Nothing is easier than to denounce the evildoer. Nothing more difficult than understanding him.
Fyodor Dostoevsky

The world has definitions and categories for everything and anything: for plants, for animals and even for trivialities such as the breeding of paramecia. Since 1880 profilers try to divide murderers in so-called murder criteria; certain key characteristics that represent the abyss of human nature. There are seven categories, all with corresponding definitions. The seven sins of murder.

First: Satisfaction of Sex Drive
So-called sex killers kill their victims to reach climax during the slaying. Sometimes they kill the victim first and satisfy their needs on the dead body - it's called necrophilia.

Second: Avarice
Here the killer is driven by greed that is increased to an unhealthy, uncommon and debauched extent. Sometimes they murder to spare expenditures.

Third: Base Motives
This is a vast division. Emotions such as revenge, envy, hate, anger, racial hate, sexual disappointment, compulsive narcissism, and way more belong to this category. Something is called a base motive as soon as it's driven by unrestrained instinctive self-interest. It's reprehensible to common people, despicable even.

Fourth: Malevolence
A murder is called malevolent when the killer considers his victims to be harmless and defenceless and takes advantage of that during the killing act. It's also counted as malevolence if you kill someone out of the blue or from behind.

Fifth: Cruelty
When the murderer exposes its victim to particularly severe physical or mental tortures due to a relentless and callous mindset, it's categorised with the murder criteria cruelty.

Sixth: Homicidal
Homicidal is defined as using resources that you are unable to control in their entirety during the killing act. Their application is often used to kill or hurt a lot of people at once. For example through arson, explosions, gasifications.

Seventh: Bloodlust
This is the darkest and by far the most gruesome of them all. Someone who kills out of bloodlust has an unnatural pleasure to wipe out another human life. The only purpose this person has is the death of another, mostly unknown, human being. They kill out of curiosity, out of idle boast or pure amusement. The only silver lining in all of this is the fact that those kinds of murderers are few and far between.

MI5 Headquarters, Chief Dumbledore's office
Saturday, 16th August
9:11 a.m
39 Days until the next murder

Chief Dumbledore's Office was surprisingly disorganised - though not really untidy, it was just short of being so. The room was spacious. However, every little corner of available surface was scattered with books; his table was cluttered with papers and files, boxes of chocolates and boiled sweets were strewn everywhere, as well as a Newton cradle that was still swinging. She couldn't quite identify which wood the furniture was made of, but it was fair and nearly yellowish – probably spruce, she guessed.

A quick glance to her watch told her that she had already been waiting for half an hour. She sighed exasperatedly, huffed through her nose and crossed her arms.

The door opened just a few minutes later. Hermione rose mechanically and adjusted her blouse once more before taking the extended hand of Chief Dumbledore. The man was in his late sixties, but years as the head of the MI5 had worn him out. Hermione could see wrinkles and dimples around his eyes and the corners of his mouth; silent witnesses to the misery this man had already seen in his life. Surprisingly, his appearance stood in sharp contrast to his office, almost bitingly so. With his backcombed hair and trimmed beard, the man looked sophisticated with a certain kind of wit lurking behind his glasses in those bright blue eyes - the suit he was wearing only highlighted all of this even more.

"Miss Granger, I'm glad we finally found the time to meet in person." His handshake was firm and warm, as was his voice. Hermione could see why people seemed to idolise this man, and how he could command everyone's attention in any room with ease.

"Chief Dumbledore, the pleasure is all mine, I assure you."

"I'm afraid our time is limited. There are a bunch of interviews I will need to give later." He sighed as if to emphasise how much he despised being in the spotlight. Reporters were already asking obnoxious questions to which there were no answers anyway. Hermione was almost under the impression those bloodhounds just sat around in their rooms all day, trying to find questions that nobody could possibly find an answer to.

"James told me you were involved in the Lupin crime scene investigations?" Dumbledore continued as soon as he placed himself in a large desk chair, which was half-covered in blankets, worn sack coats, and surprisingly, a lot of ties.

"Yes, Sir." The upcoming pictures of the scene were so grotesque and savage, yet still so vivid before her eyes that she needed a moment to dwell on her words, turning them over on her tongue before she finally added, "It was … nightmarish."

Dumbledore didn't even grimace.

"I saw the pictures." His voice was calm as a river and nearly emotionless, as if he tried to shut it out. But his eyes were something else entirely; nearly gleaming with something wild and determined. "I think we agree that he must be stopped?"

"Of course."

He leaned back and gave her a nod while he searched for something on his desk. He grabbed a sheet of paper from under a pile of books. "James gave me a brief summary about your presumptions of the murderer."

"You mean Lord Voldemort?"

"Yes. Impressive indeed."

A decent blush graced both of her cheeks now, and once more she bit her lip as her fingers played with the hem of her blouse. Her fingertips rubbed over the silky material in a nervous manner. She wasn't used to so much praise from people in higher positions; mostly she was frowned upon, sometimes even scolded for her higher intellect and unconventional ways of thinking. A compliment like this, especially from someone like Albus Dumbledore, felt awfully out of place for Hermione. Like praise she didn't yet deserve. So she mumbled, humble and a tad nervous, "It's all just that, Sir. Presumptions. As soon as I get the older files, I'll be able to make a better profile."

"Right. That's why I called you here in the first place." A serious tone mixed with the playful sound of the Chief's voice. His left hand seemed to open a drawer and rummage through it, but Hermione couldn't see anything from her position before the desk and her growing unease increased with every passing minute. A second later Dumbledore took his hand out of the drawer and revealed a golden badge. It was the same size as a police badge, with a gilded surface and a bird of prey Hermione had never seen before; the beak was longer and a lot more pointed than a hawk's, the tail feathers were curved and peacock-like and in a delicately curved scroll were the letters OotP engraved. "This is the badge for an investigative commission I assembled myself. The Order of the Phoenix."

Her eyes were still entranced by the golden badge when the Chief reached over the desk and laid the cold metal in her smaller hands. Reverently, her thumb brushed over the gilded surface, drawing the peaks and valleys of the medal absentmindedly. Her mind was racing when she asked hesitantly, "Thank you Sir, but I don't quite understand?"

"The Order of the Phoenix includes the brightest minds of the MI5 Miss Granger, all of them chosen to stop Voldemort. The badge gives you access to the archive and every other information you'll need."

The answer sounded far too smooth, too rehearsed as if he said it a dozen times before. Scepticism blossomed in her chest and she looked up to meet Dumbledore's glance, her voice reluctant. "But why me? Certainly, you had another profiler - what happened to him?"

She could sense the obvious reluctance in the Chief's voice, but his eyes never left hers. A clicking sound reverberated in the hollow room and she could almost feel how he chose his words carefully which made her just all the warier.

Something personal?

"Let's say he couldn't handle it anymore. I'm afraid that's all I have to say about it." Dumbledore stopped any further protest with a wave of his hand. A sigh left his lips the moment he noticed the growing suspicion Hermione expressed via her body language. He cleared his throat and started once more, "Miss Granger, James told me you noticed clues and evidence in this crime scene that nobody else picked up on. You're a very clever girl and I'm confident -"

The door suddenly burst open and a second later revealed a strict-looking woman in her late fifties with rigorous eyes and a severe sense of fashion - her pencil skirt was tight, her hair in a bun and small, narrow glasses were perched on her nose. The woman gave Hermione a mere nod before she turned to Dumbledore again, voice almost chiding, "Sir? Apologies to interrupt you but your interview with the Daily Prophet waits."

"Give me a sec Minerva, I'll be there in a minute." They waited for Minerva to leave the office again before he resumed his speech, this time far more concerned than before with an urgent tone. "Miss Granger, I trust in your abilities, and perhaps you should, too. The world is a dangerous place to live in, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it."

Einstein. He's well-read, but not arrogant.

They rose simultaneously from their chairs. Hermione cleared her throat and added, "I'll try my best, Sir."

They shook hands once more but everything felt a bit too rushed; as if he wanted to get rid of her. Perhaps it was just her imagination, after all the man was the Chief of the MI5 and he certainly didn't have the time to have afternoon tea parties. Upon leaving the office, Dumbledore grabbed one of the striped ties.

"I'll attend the meeting as soon as James sets the time. Until then, Miss Granger."

He led her out of the office with a strong hand on her shoulder that pushed her out of the door and she followed his lead. McGonagall was still sitting on her desk when both of them entered the lobby, rising up as soon as she spotted the Chief right behind Hermione. A quick glance at the topmost papers was sufficient enough to realise that they were dealing with Voldemort. Most certainly a press conference of some kind.

"Goodbye, Sir." She gave a last nod to the head of the office and retreated to the far end of the lobby where a glass lift was already waiting to take her back down to her private office. She pressed the button and waited, the golden badge still shimmering in her hand. It was obvious that Lord Voldemort had to be stopped, she needed to find a clue to bring them closer. With a loud ping, the lift came to a halt and opened. After entering it, she pressed the button for the archive. As the glass doors were shutting closed again, she noticed that Dumbledore never once called him Lord. Just Voldemort.

MI5 Headquarters, Archives
Saturday, 16th August
8:26 a.m
39 days until the next murder

The archives were subterranean and reached from the West to the Eastern riverside of the River Thames. They had been built in 1884, renovated once in 1947 right after the Second World War, and a second time in 2012 to relocate the main base where they kept older files and special folders. There had been a debate some months ago about whether or not all the files should be exclusively converted into digital data. But the vote was split, so they kept both.

The lift stopped and Hermione stepped out of it while trying to wrestle the wild mess on her head into a ponytail - obviously, the thick bulk of locks wouldn't be so easily tamed and she needed three more attempts until they finally obliged. Her eyes darted over the different paths that the hallway divided into and decided to take a sharp left turn, to the Ongoing Unsolved Cases department.

Upon arriving at the information counter, she showed her newly obtained Order badge and was led into a separate compartment by a young man. The room was large but crowded, with shelves full of boxes and files. A bunch of desktop computers were neatly placed side by side, forming some kind of wall. Hermione got closer to the desk and waited until the man wearing a brown cardigan turned around.

"Hey, Neville." She raised her hand to give Neville a small wave and leaned over the counter that was right in front of her. Some of the files needed to be pushed and moved aside so she could at least have a decent look at Neville, but finally she found a place to rest her arms.

"Hermione, good to see you. How are you?" The boy in front of her looked nothing like the boy she met in high school; his slightly chubby body had matured into an athletic shape over the years, his round chin had given way to a pointed facial structure with beautiful eyes that reminded her of a teddy bear. Even the still remaining geekness added to his charm now. His voice was deeper than she remembered it, but friendly nevertheless.

"I'm fine, thanks. How are you doing?" She gave him an honest smile and couldn't hide the excitement that crept into her voice.

"The usual - coffee and Internet, what could I want more?" A small laugh left his lips, a mixture between a dark vibrato and slightly croaky; something that had a strangely nice ring to it and she couldn't help but join in his laughter. It felt good when the weight on her shoulders was lifted for a few short seconds.

"Listen, can you gather everything you have in the records about Lord Voldemort for me?" Without giving further instructions her hand slid into her jeans pocket and pulled out the shiny golden badge that still looked like it was fresh out of the press.

Neville's eyes widened in amazement and for a second Hermione really thought he was genuinely surprised, but then he opened the top drawer of his desk and took the same badge out from between some Snickers and staples. Overall, the badge looked banged up and dusty, the golden shimmer non-existent. It reminded her of old gold that had dimmed over time.

"Wow, you got promoted, huh? Seems like we're both riding the crest of a wave. I got my badge some days before Remus blew the whole department up… I mean, before… you know, the incident." His tone changed rapidly, excitement and guilt switching and Hermione needed to suppress a laugh at Neville's clumsiness and the way his teenage self seemed to come out when he's flustered. She almost felt thrown back in time to her high school years, when she constantly paired herself with Neville so neither Ron nor Harry could take advantage of her intelligence during the tests - after all, she was the only one of the trio that studied to get good grades at all. Neville had always been this alien kid with eyes as big as a deer in the headlights, and it amused her terribly that some things never really changed.

"Anyways," Neville changed the topic and raced from his office chair to the front of the counter, his tone far more relaxed than mere seconds ago. "I put anything from the cases in a special folder, I'll go and get it."

Standing up he was even taller than Hermione remembered and she stared disbelievingly at his broad shoulders that seemed to fill the narrow space between the shelves. She tapped her badge against the plastic-covered counter incessantly to keep her hands busy while her eyes cast furtive glances down to the records on Neville's desk.

"Have you talked to Harry, yet?"

His voice surprised her. She looked up to find his brown cardigan still half hidden behind one of the metal shelves. She exhaled and put her badge away, being obviously uncomfortable with the topic. Her mind was racing and a good portion of guilt crept into her consciousness. She tasted the bitter taste of betrayal on her tongue. She hadn't spoken to Harry yet. She hadn't even phoned him.

Clearing her throat, she dwelled on the words that felt biting on her lips, almost corrosive, trying to walk on eggshells to find the right words.

"Haven't had the chance, the case keeps me very busy." A pause and then, "What about you?"

His head emerged beside the racks. He sighed, then shook his head. A second later he disappeared again, this time further away but his voice was still audible over the boxes of cases and investigations.

"But I met Ginny yesterday, she said he keeps it together. But, you know Harry, he wants to go after the bastard."

Considering Harry's bad luck he'd just end up dead in a pitch.

She bit her lips and thought about their last summer during college, when a life like this had seemed far away and no one had paid their future any mind except her - always the know-it-all, the reasonable one. Her mind drifted away but was brought back to reality soon enough when Neville surfaced out of the blue with records and files on his arm, none of them thicker than a poetry journal. Wonderstruck at the light literature, she accepted them and stacked them on her arm, nudging the badge back into her pocket. Neville was strangely amused and gave her a cocky smile, leaning his hip against the counter.

"There you go. Oh, the new results haven't reached me yet, but I think they'll arrive during the day. As soon as I have them, I'll send them to your office." With his free hand, he opened the door so she could pass.

"Thanks, Neville. See you soon."

The records in her hand felt strangely heavy and with every step, her excitement grew more and more. Finally, she'd be able to find something. To get a hint of what might go on in his mind. She was already halfway down the aisle when Neville's voice followed her, reminding her of future meetings.

"Bye, Hermione. Oh, and next time bring some coffee!"

MI5 Headquarters, Hermione's office
Saturday, 16th August
11:44 a.m
39 days until the next murder

The coffee mug from Florean Fortescue's was gripped hard between three fingers and her thumb while her index pressed the doorknob down to reveal her office behind the door. It was small, but comfy with a huge empty bookcase at the east wall which reminded her subconsciously of a box full of books which still needed to be cleared out. But for now, the spot on the floor right beside the bookcase seemed like a good place for it. The furniture was low-key; an office chair from the mall, desk, bookcase and a shelf from Ikea. Everything else was souvenirs from her travels, trifles that were gathered from various departments during her first years as an intern. There was even a mobile metal pin board with sharpies and pins opposite of the bookcase and Hermione couldn't for the life of her remember where she got it. By now she was sure it had just added itself to her collection.

With a loud thud, the records were placed right on top of her notes from Remus' case while she put the mug on the side so it wouldn't wobble on top of the files. She peeled the blazer off of her shoulders and hung it neatly on the little coat rack behind the door. Her fingers fumbled with the scrunchy to tighten her hair before she went back to her desk and rolled the sleeves of her simple white blouse up to her elbows. She granted herself a last sip of coffee before her hands were grabbing for the records.

Four files were spread out in front of her and covered her desk as well as the keyboard of her laptop. She started the computer and a second later the synthetic blueish light lit up the brownish hardcover-paper that protected each page of the records that they belonged to. At the head of each record was the name of the victim as well as the number under which the file was registered - the handwriting was identical on three of them, the fourth had a beautiful cursive style, almost italic and Hermione was sure she had seen it before, but she couldn't put her finger on where she might recognise it from.

Organisation was her utmost priority, so she started to flip all the records open and shifted them around until they were assorted in chronological order - starting with the first victim and ending with the last. Or rather, the one before Remus.

To her amazement, each sheet was marked with the case's number so she could easily remove one of the pages for further investigations and still know to which case it belonged - handy when she'd have a dozen of sheets on her dash later.

First glances through the records confirmed her thoughts that they were assorted from pictures to reports and at the end of each file was a sheet protector which contained the riddle that was found on the crime scene. The dates were exactly 41 days apart from each other, the locations sounded familiar - all of them were in London - but none was connected to the one before, neither to others from the list.

She opened the last drawer of her desk to take out a map, neatly folded so that it wasn't bigger than a usual letter. Carefully as to not rip the paper, she unfolded it and left her desk to advance towards the metal pinboard - the thing would be useful after all. She spread the map over the whole surface and tightened the corners with magnetic pins that Harry had given her as a gift some years ago - they showed famous little quotes of great minds like Voltaire and Rousseau. There even had been one with a quote from Queen Mum, but Hermione had lost it soon after, so she paid them more attention now.

Some quick steps brought her back to the desk where she withdrew some smaller pins from the first drawer, just some simple knobs that she labelled from one to five and applied to the map a minute later. Each knob showed the place where the victims had been found - but nothing seemed to connect them. Knob number five for the Lupin Case still rested in her open palm because the map showed only the capital of Great Britain and not the outer or inner boroughs of the county.

Taking a step back helped her to get a better look at the whole map that was spread out in front of her. The crime scenes weren't related in any way; neither by distance nor by names or environment. Instead, it seemed all pretty random at first glance. The only thing that linked them was the fact that they had all been found or killed in the capital - with a time lag of 41 days.

All of them had been found in London, so why did he kill Tonks and Edward in Carshalton? Except…

Her glance rose upwards and caught the address of the MI5 building; central London, Albert Embankment.

Unless Tonks and Edward weren't the victims in this case. They had been collateral damage.

She spun the pin between her thumb and index finger a few more times, but after a while, she realised, that this had to be the right conclusion - as macabre as it was. She pinned knob number five right over the bridge on the River Thames. Sadly it didn't bring her a step closer to a better explanation about how the murders must be connected, because even with five pins on the pin board she couldn't find a pattern or a design behind it.

A deep sigh left her lips as she pressed them into a fine line and suppressed the urge to start to gnaw on the thin layer of skin again. Another gulp of the coffee helped her to clear her head for a while and she sat down at her desk, opening the first record. Ready by her side lay her notebook with a pen so she could jot down some fast notes should she need to.

The record was titled Lavender Brown, the file reference was following right after in capital letters and numbers written in fairly messy handwriting - the same that was on the following two records. It was by far the thinnest folder of them all, containing a handful of photos from the crime scene as well as an autopsy report, a report from the police officers that had found her, a report of the SID and the sheet protector along with the riddle.

Hermione started with the general facts that were easily identified in the police report. Lavender Brown. 25 years old. European. Born and raised exclusively in Britain. Average height and weight. Intern at a prestigious law firm. Found by a jogger in the Guy Street Park, near London Bridge Station. The riddle had been put neatly in the left socket of her eye, laminated so no blood would smear the paper.

While skimming the text, she took the photos and spread them out on her desk to get a better grasp on the crime she'd only read about until now. The girl lay face down on the lawn, arms beside her head with bent shoulder- and elbow-joints. Her clothes were immaculate, nothing pointed towards a fight or any other external forceful impact. No dragging traces. No footprints in the mud. Nothing.

As if she had fallen from the sky.

Her coat was open, sweater and shirt were slightly dishevelled and revealed a small strip of pale skin right above her skirt - pale but unharmed. The report clearly stated that there were no corporal traces, no sexual imprints.

Not a sexual offender.

Head and face, however, were bathed in blood with extensive abrasions which covered the skin completely as well as the bridge of her nose, nasal wings and cheekbones. In addition to the considerable injuries to her face, the upper and lower lids on both eyes were heavily discoloured in dark violet and blue due to a perianal haematoma. The first autopsy report stated that fly eggs had been found under both lower lids. Flies tend to lay down their eggs in the first eight hours after death, preferably under eyelids, in nostrils or in mouths, especially during warm weather. Rigour Mortis hadn't set in, yet.

Furthermore, the report noted that both her upper and lower jawbones were unnaturally flexible, as though those joints were made of rubber hinges. Another glance at the photos showed the girl's maimed face in all its glory; her oral cavity was filled with blood and her teeth swam in it, the nasal bone was fractured as well, the auricle was smeared with blood and there was a note saying that a dark black liquid had seeped out of her ear when they had turned her around.

Basal skull fracture.

The most terrifying feature was on the next picture: the officers had pushed her eyelids back to reveal the eyes - but there were none. The report read that the murderer had removed the eyes one by one, carved them out with surgical precision. Furthermore, both eye sockets had been smashed post mortem and the cerebral area there had been no more than a bloody, mushy bulk that rested in the hole of the eye socket like a scoop of ice cream. There had been a foamy bloody fluid in her trachea and in her lungs - a sign of vitality and forensic proof that the victim had been fully conscious during her torture.

It made Hermione sick to her stomach.

More pictures of the autopsy followed but nothing of importance caught Hermione's eye other than the gouging of her eyes. It was indeed a known criminal behaviour that profilers called depersonalisation. A desperately hostile and humiliating act against the victim. The aggressive and brutal approach of the murderer often leads to extreme mutilations that make the victim almost completely unrecognisable. The perpetrator wants to anonymise his victim, to deprive it of its identity.

Did he know her?

Or she, Hermione added in her thoughts but an instinctive feeling told her that the killer was male. Next, she grabbed the sheet protector and carefully took out the paper. It was incredibly mundane in the end, a clear bleached sheet, no bigger than half a page with a typed message in its centre. The script was Arial instead of Times New Roman - or Helvetica if he used a mac – which was unconventional.

The thing sizzled as hot metal dropped in water while I twisted it like an auger.
xeupfxbephsyuogmmelphq

Puzzled, Hermione read the message again and again but she couldn't glean more from it than what the decrypter and Neville had already worked out. The text belonged to the Odyssey, book nine if she remembered correctly, when Odysseus gouges the Cyclops' eye out.

Could be a reference to the murder.

The code, however, was nothing like what she expected at all when James mentioned it some days ago in Lupin's house. Neither the structure of the letters nor the length of it gave any hint to anything on the case - the text didn't either. A quick glance at the attached report told her that the cryptography department had tried any known cypher method to decode it - algorithmic, symmetric, asymmetric.

She made a photo with her mobile camera and jotted the notes as well as the whole riddle down in her notebook before she grabbed the next record to continue her investigation - after all, she couldn't afford to waste any time.

The second record read Mykew Gregorovitch accompanied by the corresponding file reference number - just like before. This one was a bit thicker than Lavender's and Hermione suspected it to be due to the fact that they hadn't anticipated Lavender's murder to belong to a serial killer. The reports changed from the official London Police Department to MI5 files right after the first page and this time there were a lot more photographs than in the one before.

Everything in this file read surprisingly mundane; Mykew Gregorovitch. 61 years old. Professor at the London Metropolitan University. Teaching chemistry. Russian. Born and raised in the city of Kazan and immigrated nearly forty years ago. Found by a farmer of Freightliners Farm in Paradise Park - or at least what had been left of him. The only remains they had found, had been his head.

Bulged eyeballs, impaired cornea, pale skin that looked almost green and grey due to the decomposition, exposed nasal bones and septum. Both auricles intact, as well as the jawbones and all of his teeth - they were affected by his age, but not due to the manner of his death. Unfortunately, no further details were discernible because of the decomposition that had erased all shapes and contours of his face. Only his five o'clock shadow identified him as male.

His head must have been preserved in a water tank or something similar in order to expedite the deterioration of the visible facial parts, and had been brought to the crime scene after that. The body had never been found and the agents responsible for this case identified Gregorovitch through his natural dentition with the help of his local dentist. For a second, Hermione searched for the dentist's name and breathed out in relief when she read neither her mother's nor her father's name.

The photographs were just as bad as the ones of Lavender. The bright flashlight illuminated the crime scene grotesquely, which made it look all the more disturbing, yet strangely artistic. The water had macerated the skin and transformed it into a greyish substance that reminded Hermione of rubber. The glassy, almost pupilless eyes protruded from their eye sockets. The left side was distorted in a ghoulish grimace and looked as though an animal had gnawed on the flesh, exposing muscles and the edge of a wound on his neck that looked very clean and sharp, as though the killer had been careful.

Any vitality signs which would have shown up if the head had been decapitated antemortem or postmortem, couldn't be found during the investigations. It was impossible to determine the murder weapon based on the structure or the pattern of the wounds - for example, a saw, an axe or anything alike would have left traces on soft tissue and bones - but the water had washed out all the blood on the margins of the wound, if there had been any at all.

Damn.

With a frustrated groan, she ran her hand over her eyes and flipped through the record once more to take a look at the riddle. She stopped midways, however, and gazed at a little note which she had overlooked the first time. In the same curvy handwriting that she had already seen on the label of the last record was written: steel rope, 0.6 diameters.

A mixture of excitement and the thrill of the hunt raced down her spine. Her hands were already busy searching for the picture of the wound; if the clean cut on the skin fit, the steel rope would answer the question as to why the wound was so clean.

But why wasn't it in the official report?

Her notebook almost seemed to fill itself with her thoughts and observations. When nothing else could be deduced from the papers she put them away and took the riddle that was still waiting in the protection sheet.

The first thing she noticed was that the paper and the script were the same as the other one. However, the riddle was three pages long this time. Hermione recognised the text after only a few lines. She remembered talking to James about it and him mentioning that no one else had recognised this text – not even Chief Dumbledore. For a second she wanted to call all of them uncultured swine.

How on earth could they not have recognised Borges?

Again, she couldn't find a connection to the murder so she went on to the letter, but there was nothing in it that rang a bell.

cozycjbmhbangbpumal - Perhaps I need to consider every second letter? Maybe every third?

She looked through her notes, but she didn't see anything that might lead to a solution, so she ripped the page out and threw it in the bin.

Her shoulders felt suddenly tense so she rolled them a few times before she reached for the next file and skimmed the page for facts. You could clearly see that the MI5 took this one far more serious than the others before. The structure and even all the careful details that were listed inside pages spoke volumes. Sheets and sheets of research from the SID were attached but none of them held any information that would give them a lead in their investigation.

The victim was female, again, and for a second she thought that she had found a pattern in rotatory genders - first a female victim, then a male, female again… a quick glance at the next record confirmed her suspicion at first - the next had been a male again. But then she reminded herself that Remus had been male too, and so her theory went down the drain.

She sighed deeply and started to read again.

Hepzibah Smith. 56 years old. Unemployed. American. Born in Kansas and raised in Westminster. Average height and obese figure. Found in the Royal Botanic Gardens by a gardener in the early morning hours.

Hermione took the photographs out of the file and spread them all over her desk again. An action that she regretted a second later when her eyes got caught on the ghastliness and ferocity in which the woman had been disfigured. Her lower jaw had been completely broken out of its bone settings, probably with the same saw that had been used to remove her upper jaw. Both maxillas, as well as the jaw joints, had been ripped out of their structures so the killer could scuff the skin from her nasal wings all the way down to her neck. The vocal cords were exposed, the flesh from chin and mouth hung in tatters. Because of the missing jawbones, her face looked like a shrivelled balloon.

It looks like a death mask.

Everything was soaked in blood, especially the grass and earth underneath her. The blood made it look like a giant red sponge. But the woman's skin was pale, almost without any colour due to the high blood loss. Both of her hands had been cut off sharply in the middle of the wrist bones – both were missing, just like the jaws. The autopsy report also said that they discovered a blood aspiration in her lungs - in other words, both jaws had been sawed out while she was alive and blood had run down her throat and larynx, causing her to choke on her own blood.

A shiver went down Hermione's spine and she shuddered due to the sudden coldness in the room. She could taste bile on her tongue. The disgust she was confronted with right now flipped her stomach. She took another gulp from her mug. She didn't even realise that it had gone cold during the last hour.

Whoever killed the woman was no fool, by any means. Many killers gain their knowledge from detective novels or Hollywood movies and most of them thought that by pulling all the teeth from a body the identity of their victims would be veiled. Only a few knew that this merely complicated an investigation but didn't stop it. The removal of both the jaws and the hands lead her to believe that the murderer was a professional.

Another note was attached to one of the pictures of a bleeding stump, stating the same as in the last file: steel rope, 0.6 diameters.

This could indeed explain the clean cuts but since it hadn't been confirmed, yet, she jotted it down in her notebook for further investigations.

More reports and files followed. Hermione skimmed the texts, read over notes that James had written down in his messy handwriting, searched for anything that piqued her interest but nothing seemed to contain a clue or further indications. It seemed she was just as clueless as James. In the end, she went on to the riddle.

This time, the text was far smaller and she wasn't really surprised to find the same bleached paper, and script. She recognised the text at first glance.

You think perhaps this is the Duke of Athens, who in the world put you to death. Off with you, monster, this one does not come instructed by your sister, but of himself to observe your punishment in the lost kingdom.
dtuffunlycsocisiku

Dante's Inferno, XII, 16-21. But the letters are still a mystery to me.

The only thing she had noticed so far, was that none of them had been a prime number, nor did they have anything to do with the number 41. She googled the quote of Dante on her laptop, but nothing made sense concerning either the barbarous murder of Hepzibah Smith or the code at the end of it.

The lines belonged to Virgil, Canto XII is called Inferno, 16-20 in comparison with the numbers? What am I missing?

She circled Canto XII at least four times with her pencil before she let out an exasperated sigh. Her eyes felt heavier and heavier with each passing minute. She rubbed the tiredness from her eyes and pushed the files to the far end of her desk to reach for the last one. She wanted at least to have read over all of them today. She could battle the riddles later.

The last folder was the one with the neat handwriting on it and astonishingly it was remarkably orderly and tidy - reports were assorted by date, pictures were accompanied with notes from the reports and important facts were even highlighted in yellow so she didn't need to skim the text several times to grasp all the vital data. It looked almost too perfect - if it wasn't for the horror that was depicted in those photos that lay right in front of her.

The first thing she noticed was a burned corpse which had been downright skeletonized by the flames. Arms and legs were bent in a foetal position, as if the victim had tried to protect itself from the blaze - but no posture could protect you from such a fire. The explosion had swept across the victim with such destructive force that even their incisors were burnt. Bones had splintered from the cranial roof and charred brain tissue was oozing from the hole. It was repulsive, at best.

Her first instinct was to flip the file shut and take several deep breaths to calm herself down again. While her mind was racing so fast that it made her dizzy, she kept drinking the cold coffee until her mug was empty. She needed to focus again - and ignore the chill that crept over her spine from time to time. This killer was far more dangerous then she had first thought - and she wasn't sure if one man or woman alone could manage to perform all of these murders. They were unique, if not exceptional and so impressive that she had no idea how just one individual could embody all of this. It was thrilling, certainly, but it was frightening, nevertheless.

Her heart slowed down again and she waited until the silence of the room stopped to threaten and instead welcomed her. She picked up the record and read over the first page, the one with the vital information that she'd skipped half an hour ago.

Cedric Diggory. 22 years old. Sports student at Cambridge. European. Born and raised in London. Tall. Found in front of St Thomas Church by a nun in the early hours of the morning.

The heat of the flames had melted off all facial features until he was unrecognisable, the body was merely a framework of seared bones over which his charred flesh spread like a patchwork rug. The whole adipose tissue and muscles seemed scorched - not surprisingly since the fat of a human's body contained oily components which burn at high temperatures. The skin was nearly non-existent and the shreds of flesh that still clung to his bones were burst open and red underneath a carbonised black surface.

Almost like lava in a volcano.

The report had a remark that stated they couldn't reconstruct his body size or weight because the fire had burned down all the important components. Testimonies confirmed later, that he was a good looking boy with an athletic scholarship.

The whole cranium was ash-grey in colour with empty eye sockets that reminded her of a skull. Upper and lower jaw were both in ruins, several teeth were completely burnt and the tongue was reminiscent of cooked flesh. His locomotor system - elbows, cartilages, sinews - was singed to a black mass that looked like the rubber of a car tyre.

The pictures showed a black-brown, molten amorphous masse, upon which just the skull, as well as the remnants of arms and legs, were faintly reminiscent of a man. Apparently, the explosion hit the boy on the front because his chest cavity was blown open. Three rips were completely smashed from the fire, the others were black and protruded from the torso like the planks of a burnt down ship.

She could see the lungs and the diaphragm. They were shrunk to a quarter of their usual size and because the heat had warmed up the air in the intestines it had caused to pop from the pressure. Parts of the small bowel had gushed out of the wound. The black mass lay spread over the whole lower stomach.

Eels.

Along the smell of scorched flesh from the chest and abdominal cavities, the records talked about another penetrant scent that had leaked out: petrol. The first thought that came to her was that this could hint that the killer had used a combustive agent. But a second glance at the report showed her that someone had already made a note about this - the same one that had noticed things before.

More reports and pictures followed, one more callous than the next and she flipped to the end to have a look at the riddle which seemed almost innocent in comparison to the sadism she had just witnessed.

The Abbey burned for three days and three nights, and the last efforts were of no avail.
llccibrfiofvmflka

She recognised the text but couldn't categorise it at first so she looked it up in the file and was surprised to see that it was an excerpt from 'The Name of the Rose'. It had been ages since she had read that book and it was quite obvious that the first message referred to the killing method.

It's pretty obvious that the messages are describing the procedure of the murders.

A frustrated curse left her lips and she shut the laptop exasperated, leaning back against her office chair.

The records didn't give away much - or anything at all. The murders had been savage and brutish at best; no traces had been left behind, no clues or hints were contained in these riddles. The killer was very clever, ingenious even and that made him dangerous and perilous. This one was no normal murderer.

He's not just any serial killer. He's a true predator.

Her hand ran over her hair that was still tightened in a ponytail and she let it down to lift a bit of the tension that had built around her temples and announced a soon to follow headache or worse, a migraine. Her eyes burned from hours of reading under halogen light and her bones weighed down with weariness.

Better to combat the fatigue with a mug of coffee. Or even better with an espresso.

She pushed her chair back and stretched her arms far over her head, blinking several times.

She couldn't fight the yawn that escaped her dainty lips.

MI5 Headquarters, Hermione's office
Saturday, 16th August
10:27 p.m
39 days until the next murder

"Hermione?"

The mess of wild curls jumped up in alarm. Her eyes were blinded by the bright neon lights and made it difficult to identify the looming figures standing right in front of her. How could this be possible? Had she even slept at all? She felt disoriented, her mind was a bit blurred and she needed to blink several times before the fuzzy edges finally became sharp.

"James? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you." Her voice was rough from sleep, almost a slur when she rose and tried to stack the files on her desk. She was thankful for the shadow that James cast on her, shielding her from the blinding light. As soon as the tiredness left the rest of her body she looked up into James' eyes and was immediately met with concern that was evident in his stare.

"Well, you were certainly busy it seems." A nod in the direction of her desk was enough to remind her why she had been so tired. A deep blush started to build on her cheeks and she felt the burning skin heating up while her fingers were busy bundling the records back into their usual shape. In the meantime, James put a new record on top of the older ones labelled with Lupin's ID.

"Here, the new files of the Lupin family and the bombing just arrived. I thought I'd bring them to you, considering that I needed to talk to you anyway." His voice was stern, serious and he couldn't quite hide the grief that was apparent in every word he spoke. For a second Hermione's sense of compassion kicked in, but she suppressed the urge to tell James that everything would be okay. Perhaps it never would be.

"Still the swot, aren't you?"

Upon hearing the gravelling voice that had just entered the room, Hermione swirled around and found herself face to face with a beautiful sculptured man: high cheekbones and grey eyes, a top model haircut with platinum blond hair.

Draco Malfoy.

For years the man had made her life as miserable as it could possibly be. His rich, presumptuous demeanour, as well as his boastful and snobbish yet bossy attitude, had more than once been the reason to start an intellectual duel.

Out of habit, her voice turned sour and bitter and she forgot the good manners she was so fond of.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous, Malfoy."

"And what might I be jealous of, Granger?" His reply was amused but sharp as a razor blade, the same conceited distance coloured his tone as it had done years ago. He leaned on the nearby desk and Hermione closely followed his hawklike eyes, noticing the way they gathered information from nearby records and loose pages. She felt her body tensing, her hackles rising at the sudden intrusion,as if she was a cat waiting for an attack. James stopped her, however.

"Okay, that's enough", James intervened and put a stop to their childish banter. Even if Draco acted unaffected now, Hermione at least had the decency to blush. Another sigh escaped James' lips. He crossed his arms over his chest and pushed the glasses on his nose up a bit; a habit Harry had adopted some years ago that always made her wonder why he never bothered to buy a new one that fit better. "Seems like I don't need to introduce you to each other."

They shared a quick glance but neither dared to answer, so they kept quiet and waited for James to go on. A comfortable silence stretched between them. James waited for more protests but when no one said anything, he continued in a calm voice. "As you surely know, we work in teams. Always two by two."

Hermione had a bad feeling about this, in fact, the following was vaguely perceptible and her eyes already begged James to drop the subject.

Please don't say it out loud.

But of course, she was met with cruel faith in the worst shape possible.

"Hermione, Draco will be your partner for an indefinite period of time."

There it was.

She struggled hard to keep her face emotionless but she grimaced, groaning in exasperation.

"Isn't there any other option?"

"I'm afraid not", James replied but he didn't look worried nor sorry, instead she thought she could see amusement in his voice. "Believe it or not, Draco is an excellent Intelligence Officer and has worked on the Voldemort case since the last victim."

"Splendid." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm as she spared the supposed James Bond a glance who was still leaning against her desk. She could sense him observing her out of the corner of his eyes. Hermione found it utterly disturbing what reactions he could trigger in her with a single glance. She was neither stupid nor blind. Draco had always been handsome, even during their college time in Oxford. But the masculine jawline and the wild hair gave him a dangerous edge which made her weak in the knees and caused her pulse to speed up. She hadn't seen him in years. The last time had been when she walked out of him with one hand on her suitcase and the other clenched from unshed feelings.

Unfortunately, while flipping through one of the files, the man in the leather jacket immediately ruined it all when he casually said, "Come now, Granger. Your brains, my good looks and LV will be faster behind bars than anyone can speak his exorbitant name out loud."

"Perhaps you should start calling him by it instead of shortening his name to the initials of some inflated fashion brand." The verbal brushoff left her lips before she could stop herself but Draco didn't react to it, merely batted it away like some bugging fly of no importance and continued to read through the record without a second glance or any indication that he had, indeed, heard her. She sighed in frustration.

"Anyway." Her hand snatched the file that Draco studied out of his hands and put it back where it belonged; chronologically. "Let's get to work. There's still a lot to do."

Even before the last syllable had left her lips, Draco had taken off his dark leather jacket, that looked far more expensive than anything Hermione owned, and hung it on the back of a chair before he sat swiftly down. He grabbed the record again from the pile that Hermione had just organised a minute ago. James caught her attention, nodding to the door.

"Hermione, a word?"

She frowned one more time at Draco's direction, but she refused to let him anger her again, so she turned around and followed James out of the room.

The door closed with a faint thud and James looked visibly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat several times, making Hermione feel out of place and causing her to tap her foot nervously.

"The funeral will be the day after tomorrow." He stopped as if to think about a way how to best phrase his next words. "Everyone will be there, including Harry, and I thought you should be there, too."

He paused once more and Hermione felt the weight of his words settle heavy on her shoulders. A subtle question that was really a demand which she needed to think about first. Funerals were always a heavy thing. Sympathy and emotions could easily cloud your perception.

Her mind was racing and when it finally stopped she nodded, replying in a murmur, "It's alright. Of course, I'll be there."

The uncertainty dropped from James' shoulders at that moment while Hermione's only increased. The man had already turned to leave, hand in the air in a waving gesture.

"Good. I'll see you there."

Hermione watched him take a couple of steps when she saw him stop and turn around, his expression clearly conflicted just like his voice. "Oh, and regarding Draco; give the man a chance. I know he can be-"

"Boastful? Presumptuous? Vain?"

"- hard to handle. But he's good at his job. Believe me." His smile was weak, it seemed almost forced but there was something in his eyes that made her reluctantly believe his words.

Hermione didn't even try to hide her obvious disdain for the man with whom she'd be forced to share an office for the foreseeable future. Her tone mirrored her facial expression.

With a frown, she said, "We'll see about that."

There she stopped and gave him at least a small smile that she hoped was somehow reassuring because of the fatigue that was written all over his face and was apparent in his posture. Hermione scolded herself inwardly that she hadn't noticed it sooner.

"Go home, James. Say hi to Lilly for me."

"I will. Good Night, Hermione."

As she watched him disappear behind the wall on the far end of the hall, her mind calmed down enough to give her a chance to drift off for a few seconds. Working with Draco would be a living hell after everything that happened back in college. But perhaps together they'd finally find a clue that'd lead them somewhere.

Minutes had passed but she was still standing in the same spot James had left her in. An all-consuming silence enveloped her like a thick cloak of shadows. Instead of feeling afraid she embraced it gladly. The distant clacking of heels ripped her out of her stupor. Draco was waiting. A deep weary sigh left her lips as she turned around and faced the door to her office once more.

She took the handle and pressed it down.

As a murderer, you should always consider how you perform your killings.

You need to fit the norm because the worst that can happen to any kind of profiler is when the murderer doesn't fit one of their patterns. They search for you in the wrong people, in the wrong classes, in the wrong circles. Your case will be put away to the Cold Cases because it was too hard for them to think outside the box.
It's hard to be a good killer.
Not everyone has what it takes to be the next Jack the Ripper.

Profilers categorise murderers in seven different groups. This system doesn't leave a wide margin for killers to make unconventional decisions.

I always wonder which category I fit into.
Which one of the seven definitions is actually appropriate for what I do.

Considering all of the seven categories. I realise that I'm not someone who seeks satisfaction. I don't care about avaricious or base motives like hate, envy or revenge. I strictly adhere to my own principles.
I WANT my victims to see me. To recognise me.
They should absolutely know who brought death to their doorstep.
So malevolence isn't accurate either.

With time I noticed that my capabilities are virtually outstanding when it comes to the categories of cruelty, violence and bloodlust. However, I abhor categories and the people who try to label me or print my name in headlines just to get the next scoop. Their dense little brains can't grasp the message behind my work.

They should at least show me the respect I deserve, right?
They should open a new category just for me.