The Matchmaker

TanninTele


Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.


II:

The Honey Trap

Tonks watched with wide, impressed eyes as Detective Chief Inspector Riddle lifted his glass of whiskey and knocked it back with the ease and stamina of a college student. His Adam's apple bobbed and a dribble of sweat worked its way down his strong throat.

She leaned toward Hestia Jones, a profiler, who was already tipsy. "Is it me," Tonks asked in a low tone. "Or is Riddle suddenly, like, a lot hotter?"

Hestia giggled, tossing back a strand of her mousy brown hair. "Everyone looks a little different in the low light of a bar," she informed. "Hell, even Diggle is starting to look less like a dodgy fool, and more like he'd be a good lay." Dedalus was draped over the music box, animatedly telling a story to his mates.

His usually spiky, mad hair was tampered down by sweat. He'd removed his bottle-cap spectacles and had to squint to see, but it gave him a brooding, intense stare like he could peer right into you and -

Tonks blinked, staring down at her own drink. "Jesus Christ. This certainly works fast."

Hestia raised a glass to her. "Indeed, it does. This must be the good stuff." She'd know. Hestia was a self-proclaimed liqour 'connoisseur'; a kinder way of saying 'alcoholic'. "Props to you for paying tonight. What bet did you lose?" her eyes twinkled conspiratorially.

Grunting, Tonks wriggled on the stool, fixing her skirt. Due to company regulations, skirts had to be longer than the tips of her fingers when she hung her arms down. Sitting on the stool, however, her skirt had begun riding up, revealing the tops of her pantyhose and a slim strip of skin that her less subtle colleagues had begun to eye.

"I dared Kingsley to invite Tom tonight. I didn't think the King of Self-Imposed Isolation would actually deign to bother with us common folk," she spoke in a hushed, mocking whisper and Hestia broke out in giggles.

Blue eyes flashed.

From his place at the bar, Tom shifted to block his view of the girls with a shoulder. This night was excruciating enough without overhearing two hens cluck about him.

Expression carefully absent of emotion, Tom broke his contained, stiff posture to flick two fingers. "Top me off, please. I don't think I'll be staying long," he murmured to the barmaid.

Tom wasn't typically a heavy drinker. He relied rather heavily on his inhibitions and the ability to remain in control of his facilities. Today was no exception; he had merely spoken to the barmaid when he first arrived and paid her extra to water down anything she served to Tom or his staff.

If Tonks was suddenly finding Dedalus Diggle attractive, it was likely a latent attraction she hadn't acknowledged until it was socially acceptable to do so. Or, if Hestia Jones - currently twittering like a drunkard - thought watered-down whiskey was 'the good stuff', it was because her concerned brother had been slowly, methodically replacing all her bottles of liquor with various sparkling juices for the past few months, weening her off the hard stuff. As for Diggle - well, the man had always been a bit of a douche.

Like a benevolent deity, Tom made it his business to know secrets, and to keep them.

As he downed another glass, Tom eyed Kingsley in his periphery. They had sat with each other for a while, talking cases, until Kingsley had been taken aside by a dark-haired, red-lipped woman.

She was recently widowed, if the indent on her ring finger and the smudges of black makeup - carefully smeared beneath her doe eyes to give the impression of crying - were any indication.

Unlucky-in-love? Tom wondered.

The woman then laughed breathlessly and placed a sharply manicured hand on Kingsley's upper thigh.

Tom's eyes darkened. "I expected better from you, Kingsley," he murmured to himself, bottom lip brushing against the wet rim of his glass.

A serial bride. Married six, perhaps seven times. Much like a black widow spider, they sucked the life out of their mate before killing them - arranging accidents for them, in this case - and consuming their corpse.

Tom didn't think she was a cannibal. No, cannibalism was so incredibly overdone in the media, and just plain messy. The lady was too fashionable for that. The way she eyed Kingsley's unattended drink made Tom itch for his handcuffs.

He closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath. Justice was all well and good but he couldn't go arresting people willy-nilly for flirting with his co-worker. Even if she was practically prostituting herself.

"Alright, dear?" The barmaid asked him, clucking her tongue in concern.

"Absolutely fine," Tom said, giving a tight, blatantly false smile. She took the hint and flushed, bowing her head to finish drying a glass.

When he glanced back at his second-in-command, Kingsley was alone, a frown on his ruddy features. The lady had been turned off by his career, it seemed. Kingsley simply wasn't paid enough for her tastes, and the realization she was surrounded by off-the-clock cops had her fleeing the establishment, as any part-way intelligent criminal would.

Tom sighed, his handcuffs sitting unused in his coat pocket.

Another one bites the dust, then.

He was almost expecting it when Kingsley returned to his side, despondently ordering a lager. "No luck?" Tom guessed, lips twisting around the phrase. He guessed it was something a sympathetic 'mate' would say, although he had few 'mates' of his own.

"Not a lick of it," Kingsley agreed glumly, before noticing the pile of shot glasses in front of Tom. He perked up. "Having any fun?"

Tom fought the urge to repeat 'not a lick of it', instead forcing a bit of cheer into his tone. "Some."

"Good," Kinglsey rumbled, clapping Tom on the back. If he was a younger man, he might have lurched forward, but Tom was accustomed to Kingsley's blustering manner. "I'm glad. See, getting out with your friends isn't the end of the world, is it?"

Tom had a few things he could say on that subject, but didn't get the chance as a song suddenly blared through the nickelodeon. Half of Tom's employees suddenly sat up in their chairs, cheeks splitting into wide grins.

"Oh, I love this song!" Tonks loudly exclaimed, stumbling towards Kingsley. She thrust out a hand, waggling her brows. "Come dance with us, boss-man!"

Tom's lips lowered into a deep frown.

He was their boss, not Kingsley.

It wasn't as though Tom wanted to dance, he quickly told himself. No. Absolutely not. It was completely unprofessional, not to mention humiliating. Even Kingsley wouldn't -

Laughing, Kingsley slammed down his drink and joined the throng of half-drunk patrons, shoving aside tables and bobbing along aimlessly to the music.

Apparently, Kingsley would.

Tom didn't recognize the song. It had some throbbing, pulsating tempo that, frankly, gave him the beginnings of a headache.

Left alone at the bar, Tom took the chance to dip out. Just as he was about to leave, placing a few notes on the counter as a tip to their barmaid - she had been quiet and attentive, didn't bother him much with chatter, and took bribes easily - he stopped. And sighed.

Uncomfortably warm, Tom breached the crowd in an attempt to find Shacklebolt. He pushed past two women grinding against each other and past Hestia Jones, who was climbing Diggle like a tree. He found Kinglsey in the midst of it all. His bald head glistened with sweat, huge feet stomping heavily against the ground.

Tom flinched as the crowd chanted, off-tune and off-beat, with the song's chorus.

"I'm leaving," he told Kingsley, quite sternly, as though his discomfort was all the other's man's fault. (It was.)

Kingsley ignored him, eyes shut. Tom pushed back his sleeves, anger growing as someone bumped into his elbow. Glaring, Tom pinched Kingsley on the arm. Hard.

"What?" Kingsley asked, shouting over the music.

"I'm leaving," Tom repeated. "My mother needs me."

Shacklebolt seemed ready to protest, but 'mother' was the magic word. He reluctantly nodded, pulling his shirt from Tom's grip. "Thanks for coming," he offered. "Tonks, another round?"

Tom's nostrils flared at the easy dismissal.

He shoved his way out of the bar, the door slamming shut behind him.

The night was utterly, graciously silent. Mist hung in the air, an indication of rain to come. He lifted his collar as a barricade against the cool air. This part of London was foggy at night, the air brisk and carrying with it the smell of sewage.

Ah. Home.

Trudging his way towards the street, where Tom hoped to catch a cab, his head lifted at the sound of distant crying.

Without thought, his hand darted for his taser gun. Tom swore.

He'd left it at the office, hoping for a quick drink and then home to his mother. He was out later than he'd expected, but he had called his mother's nurse, Poppy, to make dinner, administer Merope's medication, and then put her to bed. The kind woman, who he'd known since his mother had first become sick, had been happy to do it. She was simply glad that Tom was actually out on a Friday night. It was very uncharacteristic of him, and now Tom remembered why.

He attracted trouble where ever he went.

Another moan came from the alleyway.

Walking on the pads of his feet, he crept into the alley. Only a sliver of moonlight was visible, reflecting over a supine rubbish bin. Expecting a wounded cat - or, worse - a homeless child, he was mildly surprised to find a woman.

She was curled up against the grimy wall, head bowed over her lap as she quietly sobbed. In the darkness, he couldn't discern her hair color, or the style of her clothing - just her shape. Tom took a misstep, foot crushing a stray food wrapper. Her head jerked up, and Tom - seeing her face, mottled, bruised and stained with dirt - immediately fixed his posture. He slouched, becoming shorter, unassuming. Tom raised his empty hands, showing he was unarmed.

The girl stared at him with wide, bright eyes, and Tom could see the vague imprint of freckles scattered across her nose.

"Hello," he said softly, taking a tentative step forward. She didn't flinch away; instead, her head raised imperceptibly, hands curling in her lap. "My name is Detective Chief Inspector Riddle. I'm with the Department of Law Enforcement - I can help you," he paused. "Would you like to see my badge?"

She maintained her unblinking, watery stare, and he took that as a 'yes'. Slowly reaching for his jacket pocket, Tom glanced down for only a moment - and she lunged.

From her lap, she removed a clean, damp rag. Tom jerked back, tripping over the rubbish bin. She landed on him, slim and as swift as a wild-cat, baring her teeth. Tom's instincts kicked into action, and he made to roll them over, flipping their positions. But he was already too late.

He registered a wet cloth over his mouth, the chemical odorless. A slow-acting heaviness began spreading through his limbs, a deep exhaustion. Tom panted heavily, fumbling desperately in the dark for - anything. A weapon. His handcuffs. His phone. But then, who would he call?

Tom was the head of the police, and most of his force was down at The Leaky Cauldron, having a grand, merry ol' time. He was alone. Utterly alone.

"Not for long."

Apparently, Tom had spoken aloud, words muffled by the choloroform-soaked rag. The girl above him smiled wickedly. Up close, he could see the powder of her make-up, her bruise false, the edges fading away irregularly. He'd been tricked.

"Smart one, aren't you?" she hummed at him, her figure blurring in and out of focus, like a hologram, or watery reflection. She breathed against his neck, warm and smelling of dirt, sweat, and - faintly - something feminine. Sweet. Her hand slipped from his mouth.

"Fuck . . . you . . . " Tom's eyes fluttered shut.

"Oh," she purred, pleased with his fight. "He'll like you."


Slug and Jiggers was a fairly old apothecary on the north end of a colorful, brightly lit shopping district.

It was decorated lavishly with sleek leather chairs and a mahogany counter where the shopkeeper, Horace Slughorn, conducted business.

Slughorn was a hedonistic man that sought aesthetic pleasure in all corners of his life.

This was made evident by his portly stature and expensive leather uniform, hand-tailored to his dimensions. His apron was made of rich alligator leather, made to withstand wear and tear and innumerable stains. He wore a pair of ugly, tight-fitting chaps and boots that reached his knees. Thigh fat bubbled over his boots, and many people, his apprentice included, suspected he simply couldn't reach to unlace the boots. This would explain why he wore them constantly. At least they were of good quality.

Donned in his hideous costume, Slughorn ambled down the street, his work-bag dangling at his side.

Slughorn gave a pleasant wave to the neighboring shopkeepers who had arrived early to open up shop. Slughorn had the forethought to hire an apprentice to open for him; this meant most days, he could sleep in, or have the time to make a hearty breakfast. Unbeknownst to him, Slughorn had a speck of egg on his face from his morning omelet.

The other shop owners gave him grimace-like smiles, the undertone of derision going right over his head.

"Oh ho! Good day, Madam Malkin," he beamed at the seamstress, blatantly eyeing the bent-over form of Malkin's assistant as she swept the front steps.

Malkin sighed, giving him a weak smile. She ushered her assistant away, giving the poor girl a break from Slughorn's ogling. "Good morning, Horace. How was your Friday evening?"

"Delightful," Slughorn blustered, swaying back and forth on his feet. He stood on the curb, a cobblestone street between them. Malkin desperately hoped he didn't take the initiative to cross the street and approach her. There was only so much small talk she could manage this morning. "I spent the evening drinking a cup of fine brandy and reading a dissertation on Essential Oils in front of the hearth. Quite delightful, hmm, yes."

Blandly, Malkin smiled. "That's wonderful, Horace. Oh - I think that's Brenda calling for me now," she tilted her head toward the door. "We've just gotten a new shipment of - um. Fabric," she didn't bother finishing the sentence. "Excuse me."

Slughorn raised a hand, opening his mouth to say farewell. The door slammed shut behind her, the bell jangling.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Slughorn fixed his shirt and continued toward his shop.

He expected to hear the soft hum of classical music drifting through open windows - open, in order to air out the faint smell of rotten eggs that persisted no matter how often they cleaned the shop. But all was silent.

His apprentice was usually an early bird, waking at the crack of dawn to ready the shop. Young Harry Potter had been hired solely on the basis of nepotism, as Slughorn was an old family friend. Yet, Slughorn had been pleasantly surprised to find the boy incredibly capable.

Harry was an industrious lad, good with the ledgers and - truthfully - a bit of eye candy for his customers.

Although his untamable hairstyle left something to be desired, he was an excellent salesman, with wide, green, trustworthy eyes and a sharp tongue hidden behind pink lips, perfect for persuasion.

Then there was that nasty business with one of their patrons, following Harry around after hours, attempting to woo the boy into sharing her bed. She had even gone so far as to buy an aphrodisiac from Slug and Jiggers and slyly slip them into a box of chocolates.

The boy wasn't an idiot, and he thankfully had a very sharp nose. The girl had been arrested for stalking and attempted rape, and Slughorn lessened Harry's workload by having him work in backroom, instead of at the counter.

During the days, Harry organized the shelves, kept track of their inventory and ordered new shipments. On the side, Harry might also . . . file all of Slughorn's tax forms.

The boy's mathematics skills were, Slughorn noted with a touch of shame, leagues above his own; the lad couldn't drive stick shift, but he could do advanced calculus? What were they teaching in schools these days?

Perhaps Slughorn had become too used to having all the grunt work done for him. He hadn't even brought a key to open shop himself, trusting his apprentice explicitly with the duty.

When he arrived at Slug and Jiggers, it was with heart-stopping surprise that he learned the shop was closed. The blinds were lowered, and the outdoor plants left un-watered. "Oh - that boy," Slughorn clucked his tongue, a furrow of confusion denting his fluffy brow. Perhaps the boy was planning a surprise party? No, Slughorn's birthday wasn't until the twenty-eighth of April, which had already passed. Patting his pockets to ensure he had, in fact, forgotten his own keys, Slughorn sighed.

With a grunt, he lowered himself to his knees, chaps brushing against the rough cobblestone stairs. He fondled between the thick leaves of his potted lily bush, seeking out their spare key. Finding the small key caked with dirt, he painfully stood back up, bones groaning. "I'm getting too old for this," he told the key. Brushing away the dirt, he slotted the key into the lock and opened up shop.

"Harry?" he called tentatively into the dark. He flicked on the lights, peering inside with a quirked brow. Although it was clear the shop was abandoned, Slughorn has never been described as a smart man. "Are you in here, lad?" He checked every room for a sign of displacement.

The storeroom was a large, cold space with shelves of gleaming bottles and ceramic pots of paste. Across the hall from the storeroom was the office, not much bigger than a closet. A simple wooden desk and two chairs were tucked beside a small window, a neat stack of files placed on the corner of the desk.

Not a soul was to be found.

Slughorn's lips turned into a frown. "Well," he blustered, standing straight. He had to take a moment to find the broom, as Harry had an organization system that was baffling to the mind. With great reluctance, he began to sweep the floor of the shop, already weary.

"This'll just have to be docked from his pay, then. Can't have a lazy apprentice, no sir-"


To be continued . . .