May 2nd – 1999.

"Arthur" Gawain Robard's voice was thin and reedy and matched his appearance perfectly, "are you sure this is going to work?"

Arthur eyed the uniformed policemen and nodded. His own hair was dark and shaggy where Gawain's was cropped and silver.

"It'll work sir."

Despite the warm weather, the English clouds still hung heavy over Battersea. Arthur stepped over the police tape and strolled purposefully up the street. Coppers, notebooks and pens in hand, swarmed as far as the eye could see. A young constable lifted his head as Arthur and Gawain approached.

Arthur took the blank card from his pocket and held it out to the constable.

"David Mills and Robert Pawty, Special Branch."

The constable squinted at the card and, satisfied at its authenticity, handed it back to Arthur. His eyes flitted over Arthur's tatty appearance, the well-worn coat, the simple pants, the dark eyes. The constable jerked a finger over his shoulder and wiped the rain from his brow.

"Been waiting for you lot to turn up."

Arthur peered over the constable's shoulder at the twisted metal which had once been a car, "How bad is it?"

The constable shook his head, "Bad."

"We'll have a look then."

Gawain walked past the constable but, noticing the look on the man's face, Arthur lingered. The constable glanced around nervously and lowered his voice.

"You don't… well maybe you can't tell me but…do you think this was the Real IRA?"

Arthur shook his head, "Not their style."

"Who is it then?"

Arthur noticed Gawain's foot begin to tap impatiently against the cracked pavement. Arthur spoke and stepped away from the constable.

"That's what we're here to find out."

The rain was coming down harder now. Arthur caught up to Gawain as they walked towards the house around which the maelstrom of police and equipment seemed to be concentrated.

"Excellent charm work Arthur. Truly great." Gawain murmured, "What was that muggle saying? About the R-I-A?"

Arthur tried to avoid puddles, but his shoes were soon soaked, "Northern Ireland stuff sir."

Gawain nodded sombrely, "I suppose you'd know all about that."

Arthur though of the roar of bombs and the crack of gunfire. In his mind, he heard the screaming of mobs and the flash of petrol bombs. He didn't meet Gawain's eyes when he spoke.

"Yes sir, I would."

Gawain took no notice of Arthur's discomfort, "Well, here we are."

The house's door had been taken clean off its hinges. The wood itself had been reduced to splinters and the remnants of an ornate doorknocker. Arthur stepped over the splinters and into a gloomy hallway. For half a moment, he was grateful to be out of the rain. Then he saw the white sheets. Two of them side by side. Their edges fluttered in the breeze.

The home was modest. The furnishing was cheap but tasteful. Pictures hung on the walls. Stationary faces smiled back at Arthur from the Coliseum and the Pyramids and the Leaning-Tower. The rain patted softly on the roof. To Arthur it sounded almost as if children were running around upstairs. The Muggle forensics teams had evidently been and gone

Arthur bent down and lifted the sheet. A pale face, its features contorted in a silent scream of shock, stared up at him.

Gawain clicked his tongue and shook his head, "Killing Curse no doubt about it."

Arthur peaked into the sitting room. There was another sheet. This one was stained red.

"That doesn't look much like the Killing Curse sir."

Gawain followed his gaze, "Ah…no it does not."

Arthur crept through the maze of mismatched furniture until he came to an armchair which bore the same stains as the sheet.

"Looks to have been lacerations. Slow. Deliberate." Arthur pointed at the stained sheet, "They were torturing him."

"Mmmhhh."

Gawain peered around the room. Arthur noted that Gawain's eyes didn't linger long on any of the bodies. Arthur understood. It had taken him the better part of two years to get used to the sight of corpses. Arthur lifted the third sheet. He was greeted by bloody skin across which snaked a patchwork of red lines. Arthur looked closer. Curiously, alongside the more ghastly wounds, were the faint white outlines of scars. The white scars seemed the exact same patchwork pattern as the recent injuries. Arthur scowled in disgust.

"That's sick that is."

Gawain picked up a photo frame and then put it back down, "What."

"It's a nasty spell. Sectumsempra. Only they were healing him after they cast it. So that they could keep casting it without him dying" Arthur replaced the sheet and dusted his hands, "I don't understand why?"

Gawain's nose wrinkled, "Isn't it obvious? They wanted to make a point. First anniversary and all that."

The anniversary. One whole year since the Dark Lord had been vanquished by their lord and saviour Harry Potter. Arthur remembered him from his final year at Hogwarts. He hadn't seemed like much then, more lucky than talented. And yet, that small boy had gone on to defeat the darkest wizard of all time.

Arthur glanced at the hallway, "But then why use the Killing Curse on those two? Surely they'd have wanted to make a meal of them as well?"

Gawain held up a finger, "Yes but you're forgetting victims four and five. I've spoken to the Muggle's. Victim four suffered horrific burns. So horrific in fact that I'm inclined to believe it was Fiendfyre. Victim five died by shrapnel when his kar" Gawain said the word awkwardly, "was hit by the Reducto Curse. So, they did really make a meal of it."

Arthur looked again at the stained sheet. He thought of the effort it must have taken to heal the poor man. To ensure that he didn't lose too much blood. To keep him alive only so that more pain could be inflicted.

"Do we know anything about the victims?"

Once again, Gawain shook his head, "He's just a Muggle. A Muggle who found himself at the wrong place at a very wrong time. They would've done the same to any house in the street. No, I suspect he's like every other Muggle. Perfectly ordinary."

Arthur snorted. Gawain cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Something I said Arthur?"

"I've known many Muggles who were far from perfectly ordinary sir."

Gawain gave another knowing nod, "Yes I suppose you would've."

Arthur wondered if his superior's words were a compliment. Before he could guess, Gawain straightened. He conjured a quill from thin air and scribbled a few notes on a stray piece of parchment.

"I think we've done all we can here."

Arthur tried to keep a frown from his face, "Shouldn't we confer with the Muggles sir? See what their forensics dug up."

Gawain tucked the parchment into the folds of his cloak and then beckoned Arthur to follow him out of the sitting room and back into the hallway, "I don't see why. We know what spells were used and we have an idea of who used them. No. I don't think the Muggles can tell us anything we don't already know."

"Alright then sir. If you don't mind, I'll linger a bit."

Gawain patted him on the shoulder. Given Arthur's height, the older man had to stretch a little.

"I remember my first case too. You get the bug and then it's all you can think about. Part of the job for an Auror. I'll see you back at work then Arthur. Don't stay too long."

"Actually sir, I have… an appointment this afternoon. I think I mentioned."

Gawain stroked at his moustache, "Mmmh, yes. I'll see you tomorrow then."

Gawain turned on the spot and vanished from the room leaving Arthur with the silence and the patter of raindrops and the white sheets. Arthur checked them all again.

The two in the hallway were fairly young, probably late twenties, only a few years older than himself. The man in the sitting room was middle-aged and bald. Stout but with an athletic figure. At least, he had been athletic until his flesh had been shredded. Arthur replaced the sheet and walked outside into the Spring rain.

He found the constable sheltering beneath a bus stop.

"Cigarette?" Arthur offered the man one from his open box.

The constable took it, "Cheers. Got a light?"

"Might do."

Arthur turned his back on the man. Carefully, to ensure he couldn't be seen, he slipped his wand into his hand and pointed it at the twig he held between his fingers. Instantly, the twig shrunk and shifted until it took on the shape, size and properties of a match. The match flared. Arthur lit the man's cigarette and then his own.

The constable sighed and blew smoke into the rain.

"Horrendous isn't it?"

Arthur took a few pulls of the cigarette, but the smoke just didn't taste right. He threw it in a puddle and watched it fizzle.

"Yeah." Arthur turned to the constable, "Say, you don't know where I could get the files for them?"

The constable gave a low chuckle, "Here I thought Mi5 and Special Branch talked to each other these days. The suits came in an hour ago and took everything we had. That's why I thought the IRA might be involved."

Arthur watched the rain drops splash into the puddle.

"That so?"

The constable didn't seem to hear him, "Stuff like this…it makes you question things you know?"

Arthur had certainly seen things that had raised questions he couldn't answer, "I know."

"They even got a name for them."

"Yeah?"

The constable stubbed out his cigarette and fixed Arthur with a haunted look.

"The Battersea Butchers."

For hours Arthur didn't go home. He walked the streets of rainy London. He examined the picture he had taken from the house. The middle-aged man and a young woman smiling in front of the Pyramids. The young woman had a ring on her finger. The same ring Arthur had seen on her pale hand when he lifted the sheet. The same ring worn by the man who had died beside her.

Arthur marched past the church three times before he finally found the courage to walk inside. The chapel was simple. The benches had been cleared for a circle of chairs. The priest, looking more an accountant than a man of God in his casual clothes, stood and smiled when Arthur crossed through the doors.

"Arthur! Good to see you again. We've just started."

The priest gestured to an empty seat. Arthur sat and nodded to the others in the circle. They were all men. Arthur guessed that the youngest among them was twenty and the oldest perhaps fifty. Arthur listened to their stories. To where they had been stationed, the years they had been there, the things they had seen and the friends they had lost. Until finally, though he dreaded it, it was his turn to speak.

Arthur cleared his throat.

"Afternoon gents. Name's Arthur Grimm. I'm Twenty-Five. Did two years with the…the Royal Green Jackets… '93-'94…mostly around Belfast but also did some months in the towers in South Armagh. Was on scene…after…after…"

The priest nodded, "It's alright Arthur. Take your time."

Arthur cleared his throat again.

"F-first responder after the Shankill bomb."

The man on Arthur's left shook his head and muttered something unflattering about provos.

The priest gave him a small, understanding smile, "Is there anything you'd like to talk about in particular?"

Arthur crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, "No. Not really. Most of the guys I was with came back so… not as bad as early 70s or anything like that. It was a job. It needed doing and uhh…and I've actually started a new job today."

The priest nodded at him, "That's excellent Arthur. What sort of work are you doing?"

Arthur's hand went, almost unconsciously, to the wand in his pocket. He tried to smile back at the priest, but his mind kept conjuring the image of the smiling father and daughter on their last vacation.

Arthur finally found his voice.

"Private Investigator."