The Dreadfuls
TanninTele
Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.
II:
Godric's Hollow, England
Despite the bare trees and the smell of decaying leaves collecting in the gutters declaring autumn was on the way out, it was a reasonably nice day in the suburbs of Godric's Hollow.
The sun was giving one last 'hurrah', it's swan song, before succumbing to the winter chill. Angela Johnson took advantage of this blessing and donned her joggers and sports bra. This was likely to be her last jog until the Spring. Angela was prone to allergies and knew to expect a season full of intrusive allergist appointments; Yes, she took her vitamins. No, she didn't smoke. Yes, she exercised regularly.
In practiced movements, Angela tugged her long brown hair into a high pony-tail and began her stretches. She had a heart monitor strapped to her arm, along with her cell phone, from which Pink Floyd blasted through her headphones. Bounding down the steps of her cheap rambler, Angela lost herself in the rhythmic movements of her muscles and her measured breaths. Jogging helped clear her head.
Angela was a graduated from business school, condemned to a career behind a desk at some firm, taking calls from flustered clients, filing paperwork or tracking the stock market. It was boring as fuck and didn't offer many opportunities for advancement, but it was stable. Although she once dreamed to be a star athlete or a woman's right's activist, financial security was, admittedly, the more responsible option.
Wiping her face, Angela stopped at the corner of Minos Road, eyes lighting upon a lemonade stand.
It boasted in lopsided handwriting to be the 'best lemonade on the block'. A little girl with glossy blonde hair sat cross-legged beneath the shade. Her back was towards the road as she read book on her lap. Angela looked down at the innocuous pitcher of lemonade, ice long melted, Dixie cups stacked.
Tugging at her armband, she muted the music and pulled out a folded pound note. She reached to rap on the tabletop. "Hey, sweetie. How much for a cup?" The girl didn't react, seemingly enthralled with her book. Angela tilted her head, noticing that the child hadn't flipped a single page. She was, in fact, quite motionless. Her fingers were oddly placed, the pale digits pressed into the image of Dick and Jane. Sleeping, perhaps? Or ignoring Angela?
"Kiddo?" Tentatively, Angela stepped around the table, into the grass.
Touching the girl's shoulder, the child slumped forward, and Angela screamed at the sight of dead blue eyes.
Hogwarts Academy
"Can anyone find the common factor in these killings?" Professor McGonagall asked the class. "Other than the obvious."
She peered over her glasses imperiously as nearly all of the upraised hands slowly lowered. The professor ignored the frantically fluttering arm of Cho Chang and sighed in disappointment.
"Alright, fine. Let us look at the evidence," she clicked a button on his remote. The screen behind her flicked past several images of crudely-made lemonade stands, evidence markers placed next to the pitchers of juice and the identical Dick and Jane books.
"The victims were all girls, aged five-to-six, with blonde hair and similar build. They were selected from the nearby school-grounds, lured from their recess periods and smothered with a lethal amount of chloroform. The bodies were carefully dressed - much like dolls - in pink, handmade dresses, mimicking a style from the 1950s. They were placed facing away from the street, the same copy of Dick and Jane: Guess Who placed in their laps," her perpetually pursed lips twitched slightly at the title. "The lemonade was made from freshly-squeezed lemons. There were faint traces of lacrimation in the juice - that would be tears, Miss Chang." She said, glaring at her raised hand. "However, the DNA was unsalvageable due to the lemon's acidity."
"In terms of location, the bodies were found in broad daylight, blocks from their elementary school." She showed a Google Maps screenshot of each crime scene, and was pointedly quiet for a moment. "No one sees the correlation here?"
It was a Friday. Perhaps this could explain the listlessness of his class, but Minerva had little patience for incompetence. Her eyes narrowed on the idly doodling figure of Harry Potter. He sat in the front row, near the door, making for an easy escape. He was dressed in nearly all black, the shadows molding around him, hiding him from plain sight. The boy's curly fringe covered his eyes, his right hand deft in sketching the The Dollmaker's victim.
Minerva cleared her throat. "Mister Potter? Would you like to join the class in this discussion?"
Potter winced. He sat down his pen and leaned back, staring at the screen.
Minerva suspected Harry, usually an engaged student, was under some sort of emotional crisis. He was a lively child on most occasions, making many thoughtful insights and showing an immense ability to understand the motives of even the most perplexing killers. It was intriguing, and McGonagall wanted to put him to the test.
"Any thoughts, Potter?"
The boy was quiet for several long moments, as if deliberating.
"The street names." He said eventually. Harry pushed the fringe from his forehead, eyes flicking back and forth between his drawing and the screen. "Crete Circle. Labyrinth Lane. And the last one, Minos Road. All references to Greek mythology. Specifically, the myth of the Minotaur."
"Very good, Mister Potter," Minerva said with a small smile. "You've surprised me." Harry ducked his head, and Minerva continued. "Meet Ariadne Dumbledore, six-year-old sister of Albus Dumbledore," with a click, he revealed a black-and-white image of a smiling little girl, her hair light and her cheeks flushed. A bow was tied in her hair.
"She died young, brutally stoned to death by a gang of boys while setting up a lemonade stand on the corner of her street. It wasn't easy to find her. All we knew was the killer's archetype. The girls were donned in dresses from the 1950s, so that narrowed down the time scheme. At a loss, we considered the other items left for us. The books - Dick and Jane - were supplied from antique shops throughout London, sold to a man in his late fifties. Security cameras captured his face, and once we found Albus, everything just . . . came together.
"Albus Dumbledore grieved for fifty years before his torment came to fruition. His defense claimed Albus was experiencing early signs of Alzheimer's, and clung to the memory of his little sister, sitting happily at her lemonade stand, practicing her reading. He sought to recreate the moments before she was attacked, freezing her in time with his . . . little dolls," disgust and pity colored the professor's voice. "Dumbledore was hailed by his defense as a grieving old man, under the effects of an unavoidable disease. They pleaded insanity, and he was sent to a mental institution rather than face the full extent of the law . . . rather than face the families of the little girls he killed.
"The girls died painlessly, no doubt, but that doesn't make their passing any less unpleasant for their parents and siblings. Siblings whom he has condemned to a lifetime of grief. Who is to say they won't go down a similar path? Who is to say this brutal cycle won't begin again?"
Tentatively, Cho Chang raised her hand. Minerva nodded at her, leaning back against her desk.
". . . You sound doubtful, professor. Do you think Albus Dumbledore guilty? If he wasn't in the full capacity of his brain at the time of the murders - "
Minerva waved a negligent hand. "We could talk in circles on this subject all day, Miss Chang. Psychology and criminality go hand in hand often, but I'm in no way qualified to lecture you on it. I was a field worker, Miss Chang. I looked at the evidence given and followed it to to Albus Dumbledore." She spoke slowly. "And the evidence tells me, regardless of his mental state or constitution, that Albus Dumbledore killed those girls."
Chang seemed ready to argue, and while Minerva respected her for it, she would not begin this debate today. "Perhaps I can put it this way," the professor paced across the platform and spoke clearly, firmly, hands behind her back. "A person is killed, and you blame the one holding the knife. But the killer, unfortunately, was abused as a child and is clearly mentally unstable. His parent that abused him was raped, and never wished to be a mother in the first place. Her rapist, too, was a damaged individual, and was only loving her the only way he knew how.
"This is all hypothetical, of course; but it's a chain of tragic events leading up to it's latest victim. We can point our fingers all day, blame the circumstances or a chemical imbalance, conjecture the court's ear off, but that doesn't change to result.
"How do we prevent murders of the past? How do we protect the victims of future trauma? We are not all-knowing, Miss Chang. We can educate, we can remove children from hostile situations, we can rehabilitate killers, and prevent them from repeating these actions. But we cannot predict the future. We cannot change the past. I have no clear answer for you, except to reassure that so long as there's a vicious cycle to be had - a spiked wheel, throttling innocents wherever it rolls - " she spoke dramatically. "That people like us will be there to remove a few spokes. And perhaps the cycle will break."
Her words resounded through the lecture hall.
"Your job this week; with the partner you were assigned at the beginning of the semester, research this case and others like it. Convoluted plots, in which you wonder 'who is truly to blame?' when it comes to the perception of both justice and revenge."
With that, McGonagall dismissed the class. Cho, of course, stayed behind to ask questions. Minerva indulgently answered them, while the rest of the students fled in a flurry of coats and scarves. Harry Potter was moving slow, ripping a piece of paper from his notebook.
Minerva dismissed Chang, and began turning off the projector.
"Mister Potter," she said evenly. "Was there something you needed?"
Harry pressed his lips together, stepping down from the stands. "I - yes, Professor," he seemed nervous. Now that he was in the light, Minerva could see he was wearing a dark-blue mandarin dress shirt, patterned with brocade swirls. Beneath, he wore black leggings so tight that Minerva wondered if she had to refer him to the school dress-code.
"Shouldn't you be headed to your next lesson?"
"It's a free period. Professor, I . . . wanted to talk about the killer's insanity plea."
Minerva sighed dramatically, gathering her papers with an impatient speed. "I believe I made my message clear, didn't I? The evidence - "
"The evidence points to Albus Dumbledore, yes. You traced him through the books and the street names, and you found the correct man, but the very notion that Dumbledore was in anyway complacent to his crime because of Alzheimer's is - well - " Potter visibly attempted to calm himself. "The evidence suggests that Dumbledore cried while making the lemonade. He squeezed the lemons fresh, having hand-picked the fruit from - if I made a guess - a tree in his yard? He tailored the girls' dresses from memory, the fabric and style mimicking that of his little sister's. He made lemonade stands by hand and placed them on roads named for Greek characters.
"These murders weren't made by a disoriented and diseased man. His design was premeditated, for years, even. He killed them within weeks of each other, leading up to the fiftieth anniversary of his sister's death."
McGonagall tried to interrupt, but Potter continued. His eyes were faintly glazed as he stared down at the crumpled drawing of the killer's first victim. "How did he know these girls? All blonde, all the same age, all living within miles from the same elementary school - " Potter flickered his gaze up. "Did Mister Dumbledore have a grandchild?"
The professor blinked and slowly reached for her files. "I - believe so, yes," licking her fingers, Minerva flipped through the manilla folder. "He adopted a son, who had a daughter named Rosemary. Six years old. A brunette, which didn't match the archetype, so we didn't think she was - "
"She wasn't his target. But she was a connection to those other girls," Harry spoke quietly. "Six years young and loved dearly by her grand-pappy. He couldn't kill her. He wasn't inclined. But watching her grow struck a chord in him. He made those dresses and the lemonade stands under the pretense of giving them to Rosemary. He bought the same book three times, and if anyone noticed the repetition, they would assume his aging mind was declining. It's not difficult to fake confusion and memory loss to pass the M'Naghten Rules . . ." Harry trailed off, letting Minerva fill in the blanks herself.
"The perfect cover," she murmured. "Hiding behind his age and the expectation of illness."
"Dumbledore was smart. He was determined. But he's not a psychopath. He was merciful when killing the girls, and treated their bodies with care," Harry imagined a wrinkled hand wiping tears from the pale, blemish-less cheek of a doll-like creature. "I'm certain after the anniversary of his sister's death, he would have never killed again. He may even have grown to regret the pain he caused to the families. There's no doubt the man is twisted, but like you said in your example of the mother and the rapist, he was just . . . showing them familial love in the only way he knew. Storge. He was memorializing his sister, and - perhaps - after fifty years, finally gaining closure for himself."
McGonagall considered Potter for a long, uncomfortable moment. Harry was utterly motionless, refusing to show his desperate need for the woman's approval. "You've given me much to think about, Mister Potter," she said, eventually. "If what you say is true, and Albus Dumbledore is acting under some sort of . . . Munchausen syndrome, I owe it to the families of those girls to reopen the investigation. The mental institution is too good for him."
Harry gave a short nod in thanks. Minerva contemplated him once more. "Good work, Potter. If this pans out, I may be willing to give you a recommendation for - "
"Oh. Oh, no thank you," he interrupted, tightening the bag around his shoulders. "I'm not going into law enforcement. Not anymore."
The woman narrowed her eyes. "You have a knack for it, Potter. What made you choose to abandon your dream of becoming a police officer, for - "
"Designing their uniforms?" Harry said with a slight laugh. "It's . . . safer. My father was a policeman, and I always wanted to follow in his footsteps. But, lately . . . " he trailed off.
"I understand your reluctance. But, truly, if you ever change your mind, we'd be lucky to have you."
He flushed, demure. "I really don't - "
"Learn to take a compliment, Potter," Minerva shook her head, still in disbelief. "Was that all?"
Harry paused. "My project partner, who you assigned at the start of the year? Ron Weasley? He hasn't attended class in weeks. Do I have to - "
"You have to," she said firmly. "Track him down. Tell him, if he wants to pass the course he must do this assignment and all other partner projects. Now, off with you. I've got to make a call."
Harry fled the classroom like the hounds of Hell were on his tail.
Hermione worked afternoons in the onsite library. Her uniform consisted of a frayed red lanyard, a picture of herself next to the Hogwarts Academy emblem, and a black pen, tucked into her breast pocket.
The library was painted in brown and tan, the air smelling faintly of must. Fliers were strewn across the community bulletin board; Learn Self-Defense with Professor Flitwick - Join Youth Leadership! - Help Protect Against Terrorism: If You Suspect It, Report It.
"Hermione?" her head jerked up. The head librarian was a slim, wrinkled woman named Madam Pince, her brown hair faded and grey. She wore silver readers that teetered on the tip of her nose, their beaded chain looping over her small ears. "Can you quiet those brats?" she murmured, dried lips smacking.
A small group of pimply, freshmen students had entered the library. They snickered beneath their breath at Madam Pince, who was struggling with the staple remover. "Find a place to sit," Hermione snapped at them, grabbing an armful of history books. She pushed them into the proper bookshelves, running a finger down a dusty spine.
"Hermione," Annie said out from behind the desk. She stacked her papers onto the table, nudging them away with a pencil. "File these under Overdue, if you will? It's been over four months since Mister Potter checked out that book on forensics. I've sent him email after email, but nothing! He's your roommate, isn't he? Speak with him?" she pleaded.
Hermione smiled apologetically. "I'll try, Madam Pince." Inwardly, she remembered the peanut-butter stained book shoved beneath Harry's covers. Madam Pince would be scandalized at the state of it. It'd probably be best if Harry just paid the overdue fee.
As she was in the office sorting through a number of manilla files, Hermione spotted a familiar head of pink hair outside the library, next to a slim boy. She squinted her eyes, pushing aside the white curtain.
Speak of the devil.
Nymphadora had rode up on her motorbike, Harry's arms wound tight about her waist. He was flushed and had wind-swept hair, while Dora was dressed in an overlarge bike jacket, her hair in cornrows. Harry stumbled off the bike, looking ready to puke.
Hermione nearly banged her forehead against the glass.
They were so embarrassing.
As they entered the front door, Hermione sighed, and pulled her brown hair back. It was tight against her scalp, revealing her strong jaw and sharp nose. Deciding to waste as much time as possible, Hermione tidied up the office. Unfortunately, could only straighten the same files so many times. With heavy feet, she dragged herself to the front desk, hearing Tonks' high voice reverberating through the library.
Hermione was the only librarian available. Madam Pince was gone, likely taking a smoke in the back alley. Hermione tucked a curl behind her ear and busied herself on the old Windows XP computer. As she was checking the archive, a delicate rap came at the desk.
Hermione glanced up for the briefest of seconds, before covering her eyes with a gasp.
Dora had taken her jacket off, the sleeves wrapped around her hips. She was wearing - what Harry would call - a crop top, but the hem stopped less than a millimeter beneath her nipples. It showed far more cleavage than Hermione would prefer seeing at her place of work.
"Honestly, Dora," she murmured. "You're dressed like a harlot."
"I am a harlot, dear," Tonks placed her elbows on the desk, leaning forward suggestively. The tone had shifted to something Hermione was even less comfortable with. Feeling a lick of heat rise to her cheeks, Hermione fixated her gaze onto Dora's chin. Safe, neutral ground.
"Normally I would never bother you at your place of work," Tonks was explaining to her, twisting a thin pink braid between her thumb and forefinger. "But Harry needs your expertise for his criminology course. I thought we could take a little jaunt over and visit our very best friend."
Hermione scowled. "And where will you be? If I catch you getting someone off in the bathroom - "
"I'll be over by the bean-bag chairs. Promise."
The librarian sniffed. "Fine. But library rules still apply. If I see you abusing the books in anyway, or god-forbid, flirting with those freshman, I will kick you out faster than you can say - son of a bitch," Hermione swore. Tonks had already sauntered toward the freshman, her pink lips stretched into a teasing grin.
Harry muffled a laugh.
Hermione shot him a glare. "What do you want, then?"
"Right. Well, I have a project due on Albus Dumbledore," Harry told her. "He's a child killer who was falsely exonerated. Do you have any old newspapers, or . . . ?"
Hermione quickly tapped 'Dumbledore' into the library database. She scrolled through a few options. "I can commission some newspapers quite soon," Hermione offered. "A few case files are available, but they're rather gruesome, fair warning."
"That's perfect, thanks," he said, distractedly.
"All of it? Would you like me to request the newspapers, too?"
"Everything," Harry emphasized, scowling. "I need all the information I can get."
Hermione considered him. "You look constipated."
"Frustrated, more like. I'm doing all the work by myself. McGonagall assigned me a partner who hasn't been in class for weeks. He's been skipping, or something, but I'm the one who has to pay for it."
Hermione made a sympathetic cluck. "I can imagine. Want to talk about it, love?"
"Things have just been . . . rough lately, is all. With Draco and Tom, and my stupid lab partner. Boys. Honestly, I should've stayed in the closet."
The librarian snorted. "Come behind my desk, Harry," she quirked her finger. "I've got something to show you." That sounded potentially ominous, and more than a bit suggestive.
Harry arched a brow. "You're pretty and all, Hermione, but I really don't swing that way."
"Shut up and get back here." Glancing around for Madam Pince, she tugged Harry by the sleeve. "Check this out." Hermione typed out a password, too fast for Harry to read, and a long list of names appeared on screen. "We have a database for everyone with a school library card. You had to fill out an application, remember? Date of birth, contact info - "
"Clever girl," he praised. "Look up 'Weasley'," Harry urged, eyes bright and reflecting the screen. He pulled a notepad toward him and swiped the pen from Hermione's pocket.
She made a vague swat at his hand. "Okay . . . there are - wow, a lot of Weasleys. That's not a common name, is it? There's Charles - that one's expired, Frederick, George, Ginevra, Percival, Ronald - "
"Ron Weasley. That's him," Harry scrawled out the boy's address. "Ugh. He's in a fraternity. Gryffindor House."
"Of course he is," Hermione grimaced. She quickly exited the page and shooed Harry away. "Your books will arrive in two weeks time," she said imperiously, nose in the air, just as Madam Pince returned. She smelt distinctly of tobacco.
Harry folded the parchment and grinned at her. "Thank you very much, Miss Granger. Oi, Tonks!"
Madam Pince, Hermione, and plenty of others, shushed him.
Tonks looked up from where she was perched on a ladder. She had been whispering into a freshman boy's ear, his eyes wide and a textbook held suspiciously over his lap. "Wotcher, Colin," she winked. Tonks removed her hand from his back pocket, palming a velcro wallet. "Best of luck on your test."
She bounced back to her friends and leaned across the counter to kiss Hermione on the cheek. "Later, love." Her lips left a faint stain on Hermione's flushed cheeks.
Hermione glared at their backs as Tonks steered a giggling Harry away. "What was that about?"
"As a distraction, I told that kid if he was a good boy, he could stop by some night and watch 'Mione and I have sweet, steamy lesbian love." Tonks slipped his wallet into her jacket's inner pocket.
"Uh - " Harry choked on his laugh. "Why?"
She shrugged. "Poor kid is studying Gender and Sexuality 101. I was just offering hands-on tutoring."
"You don't even go to this school," Harry reminded.
"Yeah, but suckers like him pay for your tuition, not to mention our rent." She pulled on the motorbike helmet. "Where to, mi'lord?"
"Gryffindor House fraternity. And, this time, go the speed limit? Please?" He wound his arms around her, already anticipating a bumpy ride. Tonks reversed them with a jerk, spinning them eastward.
"No promises!"
To be continued . . .