This one-shot was written for:
1. Quidditch League Competition
Team: Holyhead Harpies
Position: Chaser 1
Round: 6 - Genres
Genre: Noir
Wordcount: 1231
2. Muggleize It Competition - Fleur/Bill - Medium
Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter series, all rights go to J.K. Rowling.
Scent of Death
Steps. He let out a sigh. He closed his eyes as he turned around only to open it when he heard the voice.
"I have news," the newcomer said and the man merely nodded.
"Tell me." His voice was harsh, but the other person didn't wince, he just started at him. His eyes were dark and his face was grim, not a person anyone would love to meet after the Sun has already set and the filthy alley was dim lit.
"My contact says that there were no injuries, technically the man should be fine and healthy," the dark man stated and the other let out a humourless laugh.
"Except he is dead." The younger, more well-groomed man stated dryly.
"My money?" the other asked and the younger raised his eyebrows.
"I have no money left," he simply said and the other man looked at him with pure anger on his face.
"Don't play games with me." The younger one only winced slightly, but he remained determined.
"Your information wasn't useful," he simply said and he turned around, but the other man grabbed his arm.
"You will pay for this," he said in a low voice and the other shrugged him off. Within a minute he was out of the dark alley on the shiny crowded street. He sighed and thought about his life only a few days ago, it seemed remote and unbelievably peaceful.
It was cold, his coat didn't seem warm enough anymore, he slipped his hands in the pocket of the dark material and stopped dead.
His right hand touched something unfamiliar. He took it out and with shaking hand he analyzed the object. It was some kind of note, but from a type of paper he only remembered seeing in museums when he was younger. Parchment, he reminded himself and even the inked seemed strange, but that wasn't what caught his attention, it was the writing, the note itself.
It's amusing to watch you, but leave the case. Or die, Muggle.
He shivered when he read it even though he didn't have an idea what the last word meant. Was it some kind of rude saying he didn't know off? That would have been strange, he was a private detective, someone who was dealing with criminals, and he had a fair share of knowledge of urban words and expressions.
Was it the man he has just met? The informant who did such a bad job? Was he so angry that he wanted to trick him, play a mind game on him? He wasn't sure, but the note made him feel uneasy even though it wasn't the first threat he got.
He turned around quickly as he felt like he was being watched. He shrugged it off and cursed under his breath, he was being paranoid.
He threw the piece of paper like thing into the first bin that came into his view. He decided that he didn't care about the threat, he will continue the task he got, and he wouldn't let down the woman who asked for his help (for a lot of money not less).
When he arrived home his wife was sitting at the table with a kind smile on her face. He leaned closer to her and gave a peck on her cheeks, but he stepped back quickly.
"What's with the perfume?" he asked and her wife looked at him questioningly.
"It's the same I always use, darlin'," she said simply and he felt nauseas. Her perfume was usually very nice, it reminded him of fresh roses, but that day he only felt the scent of blood and death.
"Are you okay?" she asked worriedly and he realized that she has been talking to him for at least a few minutes. He nodded, but excused himself. He went right into the room he used as his office and looked at the folder full of papers connected to his latest case.
It sounded easy, really, an everyday job. A simple man was found dead and his wife was ready to give up all the money she had to find the person who killed the love of her life. Still, as he read through the papers he shivered. Something was up, he haven' realized it before, but the case was seriously not normal.
The witnesses said the same words exactly like they have been brainwashed or at least threatened, the man was perfectly healthy besides the fact that he died, there was no evidence that he was even killed besides the fact that he was found in an alley far from anyone, there was no audience besides those brainwashed witnesses. It was a clear job, too clear. There wasn't a perfect murder, but it seemed like one.
He was uneasy when he went to sleep that day even when his wife smiled at him kindly and asked again if he was alright and if she could do anything to help his mood. He said that he was alright, but his heart was beating too quickly, his palms were sticky with sweat and he was literally shivering. When he said good night to his wife that evening he felt that it might be the last time he could say it.
Two days later he was on the screen of televisions and in many news papers, but the reason wasn't what he wanted. The news said that a fairly young couple was found dead in their beds the day before and the only evidence was a strange piece of parchment on the nightstand which had three words written on it: Scent of Death.
"Were there any attacks?" a young boy, around sixteen asked the bushy haired girl besides him. She looked up from the newspaper and nodded.
"The usual, burning neighbourhoods, screaming Muggles, the Mark," she said sadly and the boy frowned, didn't comment but concentrated on his breakfast.
"Look, read that. This is something different." She pointed to a short article and the boy raised his eyebrows.
"A muggle couple was found in their beds killed by the killing curse? That's strange even for the Death Eaters; it's too clear, not bloody at all," the boy with glasses said and the girl shrugged but she had an unreadable expression on her face.
"This doesn't seem like a usual attack, Harry. I think these muggles get involved in something they shouldn't have," the girl stated and the boy nodded. He closed his eyes for a moment and wished that those poor souls could have quitted. When he looked up to the girl his eyes seemed remote, like he wasn't truly there.
"We have to end this, Hermione. What the bloody hell could have a pair of muggles do against the Death Eaters?" he asked angrily and she shook her head.
"What do we have to end, mate?" a redhead sat down next to the angry boy.
"The war, Ron. We need to end it before there won't be any magical folks or muggles left alive in Great Britain," Harry said with a dangerous passion in his voice and he got up before his friends could have reacted.
Ron looked curiously at Hermione, he was clearly confused why Harry reacted that way, but then she noticed something that she hasn't read precisely before.
They were found dead at 6 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England.