Date: 3rd April, 1999

Incident: Torture, Homicide, Possible Kidnapping

Location: Improper Use of Magic Office, Ministry of Magic

Victim(s): Boddicket, Clarent (Age 70)

Perpetrator(s): Unknown

The fact that he was found down the hall was the most embarrassing part. The DMLE and the Improper Use Of Magic office shared a floor, for Merlin's sake! But, it hadn't been an Auror noticing something off, just one of the various interns popping in randomly. The poor girl had volunteered (no, actually volunteered) to make a run to a local bakery. She was coming to find out his order.

Instead, she'd found... well, she probably wouldn't be able to look at raspberry jam without nausea for a while. Real shame, she was a lovely girl. Shouldn't have been her that found it. 'Crusty old Millbank, on the other hand...'

Clerk Henri Greggs looked at the scene just across the hall, a stream of red-robed people moving around her boss' office. She hadn't really liked the man. He was generally unpleasant and had stayed on through all three administrations in Henri's time growing up. With all of the corruption and bigotry that implied. The issue was that he was technically "only unpleasant". Whatever the bastard did, it had yet to be enough to warrant any real consequences from people higher up. Skirted the rules, pushed right up against them. But didn't break them. But then, he hadn't broken any rules during the Snake and Skull Administration, either.

He had actually been given an extended vacation. Or was it that he had taken a couple months for holiday and didn't come back until after? Henri wasn't quite sure and she kept away from Clarent Boddicket as much as she could. Old heel was an inbred through and through.

"He's been dead a day or so. No family alive to call in and it seems like the man's habits meant that he could go days without being spotted out of his office." The reporting Auror barely finished her preliminary findings report before flinching as Chief Potter slammed on his desk.

"Damn it. Across the bloody fucking hall. The Prophet isn't the worthless rag it used to be, the press is sniffing around. They're asking if we're letting this happen to satisfy wartime vendettas." He wasn't even facing her, he was staring at the wall. A wall filled with scorch marks and a few gouges. 'So that's how he blows off steam. Certainly isn't his marriage or taking advantage of titles.'

There were 2 widely known facts about the Potter in Law Enforcement:

1) he was happily married, and

2) he damn near never left the office during active cases.

In times like these, both of those truly worked against him. It had been 3 months, and he had yet to be home for even 72 hours. Jeni (as she preferred) could somewhat understand. This new administration headed by Shacklebolt and bolstered by Potter, Granger, Weasley, and several of "Dumbledore's Army"...wasn't even 3 years old. Failing to provide the appearance of safety would undercut it entirely, might even lead to a Vote of No Confidence. 'Might not succeed, though, given the sudden influx of dead inbreds and sympathizers.'

She admired his work ethic, even if she didn't quite agree with who it was being wasted on. "How did he die, Slater?" She reviewed her notepad. "Hmmm...ah, here it is. Choked on letters."

"...what?" His response was truly dumbfounded. "Yeah, they stuffed him full of letters, they seem to have all been notices to muggleborns- excuse me, first gens." She had been confused by it too, though she had an inkling.

Very few of the names involved sounded like anyone she knew from Hogwarts.

The "Bridge investigators" walked confidently into the third precinct of the day. They were poised. They had to be. This would be their last stop, and then they could go drown their roiling emotions together.

They were a team of mixed magical ancestries, to maximize their abilities in both Wizarding and Mundane Britain. The New blood could confidently navigate the world, keeping the others from making common errors. The Old Lines were well-versed in coaxing the others of their kind into cooperation. And the Mixed (no one liked that, but it seemed to be the only thing anyone could figure out for now), with a foot planted firmly in both worlds, usually had connections in both that the other two wouldn't have for one reason or another.

"Hello, I'm from Special Services. I believe my department called ahead? I'm Agent Bouchard. These are my colleagues Agent Simms, Agent Blackwood, and Agent Stoker." They stood suited, though managed to avoid being suspiciously stereotypical by foregoing the sunglasses. The grim looks on their faces, however, along with the assortment of scars (Ellie Bouchard had a couple puckered nicks on her face, including one that split her left eyebrow, while Agent Stoker had the edges of a wicked looking burn creeping over the left side of his collar) lent credence to this quartet being more than kids playing dress-up. Ernest wasn't paid quite enough to care all that much, and just checked the logbook for a call matching the name he was given.

"Ah, there you are. Right then. Greggs! Escort the spook squad here to records." A younger officer, medium build with close-cropped black hair, lazily waved for them to follow as he started walking down a hallway near the bullpen.

Once they were out of general sight and earshot Greggs slowed so that he was walking next to Blackwood, a short, very sharp featured man of Asian descent. Greggs spoke quietly so that only the four of them could catch his voice. "So, can you talk about what you're looking for or is it one of those hush-hush deals?" Blackwood looked over, assessing Greggs very thoroughly.

"You asking because you're curious, or because you would consider offering assistance?" Blackwood's voice was low and heavy, with the slightest hint of a Manchester accent. Greggs kept walking, but put a hand on his chin, clearly considering the options. Before he was able to give a real answer, he started.

"Oh, we're here. Step right on in, records are sorted by year, most recent up front and going on back. We're working on getting these copied on to the computers, but the blokes who know how to do that are in right short supply. Let me know if you need anythin, yeah?" With that, he stepped out into the hall. Simms, a middle eastern woman with a ragged line going from the middle of her right cheek down under her jawline, where any further evidence of it was hidden by her hijab, nodded in the direction of door. "Nice young man", she drawled sardonically. Blackwood snorted. "A little twitchy for my tastes, but he's built right. Now then. Who are we looking for, boss?"

Jerry Stoker, tall, pale and dark-haired, unrolled a sheet of parchment pulled from an inner coat pocket. "Tibbins in '68, Matson in '69, Higgson in '70, and Crewe in '72. If we can match those we'll do a follow-up for the others later", he intoned tersely. With the reminder of why precisely they were here, any good mood vanished, and the four went to their grim work. Sure enough, each of them were back in the center of the room holding incident reports within 10 minutes, each detailing the death of a family, usually via something like a house fire or similar "freak accident".

"Dammit!" Bouchard slammed her fist into the back wall. "That evil, miserable, despicable pile of troll shite!" The look on the other's faces spoke to similar feelings.

"Bouchard. First round will be on me tonight. I don't think any of the Bridge Teams will be in for the next few days, barring an emergency." And wasn't that a similarly dark reminder? They weren't the only the ones set to this case. God, what would the others find?

Dennis Creevey stared through the lens. Boddicket's jaw was distended, dozens of envelopes shoveled between his jaws. His throat was also misshapen, leading down to his stomach, which was incredibly distended. Dennis was sure that cutting him open would reveal a large pile of letters. There were just as many stuck to the wall. Over and over in the room, letters were twisted and shaped into words.

"CHILD KILLER"

"MURDERER"

"LIAR"

"MONSTER"

There had been some rumors floating around, that Hogwarts' classes weren't supposed to be so small for the last 15 years. A rumor that had been confirmed when, less than 5 years after the war, the number of new magicals hadn't just increased, it exploded. New bloods were found by the dozen.

'Looks like the number will only be going up from here.'

A/N:

Hey all, glad to be back to this one. Why did it take this long to compose this? Because the page that had my ideas wasn't immediately visible, and thus those ideas no longer existed. ADHD is an absolute nightmare under capitalism, my lovelies. I will do my best to be better about it, but this is a hobby. You can't stop me, I do what I want. Unless you're paying me, then things are more negotiable.

Anyway, listen: I know that I'm not being the most ethical in writing this. On one hand, I'm imagining some intense violence. I'm creating in a sandbox built by a transphobe. Keeping it slightly more culturally relevant. Even if I'm not paying her, even if I've dropped all her merch, this... this is.

On the other hand... this franchise meant a lot to me. This was a point of connection for many of my relationships. This was a party theme, a vacation, an escape. I'm carving out a personal place where fascists, their enablers, and their sympathizers get what they deserve and society gets to move forward because of those deaths.

I guess what I'm saying is; don't buy Howling Krimbo's merch. Don't go to the movies, don't go to the park, don't buy the game, nothing. Support your trans friends. Support trans creators, support the community through things like The Trevor Project. Band together. Form a well-regulated militia and work to protect your neighborhood, because God knows the cops won't.

Excelsior, homies.