Kristen- Apparently not! Apparently, I'm getting my groove back. I think now that I've passed over the more demanding chapters, I can start dishing them out more often until the end. Don't quote me on that, I've been wrong before, but it seems as though the light really is appearing at the end of the tunnel.

catlady45- Well, in retrospect, every story in literature has already been done a million times. What makes a story unique from others of the same topic, however, are the characters added, the direction it takes, and the spin you give it. And thank you for the review/comment/worship/whatever you wish to call it. I've said it a few times, but writing is a bit of a serious career choice for me, and I use my fanfiction to improve myself for the Big Leagues. All my stories are a never-ending trial of new ideas as they go, and I try to keep it all as fresh as I can, but it's nice to know I can actually tug at a few heartstrings.

Kind of a long winded speech there, but you gave me a review of equal size, so I think it's appropriate.

Aslaug Vanessa- It's funny; it's taken me almost three years to write a thing that can be finished in one sitting. I find it funny how that works. Ha ha. But glad you like it.

And here is Chapter Twenty-One, and, depending on how involved you've been with the story and the characters up until this point, this may be a particularly sad chapter for a lot of you.

Warning ahead of time, it DOES get a little...messy.

Weep at your own peril.

Chapter Twenty-One: One By One

Loiselle ran his fingers frustratingly through his hair as he did his sweep of the first floor. Nothing except a rat scurrying down one of the old tables and what he thought was a suit of armor taking a stroll, though how it was doing that he was not sure. No killer, no machine, not even a henchman for which he could challenge to a duel. Weary and a little frustrated, he put his hand to his headset.

"Loiselle to McAllen, first floor is clear. I am heading down to the dungeons," he reported.

"Roger that. No sign of anyone coming your way, you should be fine."

"You would tell me if there was, right?"

"You'll be first on my list, right after the funeral home."

Wise ass, Loiselle thought bitterly as he hustled down the stairs. A simple "yes" or "no" would suffice just fine.

If the rest of the castle was more doom and gloomy now than it had been before, he did not even want to know how the dungeons had once been. A whole team of Muggle plumbers would not even be able to clean this place up. The roof leaked something, whatever it was could not possibly be sanitary, the walls and floors were covered with cobwebs, the stone tiles were lose and wobbly with even the slightest step, and there was something repulsive- spider intestine, maybe?- covering the floor. Whoever had been down here had either been having fun throwing guts around, or knocked something over on his way out the door.

"Le fils d'une chienne," he muttered under his breath as he heard a squishing noise under his foot. He lifted it to find red and green chunks on the sole of his shoe. "Le fils d'une CHIENNE!"

He sighed as he did his search. When he had signed up to be an Auror, he had not quite grasped how dirty it would get. With Avada Kedavra around, he never thought he would have to be concerned with getting blood all over him.

And now? Now, he had had more blood on him in the last four days than in the last four years. He could BATHE in it, that's how much there had been. Brownside's blood alone would probably start its own waterfall. He hated blood, it repulsed him, and yet here he was practically showering in it.

So why was he here? Because he wanted to make an honest living. Back in France, let us just say his family was not among the most affluent. His father and uncles had had to steal a lot. Being an Auror to him basically measured his worth as a human being. Plus, there were many beautiful women to flirt with.

He sighed. He had tried his best to be a good help on this mission, but all he felt like was excess luggage. Back-up. Errand boy. Anything but a real help. McAllen had only been here for a few hours, and already he had almost solved the whole mystery. Losielle had been hired on for his expertise and his muscle, but the sitting around, the waiting, that was killing him.

Sure, there was the attack in the park the other day, but that had lasted mere minutes. And then there was the fight outside their headquarters, where he had done his best and still let them capture Hermione. He felt like his only moment to shine had been on the train- and what a moment that was, they had not even put up a fight.

He had finished securing the old Potions room and was about to walk out when he noticed the room in the back, probably the professor's office, whomever it had been. Aiming his lit wand, he slowly approached the door and silently pushed it open.

At first it looked like nothing; just another empty room, like everything else in this castle. But it caught his eye on his way back out: two old chains nailed into the wall, the shackles open. He calmly approached them and examined one. There was something slimy on it. He rubbed a bit onto his finger, brought it to his nose, and sniffed. Oil; someone had oiled this, and very recently too.

He stood up and again brought his hand to his headset.

"Loiselle to McAllen, we have bindings down here. Looks like they have been used recently. Might have been from Hermione, though she is not here now."

There was no response.

"Loiselle to McAllen, do you hear me?"

Still nothing. The dungeon walls must have been causing interference. That was the problem with using McAllen's little toys; you can put any kind of spell on them, but they were still Muggle toys, and they would still abide by the rules they had been made under.

Blowing frustratingly out his mouth, Loiselle left the room and headed out for the last door on the floor, the one at the far end. Ironically, it was always the one farthest from the door that was last on a search. He wondered who had made that rule up, or if it was even a rule, if it was just something that detectives did naturally. Maybe it was the thrill of danger.

And then he wondered, why am I even thinking about this now?

The room behind the final door was just as depressing as the others, he was unsurprised to find out. Nothing really in this one, just a small wooden table and a chair that had not been sat in for years. The blackboard was wet with slime and the chalk had dissolved to powder long ago. There was a door at the far end of the room, probably just a closet, but still something he needed to check out.

Loiselle crossed over, grabbed the knob, twisted and pulled. It rattled, but did not budge. Annoyed, he tried again. This time, nothing.

He sighed. " Le fils d'une chienne."

He pocketed his wand and grabbed a hold with both hands and pulled. Once, twice, nothing. Finally, on the third pull, he swung it open-

And found a wand pointed directly at his face.

"Deviggio."

The blue spell hit him with the weight of a brick. All at once his body exploded, blood shooting out of his chest, arms, legs, and head. He was thrown backwards and across the table. He fell on the other side, out of sight. Almost immediately, a pool of blood began forming out from behind it.

The man stepped out of the doorway and made his way around the table, stepping right into the widening blood puddle. The Frenchman's body was practically destroyed, organs and everything. The eyes were glassy and shaky, though within seconds, they widened and lost focus.

He grabbed him by the legs and dragged him out of the room, a blood trail following them out.

Rodyle turned her head to look over her shoulder. She thought she had just heard something, but there was nothing there. Shrugging, she resumed her work. She must have just imagined it.

She had finished securing the second floor, and now was working through the third. Nothing had been found, save for some old schoolbooks, written all over by several obviously-bored students. No big surprises. Not that she minded that. She had had enough surprises for one assignment.

She had become an Auror to make up for missing the war, but now, she was beginning to feel as though she had had enough. Auror work had its perks, but the hazard pay just was not worth the thought of dying at any moment. She had been doing this job for years, and now she felt it time to throw in the towel and retire.

Still, she wondered as she finished searching one of the rooms near the staircase, what would she do if she did quit? Maybe go back home, spend some time with her parents. Her dad was not the young man he once was, and she could spend some time helping him get to his feet. Maybe find some desk work; maybe even with the Aurors. She could request a desk job there, only work filing, reports, maybe DNA testing, stuff like that. Stuff that would not threaten her life.

She glanced over the side of the railing. It was three floors down, not enough to kill, but definitely far down enough to break a leg or a rib, or hell, even her back. The only thing she may have been able to use to stop her fall was the chandelier on the second floor rising, but given all the hooks and sharp ends that were built in to the center and ridges- especially the sharp-tipped diamond in the center-, that might just cause more pain. She aimed her light down to the bottom.

"Wheeeeeeeew...boom!" she whispered, her face expressionless.

She turned away and returned to her search. Her wand was in both hands, the Lumos light at maximum. Slowly, expertly, she searched room after room, corridor after corridor. Her guard was up, her eyes alert, darting from shadow to shadow.

She felt as though she was being overly paranoid. But after what had happened this week- the park, the warehouse, Brownside, their HQ- she felt like she had to be. Whatever got her back home alive and in one piece was fair game in her book. Her grandmother always liked to say, Do whatever it take to live, and fuck the rest of them. Crude, it was, for an old lady to speak like that, but the truth behind it was something she had always marveled at.

Something crashed to her left. She turned and aimed her wand at the door leading into the old Charms classroom. It was not a little noise, like someone had dropped a pocket mirror, it sounded like someone had just shattered a whole China set. Either someone was being exceedingly clumsy...or someone wanted her to check it out.

Well, if they wanted to bait the tiger, than they would suffer the consequences. She pressed forward, wand ready, and gently pushed the door open.

She frowned. The entire room was empty, except for a large glass container that had been deliberately dropped, that she was sure of. So where was their guy? Or was it Loiselle, playing a trick on her? She would not put it past him; he had done this to her before.

She stepped in slowly, keeping alert. There was no sign, other than the broken glass, of anyone having been there. It had to be Loiselle. Yet she could not entirely convince herself of the fact. Even Loiselle would not pull something so juvenile at a time like this.

"Where you at?" she whispered under her breath, eyes still darting from side to side. "Where you at?"

"Right behind you."

If his breath had not been right on the back of her neck, she would not have even heard him. She spun around and instantly fired a nonverbal cursed that missed as he grabbed her arm and twisted it so that the wand aimed past his head. He twisted her wrist so that her wand fell out of her hand and clattered to the floor.

She kicked him in the leg and then rolled forward to the door and ducked out just as he fired off the destruction curse that blew a hole through the wall. She hid behind some armor, waiting for him to come after her, praying he would come through the door.

He did. He did not take two steps out the door before Rodyle knocked the suit of armor down upon him, knocking him over. The armor broke into pieces on the floor as he groaned. She kicked the wand out of his hands.

"It's over," she told him, "you're under arrest-"

He held out his hand and blasted her backwards, throwing her against the ground so hard that she slid and hit the railing. She felt it crack from the force of the throw, but that was the least of her concern. He could use magic without a wand. The situation just took a turn for the worst.

She felt his hand grab her neck and lift her back up. She glared right into his hidden face, before she kicked him in the gut, loosening his grip and bringing him to his knees. She then broke free, spun, and kicked him in the head, knocking his hat off.

Her eyes widened as he stood back up, the top half of his face now exposed. Her face paled.

"You..."

Before she could do or say anything, his fist contacted with her chest and forced her over the railing. Surprised, she reached for the railing but missed as she plummeted towards the floor-

And landed right on the chandelier, her body becoming pierced by the hooks and edges as they impaled her back. The center diamond thrust up right through her chest. The weight of her body caused the chandelier to tip, hanging sideways while Rodyle hung straight, her feet pointed towards the floor.

She coughed up blood that splashed upon her face. Struggling, she bent her head up to look at the numerous hooks that now skewered her body like shishkabob, the diamond that now jutted out from between her breasts. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a gargling sound as more blood bubbled out. She rested her head backwards, her eyes staring up at the ceiling, at the cloudy night sky that the only magical incantation left still portrayed.

Her pupils dilated, and her breathing stopped, the identity of her murderer dying along with her.

Skip peered through the portrait hole into the kitchen and lit it up with his wand. Surely there had to be something to eat, no matter how old it was. He was starving, he had not eaten all afternoon, and surely one little bite would not kill him.

He shuffled through the cupboards, opened the drawers, and checked every nook and cranny of the pantry in the hopes of finding something edible. Whatever house-elves had worked there before, however, must had been extremely thorough in moving everything to the new school. There was nothing there, not so much as a crumb.

"Great," he muttered. His stomach growled in agreement.

He stepped back out into the hallway and returned to his work. As he went, he had to wonder why he made these little distractions for himself. This was a matter of life and death- where the right movements would get them all home okay, whereas the wrong movements would end them all up with Brownside- and here he was, trying to stuff food down his gullet. Most people, people who did not know him, would consider him uncaring.

But the truth was, if he did not try to find humor in the situation, he would probably go insane. His work took him through some particularly gruesome stuff, and one needed a sense of humor to keep himself intact. So he joked, and he pranked, and he ate whatever piece of junk food he could get his hand on in order to cope with whatever horrid scene he was involved in. That, and knowing that his wife was waiting at home with a nice big steak dinner, his two little girls running around like howler monkeys and tackling him the moment he came in through the door.

He reached into his pocket and pulled the picture of his family out. The main thing a detective needed was a family. It gave him hope, gave him something to think about, something to look forward to at the end of the day. He had loved Kristina for years, and the fact that they had gone to school together had made him comfortable around her. They had great chemistry, great sex, and they always had something to talk about. His two daughters (soon to be three, he did not care what Kristina said, ) were simply put the best little angels a father could be blessed with. He made enough money to ensure that they would be taken care of, if something were to happen to him, but money did not mean jack if there was one less full chair at the dinner table.

He stuffed the picture back into his pocket. He would be back in time for Baby Girl DuMont Number Three to be born, no doubt about it, and anyone who tried to stop that from happening had better have a really damn good Shield Charm, otherwise, they would not be in his way for very long.

He passed down the corridor, pausing a moment to tap on the helmet of a suit of armor that was holding two swords with silver-coated handles. The head turned as if to glare at him.

"Sorry buddy," Skip said with a grin, as he stepped into the next room.

He waved his lit wand around the room. There were old desks, all of which had not been sat in for some time. The chalkboard was so dry that it was probably unusable; he grabbed a piece to test the theory, but it dissolved between his fingers before it even made it off the rack. He found it hard to imagine, as he took another look around, that students had once learned from this room. Maybe even Ron.

Somehow, the image of Ron sitting like a good little boy in a classroom brought a laugh to Skip's face as he stepped back out.

But once he closed the door and looked around, the smile soon slid off his face.

The armor's swords were gone.

He whirled around the hallway, now slightly panicked. He had only been in there for a minute; how the hell had someone come out here and stolen the swords without making a sound? Surely he would have heard something, clanking, crashing, smashing, ANYTHING. He pressed a finger to his headset.

"Skip to McAllen, I'm pretty sure the guy was just near me. Just to check, am I in any immediate danger?"

There was no response.

"Ha ha, funny joke. No, but seriously, am I in trouble?"

Again, no response. Skip clenched his jaw.

"Joe, let me remind you of how this works again," he said. "I go in, I find the killer, I apprehend the killer, so basically, I do all the dirty work. All we ask of you is to keep an eye on our locations, and most importantly, make sure he is in HIS and NOT right behind me. Okay? So can you stop sucking down your fucking coffee for two seconds and just tell me if he is near me?"

No response. Skip took his headset off and checked the settings. Everything was working properly. McAllen was just not listening.

Or maybe he was unable to.

Skip suddenly grinned. Of course, it would make sense; cut off their link, and it left them without a clue. Just the way he liked to play it.

"Alright, Mr. Killer," he said under his breath, raising his wand again. "If that's the way you want to play, then by all means, let's play."

It was different now, his search. The humor of it was gone; now it was time to be serious. That guy was playing with him, he was sure of that; he could have come in and attacked at any moment during his time in the room, but all he had done were grab the swords. He was trying to draw him into the game- and he would play it, only he would be the winner.

He pushed open a door and quickly peaked in, stepped back out, stopped, and then peaked back in. there was a basin on a stool right in the center. A Pensieve? Maybe. He crept in, closing the door behind him.

He approached it slowly and prodded it twice with his wand. It was a standard stone basin, with some type of water, probably not the drinking kind, inside. He stuck the tip of his wand in, and then yanked it back when something began to appear:

Insert five Galleons for advice

Curious now, yet still on edge, he reached into his pocket and pulled out five Galleons. He finally found them, and tossed them into the basin. He watched them sink to the bottom, and waited, tapping his foot as he waited. About three minutes passed before words finally floated up to the top in big letters:

LOOK BEHIND YOU

Skip snorted.

"Oh come on," he said. "That's the oldest trick in the book. How fucking stupid do you think I am?"

"Pretty fucking stupid, I'd say."

It happened quickly. Skip turned around, wand out, and fired off a curse as the murderer slapped his arm away, resulting in the curse shooting out and destroying a window. He fell backwards, knocking the basin over and spilling the water all over the floor, the words sliding out and falling all over.

When the killer came at him, Skip fired a Disarming Curse, which was deflected, and then slid his knife out, standing with wand in one hand, blade in the other. He fired another deflected Disarming Curse and lunged and swiped with his knife, which was dodged. He spun his knife around in his hand, then grabbed the butt and slashed twice.

The first time was dodged.

The second one made a cut into the killer's arm.

He grabbed his arm and glared at him. Skip gave him a lopsided grin and gave him a two-fingered salute.

The man grabbed his wand and fired a Reductor Curse. The force behind it knocked Skip off his feet and sent him flying through the wall into the next room. He landed on his back, then picked himself off, fired a curse through the hole in the wall, and ran like a bat out of hell out of the room.

He got out and was around the corner just as the assailant came out of the other room and fired off a curse, which missed and blew apart half the wall. He fired one back over his shoulder as he turned the next corner, knowing he was missing, but hey, maybe it would scare him off.

He ran until he hit the dead end and then turned and aimed his wand down the hall. Last stand time; if he wanted to come at him, he was ready. One thing about Americans- they loved a good gunfight, or in this case, wandfight. He got himself ready, wand aimed right down the hall...

No one came.

He stayed in that position for what felt like an hour before he finally relaxed. He lowered his wand and fell back against the wall, breathing heavily. He was covered in soot and there was a cut on his forehead from where a piece of the wall had scratched him, but other than that and a sore back he felt fine. He waited another couple of minutes and still no one came. Well, he thought, maybe that was it. Maybe that curse he had fired had not missed after all-

thunk!

His eyes widened as he grunted. He clenched his teeth together as a trickle of blood ran down the left corner of his mouth. Panting, his voice going to a higher pitched, he looked down.

One of the missing swords had poked out of the wall and passed right through his right side, in between his ribs and puncturing a lung. Blood was bubbling out of the wound and already spreading a puddle below him on the floor.

He blinked twice, breath coming in rapidly. Wait...there were two swords before, were there not? Here was one...so where was the other-

thunk!

Before his eyes, the second sword poked through in the exact same spot, missing the lung but chipping apart one of his ribs, on his left side now. He groaned a cry again, more blood spewing out his mouth and the wound. His breathing grew heavier as high-pitched moans emitted from his blood-covered mouth.

Feebly, he reached into his pocket for the picture of his family. It came out, but he was already so weakened that it slipped out of his fingers and landed face-up on the floor. He looked down at his smiling family, blood dripping down on it, as his consciousness faded. He fought it, but already he had lost so much blood.

With a sigh, his head fell forward and he was still.

Nothing to say, really.

Review, and see you all next time.