A/N: Just as this story is an adaptation of Agatha Chirtie's And Then There Were None, the poem that appears in this chapter is an adaptation of the poem that appears in the same novel.
The morning fog clung to the Hartshire shore like smoke clinging to the ashes of a forgotten world. Everything was silence, and in the silence stood six stiff, guarded figures. Each kept their distance from the next, yet their eyes subtly inspected each other, probing for hints to unasked questions.
"Well?" Andromeda asked curtly, her harsh voice cracking through the stillness of the dock. "When do we move on?"
"Excuse me, ma'am," the attendant, Robbie Bellecote, poked his head up from the modest boat he was loading bags into, "I've been asked to wait for the final two members of our party before beginning boarding."
"Ah yes, our host," Charlie commented with interest as he peered eagerly through the fog.
Cho edged towards the man nearest her, an older gentleman with broad shoulders and a distant, tired look in his eyes. "Do you know who we're waiting for?"
Dawlish shook his head without turning to look at her. Cho forced a polite smile and backed away again.
Miriam stood apart from the others, watching them curiously. She had not expected there to be others. Apparently Miranda Blishen was concerned with both her health and her social life. Still, it was a strange group for a social call. It would take more than a few drinks to get people who bristled with so many evident differences at ease together. A few faces seemed familiar to her, from though she could not place them – certainly nothing more significant than forgotten Daily Prophet stories. But there, just visible in the fog was the Creevey boy; there hadn't been a single face she'd treated during the war that she didn't remember.
Six pairs of eyes turned towards the sound of metal clicking against wood. The clicking came to a stop as Harold Minchum stood before them, a suitcase in one hand and a gilded cane in the other. Several faces lit in recognition, but no voices spoke up in greeting.
"Welcome, sir," Robbie climbed onto the dock and extended his hand to the newcomer, a courtesy which Miriam noted had not been extended to the others.
"Well then," Robbie said, taking account of each of them. "It looks like we're just waiting on one more – "
As if on cue, there came the sound of a whipping air and irreverent laughter as Stan Shunpike came roaring down on his broomstick.
"Allo, mates!" he greeted, throwing his hair back flippantly. "I'm here for the party. Girls, booze, bring it on."
Once again, all eyes stared at the newcomer. He held none of the beguiled uncertainty of the others. In fact, he seemed to contradict everything that existed around him, the glimmer of his voice and the gleam of his skin appeared somehow out of time.
In the grey fog of the world around him, Stan Shunpike seemed to be truly immortal.
It was an image that many of them would recall over the coming days.
"Your wands, please." Robbie Bellecote held out a small wooden box to the group.
"Excuse me?" Dawlish asked, breaking through the tense silence that rose out of this unusual request.
"It's part of the experience," Robbie explained. "Ya know, Muggle Island and all."
"Yes, nice touch." Cho stepped forward, gingerly dropping her wand into the box.
Slowly, the others followed suit, each parting with their wands with varying degrees of reluctance and hostility. Dennis was the last one to step forward. He had known this was coming. As he fingered the cold hilt of the muggle firearm concealed beneath his robes, he assured himself that he would not be undefended.
"Right then," Robbie said, snapping the box shut with a thud of finality. "Go ahead and take your seats aboard, and we'll depart for the island presently."
There was a shuffling of feet and rustling of cloaks as each of the party climbed into the wood benches of the waiting boat, which rocked in the water with each shifting of weight.
John Dawlish hung back, regarding the boat suspiciously. "And this craft is entirely muggle powered?" he wanted to know.
"Muggle technology, yes," Robbie supplied. "Magic don't work close to the island."
"Right." Dawlish let out a disgruntled sigh as he climbed aboard with a mutter of "bloody experience."
As the last of them settled in, Robbie climbed aboard as well, taking his position beside the rudder at the rear of the little boat. The eight guests now sat up against each other, but no polite small talk formed between them as each individual tried to place the others in their expectations for the weekend.
The muggle engine jumped to life, and the boat was on its way, beginning a slow and steady journey towards the inevitability of Muggle Island.
Robbie sat at his post, dutifully guiding the boat. It was simple work, and left his mind ample room to puzzle over his curious passengers.
They were a strange lot, and not at all what he had expected for this trip. When he'd heard that the resort would be open for one weekend in the off-season, he had expected some kind of grand affair. He thought for sure the guests would be the glitzy type with deep pockets and loud laughs.
But this little group of eight was all that had been invited, and they couldn't be more different from one another. Not that Robbie knew much about throwing a party or running a resort. He hadn't even worked for the company during the open season, so how was he to know what their type was?
At any rate, he'd been told the host would be joining them later in the day. Robbie could look forward to that – a full trip with just him and Mr. Blishen. Strange, how he hadn't met any of the Blishens yet. Still, his instructions were clear, and he had no intention to disappoint.
Robbie looked about the boat again, measuring up each of the passengers.
At the end there was the hungry looking ginger. There was a fierceness in him, like a tiger ready to pounce that either set those around him on edge or into a false sense of security. And beside him was the Asian woman – there was something tragic about her, like glass about to shatter. Across the aisle sat the oldest woman of the lot, who had to be uncomfortable there, but sat as straight as if she was on a throne. Behind her was the blond gentleman, all muscles and sinister charm – he was just the type who Robbie pictured working in law enforcement. He sat by a woman, also blond, whose profession was betrayed by the Healer's pin upon her robes. There was another man, gray in eyes and in face, who looked neither ahead nor at his neighbors, but only at the water lapping against the side of the boat. Robbie wondered if he could be as old as he looked. Then there was the old Minister. Funny, how men like that didn't cease to exist once their legacies had up and burned. Then there was the last bloke, who had flown in all grins and magnetism. Now, that was the type Robbie had been expecting – lively chaps who could bring a party to its feet.
It would all be less strange if they were all like the last fellow, or at least remotely like each other. But no, it was all very peculiar.
Charlie's sharp eyes were fixed straight ahead. As the boat rounded the rocks, he was the first one to see the island as it came into view through the dissipating fog.
For a brief moment he was reminded of being eleven years old and looking up in wonder at Hogwarts for the first time. This, of course, was a very different experience. The lone house on the island was no castle of magical turrets and mystical secrets. Charlie struggled to find a word that described it. It was clean in the modern sense that muggles seemed to pride in their architecture. The silhouette was all straight lines and hard corners, with white and grey walls towering up against huge glass windows.
Charlie thought it had a strange way of coming off as so simple and common, and yet unlike anything he'd ever seen.
"So that's it, eh?" he said casually to the woman sitting beside him.
"Yes, I suppose so," came her empty reply.
Charlie turned briefly to look at her. She was several years his junior. Her face seemed familiar, but no name came to mind and he didn't waste time searching for it. She was inconsequential to his plans for the weekend. Though he thought there was something strange in her eyes. Or at least he would if they'd slow down and look at him.
Behind them, Robbie Bellecote clicked off the engine, leading the boat into the approaching shore at a crawl.
Charlie eyed the rocky shore of the island. It sloped up gradually enough here, but he could tell that around the South side it became much less forgiving, the rocky shore transitioning into steep cliffs. It was a powerful sight to behold. He wondered briefly how the boat could find its way to this cove without magic when the sea was less quiet.
The savage unpredictability of the thought only fuelled hi excitement for this adventure.
At last, Charlie could feel the scraping of rocks at the bottom of the boat. He eagerly jumped out of the boat, helping Bellecote push it inland, and offered his hand to the others as they climbed out of the boat.
"How enchanting," Miriam whispered as she stepped onto dry land, looking up the steep steps to the house above.
The party eagerly climbed the stone steps, their damp robes dragging along dirt as they went. Nobody seemed to mind, their discomforts set aside as they each looked up at the nearing house. It really was something to behold, striking in its dynamism and stark contrast to the surrounding island.
At the top of the stairs stood two waiting figures, familiar to most of the guests as Madams Rosmerta and Trelawney.
"Welcome, welcome," Rosmerta greeted them glowingly, her pale wife peeking out from behind her shoulder. "The Blishens have been delayed on family business, but all preparations are made. Please, come settle into your rooms, all of your things will be moved up for you. The gong for supper will be rung at five o'clock."
Cho followed Madam Trelawney up the stairs to her room.
She couldn't help but regard her former teacher with more curiosity than she had afforded her fellow passengers. She may have only taken Divination for a single term, but she remembered the Professor as vibrant and eccentric. The woman before her now could only be described as eccentrically jumpy.
Trelawney silently opened a door at the end of the hall and bowed Cho inside.
"Why, this is marvelous," Cho glowed as she took in the cozy décor of the wide room. Being a temporary hire, she hadn't been certain what kind of accommodations to expect, but clearly these Blishens held her in very high esteem.
"Thank you very much, Ma'am." She turned to Madam Trelawney, trying to maintain the appropriate level of professionalism in her voice. "Has Mrs. Blishen left any specific instructions for me?"
"Sorry?" Trelawney winced.
"Mrs. Blishen," Cho repeated, aware of the anxiety in Trelawney's face, "she's hired me on as a consultant for the island."
"I don't know anything about that," Trelawney replied, her eyes fixed on the carpet. "I'm just s'posed to take the ladies to their rooms."
Cho regarded the woman curiously. "Odd, I'd have thought she'd have said –"
"See Miss, I haven't spoken to her," Trelawney explained rapidly. "Stasia and I only arrived yesterday."
Cho had more questions than ever, but saw that she would get no answers from her companion. She thanked Trelawney again for the accommodations and excused her.
She was left standing alone in her new room, feeling as uneasy as Madam Trelawney looked. It was all much stranger than she had expected – the empty house, the missing hosts, the peculiar guests… Of course, it would all be explained once the Blishens arrived. Rosmerta had said they were due first thing in the morning. Which meant that she had a full evening to spend in these new quarters without the burden of responsibility.
Cho eased around the room, sliding her fingers over each piece of furniture to become acquainted with her new surroundings.
The room was quaintly decorated in the modern muggle style, each muted color and texture gently complimenting the next. The furniture was deliberate in its simplicity, and the clean barren walls somehow reinforced the ubiquitous absence of magic.
There was a small tiled fireplace, the mantelpiece notably bare of floo powder. Instead, there were only two objects. The first was a marble statuette of a tiger, a clock set into its enter, which Cho confirmed was powered by authentic muggle clockwork.
Beside this was a small fame which held the verses of a familiar poem. Cho smiled as her eyes ran over it, the words picking up the familiar rhythm childhood bed-times.
Ten little muggle boys standing in a line; Nine little muggle boys arguing with fate; Eight little muggle boys dreaming of heaven; Seven little muggle boys straightening wicks; Six little muggle boys learning to thrive; Five little muggle boys settling the score; Four little muggle boys, allies in theory; Three little muggle boys without a clue; Two little muggle boys playing with a gun; One little muggle boy standing among graves;
One fell right over and then there were nine.
One fought too hard and then there were eight.
One went on ahead and then there were seven.
One burnt his fingers and then there were six.
A doxy bit one and then there were five.
One came up wanting and then there were four.
One found the truth and then there were three.
One went off alone and then there were two.
One played too close and then there was one.
He forgot to breathe and then there were none.
Cho couldn't help but laugh at the charming ingenuity of featuring the time-old Wizarding poem here, at Muggle Island.
Feeling more at ease, Cho crossed to the bed and sat down, kicking her shoes off. Funny, how things could seem frightening in your mind when there was no real threat.
There was a small mirror propped up on the bedside table. Cho abruptly grabbed it and turned it face down. There would be no need to see the eyes of ghosts in this room.
Having seen that her room was to her satisfaction, Miriam headed back onto the main floor. She wanted to appreciate the view over the sea while she still had freedom and sunlight.
It was a bit of a blessing, arriving here before her hosts. Plus, if this Mrs. Blishen was fit to travel, she certainly couldn't be all that ill. It looked like it was set to be a peaceful weekend after all.
Of course, then it would be back to the hospital, back to the mess and chaos of work. She could face that when it came, but for now she could pretend she didn't have to.
That was it – a little fantasy. She could pretend that she was never going back, that all that lay ahead for her was this quiet island and its peace. It was a lovely thought, and one she could afford to indulge for a little while longer.
Miriam basked in the muted sunshine of the porch, the sound of sea birds strangely absent.
There was one other figure on the porch, an older man hunched over in a wicker chair. Where did she recognize that face from?
Oh, yes – Harold Minchum.
She was surprised that he had the gall to come here, to Muggle Island, when so many muggles had their fates sealed by the ineptitude of his regime.
No matter, this was her weekend away from that world. She was here, on this island of simple comforts, and here she would stay.
That was Strout, wasn't it?
Of course it was – Harold Minchum was never wrong about these things.
If there was one thing Harold remembered more than the innocent people who had died during the wars, it was the "innocent" people who had killed during them. Miriam Strout was no exception. She may be no threat now, but Harold certainly wouldn't be letting his guard down around her.
It was only fair, he imagined, that he got the chance to judge one of his weekend companions. No doubt they were all doing the same to him.
"Do you know Betty Braithwaite?" he spoke up suddenly, curious when his fluttering friend would be arriving.
"No, I don't believe so," Strout responded.
"Hm," Harold grunted. "Well, if she doesn't show up soon, I suspect one of us may be in the wrong house."
Strout smiled in a good-natured manner, and then excused herself, passing down the long wrap-around porch.
So much the better.
Stan lounged in the stagnant water of his warm bath, his eyes closed and his long toes peeking up from the water.
At least there were some comforts to be found on this odd island. The other guests were all so washed up and serious. All the same, there was the promise of cocktails after dinner, and if this lot really was washed up, there would just be more for him.
Shame though, about the women. Any decent house party ought to have a supply of eager and available women. The weekend was likely to be a bust on that front.
Well, it was too late now. There was nothing left to do but make the best of the weekend. Bust or not, he would find a way to go out with a bang.
Dennis stood in front of his mirror, combing the casual curls of his hair away from his face.
The journey had been an odd one. He had expected to being the only one on his guard, but somehow everyone here seemed to be watching each other.
It certainly made his job more complicated, to be among people who recognized him personally. But no matter, he told himself. He was here for a job, and he'd see it through.
Dawlish paced up and down his room.
"Damn it all!" he swore to himself.
This was not at all what he had signed up for. Where were the old Hogwarts boys? Sure, he wasn't getting the usual stares that he got from his fellow law enforcement lot. But there were still stares. A different sort, yes, but they made him more uncomfortable than ever.
He had half a mind to march straight downstairs and demand to be taken off this forsaken island.
But no, he knew that wasn't an option. He had seen young Bellecote take off with the boat back to the mainland.
He'd have to wait it out until morning. Morning, and then out.
Charlie licked his lips as he bounded down the stairs, the gong or supper echoing off the walls around him.
The others were still confined to their separate chambers, but Charlie was wasting no time. He wanted to see everything this island had to offer, and the first discovery of the night was what was to eat.
Charlie knew how to appreciate a good situation when he saw one.
Andromeda sat alone in her room, newly donned robes of black silk draping over her rigid shoulders. Her room darkened as the sky outside grayed, but she made no move to switch on the lights. She could hear the others leaving their rooms and heading down to supper, but she was not yet ready to leave her seclusion.
She stared across the room, her eyes fixed on the hanging frame above her mantelpiece, just beyond the nursery rhyme.
Through the darkness, the words shone like ghosts in moonlight:
To walk among the condemned is to conspire with death.