn't expected to ever come out of it.
No, the little girl should not have been in this area, not by herself, and not at this time of night.
She felt she had no choice, though. There was something she needed to do, and that's why she was out here like this. She knew about the little girls, but she hadn't known any of them. It didn't matter. She had to be here.
She jumped at a noise, then relaxed a little when she realized it was only a big lorry starting up a couple of blocks away. She shook a mental finger at herself, telling herself to calm down, everything was going to be OK. And yet she jumped again a few seconds later when a stray dog howled. Unbidden, images of a citified hound of the Baskervilles jumped into her mind. Snorting slightly, she told herself she was being foolish.
Some of the streetlights were burned out, leaving dark pools of shadow which the wan moonlight did nothing to lighten. It was while she was passing through one of these dark spots that she heard footsteps to her right. Tensing, she kept her eyes straight ahead and started walking a little faster.
"Pardon me, miss. I wonder if I might ask a small favor"
The voice was cultured and unthreatening, a man's voice. She hesitated, then stopped and turned.
He wasn't a big man, perhaps 5'7" or so. His face was somewhat thin, and although the dark blue peacoat he wore hid his frame, he didn't appear to be very muscular either. He was smiling, one hand in a jacket pocket, the other held loosely at his side.
"What do you want, mister?" she asked suspiciously.
"I'm afraid my kitten has taken refuge inside a hole in this wall, and won't come out. My arm's too big to get her. Might I ask you to see if you could reach her, please? A dog scared her, and she refuses to come out." He took a few steps toward her, but stopped well out of arm's reach, as if to show that he was no threat. The little girl looked him over carefully.
"Alright, then," she agreed reluctantly. "Where's this hole?"
"It's just over here," he said, smiling, and turning to point toward one of the darker shadows. A battered dustbin blocked part of a factory wall from view. Just to the right was a darker space; either a recessed doorway or a small alley. It was too dark to tell which.
Heart beating faster, every nerve on edge, the girl followed the man towards the dustbin, keeping out of easy reach. He looked back at her and smiled, waving her up.
"She's just under there, miss. You see that crack in the wall, with the hole at the bottom? She's hiding in there." He stepped back so the girl could step behind the dustbin. She didn't; she stood at the side and peeked around quickly, before looking back at him. He hadn't moved. She opened her mouth to speak, but just then heard a small "meow" from the direction of the hole.
Reassured, she stepped behind the dustbin and knelt down to reach into the hole. The man moved swiftly up behind her, and when she turned, she saw he had a knife in his hand.
"There's no point in screaming, little girl," he said. "I'll be gone before anyone comes, and you'll be dead anyway. Now take off your clothes, quickly, or you'll wind up like those other little girls." He smiled, a predatory killer's smile. The little girl knew she'd wind up like the others anyway, no matter what she did. She hesitated, but he jabbed the knife at her. Slowly, she reached under her skirt as if to pull her panties off.
What happened next happened quickly. The little girl pulled out a wand and pointed it at the man. Before she could say anything, he started swinging the knife, and without hesitation, she pointed it at his chest and shouted, "Avada Kedavra!"
Green light burst across his chest and the man fell, dead before he hit the ground. The knife clattered away under the dustbin. The little girl raised the wand and fired off green sparks into the air, then knelt down to reach into the crack, which was still meowing. Her hand found something and pulled it out; a small tape recorder which continued mewing. She shut it off just as two loud cracks sounded in the alley, and she heard Ron's voice calling, "Are you OK, Hermione?"
"I'm fine, Ron," she said, standing up and coming out into the alley. Ron came running over and hugged her, and she just held him, shaking with reaction.
"This is so weird, Hermione, even knowing it's you," Ron said. "I don't normally hug little girls."
"It's not a treat for me, either, Ron," she said wryly. "I did the little girl bit once in my life, and didn't expect to do it again. I'll be glad when the Polyjuice wears off."
Harry was bent over the corpse, going through his pockets looking for identification and anything else he could find. "We appreciate your help, Hermione. This sick bastard had to be stopped, and this was the best way to do it," he said.
"I know, Harry," she said. "And I'm sure it was him- he mentioned the other little girls. I'm sorry I killed him. I meant to Petrify him, but when he started swinging that knife, I just reacted."
"It's OK. For what he did, he deserved a much worse death than that." Harry said. "OK, let's get out of here and back to Auror Headquarters. The paperwork on this will take the rest of the night, and then we can find some place to bury this prick."
Harry picked up the corpse, a look of distaste on his face, and Disapparated, followed seconds later by the twin cracks of Ron and Hermione.
Further down the alley, a man emerged from the shadows.
"Well, that was interesting," he thought. "Who the hell were those people, and what did they do that guy? Good thing he got to the girl before I did. Looks like Liverpool isn't the place to be right now. Time to move somewhere else for a while."
"Or maybe," he thought, smiling maliciously, "I could do one more, just to let them know they got the wrong man."
Author's Note: This one was a bit dark and nasty, unlike my usual stuff, and I'd really appreciate knowing what you thought of it. Inspiration came from a missing child notice, and a rather demented plot bunny.