Chapter 10

Complexity #10: Revelations strike at the most inconvenient times.

On the day of James' twenty-first birthday, I wake up before him, sneaking downstairs to get his present put up before he gets up.

I've been excited about this one for a while - I know how sentimental James is when it comes to photographs, so it didn't surprise me that he'd had Freddy rig up a camera at our proposal spot along with all the fireworks. And at that point, it was just a matter of finding a good frame for it.

It's going to be, by far, the biggest photograph on this wall, so I wave my wand and watch as the frames rearrange themselves, leaving a large gap in the center for the newest addition. We're honestly almost running out of room on this wall; soon enough, the photo gallery will manage to spread all the way into the upstairs hallway.

Once I've got it in position, I head down the rest of the stairs to make coffee, and wait for James' alarm to go off.

I've only just poured myself a cup when I see James making his way down the stairs, definitely not fully awake yet. Somehow, he misses the new picture entirely, looking at me and grinning lazily.

"Good morning."

"Turn around," I respond.

He looks appropriately befuddled by that command. "What?"

"Just… turn around and look at the stairs please," I say, trying to be a bit more specific this time.

He gives me yet another skeptical look, but obliges nonetheless. And once he does, it takes all of five seconds for him to notice what I'm talking about.

"Happy birthday, James," I tell him, walking up behind him and wrapping my arm around his middle.

"I love it," he replies immediately, throwing his arm around my shoulders and leaning over to kiss me on the temple.

We stand there for a few seconds, just watching the moving picture, before James starts laughing.

"They even caught the eye roll!" James exclaims, grinning. "You know, I still can't believe you rolled your eyes at me mid-proposal."

I scoff at that. "Yeah, well, I still can't believe you said I'm a 'great shag' mid-proposal."

He looks at me smugly. "I wasn't wrong though, was I?"

"Considering I've never shagged myself, I wouldn't know."

"Smartass," he shoots back. "You'll just have to take my word for it then, I guess."

I just hum in response, and he pulls me even closer to his side. "You could prove it right now, you know."

"We both have to be at work in just a little bit," I say reasonably, wiggling out of his grip and untying my dressing gown.

"Besides," I continue, moving to stand in front of him and wrapping my arms around his neck, "if you're getting birthday sex, you're getting it tonight when I can do the thing properly, and not just as a quickie."

As I move, my dressing gown falls open, revealing the dark red lace-covered bra and knickers underneath. Originally, this was meant to be a gift for much later in the day, but the opportunity to tease him is just too perfect to pass up.

His eyes go wide and his lips part slightly, suggesting that my actions have had the exact intended effect I was looking for. One of my hands leaves its place on his neck, sliding down his chest and abdomen as he noticeably tenses under my touch.

I stop when my hand meets the waistband of his joggers, and I step away from him completely. "Just a little preview," I say coyly, starting back up the stairs so I can go and actually get ready for work.

James closes his eyes, leaning his head back and groaning loudly. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"

I giggle at that.

I'm fully dressed and in the middle of doing my makeup by the time James comes back upstairs, holding both his cup of coffee and the one that I'd left downstairs. He sets mine down on the counter and leans against the doorframe of the bathroom, taking a long sip of his own drink.

"When I get absolutely nothing accomplished at work today, I'm blaming you," he says conversationally.

"Good."

He smiles at that in a way that makes my heart pick up pace, even though I'm only watching him out of the corner of my eye in the mirror.

"I think I finally got Freddy to relent on the whole 'boys' night' thing, by the way," he adds.

For some strange reason, Freddy decided last week that James' birthday should be an all-blokes affair, on account of it being his 'last birthday as an unmarried man' or some other garbage. James hadn't been too keen on the idea when it had been proposed, and, at the time, neither had I.

I start searching for my contour brush. "Oh?"

"Yeah, he said as long as it was a boys' night for the first few drinks, that was all that mattered. So you should come meet us at Vipertooth at eight-ish."

"Okay," I reply, finally finding the tool I needed. In truth, I'd kind of gotten used to the idea that I wasn't going to be going out tonight, and that I'd be able to maybe get a nap in before James got back from the bar. My sleep habits have been abysmal at best as of late, and I'd been looking forward to finally catching up just a little bit.

"Brilliant," he says, before disappearing from the doorway again, undoubtedly to actually get ready for work himself.

I get home from the Ministry far later than what's typical for a Friday afternoon, and I'm lugging a massive stack of files to dig through over the weekend.

At our meeting on Monday, the decision had been made by the majority of the team that we weren't going to focus any more effort on finding commonalities in the victim files; neither Greitens or I had made any real headway, so the majority of the team voted to shut it down.

Which I think is absolutely ridiculous.

But I'm stuck adhering to majority rule, and the decision was that we wouldn't put work hours into this side project any more. Which means my only option, if I want to keep digging, is to do it in my off-hours, and pray that my intuition is right, that somethingfinally shows up, and that I'm not entirely wasting what little free time I have left on a question without an answer.

I check the clock in the kitchen - I've got less than an hour before I'm meant to meet up with James, but I might as well start making some progress on the files I've got with me first.

I pull the first folder off the stack - labelled Miranda Himelbaum - and start flipping through it. I've gone through a number of these files once before, and this one's a repeat. She was 19 - not even two years out of school. I never met her when I was at Hogwarts, but she would've only been a year or two below me.

Grappling with the reality of that isn't any better the second time around.

Since she was so young, her file's thinner than most - no work records, or marriage licenses, or Gringotts accounts.

Instead, I find myself looking at her NEWT results - all reasonably high, but a strange mix of subjects. History of Magic, Astronomy, Divination, and Muggle Studies - not exactly the combination of subjects that's going to lead you straight into a decent-paying job after graduation.

Really, it's no wonder she was just working at a café after graduation.

And then I have to stop myself, because honestly, who do I think I am, judging a dead person on their career choices?

But I do find myself somewhat curious about what her OWL scores looked like - what drove her to pick that strange combination of classes - so I look through her file for those. It takes a few moments to unearth it, but I eventually get my hands on the results.

The scores aren't great - most of them are downright abysmal actually - but she scraped passable scores in Charms and Transfiguration, so why she chose not to continue either of those is beyond me.

What catches my eye more than anything, though, is the Troll in Defence Against the Dark Arts.

I don't even understand how it's possible to score that poorly on that exam - although I admit that I'm probably somewhat biased since I managed an O easily. But still, to fail like that, you'd have to absolutely bomb the practical portion of the exam. You'd have to be barely able to manage the most basic protective spells.

You'd have to be terrible at defending yourself.

You'd have to be an easy target.

Before I can stop myself, my mind is reeling. What if this is it? What if this is the thing all the victims in common?

It would certainly explain how they were able to take so many people down at once, if none of them were even slightly competent at defensive magic. They would've never even touched NEWT material, and probably wouldn't have been able to fight the compulsory magic of the notes they all received, much less defended themselves against the actual attack.

But I'm getting ahead of myself - I've only got one file out after all - so I get up and grab a second one. In the process, I notice the time - it's almost eight.

It won't be so bad if James gets his boys' night after all so I can chase this theory, right?

I grab a spare piece of parchment and a quill, jotting down a quick note.

James,

Working late. Have fun with the boys - I'll see you when you get home and I'll give you the second half of your birthday present. Love you xx

Abby

I go upstairs to find James' owl, giving it the note. "Take this to James at the Vipertooth, alright?"

To be quite honest, I have no idea what the logistics of sending an owl to deliver a message into a bar is going to look like, but I know he'll get it somehow.

The owl takes off, and I head back down the the kitchen table, pulling open the second file. This one's much thicker, so that - compounded by the fact that these files have absolutely no organizational system to them whatsoever - means that it takes me longer to find what I'm looking for.

When I find the OWL results, there's yet another Troll staring back at me.

Holy…

Holy shit, this might be it.

I grab a third file - desperate to prove that this is the link. It's going to be awful if I've gotten my hopes up this high over two files and it turns out to be nothing, but there's a feeling in my gut that tells me I'm right about this.

After at least an hour of rifling through papers, I've got every OWL result from the twenty-five files I'd brought home arranged in front of me. And sure enough, nearly all of them have a T in Defence; there's a few D's and P's in there as well, but the moral of the story is the same.

Every person that was killed last month failed their Defence Against the Dark Arts OWL. They were specifically picked because they wouldn't be able to properly defend themselves against an attack.

Which is… totally repugnant in and of itself. Preying on people because you know they're weak is absolutely abhorrent, morally.

Although, I suppose, these people did kill over a hundred people, so I really shouldn't be all that surprised by a total lack of morals.

But something's still missing - you don't just go after people because they're weak. There's got to be something else on top of it, but this is something major - this is proof that there's a strategy to who they targeted and a message they were trying to send.

I go upstairs and change into silky pyjama pants and one of James' old Weasley sweaters, rolling the way-too-long sleeves up to my elbows. It's perhaps not the sexiest outfit for James to come home to, but the townhouse is freezing, and I've still got the lacy lingerie on underneath.

When I get back to the kitchen table, the chaos in front of me is almost intimidating. In my rush to prove my own theory, I'd thrown files everywhere and spread them out in ways that don't even make sense.

So I organise things again, recording each person's OWL scores on a piece of parchment, and restoring each file to its original state - although really, it's not like they were all that well-arranged before tonight anyways. But at least they're not spread across my living area.

With a clear table in front of me and my findings boiled down to a piece of paper, my mind's a lot clearer - I can start trying to figure out the why.

There's a loud rapping on the front door, effectively ruining my concentration.

Honestly, who on earth could be visiting at this hour? The only person I'm expecting at any point tonight is James, who'd just Apparate straight in.

I leave the kitchen table and head to the front door, wand in hand. Perhaps I'm being overly paranoid, but I have spent the better part of an evening researching murder victims, so my caution feels warranted.

But while I may have thought through that possibility, I'm completely unprepared for the actual sight awaiting me on the other side of the door.

Freddy's standing there, arm wrapped around James, who looks like he's leaning all his body weight on his cousin. At first I worry that James has been hurt somehow, but then I catch the dopey expression on his face and realise that that's not the case.

"I think he probably had a little too much to drink tonight," Freddy says, by way of explanation. "He got your note and things just… went downhill from there, I guess."

As if he felt the need to prove Freddy's point, James takes this moment to lean forward and vomit all over the entryway.

"You think?" I say snarkily to Freddy, before pulling out my wand and vanishing the mess, adding a Scourgify for good measure.

"I can stay, you know, if you need help with - " Freddy gestures vaguely at the bloke still leaning on his arm.

I sigh, truthfully a bit louder than necessary. "No, I can handle him," I reply, before reaching out and grabbing one of James' hands. "Come on, hun, let's get you to bed."

Luckily for me, James obliges quite willingly, holding my hand a little bit tighter and stumbling away from Freddy. Honestly, people are right when they say drunk people are a bit like toddlers.

"I've got him," I say. "Thanks for making sure he didn't, like, end up in a ditch or something."

"My pleasure," Freddy says, saluting me dramatically, and for the first time I realize that he's definitely a more than little intoxicated as well. I have to remind myself not to be annoyed at him as well, because at least he's at a somewhat reasonable level of drunkenness - unlike my fiancé.

"Goodnight, Freddy," I tell him, entrusting him with the task of closing the door while I drag James upstairs.

And even though I initially said I was just getting him to bed, I quickly realise that he smells so strongly like alcohol that I need to change my plan of action.

"Where were you tonight?" he asks, his words running together sloppily.

"I was here," I reply simply, knowing that we're going to inevitably repeat this conversation in the morning anyways. I doubt he'll remember much of this in the morning.

Once we get into the bathroom, I look at him, praying he'll at least follow some basic instruction. "Strip."

He does as he's told, shrugging his jacket off and pulling his shirt over his head, but apparently runs into problems when he gets to his shoes. He sits on the floor, looking up at me with puppy-dog eyes. "Help?"

I can't resist rolling my eyes, even though I know the effect will be lost on him, before untying his stupid shoes for him and getting him into the shower. I actually don't even trust him not to slip and crack his own skull open in this state, so I follow him in, pyjamas and all, although the mood is decidedly different from most times we're both in this shower together.

Under the stream of the hot water, I catch him studying me. "That was really fucking mean of you, you know," he says, and I've only got somewhat of a clue of what he's talking about.

"Yeah, well, we both made mistakes tonight then."

Once he no longer smells like an entire bar, I flip the water off, grabbing a towel for him and drying off the soaked ends of my pyjamas with my wand.

"I'm really fucking drunk." He looks suddenly serious. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I tell him, even though it's not. "It happens. Just… warn me if you're about to puke again, yeah?"

He nods, and I go off in pursuit of pyjamas for him - or, at the very least, a pair of pants.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually James is clothed, in bed, with a wastebasket conjured next to him just in case.

And even though part of me is tempted to continue working on the case, it is almost one in the morning, and dealing with James has completely thrown off my focus, so I decide that it'll have to wait until the morning.

In truth, I'm so incredibly pissed off at him right now - for getting this drunk when we're supposed to be past drinking like stupid teenagers, for derailing the plans I'd originally had for him when he got home, and for ruining my concentration on what could very well be the biggest breakthrough of the case and the first discovery that makes the rest of the group take me seriously.

But raising those issues now won't solve anything; with how much James has had to drink tonight, trying to get him to understand - much less remember - what he's done wrong is most likely impossible.

I crawl under the covers on my side of the bed, before James' voice rings out from the other side.

"I love you, you know?" His words are still slurred, but clear enough to understand nonetheless. "So fucking much."

"And I love you too," I say in response - because it is true, even though it seems like he's trying his best to make that impossible to do right now.

Sneak peek of chapter 11…

"Maybe it was because - hm, I don't know - my own fiancée stood me up?"

"I didn't stand you up!" I insist, again. "It was supposed to be a boys' night anyways, and I sent you a note. So don't you dare try to blame your actions on me."

"You sent a note - how nice," he replies, sarcasm practically dripping off of him. "You skipped out on something that was important to me, and the only justification I got from you was a tiny fucking note. Now tell me, Abby, why does that sound so goddamn familiar?"

It takes me a moment to recover from the shock of his response. How dare he bring that night and my terrible past relationship into this.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Those are two very different things, and you know it."