(Kimberly Harrows, Socialite - PoV)
Giggling, I follow my paramour through the grand manor.
This is not as easy a feat as it sounds, with how much the both of us have drunk.
We are tripping and giggling the whole way, but we manage to make it to the stairs eventually! Albeit with the liberal assistance of the walls.
Of course, now the stairs dare impede us.
Ugh, stairs.
After several failed attempts, a few bruises, and more than a few curses, we sit at the bottom, debating the problem.
"Welll, we dun haff to make it to the bedroom," the lecher suggests, pawing at my robes.
"No!" I insist. "Nonono! I told you, I have something special tonight! We have to do it right!"
He rolls his eyes but relents, for the moment, lolling backward against the carved railing.
"Ell, wha u sgest den?"
"I know! We can fly!"
"Fly?" he asks. "Bu' we dun 'ave wings."
Ugh, clearly someone had too much Ogdens. He better not pass out partway, or worse, throw up.
"Acino Brooms!"
...
"Acrio Brooms!"
...
Shit.
It takes a few tries, but I get it eventually, summoning several broomsticks. Now to hope he can still fly...
"Alight, up you get!"
"Oh, rr we rdin then? Cmon then, on ye go!"
"No, wait I have-Ahhhhhhh"
I close my eyes and hang on tight as the bastard drags me on and takes off drunkenly up the steps, and off the steps, and oh no this was a mistake! We should have just done it at the bottom of the stairs, I hate heights!
"Hahaha! Ey, wherd the whiskey go?" he asks, slapping my ass as we knock paintings off the walls and I hear something shatter down below.
"Bedroom! It's in the bedroom!" I tell him. Knowing him it probably isn't even a lie.
"Berooom...yesh..." he mutters out, and I feel us descending far, far faster than I am comfortable with. Dear Merlin, how high up were we? How high is this bloody ceiling?
We clip something on the way down and start spinning, and I scream the rest of the way down before we smash into the ground.
...
...
...
"Beroom?" the bastard mutters as he sits up, absolutely no worse for the ride.
I hate you, so much right now.
Groaning, I slowly pick myself up off the floor.
Well, nothing seems broken at least. Not that I expected any, I did...well, it doesn't matter.
"You are so lucky you fuck better than you fly."
Ignoring the destroyed hallway, we meander our way to the bedroom at last, and I shove him into the bed and crawl on top.
"Now, I've been waiting all night for this. Are you ready?" I ask, taking off my robes.
"I wan see!" he mutters, hands grasping out.
"Ah-ah! patience dear!"
I push his hands under my knees and climb forward further, sitting on top of his chest.
Pulling off my top, I throw it over his head, causing him to thrash lightly and complain.
"Aww, you don't like it?"
"No!"
"Well, you will hate this then," we tell him, as we wrap the rope around his neck and pull.
The thrashing becomes far, far more intense, but as our body shifts to become troll-like, crushing him into the bed he has no hope of dislodging us. We could pop his head off entirely if we really wanted, but that's not the deal.
We like it better this way anyhow. So much more enjoyable to watch them die slowly. Flicking the shirt off his head lets us look in him the eyes, and watch his face swell and purple as he drunkenly struggles, trapped beneath us.
We lean down as far as we can without risking losing our position.
"Arcturus Black sends his regards."
The fear in his eyes is wonderful.
(? - PoV)
Our hands are perfectly clean, but we do the requisite motion anyway as we survey our handiwork setting the scene.
All signs of our presence are removed, more empty bottles added, a suicide note with the target's handwriting is prominently placed, and, of course, Lord Parkinson's corpse, swinging gently from the rafters, with a kicked over chair laying beneath it.
Yes, once we finish the rest it should pass inspection. We don't think anyone will be looking too closely, lest they draw Lord Black's fury on themselves as well.
With a decisive nod, we leave the room, carefully closing the door behind us. Now, if we remember correctly, the wife's room lies directly across the hallway.
Carefully we make our way across, avoiding the mess. Really, what a drunken fool. Done the world a favor, we have. Thankfully, going on a drunken bender and leaving a huge mess should only help sell the story.
The door opens soundlessly and we peek inside, finding Mrs. Parkinson asleep in her bed. The silencing spells on each room really do make things so much more convenient.
Hmm, we have a mask we could use, but best to keep her as off-balance as possible. We take her form, but with pitch-black eyes as we creep into the room.
"Petrificus Totalus"
"Rennervate"
Slowly, creepily, we've been told, we crawl up her bed and on top of her body until she can see us.
"Hi," we greet her. "We have bad news. Mr. Parkinson has been very naughty. He did very bad things, and is in trouble."
We nuzzle her neck.
"Big, big trouble," we say. "Something very bad is going to happen to him. May have already happened to him. But you, you are not him, are you?"
We stare at her for several seconds.
"Oh, but you can't answer. We suppose we can let you lose. But if you make loud noises, or try to run or fight we will get mad. We don't like bad girls."
We lock eyes with her and lean in close enough to touch her face.
"Don't be a bad girl Mrs. Parkinson." Slowly, lightly, we lick her face, before drawing back, sitting on her waist, and canceling the spell.
She jerks suddenly, her limbs flailing for a moment, chest heaving. We smile at her, enjoying the panic in her eyes, and the cold fear that replaces it. She goes still again when she sees the wand in one hand and the knife in the other, tracing along her belly.
"W-what a-"
"Ah-ah!" We warn her. "No questions. Only answers."
She nods rapidly.
"You. Are not, Mr. Parkinson, are you?"
She shakes her head rapidly.
"N-no."
"Good. Then you do not have to share his fate, do you?"
"No," again, she shakes her head.
Slowly, we lean forward again, laying on top of her and making ourselves comfortable, even as she tries to pull away.
"Now, listen very, very closely, Mrs. Parkinson. Are you listening?"
"Yes. Yes, yes I am listening," she assures us, even as she tries to turn her head away.
We nuzzle at her jaw, causing her to shudder.
"Good girl. We like good girls, we don't have to do bad things to them."
She whimpers.
"Now, you." We poke her head with our wand. "Are going to pack your bags. And your daughter's bags. She's a good girl too, isn't she?"
"Oh Merlin yes. Please, please do-"
We place the knife to her lips.
"Shhh shhh shhh. We aren't done yet."
Her entire body is trembling nonstop now, like a massage chair. It feels nice.
"Now, once packed, both of you are going to go to your mother's house, and stay there for a while. Do you know why?"
"N-Ah!"
She screams as we lick her again.
"No. No I-I don't."
"Because you are fed up with him cheating on you. So you are leaving him. Finished."
She trembles more violently than ever, outright twitching.
"I...I...can't..."
"Can't?" We ask, raising our head to look at her.
"He...he..."
"Oh, you don't need to worry about him. He won't be bothering anyone anymore," we assure her, giggling.
Her trembling continues, but now she starts crying?
Hmmm. Yum.
We always did like salt.
(John Dawlish, Auror - PoV)
"Bloody hell doesn't quite seem to cover it, does it?" I ask the DMLE examiner, once he comes back from throwing up.
The thin man, whose name I can't quite seem to remember, glares at me, before taking a hesitant look at the crime scene once more.
Well, part of the crime scene.
Merlin forgive us, half the damned Alley is the crime scene. Well, more of a crime scene than usual. It is Knockturn.
"Any luck IDing em?" I ask the supposed expert.
An expert who can barely even look at the body.
The man swallows heavily, before casting a diagnostic again and shaking his head.
"N-no, I'm afraid not. I don't understand it, the wand should be right here!" He shakes his head again. "If we can't find it, we may have to take a blood sample to Gringotts."
I don't bother to hide my grimace at the thought of dealing with the bloody Goblins. Then again, at least I won't be the one to have to do it, not after last time.
Fucking Goblins.
"Whatever, not my problem for now. Oi! Charles! You found the rest of the body yet?!" I call out to another investigator and walk in his direction, leaving the beaten, torn and chewed-on torso alone for the moment.
"Dawlish? Fuck off man, I have too many gods damn parts to keep track of without you interrupting me every five bloody minutes!"
"Hey, hey, easy now, easy. You found more then?"
"Of course I've found more, they are everywhere! And even despite that, we are still somehow missing at least an arm, a foot, the heart, and Merlin knows what else will turn up absent during an autopsy! So unless you have something relevant to add, piss off!"
I stare after the man as he walks off muttering to himself and writing notes on a trailing list of parchment.
Well, shit. The fuck do I do now?
Huffing, I spin and return to the main body and likely original ambush point.
Honestly, the entire thing screams Were. And with this level of viciousness? It's Greyback.
Yeah yeah. Evidence! Witnesses! Due process!
Please. It's Greyback.
I know it. The investigators know it. The lollygaggers hanging around know it. The press knows it. Everyone knows it.
Good luck fucking proving it. Because despite being spread across half of Knockturn, I doubt a single person saw or heard a damn thing. No sir, was a dark, quiet night, they was just having a drink and weren't botherin no one.
I hate this place.
No, the only question is, did some (possibly) poor bastard piss the murdering beast off, or was it yet another hit for the high and mighty? I suppose we will find out soon enough.
My eyes narrow as I watch the "expert" fiddling with the body. What exactly is he...oh, for fucks sake man, really?
"Hah! I found it!"
...
Well, I guess he is dedicated to the job at least.
"I knew it was here!"
Several others wander over, attracted by his shouting.
"What's up?" "What's going on?"
"He found the damn wand, so we can finally ID the vic," I reply.
"No shit? Where was it?"
I shake my head.
"Lots of shit, unfortunately."
It takes a moment for it to sink in, and everyone recoils.
"Yeah, sick fucking freak," I mutter. "Anyhow, you know the wand?" I ask the man. "Or you need to run over to Ollivanders?"
"Just a moment, just a moment..."
Fine, fine. Damn, I could use a drink right now. Someplace not in Knockturn.
"Ah, here we go. Hugo Flint!" the investigator looks up proudly, and I sigh.
"Yeah yeah, good job man. I'll make sure to put you in the report."
Flint huh? It could be worse, but that's certainly not good. Very unlikely to just be a random murder, and if it was a fair bit of hell will come down because of it.
Waving everyone off, I do a walkabout and check out the other scenes we've flagged down.
Damn this fucker did a number on him, pieces of the bastard all over. And yes, I do say bastard. I remember him from school, a real piece of work he was. I'd bet my last Galleon he spent the war wearing a mask.
It's a force of habit to take in the area as I walk and it confirms it, there is absolutely no possible way that the killer wasn't seen doing this. There are at least three bars, two "restaurants", half a dozen apartments, and Merlin knows how many shops in easy sight of the various major scenes. All of which were open at the time of the murder.
Not a single witness has come forth, and everyone we have asked has denied seeing or hearing anything.
I stop next to most of a severed leg and sigh.
Case after case, always the same damn story.
Not exactly what I expected when I graduated Hogwarts.
"Dawlish? The hell are you doing all the way out here, especially without backup?" a familiar voice complains.
I snort before turning around to face my fellow Auror.
"Please Robards, few of these lowlifes are stupid enough to take a shot at an Auror at the best of times. Right now, with the place crawling with DMLE? Not a chance."
"One of these days that arrogance is going to get you killed," he tells me.
"Probably," I admit. "Anyhow, what brings you out here? I barely have anything to do as-is, no real call for more Aurors."
"No call for any Aurors," he corrects. "Scrimgeour is calling us off."
Looking around, I see half the staff packing it up.
"Looks like not just us?"
Robards shrugs. "No idea. Not our case, not my business."
Well, guess I got my answer. Hit for the high and mighty it was. Wonder who Hugo pissed off? And do I care enough to read the paper for the next week or so to try to figure it out?
I take one last look at the mangled leg.
"Think they will ever let us actually hunt that fucking beast down?"
Robards doesn't answer me, so I look up at him, and meet his gaze.
"Dawlish, if you really want to climb the ranks? You really need to stop asking questions like that."
He turns and walks away, Disapperating with a pop a moment later.
...
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
"Oi! You! With the bag!" I call an investigator over. "Don't forget the bloody goddamn leg over here you damn idiot, I'd say it's pretty important, wouldn't you?"
I stalk away as the imbeciles run over to collect the rest of the body.
One more unsolved tragedy. Just another day in the life of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
